Max Collins - Skin Game

“How long a while?”

“Most of the day probably,” he said. “I’m meeting Asha at Crash. I think I’ve got a lead on Sage Thompson... and I need to talk to her about checking it out.”

“Logan... it’s getting tense here. I just talked to a young guy named Travis. He doesn’t want the Army to come in and kill us all like animals.”

“Can’t blame him.”

“What kind of name is that? Travis?”

“Well, Max... there was an officer at a famous battle in Texas, a long time ago, named Travis.”

“What battle was that?”

“The Alamo.”

“I haven’t run across that in my reading, yet. How did it turn out?”

“... Great. Everybody was a hero.”

“That’s something, anyway. Hey... be careful.”

“I will. You too.”

She disconnected.

Logan Cale sat at his desk looking at the phone for a moment.

Max sounded exhausted, and he wished there was more he could do to help her. She took so much on her shoulders, but now there was nothing to be done about that...

... except, maybe, get to the bottom of the skinner mystery, and see if clearing that hateful story out of the headlines could help ease the tension on the transgenics’ situation in Terminal City.

Rising, Logan gathered his cell phone, his keys, and headed for the door. His car was parked near the end of the exit tunnel, and within ten minutes he was speeding toward the bar.

Crash, the favorite hangout of the Jam Pony gang, was nearly vacant at this hour of the day, the big video screens with the racing and other sports footage playing to a mostly nonexistent audience. Brick archways separated the Crash’s three sections: the bar, the game room, and the restaurant area, with its tables and chairs. The jukebox, which usually screamed with metal-tinged rock music, stood mercifully silent; the occasional knock of pool balls from the back and the news on the television at the far end of the bar were the prominent sounds. A small lunch crowd would be in, in a half hour or so; but for the time being only the bartender and Asha were at the bar.

Logan came down the stairs and took a seat next to the blonde freedom fighter.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi, Asha.”

A cup of coffee with cream sat in front of her. If it was her first, he wasn’t that late. She’d taken only a few sips and the liquid still steamed.

The bartender, a skinny, tattooed guy with long, greasy, black hair, shambled toward them from the TV. His name was Ricky and he usually worked nights; judging from the bags under his eyes and the frown etched into his face, morning duty didn’t suit him. He brought Logan a cup of coffee and shambled off again.

“He doesn’t say much in the morning,” Logan said.

Asha smiled. “He doesn’t say much more at night. Now, tell me what the rush is.”

“It’s about that NSA agent we were looking for.”

“Thompson,” she said quietly.

He nodded. “I may have found something.”

“Yeah?”

“Eyes Only has tracked him to the Armbruster Hotel.”

“I know the place.”

“Well enough to watch my back?”

“Oh yeah.”

Daylight sliced across the bar, and they both looked up to see the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway. The sun blinded them and they couldn’t see him clearly, but there was something about the guy that seemed familiar. The tail of the man’s overcoat waved once more, then the door closed.

Blinking furiously to readjust his eyes, Logan peered up at the man, who was already halfway down the stairs: black hair slicked back, tight dark eyes, and an olive complexion; dark suit with a white shirt and conservative striped tie.

Logan turned casually to Asha, but his words were as urgent as they were quiet. “Go — he’s White’s man.”

Asha slipped off the stool and meandered toward the back. She was a memory by the time the man came up and stood next to Logan, showing him a badge.

“I’m Special Agent Otto Gottlieb. Can we talk?”

Logan simply shrugged.

“May I sit?” Gottlieb asked, gesturing toward the stool.

“Free country.”

“That’s the theory,” Gottlieb said as he hopped onto the stool. “Your friend sure left fast.”

“Not my friend. I think she was a working girl, got a glimpse of you and thought, ‘Cop.’ ”

“She wasn’t wrong, was she?... Mr. Cale, I need to talk to you.”

So he knew Logan’s name.

Ever casual, Logan said, “I’m listening.”

“Not here. We need to go somewhere else.”

Smiling, Logan said, “You’ll pardon me if I don’t jump at the chance, Agent Gottlieb, but that’s not the most enticing pickup line I’ve heard in a bar... People who go ‘somewhere else’ with government agents, these days, have a tendency to disappear for good.”

Gottlieb looked shaken, a bead of sweat trailing down one side of his face, like a teardrop that lost its way. “Look, Mr. Cale — you work for Eyes Only.”

“Actually, I’m self-employed.”

“I need to talk to him.”

Logan smiled broadly. “Why sure, no problem. He’s an underground cyber journalist you feds have been after for years... and now by simply asking me, you’ll get a direct line to him, no questions asked... And what would you like for your other two wishes?”

“Mr. Cale, what if I can give you an assurance that—”

“I don’t work for Eyes Only. I share some of his distrust of the government, but it ends there. So maybe you better just leave.”

Gottlieb didn’t move. His attitude shifted, subtly. “As someone who doesn’t know Eyes Only, Mr. Cale, can you tell me why your fingerprints were all over the apartment where we traced his last broadcast to?”

Logan started to rise, but Gottlieb put a hand on his arm. “I’m not here to arrest you. In fact, I have a gift for you — a show of good faith.”

Withdrawing a manila envelope from his overcoat, he laid it on the counter between them.

Sitting down again, Logan asked, “What’s this?”

“All the fingerprint files from the apartment. White never saw them.”

Logan studied the agent; the man’s face had a tortured sort of sincerity etched on it. “What about the NSA fingerprint people?”

“They’re no problem,” Gottlieb said. “They delivered the print identification just as they were supposed to... to me. Agent White lost interest in Eyes Only when the situation at Jam Pony came up. I give them to you now as a sign of my sincerity.”

“These prove nothing,” Logan said. “This could all still be in a computer anywhere.”

“I’ve dealt with that. They’re gone.”

“Well, hell — what more assurance could I need than that?”

“Listen, Mr. Cale! Just hear me out.”

Ricky the bartender wandered up. The agent shook his head and the bartender went back to the TV. Logan wanted to bolt, but after slipping the envelope inside his jacket, he turned to face Gottlieb. “So talk.”

“Can’t we go somewhere?”

“No — this place is empty and not bugged, unless you’ve bugged it. Tell me here or not at all.”

After mulling that for a few seconds, Gottlieb kept his voice low and asked, “The name I mentioned earlier... the man I work for. You know him?”

Logan nodded.

“I think he may have gone rogue.”

Laughing out loud, Logan said, “No wonder the NSA snapped you up — you don’t miss anything. Anything else hot off the presses? Any word in yet about whether Nixon’s a crook?”

Gottlieb’s eyes fell, his face turning crimson, as he said, “I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. We’re supposed to be on the same team, after all, he and I.”

“Ames White is on a team, all right,” Logan said. “But not the one you’re playing on, or any team that’s trying to help this country.”