K Jeter - Noir

“You were wrong.” Turbiner’s agreement was a simple stating of fact, uninflected by emotion.

“Because if your records there are correct-”

“They are,” said Turbiner. “Unfortunately.”

“Then that means I murdered the kid.” He could feel his heart opening up, as though to some perfect, damnable grace. So this is what it feels like , thought McNihil. Absolutely . He could almost understand how people got into it, enjoyed the element of control being stripped away from themselves. At least you know where you stand . It might be rock bottom, but it was certain. In this world-he supposed it was in fact, had been all along, the kind of world that Turbiner and the ones like him had always written about-there was a certain comfort in that knowledge. “And I thought,” said McNihil with the barest fragment of a smile, “that I was doing you a favor. Something I didn’t have to do, but just because I wanted it that way. Por nada -or maybe just because I liked your books.”

“Actually, you did do me a favor.” Turbiner picked up his own glass and then set it, empty now, beside the other one on the low table. “I got paid for the rights. Not by the kid, of course; as you said, he didn’t know what the hell was going on. He got used as much as you did. But the people who set the whole deal up-they had to pay me.”

“Not just for the rights, though. They paid you for keeping quiet. At least until I was through getting connected over.”

“But you’re not through,” said Turbiner. “There’s more to come. Once somebody is in your position, there’s always more to come.”

McNihil didn’t need to be reminded about that. Even though there was still a part of the Wyvitz kid living, the cortical matter imbedded in the trophy cable, the little wanna-be pirate was legally dead. Or illegally, as the case now seemed to be. If the kid had had the rights to the old Turbiner titles licensed over to him-even if the kid hadn’t been aware that he had the rights, even if he mistakenly believed he was a thief and was bragging about it-then carving him up for the desired bits wasn’t a sanctioned agency operation. It was as much murder as if McNihil had gone out on the street and put the muzzle of his tannhäuser against the brow of the first person he ran into, and pulled the trigger.

Real bad news for someone like him; fine distinctions like this made the difference between being an asp-head and an asshole, someone who’d stuck his foot so far into it that there’d be no extraction short of sawing it off at the hip.

“You know… I was ready to leave a while ago.” McNihil pushed himself up from the couch. “Now I’m way ready.” Whatever buzz had been imparted by the alcohol had burned out of his system; a cold sobriety, cheerless as a gray post-insomnia dawn, crept through his veins. “It’s been… interesting talking to you. I don’t think we’ll be doing it again anytime soon.”

“I can understand that.” Turbiner nodded slowly. “This sort of thing is pretty corrosive on friendly relations.”

No shit , thought McNihil. There were other things he wanted to ask the man, things he could’ve said to him. But now there wasn’t time. By the sheer force of will, whether it left him one-legged or not, he’d managed to get both himself and the surrounding universe started up again; McNihil could even sense his heart speeding up, as adrenaline trickled into its fibers. Which meant that if he started running, the things pursuing him would kick into high gear as well.

How much of the actual substance of time was left to him, he didn’t know. McNihil supposed he’d find out soon enough.

“Take care of yourself.” Halfway between the flat’s living area and the front door, McNihil stood and gave a nod toward the other man. “You’ll have to. After this, I won’t be doing it for you.” He buttoned his jacket, as though in expectation of the chill winds he’d find outside. “I’m gone.”

“Don’t leave just yet.” Another voice spoke, from the mouth of the unlit corridor that ran to the back of the flat. “As a matter of fact, we’ll really have to insist on your staying.”

It was the voice he’d been expecting to hear. McNihil brought his gaze up from the figure in the sweet-spot chair. “Harrisch…” He nodded slowly. “Why am I not surprised?”

Still seated, Turbiner glanced back over his shoulder. “Should I take a walk?”

“Why bother?” Bearing his unpleasant knife-blade smile, the exec sauntered out into the living area. “You’ve been so helpful already; I’m sure you won’t be in the way. Besides-” Harrisch gave a shrug. “You live here, after all.”

McNihil heard the front door open; he turned and saw other corporate types, a pair of them, come in. Not execs like Harrisch and the ones who’d been there that other time, standing around the late Travelt’s wide-eyed corpse. But thugs, refrigerator-sized and similarly intelligenced. They came to a halt, forming a wall with cheap suits and badly knotted neckties between McNihil and the exit. Small sullen eyes below bullet-headed brows fastened onto him and waited.

“Well… I’m not going to connect around.” McNihil looked over at the smiling exec. “If I were carrying, it’d be different. But I left the tannhäuser at home.” He tilted his head toward the others, now standing with their arms folded across their bulky chests. “So you don’t need to drop the weight on me.”

“No…” Harrisch made a show of considering the remark. “I don’t need to…”

The thuggish types moved in and proceeded to take McNihil apart. Nothing fancy, sheer muscle and knuckle; knees to the kidneys, sweat-smelling forearms thick and corrugated as tree trunks, hard enough across the face to screw his neck around, a panoramic quick flash of the flat and its inhabitants as the one holding him up let go at last.

He could almost admire their professionalism. Control , came a fragmented thought inside McNihil’s head; spread out on his back, he gazed up at the flat’s conduit-laced ceiling. He was waiting for the blood to fade out of his vision, as though the hallucinated spinning he sensed could draw it away from his eyes. They’d hurt him just enough to make their point-or Harrisch’s-but not so bad that he wouldn’t be able to function again.

Which was Harrisch’s point. The exec leaned over McNihil, looking down at him. “That was for being rude. The last time we got together.” Harrisch let his smile fade, his voice dropping to serious as well. “When I offer somebody a job, I expect that person to give it a lot of thought. And not just lip off to me.”

One of the company thugs gave McNihil a kick in the ribs. He could recognize the nature of the boot, its steel toe reinforced with a lump of depleted uranium; the guy would have to be big to walk around in footwear like that. The impact was enough to shock the contents of McNihil’s gut into his throat, but he managed to hold down the sour rush. Rolling onto his side, he spat a red wad of saliva and a broken tooth fragment out onto the floor.

“And then-” Harrisch squatted down and looked him straight in the eye. “I expect him to take the job.”

McNihil shook the last anesthetic fog out of his head. The bruises sang up along his nervous system, but he could string his thoughts together again. “It’s going to be hard… for me to get much work done for you…” His mouth had filled with blood again; he swallowed thick salt. “If I’m up on murder charges.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of your legal problems. You won’t even have to think about them.”

That was what he’d expected the deal to be. If Harrisch and his crew of corporate lawyers couldn’t get him off entirely, they could delay it long enough for him to die of old age. Or at least long enough for him to figure out some other escape plan.