Warren Hammond - KOP Killer

The competition had to be eliminated.

I had to kill him.

I tried to tell myself I shouldn’t feel guilty. I ran tired, old rationalizations through my head. Things like, It’s his own fault for not backing down. Or, Anybody stupid enough to buck me isn’t worth the air he breathes. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. You fuck with a monitor, you get an assful of teeth.

I had a million of them, but none helped, the familiar pit of guilt-tinged self-loathing making my stomach ache.

I had to kill him.

There it was.

“You met my sister yet?” asked Maria, her lashes gunked up with so much mascara that her lids and upper cheeks were dotted with semicircles of mascara tracks. I couldn’t see the bruise I’d given her. Whether it had faded or had just been covered by a few coats of foundation, I couldn’t tell.

“No.”

“She works here. She’s got a pretty face. She’s gonna do good at this.”

“How old is she?”

“Fifteen, but she looks older. Most people think she’s seventeen or eighteen. I’ve been saving up to get that doctor I was telling you about to do some work on her.”

“I thought you said she was pretty.”

“She is. She’ll get regular business, but we have to think long-term. Most of these girls don’t think like that. They spend their money as fast as they earn it. They never think about what’s going to happen when their tits start sagging. What are they going to do then?”

Somebody less jaded would’ve told her to get her sister the hell out of here. The girl was only fifteen. It wasn’t too late to get her back in school.

Instead, I told Maria her sister was lucky to have her looking out for her.

“She’s a smart kid. Someday we’re going to start our own house. If we’re really good about saving our money, we can do it in ten years or so.”

“You think a new set of tits will earn her that much?”

“It’s not just the tits. She’s gonna get some work down below, too.”

“What kind of work?”

“This doctor can insert motors and stuff down there so she can give her johns a ride they won’t forget.”

“Motors?” I asked, disbelieving.

“Not that you can see. They’re all internal, small little things. But they’re powerful as hell. I mean they’ll vibrate your wang off. And there’s other settings, too.” She counted fingers. “There’s roll, and jerk, and squeeze, and twist. Oh, and they lubricate.”

My jaw was on my chest. Robo-fucking-snatches? “Guys dig that shit?”

She nodded emphatically, her teased hair bowing up and down like a tree in a windstorm. “I know a girl over at the Red Room who got the procedure. She has to turn ’em away. Now I admit there’s some who aren’t into it. She says she gets johns who come in for a curiosity fuck and never come back, but she also says there’s tons more who won’t do regular girls anymore. She has a waiting list.”

“How long have these things been around?”

“Not long. Offworlders have had ’em for years. I don’t even know how long. But they’re new on Lagarto. As far as I know, that offworld doctor was the first to offer the procedure down here.”

“Does Chicho have any girls who have one?”

“Why? You wanna try it out?”

Surprised at the question, I stuttered a no.

She cocked her head to one side like she was confused by my reaction. “I think I’m starting to get you.”

“You are?”

“You’re one of those sentimental types, aren’t you? You can’t separate sex from love. Big and bad on the outside, but soft and squishy on the inside.”

Soft and squishy? Try twisted and tortured.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to insult you. I think it’s sweet, really.”

Christ. Don’t tell me she’s coming on to me, this ex-hooker with the big hooters, and the big hair, and the big perfume.

The room’s phone rang.

I answered quickly, jumping at the chance to escape this conversation. Deluski appeared, the badge on his holo shining extra bright. “It’s Wu, boss, he just went into the Beat.”

Any relief I felt was instantly erased. I was up, shoving my feet into my shoes. “I told you guys to lay low. Why didn’t you stop him?”

“We tried, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s in there looking for Mota.”

April 22–23, 2789

I hustled from the back of the cab. Deluski waited on the curb outside the longtime cop bar. A flickering lamp blinked across his youthful face. Together, we barged through the double doors. The place was quiet. Unusually quiet.

Heads turned our way, uniforms and brass, badge bunnies and bartenders.

Wu stood by the bar, crocked off his ass, swaying to and fro, a bottle in one hand, a half-full glass in the other. “Where are you?” he shouted, the words sloshing out his mouth. “Where is that fucking faggot?”

The crowd gave him plenty of room. Other than some hushed muttering, nobody spoke. They appeared to be waiting for his tirade to run its course. Any normal night, a guy disrupts everybody’s good time and somebody would’ve dragged him out back for a thumping. But Wu had just lost his partner. They were in a generous mood.

Wu brought the bottle to his lips, forgetting the glass in his other hand. He tipped his scarred head back for a swig, and his body followed, back arching, feet backpedaling-but still drinking-until he smacked into the bar. Glasses jumped, and bar stools tumbled.

I wished I could laugh like some in the crowd, but my heart was racing, my pulse double-timing. I scanned the clientele, searching for threats, searching for agents of Captain Mota. Did he have a crew like I did? Was his influence bigger than I thought? He wanted me brought in for questioning. How far had the word spread? How many of these jokers were ready to smooch some suit ass?

I spotted both Kripsen and Lumbela. They looked relieved to see me. I gave them each the eye. Let’s do this thing.

I approached the bar, Deluski riding shotgun, Kripsen and Lumbela joining from the sides, a four-man show of force.

“Where is he?” yelled Wu. “Where is that bastard? I just wanna ask him some questions. I wanna ask him if he killed my partner.”

We passed cop tables, brandy in glasses, tin cups full of shine. Badge bunnies watched us pass, their faces painted with rouge and lipstick. The hairs on my neck prickled, and sweat broke on my brow.

I stepped straight up to Wu and took a fistful of his collar. “Let’s go.”

I turned and made for the door, my boys fanning to the sides, me dragging Wu along. My boys walked with purpose, their hands on their pieces, putting out a pure don’t-fuck-with-us vibe.

Wu’s garbled protests sounded behind me. Dumb fucking undisciplined piece of shit. He’d put us all at risk tonight. His drunken posturing was a colossal show of stupidity, though I had to admit he couldn’t have stumbled into a more effective means of putting out word that Mota might’ve killed Froelich. True or not, the accusation would pass from cop to cop on whispered breath until the whole of KOP was infected.

I eyed the last couple tables. I felt a tug on my improvised leash, fabric slipping through my fingers. Wu tried his escape, but I recovered in a hurry, my hand seizing a tighter hold on his collar. Buttons popped off his shirt as he tried to pull free. Stumbling, he went down, his body falling on top of the brandy glass in his left hand. The muffled crunch of glass made me wince.

I yanked him upright. His hand was bloodied, his pants torn. He held the bottle tight to his chest with his other hand like it was a baby. I told him to heel by giving his collar a rough yank. The door. I had to get him out that door.