John Shirley - Watch Dogs - Dark Clouds

“I know you? My name… How yuh know…?”

“Sure I know you, ‘Duck’,” Wolfe said, glancing around to see there wasn’t anybody else around going to interfere. He saw a group of school kids across the street, walking by a nineteenth-century brick building with a FOR RENT sign in it. The kids were careful not to look over Wolfe’s way. They knew trouble when they saw it and how to avoid it. Wolfe looked back at Duck Keeting—he was trying to get to his feet. Wolfe used a boot to shove Keeting back on his ass. “I know you’ve got two warrants out for you.”

“So you is a cop, huh? Go ahead, arrest me, the Club’ll have me out again in an hour!”

“I know they would. But I’m not a cop so it doesn’t matter. But hold on—one of those warrants is federal, I see. Yeah. Moving underage girls across a state border… for reasons of human trafficking!”

“I don’t know nothin’ about that.”

“The feds do. They don’t care about the Club. Should I call them? I bet I can get an FBI over here really quick if I tell him who I’ve got right here…”

“Nah, what do you want? You want a pay off? I got maybe eight hundred bucks on me, that’s all.”

“I’ll take that, for starters.”

He pointed the .38 at Keeting’s head.

“Sure, sure, here it is…” Keeting offered a wallet from his pants’ pocket. “Won’t do you much good for long…”

“Take the money out slow. Hand me that carefully. Don’t get creative. I’ll just start firing. Couldn’t miss at this range.”

Keeting growled to himself, but dug out the cash and handed it over.

“Thanks, ‘Duck’,” Wolfe said, tucking the bills away in his coat. “I’m a little cash poor.” Have to use that ATM trick next, a little later. And why not see what Duck had in his bank account? “I need something else from you Keeting—you know a gunhand, name of Grampus? A hire, might do some work for the Club sometimes? ”

“Grampus? I heard the name. Somebody pointed him out to me once. I don’t know him ‘cept from that. He might be with that 77th Street bunch. I saw him go in that old lodge hall, over on 77th , I think he was with Gary Klyde…”

“Who’s Klyde?”

“Some kinda fixer. Don’t know him much either.”

“A lodge—on 77th?”

“Used to be an Elks Lodge. You know, for charity shows and all that shit. They sold it to some other outfit. I don’t know what it is. Might be Alcoholics Fucking Anonymous for all I know.”

“Okay. Get up and get out of here. And stay out of this territory. This is Black Viceroy territory.”

“You don’t look like no Black Viceroy to me.”

“They know me, though. And I know them. Better the devil you know than the one you don’t.”

“I get my gun back?”

“Hell no. Go on, fuck off.”

Wolfe stepped back and let Keeting get to his feet. He watched the thug stagger dizzily off. When Keeting was no longer in sight, Wolfe stepped up to the wall, sent a message through Pearce’s trace-proof system to the FBI agent mentioned in the file on Keeting. James Wyst. The Chicago FBI agent who was looking for him for trafficking underage girls.

Agent Wyst: Buford ‘Duck’ Keeting is staying at the Crest Inn on South 47th. He’s using the name Ken Brown. He’s working for the Club while he hides from the feds. Better send somebody over to get him tonight but make sure it’s feds. CPD is paid off to let him go. Your friend, Some Random Anonymous Tipster Who Knows What the Fuck He’s Talking About.

Wolfe didn’t like human traffickers, either.

It was getting darker out. The streetlights had come on. The sleet had let up but he went into the Golden Fish to get something to eat and wait for the Club to send some more thugs out. He knew they would.

Wolfe was absolutely sure that Keeting was on the phone to the Club right now.

The place was welcomingly warm, emanating a crude perfume of cooked fish and fowl. Wolfe waited in a line for the order window, and tapped the controls to check in on whatever the current phone call from “Ken Brown” might be.

“Hey, O’Mara? It’s Duck. Listen I just been jacked up by some guy. He almost cracked my damned head open! He kinda tried to put it on the Viceroys but that’s all hooey, the motherfucker’s gotta be some kinda independent operator—maybe a cop went independent, see…”

“What’s his name?”

“Dunno, he got the drop on me. Took eight hundred bucks from me and my gun!”

“You pussy!”

“Hey shaddup, he got the jump on me, he snuck up and… never mind! Thing is, he’s in our new territory over there on 45th! We was in the parking lot of that Golden Fish place, just about two minutes ago! You can nail the guy, find out who he’s working for!”

“Yeah, I guess dat’s worth doing. But you’re still a pussy.”

Keeting gave a brief description of Wolfe, and hung up. Wolfe chuckled. It’d take a few minutes for them to organize some muscle to get over here. Just time for some fried fish and coffee…

It took almost half an hour. Wolfe had misgivings about what he was doing. If Pearce had exaggerated the PearcePhone’s capabilities, he could be cut to pieces here.

Better wait outside so none of the people eating in here get caught in the crossfire…

Wolfe waited out in the cold, listening in on chatter from the Club—none of it seemed relevant till he went to the number Keeting had called. O’Mara’s cell phone. “Yeah, Percy? You almost there? I’ll be there in a couple shakes… Yeah I see the place up on my left… You in that new metallic green Escalade?”

“That’s it, man. Brand new. Luxury car. Self-parking…”

“I still got that old Lincoln…”

“That Town Car you restored?”

“Yeah, but it’s lookin’ nice. New black and gold paint job.”

Here came the Lincoln, slowing to turn left so it could go into the parking lot; and here came the green Escalade, fast, with a greater sense of urgency.

Wolfe was ready. Just as the Lincoln was turning the corner, he used the PearcePhone, sent out a signal that took control of the car through the automatic parking’s electronic control units—ECUs are a luxury car’s point of vulnerability to remote hacking. At the same time the phone interfered with the pre-collision system, cutting off the Escalade’s brakes—which shut down completely. The Lincoln, having slowed for the turn was still partly in the intersection, just as Wolfe had hoped; the Escalade came roaring through, its brakes suddenly out of order.

The Escalade crashed into the Lincoln, not quite t-boning it, but hitting it at the rear so the Lincoln spun around, tires screeching, front end swinging to crack into the Escalade.

Both cars were badly damaged. The Escalade plumed gray smoke from its crumpled front end. There was a guy slumped in the passenger side of the Lincoln. Wolfe couldn’t see the driver from here.

His .38 down by his side, Wolfe walked to the corner, stopping just ten paces from the two crumpled cars. The driver of the Lincoln was getting out. He wore a blue suit, and horn rim glasses. He had a gun in his hand and blood on his forehead. He squinted at Wolfe, and raised the gun, a .45 automatic, pointing it toward Wolfe.

Wolfe turned sideways, aimed—the stunned driver fired, and Wolfe heard the bullet sizzle past his right ear. Wolfe returned fire, squeezing off two rounds, and “horn rims” went down.

Wolfe turned to see the driver of the other car was slumped over the steering wheel… Seemed like he hadn’t bothered to get an airbag in the car.

The passenger of the Escalade was getting out though; he was a heavy set man with greased-back blond hair and a cardigan sweater. “Blondie” climbed stiffly out of the car, a lit cigarette still dangling from the corner his froggish mouth. He seemed dazed as he spotted Wolfe, fumbling for his gun.