Max Collins - Skin Game

No one argued.

“I wanted to run,” Mole said, “and Max made her speech about not living in fear anymore... and it was a goddamn good speech, that all of us heard, and took to heart... and yet here you all are, a buncha candy-asses ready to run as soon as the goin’ gets a little tough.”

They were all listening attentively.

“Well, not me!” He chewed on his cigar, wheeling around, seeking any face that might disagree. “This place is a shithole — and some of us have been here a hell of a lot longer than a week — but it’s our shithole... and I think that no matter what comes, it looks like this is our home.”

Some of them nodded.

“Every pioneer carves his home out of the wilderness... Well, this is our wilderness, and this is our home. And I’m ready to fight to protect my home, if it comes to that. If there’s a peaceful solution, fine. If not,” he raised the shotgun over his head, “they can bring it on.”

Scattered cheers erupted, and began to grow. Applause followed, and built into an echoing simulation of machine-gun fire, over which could be heard chanting: “ Term-i-nal City... Term-i-nal City... Term-i-nal City!”

Max waited, enjoying the enthusiasm, the esprit de corps; finally she stepped forward and raised a fist.

The room fell silent; and fists were thrust high.

Max said, “We will do everything we can to end this peacefully!... But Mole is right. Terminal City may be nothing to brag about, but it’s our home... and we’re not running anymore.”

Luke came in carrying the flag Joshua had made. He handed it to Max and she waved it overhead as the crowd cheered.

Like their surroundings, it wasn’t much, but it was theirs, and if they had to defend it, they would do so to the death.

After what seemed like hours in snarled Seattle traffic, Logan Cale finally pulled up to the well-worn seven-story brick structure that was the Armbruster Hotel — at one time, the place to stay in the Emerald City... of course, those days had ended not long after the Gold Rush of 1896. The canvas awning over the front door, once forest green, had long since faded into a limp pastel pup tent, while the grand entrance — wide smoked glass that had at one time been clear — was attended by winos, not liveried doormen.

Logan punched numbers into his cell phone.

Asha picked up immediately. “Yes?”

“It’s me. I’m finally here — with the price of gas, you wouldn’t think traffic jams would be a problem. How’s our guest?”

“He’s been a very good boy.”

“I wonder if he’s for real,” Logan said.

“If he isn’t...”

“Asha will spank. Okay, start the clock. If you haven’t heard from me within half an hour, you know what to do.”

“Roger that,” she answered, and the line went dead.

Entering the lobby, Logan was greeted by an aroma that was a cross between one of Mole’s cigars and a YMCA men’s locker room. Ratty carpeting and shabby furniture were overseen by an elaborate cut-glass chandelier that loomed like a reminder of better days; and, off to the right, the front desk remained impressive, too: it looked like an oak bar from a western movie. When this place was torn down someday, the chandelier and that oak piece would be about all that anyone would bother to salvage.

Behind the counter, seated on a high stool, was a lumpy-faced sixtyish guy so white that Logan would have mistaken him for an albino Manticore experiment, if the man’s eyes hadn’t been so dark, like a couple of raisins adorning a dish of ice cream. The desk clerk was hunkered over a magazine — Barely Legal Teen — which, Logan realized as he drew close enough to get a look at the cover, was neither about the law nor aimed at a teenage audience.

The white-haired clerk made no effort to hide the porn mag when Logan got to the counter, nor did he look up.

“Excuse me,” Logan said.

Finally tearing himself away from the photos of naked girls, the clerk glanced up at Logan with eyes that were deader than rap music.

“You have a guest here named Thomas Wisdom. Could I have his room number, please?”

“No.”

“No?”

“We don’t just hand that information out to anybody who asks. Don’t you think our guests deserve their privacy?”

Logan glanced at the magazine. “How much is a subscription to that fine periodical?”

The clerk’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a monthly. Cover price is eight ninety-five.”

“But you save money when you subscribe.”

“Still... probably run fifty bucks.”

“I see. And it’d come in a plain brown wrapper?”

The clerk got Logan’s drift and nodded. “Sure. Nice and discreet.”

From his billfold, Logan withdrew a crisp fifty dollar bill. “Which room did you say my friend Mr. Wisdom was in?”

“417, sir.”

Logan placed the fifty-dollar bill over one of the nude photos. “Enjoy,” he said.

A tiny yellow smile appeared in the lumpy white face.

Then Logan reached out and grabbed the clerk’s wrist. “You know what I hate, though, when I subscribe to a magazine?”

The dark eyes were large now. “No — what?”

“When they call up and ask me to resubscribe. On the phone?”

“Why don’t I hold all of Mr. Wisdom’s calls for you?”

“Would you? You’re a dear.”

By way of contrast with the lobby stench, the elevator smelled like urine. As the floors dinged by, he wondered if he was walking into an Ames White trap. Though tracking Thompson had been tough, the computer techniques he’d used could easily be anticipated by White, who knew of Eyes Only’s techno bent. If Otto Gottlieb was either lying, or a pawn, then...

As the doors slid open on the fourth floor, Logan decided the pistol snugged behind him should stay put — if he approached Thompson with gun in hand, the wrong signal would be sent, and things could go violently awry. Anyway, no point letting his paranoia get the best of him. On the other hand, paranoia had kept him alive more than once, in the Eyes Only game...

Every surface in the hall appeared to be some shade of gray, from the cheap carpeting to the peeling paint on the walls; even the wall-mounted lights, hung every six feet or so, seemed to be covered with a patina of age-old smoke. As he walked down the corridor — the room he sought was down around the corner — the urine smell gave way to Lysol.

Logan approached the door marked 417 cautiously, then stood to one side and reached over to knock.

No response — and no noise within the hotel room, either... not a radio or TV, or someone getting up from a chair; nothing.

Logan really needed Thompson to be home — and his gut told him, despite the silence, the man was on the other side of that door. Thompson was hiding out, burrowed in; damnit, he was here — he had to be...

Stepping closer, Logan knocked again. Still nothing. A third knock was also answered with silence.

Or maybe his gut was wrong. Logan wondered if the porn-loving desk clerk had known Thompson was out when he sold him the information...

In frustration, Logan spoke to the door, loudly: “Mr. Wisdom — Mr. Wisdom! I need to talk to you.” Then he leaned in and listened to nothing at all. Finally, he nearly shouted: “ Mr. Thompson —”

The door snapped open, to a wide crack, and Logan found himself staring into the gray snout of a Glock barrel.

“Keep your voice down! Do you want to get me killed?”

Forcing himself to look past the barrel of the gun, Logan saw a skinny, pasty-faced white man only a few years younger than himself, with matted dark hair, an untrimmed beard, and eyes that looked both exhausted and terrified.