well-paid help. It was amazing how fast you got used to money and power. Despite appearances, Bobby wasn't on the payroll because he was Johnny's cousin. Bobby was on the payroll because he combined a solid background in law enforcement with one very special, crucial talent. Bobby was what you'd call a well-socialized sociopath. He could follow the rules of his employer without deviation when he wanted—because getting caught was a certainty, and he knew it. Someone without his talent would be tempted by all kinds of feelings, from love, to family ties, to friendship, to guilt.
Johnny could do the job, even enjoyed the job, but the nightmares were a stone bitch. He probably kept three researchers employed at Smith-Kline-Reynolds all by himself keeping him in sleeping pills. It was rare for the job to bug him, but the times it did he was torn between wondering whether he never should have taken the Darhel's dollar at any price, or whether he just plain liked it too much. The dead doctor in the other room didn't bug him, but he was just as glad that Bobby was the one to cap the prick.
Johnny's talent was management, especially of useful personalities. He kept Bobby unbored and made sure he had no hassles about getting laid. Easy arrangement. Bobby screwed whoever he wanted, Johnny had the girls checked out, before or after, and dealt with if they were a risk. Worked out for everybody.
Just now, Bobby was cursing at the coffee machine. In the present economy, it was unsurprising to find a pre-war junker of a machine, technically an antique, still in noisy, clunking service in the basement of a modern hospital. The offending machine had taken his money, and was straining noisily, but had failed to deposit the requisite paper cup in the appropriate slot. Johnny obliged by going over to the machine to exercise one of his own special talents—a mostly useless one, but still a talent. He could hear exactly where the problem was and somehow just sense where the problem was likely to be. He obligingly thwacked the machine on just the right spot to make it disgorge the cup and fill it with the doubtless crappy coffee.
"Thanks," his cousin said.
"No problem. Everything all right?" Johnny jerked his head towards the morgue.
"No problems. Where do we ditch the Darhel and the other dude?"
"Back where we found him, on top of the building. Nobody's allowed up there, and if we stick him in the right place, my understanding is that the Indowy will neatly haul them to the in-building trash incinerator. As easy as inserting tab A into slot B."
"Reminds me, I need the name of a new pimp. Freddie's girls are getting a bit long in the tooth." His cousin's tone was bland. The brief adrenaline rush had obviously worn off already.
"Sure. Tina, send him the next three on the list." He had warned his cousin about the circumstances of his predecessor's demise, but it went in one ear and out the other. He was almost clean in his operational habits.
His cousin didn't need conversation; in fact would prefer not to be distracted from his computer game, so the room was silent. He himself was preoccupied deciding exactly how he was going to present his findings to the Tir.
He had ample time, as the cleanup took several hours. Thank God for federal agents, who had the entire area tightly locked down. The former forensic examiner would be "involved in a sensitive murder investigation" permanently. The agents, believing it themselves, would handle inquiries down the road with the excuse of witness relocation. In a way, that was even true. His ashes, along with those of Pardal and whatever trash was in the building that day, had to end up somewhere. He supposed being murdered counted as involved in a murder investigation. Minus the investigation part. Whatever.
Chapter Five
Saturday, December 26, 2054
Johnny Stuart sat behind his cheap plastic desk, one that looked a lot more like wood than its forebears of nearly a century ago, and surveyed
Johnny could do the job, even enjoyed the job, but the nightmares were a stone bitch. He probably kept three researchers employed at Smith-Kline-Reynolds all by himself keeping him in sleeping pills. It was rare for the job to bug him, but the times it did he was torn between wondering whether he never should have taken the Darhel's dollar at any price, or whether he just plain liked it too much. The dead doctor in the other room didn't bug him, but he was just as glad that Bobby was the one to cap the prick.
Johnny's talent was management, especially of useful personalities. He kept Bobby unbored and made sure he had no hassles about getting laid. Easy arrangement. Bobby screwed whoever he wanted, Johnny had the girls checked out, before or after, and dealt with if they were a risk. Worked out for everybody.
Just now, Bobby was cursing at the coffee machine. In the present economy, it was unsurprising to find a pre-war junker of a machine, technically an antique, still in noisy, clunking service in the basement of a modern hospital. The offending machine had taken his money, and was straining noisily, but had failed to deposit the requisite paper cup in the appropriate slot. Johnny obliged by going over to the machine to exercise one of his own special talents—a mostly useless one, but still a talent. He could hear exactly where the problem was and somehow just sense where the problem was likely to be. He obligingly thwacked the machine on just the right spot to make it disgorge the cup and fill it with the doubtless crappy coffee.
"Thanks," his cousin said.
"No problem. Everything all right?" Johnny jerked his head towards the morgue.
"No problems. Where do we ditch the Darhel and the other dude?"
"Back where we found him, on top of the building. Nobody's allowed up there, and if we stick him in the right place, my understanding is that the Indowy will neatly haul them to the in-building trash incinerator. As easy as inserting tab A into slot B."
"Reminds me, I need the name of a new pimp. Freddie's girls are getting a bit long in the tooth." His cousin's tone was bland. The brief adrenaline rush had obviously worn off already.
"Sure. Tina, send him the next three on the list." He had warned his cousin about the circumstances of his predecessor's demise, but it went in one ear and out the other. He was almost clean in his operational habits.
His cousin didn't need conversation; in fact would prefer not to be distracted from his computer game, so the room was silent. He himself was preoccupied deciding exactly how he was going to present his findings to the Tir.
He had ample time, as the cleanup took several hours. Thank God for federal agents, who had the entire area tightly locked down. The former forensic examiner would be "involved in a sensitive murder investigation" permanently. The agents, believing it themselves, would handle inquiries down the road with the excuse of witness relocation. In a way, that was even true. His ashes, along with those of Pardal and whatever trash was in the building that day, had to end up somewhere. He supposed being murdered counted as involved in a murder investigation. Minus the investigation part. Whatever.
Chapter Five
Saturday, December 26, 2054
Johnny Stuart sat behind his cheap plastic desk, one that looked a lot more like wood than its forebears of nearly a century ago, and surveyed
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