Warren Hammond - KOP Killer

I shook my head at her back as she stepped away. She couldn’t get to the top just by acing her goddamned performance appraisals. This was KOP we were talking about. She needed me. She needed what I could do.

I dug into my fish and eggs-tasty for the first few mouthfuls, but turning blah shortly after. My taste buds were like that these days. Everything I ate went from grand to bland in three bites or less. I pushed the fish around my plate, taking an occasional bite as I waited for Maggie to return.

The crackle of a bug zapper drew my attention toward the kitchen. The hostess carried a handheld, shaped like a carpet beater but made of wire mesh instead of cane. I watched her meander among the tables, picking flies and mosquitoes out of the air, each one incinerating with a satisfying spark.

A group of young offworlders stood to leave, their appearances morphing as I watched, their flawless skin going furry, teeth sharpening into fangs, noses elongating into snouts. The newly minted pack of werewolves thought they were hot shit, prancing out like supernatural show dogs. What a bunch of punks. Like we locals were supposed to be impressed by their high-tech bullshit. I looked at their vacated table, where they’d left behind a huge spread of barely eaten food. Wasteful bastards. At least the kitchen staff would eat well tonight.

Maggie came back, her heels clopping on the mold-spotted floor, her face bunched in frustration.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think you’d mind if I started my dinner.”

She dismissed my remark with a brush of her hand. “I don’t care about that. It’s good to see you eating.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to go out on a murder.”

“Send Wu and Froelich.”

“They’re not answering their phones. That’s some thumb you’ve got them under. Now I have to go with Josephs.” She dropped pesos on the table. “We’ll continue this later.” She hurried across the dining room and out the door.

The waitress appeared. “What did you do to your date?”

I looked up. “I need a brandy.”

“She’s a feisty one, isn’t she?” She cocked her hip to one side and tugged at an earring. “What you need is a mature woman.”

“Brandy,” I repeated, practically snarling the word.

“Your loss.” Her hip snapped back into place, and she headed for the bar.

My phone rang. Maria the bodyguard. I listened to what she had to say, my teeth biting down on my lip.

The brandy arrived by the time I hung up. I slugged the glass down, hoping the spurned waitress hadn’t added a splash of saliva.

I waved for another glass of instant courage. I was going to need it.

Fucking Mota.

I leapt for the riverbank, one foot landing in the mud, the other splashing water halfway up my pant legs. I guess the skiff wasn’t as close as I’d thought. Next time, I’d have to remember to push up my shades for a better look before I jumped.

I waved at the skiff’s pilot and started scrabbling up the riverbank to the sound of the boat’s motor puttering for deeper water.

“Here,” said a voice.

Looking up, I saw a hand reaching over the embankment’s edge. “That you, Deluski?”

“Yep.”

Taking hold of his hand, I scrambled the rest of the way. “Kripsen and Lumbela here yet?”

“They’re just up the way there.”

“Good.” I fell in step with the young officer, one shoe squishing with every step.

Kripsen and Lumbela approached, both of them wearing white, loose-fit linens. Kripsen’s were too long in the legs, the short man’s cuffs dragging on the ground. Lumbela’s whites shone bright on his dark skin. They fell in alongside, the four of us now marching in a line.

“What’s up, boss?” asked Lumbela. There was a small bandage under his temple.

“Maria called. She said a uni’s been posted at the head of the alley, and he’s scaring all the business away.”

“Just one cop?”

“That’s what she said.” One cop. One. Mota was an amateur. After his little show of bravery on the phone, I’d expected him to make a move, but not one so feeble. He had no clue what he was up against. Like I said, he had no business running a protection racket.

“Anybody heard from Wu and Froelich?” I asked. “They won’t answer their phones.”

“They went upriver,” said Lumbela. “They like to bet on the lizard fights up there.”

“Why won’t they pick up?”

“Did you tell them they’d be on call?”

Is he serious? I actually stopped to stare at him.

“If they didn’t know they were on call, they might’ve turned their phones off.”

I was speechless. Genuinely speechless.

He caught on. “You expect us to be on call all the time?”

“Twenty-two-fucking-seven.”

“Okay.” We started moving again. “Good to know.”

We turned left. A bonfire raged in the middle of the street, making the air reek of smoke and ash, melted plastic and burned rubber. Several people worked the asphalt with fern-frond brooms, creating piles of debris left by the riot.

Silently, we marched from one ravaged block to the next. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Lumbela checking me out. I tried to ignore him, but he kept watching me instead of looking where he was going, his shoes scuffing and bumbling.

“What the fuck?”

“I–I was just wondering if you could see okay with those glasses?”

“I see fine.”

A pair of butchers wheeled a cart of monitor carcasses up to the closest fire. They each grabbed a pair of thick, stubby legs and swung the gutted lizard from side to side, counting one-two-three before heaving the carcass into the flames, where it landed like a heavy log, a cloud of sparks kicking up for the sky. We passed the cart as they grabbed hold of a second monitor. By the smell of it, the meat had been taken by the rot. The power was back on in this neighborhood, but not soon enough to save their unrefrigerated stock.

What a fucking mess this city was, the riots just the latest blight on an already spoiled fruit. It was hard to believe Koba once had thrived and bustled with energy. Those days were long gone, gone for generations.

Every step took us closer to where it happened. I remembered the way it felt when I’d let go, when I’d surrendered to the madness. Exhilarating. Pure. Totally insane. My stomach fluttered, and my feet felt light on the ground. I did my best to purge the strange emotions inside me. Now wasn’t the time.

I looked where the spice shop used to be-nothing but a pile of charred rubble. An old woman sat on the pavement outside and used a piece of paper to scoop spilled spice into a plastic bag, picking out pieces of glass in the process.

We stepped up to the lone uniform at the head of the alley.

“Hey, fellas,” he said. “That you, Juno?”

Son of a bitch. Not Jimmy.

“Shit, I knew it was you soon as I saw that hand of yours. Shit, man, why don’t you get that fixed? I bet them doctors can give you some pills or somethin’.”

I knew this kid. Jimmy Bushong. Ex-army and a fellow Tenttowner. I’d met him during the Vlotsky case and helped him get a post at KOP after he gave Maggie and me the inside dope on his army unit. “What are you doing here, Jimmy?”

“Jus’ followin’ orders. My sarge told me to stand right here by this alley. I asked him why, and he told me the order came from up the chain. Pretty fuckin’ weird if you ask me, but I ain’t complainin’. This shit’s way better than workin’ riot duty. This neighborhood sure got worked over last night.” He punctuated the statement with a whistle.

“You got that right.”

“What you guys up to? You come down to get some action?”

“How did you guess?”