Walter Mosley - Futureland - Nine Stories of an Imminent World

“What do you think, D’or?” Folio asked the small woman who stood behind the counter.

“About what?”

“You think Kismet wants to make Mars his new home?”

“You readin’ that Dump again? One day they’re gonna put you in the ground over that shit.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of freedom of the press?”

“They got prisons offshore that link you up to a chemical bag can make you into jelly if you sneeze outta turn,” D’or said. “That’s what I heard.”

D’or Hallwell’s blond-gray hair went straight out from her head, making her look quite mad. She wore a black T-shirt and a long, dark brown skirt every day while serving Chinese-American food to anyone who stopped by her eight-seat hole-in-the-wall.

“You scared, D’or?”

“Fear is the tenth intelligence quotient,” she said. “All the scientists say so. The more you’re scared of what can hurt you, the smarter you are.”

“Then I must be a la-la fool and you my face in the mirror.”

The small restaurateur shook her head and smiled. Johnson mimicked her movements and expression. She moved her head to the right and Folio matched it with a leftward nod. When she put her hands to her head he followed suit. Then they both laughed.

“Excuse me,” a man said.

Folio and D’or both turned to the door.

A slender young man stood there in a black and yellow checkered andro-suit with no blouse or tam. His skin was pale and his blond hair so fine that it set Folio’s teeth on edge.

“Bok choy, tofu, and oyster sauce is all I got today, M,” D’or said without apology. “Chicken and frog strike’ll last at least another twenty-four.”

“Are you M Johnson?” the blond man asked. “The investigator?”

D’or turned away and walked through a door that led to the kitchen.

“Who’s askin’?” was Folio’s reply.

The man approached the detective’s table and sat down, uninvited.

“A man named Lorenzo gave me your name for fifty general credits. I need someone to do something for me. He said that you were my man.”

Folio’s blue eye had already searched the man for eavesdropping devices. Now he was probing for anything else: the influence of drugs, rapid heartbeats, or synthetic implants. All he perceived was synthol and lime flavoring, a lot of it. It was surprising this man could stand up or compose a coherent sentence.

“Well?” asked the drunk. “Are you M Johnson?”

“What’s your name?”

“Spellman. Charles Spellman. I live on Upper Park, at a Hundred and Third.”

“So, M Spellman, what did you tell this Lorenzo?”

“Are you Folio Johnson?”

“I, M Spellman, am an unaffiliated citizen. Not from Common Ground and not off the employment cycle. This is my office and the woman who owns this restaurant is my friend. It’s one of only five independently owned restaurants in all the Twelve Fiefs of New York.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“I’m not really here. Neither is this bistro. If you have something to say then say it” — Folio Johnson fluttered his fingers — “to the air. But don’t ask any questions. Save them for the upper avenues.”

“I don’t...” Charles Spellman said and then he stopped. “I mean, I understand what you’re saying. I mean, I am on the employment cycle, though I’ve been lucky enough to avoid Common Ground. But I belong to a club. We call ourselves the Seekers. It’s ten guys, only guys, who get together now and then to exercise our minds.”

Johnson’s blue eye was busy searching the public data-banks for Charles Spellman and his men’s club.

“Um,” Spellman said when he realized that the private detective wasn’t going to ask anything, “we get together, like I said, and talk about ideas. We come from all kinds of different business backgrounds. I lease and insure ancient Greek artifacts. Coins, busts, earthenware. Regular kinda stuff. Mostly I deal with interior decorators for corporations but I also have a few private clients...” Again Charles Spellman paused, expecting some kind of question.

Johnson silently went through the e-docs that described Spellman’s service, Alexander’s Bounty. He had customers around the world and offices on Middle West Broadway, Lefrak Avenue, and Rodeo Drive. He was an employee but his cousin Mylo Spellman owned the business.

“The others do different things. Leonard Li is an accountant for Mobil Fuels and Brenton Thyme makes lenses for space exploration. Do you need to know more?”

“I don’t need to know anything, M,” Johnson said. “And nothing so far has been important enough to say.”

“The Seekers ask questions, like I said,” Spellman continued. “Sometimes we ask theoretical questions about physics or genetics. Sometimes there are social questions, like for instance Does labor define citizenship?” The antique dealer seemed to think that this last question might get a rise out of Johnson, but when Folio didn’t respond he continued, “There is a theory that the right combination of bright minds can yield genius if the group maintains both rigor and sociable relations. It’s like playing the lottery, only with the contents of our minds, you see?”

“Uh-huh. Somebody lost his mind and you need someone to go find it?”

“Somebody’s been killing us, one by one.”

“Who?” Unconsciously Johnson leaned forward, blue gleaming from his black and angular face.

“I don’t know. First it was Laddie McCoy, two months ago while he was taking a midnight job on the arch above Central Park.”

“They said it was White Noise thugs who wanted his pocket med-computer,” Folio read from a report downloaded into his eye.

“How do you know that?” Spellman asked.

“I read the paper every day.” While he spoke his eye searched for the identities of the unemployed muggers but there was no record of an arrest.

“Bill Heinz was killed eight days later,” Spellman said. “They dropped a chunk of Upper Broadway on his head.”

“I remember that one too. Four people got killed. They were working on the new DanceDome.”

“Derrick James was killed by a freaked-out prostitute that he had been seeing for the last nine years. The guy picked up Derry and threw him out of the three hundred twenty-seventh floor of the IBC building.”

“Was the tramp usin’ drugs?”

“He was a divinity student,” Spellman said. “He only had three clients and wouldn’t even drink synth.”

Johnson was reading about James and Heinz in the back of his eye. The images of the dead, published by INA, superimposed themselves on his pale would-be client.

“My cousin Mylo died from an infection he picked up at the hospital they put him in after getting an AIDS booster. He got the virus from his mother, at birth you know, but everything was fine, he just needed to keep up the treatments. But something about the serum reacted with the hive and he got weak. They kept him overnight and suddenly he came down with a blood infection. That was okay too, they said, only the doctor prescribed the wrong ABs and before they knew what was going on his fever shot up to one oh nine and he died.”

“You said there’s ten of you?”

Spellman nodded.

Johnson asked his blue eye what were the chances of four out of ten members of one club dying separately, and unexpectedly, in such a short span of time. The odds would have bought him a condo on Dr. Kismet’s island Home.

“Okay,” he said. “You got a story there. Four more or less healthy young men out of fifty-seven million in Greater New York, who know each other, die in a few days. That’s not natural, that there’s man-made, I agree. So what do you want from me?”

“I want to know why and who, hopefully before they kill me, too.” Spellman’s words were tough but, Folio thought, bolstered by the synth.