Walter Mosley - Futureland - Nine Stories of an Imminent World

On the pier they strolled under the transport bridge.

“Maybe I should disappear,” Mingus said.

“Give up everything?”

“Red Raven or nobody else could pay me if I’m dead.”

“Common Ground won’t hide a Backgrounder, M Black,” Folio said. “That’s the first place they’d look for you.”

“The cops won’t help. Common Ground won’t hide me. What are you sayin’?”

“Let’s work together. I got resources and you know all about the guys gettin’ killed. Maybe we can figure it out.”

“Why didn’t you do that with Chas?”

“ ’Cause Chas is an Itsie. I hate fascists.”

“Then why work for ’em?”

“The job don’t have politics, Mingman. The job is straight.”

“I might not be in the IS, but all my friends are. Doesn’t that make me just as bad?”

“You’re just usin’ them.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Mingus Black,” Folio recited from an amalgam of reports gathered by his eye, “born twenty-seven years ago, given up for White Noise at the age of six months. Arrested for larceny at the age of seven. Transferred to a maximum juvenile authority at the age of eleven. Suspected of drug distribution from the age of twelve but never convicted because you became a fink for the Social Police. At sixteen you saw your chance. The Underground Party kidnapped the daughter of Mina Athwattarlon, chief counsel of Red Raven NorthAm. You turned in the cell and got a university berth and a good job once you graduated.”

“Nobody knows that. Nobody but Mina and me.”

“And me,” Folio said. “Brother, I got senses so sharp I can see the rhinoviruses grazin’ on your face. I can hear your heart rate rise and blood slither in your veins. But I don’t care. The UP means nothing to me. Neither do Itsies or cops. I took on a job and I intend to do it. And if you help me you might be saving your own life.”

“What do you need?”

“I need to know what you guys were sayin’ in the last few meetin’s you had — exactly.”

“We weren’t talkin’ ’bout nuthin’.” The Backgrounder came out in the land dealer’s speech again. “We—”

Folio put up a hand to cut Mingus short. He began scanning the upper area of the huge Glassone ramp. He moved his hand from Mingus’s face and pointed to a shadowy area just under the lip of the trestle’s underbelly. There, both men could make out a black form about the size and shape of an old American football.

“Noser,” Mingus hissed.

“It hasn’t uploaded yet.”

“How the fuck you know that?”

Folio ignored the question, concentrating instead on the image of a control panel conjured up by his eye. The panel exhibited a grid of Manhattan that had little yellow lights for every city spy device, commonly called nosers. Folio had already located their CSD and was busy downloading a series of commands.

The football began shaking, its fail-safe survival mode enacted, but then suddenly it plummeted forty feet, striking the ground with a brief flash of fire. It landed near a group of Infochurch priests in their iridescent blue cloaks and transparent skullplates.

“Let’s go,” Folio said.

“I told you already,” Mingus Black said. He was sitting on a couch the shape of a large, half-erect phallus. “Them guys didn’t have nuthin’ to say or think about that could scare anybody. They aren’t even real Itsies.”

“What does that mean?”

“They just belong to the fan club. Buttons and banners, you know. They pay dues and go out to drink synth on Six-days, that’s it. They don’t know nuthin’ an’ they don’t do nuthin’. Talk about all the great things they do in business but you know they’re just shopkeepers, dustin’ off the big boys’ merchandise.”

“If they’re so outside, then why you hang with ’em?” Folio asked, nestling back in a cushioned chair that was fashioned as an open vagina.

“Families got money,” Mingus said. “At least some of ’em. Chas and Mylo, Laddie and Azuma, too. Big bucks, baby.”

“And you like being around all that?”

“I trade in real estate. I’m good at it, too. Most’a these rich families got some liberal shit goin’ on about Common Ground. They wanna say they helped somebody crawl up outta there. I’m perfect for ’em ’cause I already did it. And I know how to turn a buck, too.”

“But they didn’t have some other kinda thing goin’ on?” Folio asked. The chair he sat in had all the colors and textures of a Caucasian woman’s genitalia, from thick brown fur to pink petal lips to a bright red interior. The fabric was covered by a clear material that had a liquid filling. The heat from Folio’s body caused the liquid to flow.

“Who?”

“The kids, their parents. Shit, I don’t know. I mean this New York is one crazy motherfucker, but people don’t start knockin’ off rich kids just ’cause they’re stupid.”

“No business I knew about.” Mingus lay back into the foreskin comforter. “Hey, you think they might find us here?”

“Who?”

“Don’t fuck with me, man. I don’t know who.”

“Sex pits are always the last on the list for searches. People payin’ cash and usin’ fake IDs. Almost every ID in this here sex hotel is fake. They have to send out manpower or fourth-generation nosers to check out a place like this. And even if they did come” — Folio tapped the orbital ridge over his blue eye — “I’d know they were here before they did.”

“That’s some eye there,” Mingus said. “How a street-level motherfucker like you hold on to that? I mean, I heard’a pirates stealin’ just a plain blue eye not even worth a thousand creds.”

“I’m wiry,” Folio said and then he laughed. “Was your boys gonna do anything soon? Anything different?”

“Naw. Them dudes just wanted to feel important. Last thing they managed to do was gettin’ us to talk every day at sixteen. I had some trouble with that ’cause I’m movin’ around all the time.”

“So? You could cell it.”

“Naw. They were doin’ it in-house to act like they were in business. But the internal lines have a security system that won’t allow external devices access. You know some people use those lines to transmit very sensitive information.”

“How much would that have cost the companies?”

“Hardly nuthin’. I mean, people do it all the time. Free calls just a perk in big business today.”

“So’s embezzlement.”

“I told ya, man, they got frog skins for guts. Any real trouble and them boys ran.”

“Runnin’ won’t help them now.”

Mingus scratched his eyebrow and looked away. When he moved around on the chair it arched upward in an approximation of a growing erection.

A searing pain sliced its way through Folio’s head.

“What’s wrong?” Mingus jumped up and grabbed Folio before he fell out of his chair.

Azuma Sherman was running down the lower ramp of the subterranean section of the Whitney Museum. Folio recognized the mutated inner organs created by the bio-artist Atta A that were on display. The point of view of the image came from the pursuer. Azuma’s long brown hair was flowing backwards; every few steps he would look back to see Folio’s mind’s eye catching up to him. Folio couldn’t think how this transmission had hijacked his eye.

Another pain exploded in Folio’s head.

“You okay?” Mingus shouted.

Azuma’s leg was nicked by a shard from a wide blast of a cinder gun. From his ankle to just above his knee burnt to a crisp in a second. The handsome youth fell to the floor. Through the eye-cam of the killer Folio saw Azuma’s amputated foot. The assassin kicked it away. Azuma looked up into the killer’s eyes. He was about to shout something and then his face burnt off.