Lukas Franks PI

1

Thursday 4:45 in the zKuntin AM.  Detective Sergeant Viktor ‘Shorty’ Dahl flung a bleary red-eyed look down at the uniform standing in front of 7F and flashed his ID.  DS ‘Shorty’ Dahl was over two meters tall.  Yeah, Shorty.  His dark trench coat and dark fedora were damp from the cold soggy September outside.

“Could be worse sir …” the uniform said, “this one’s disappeared.  There’s no body, no mess.”  

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Dahl grumbled.  It was much too early in the morning.  Or way too late at late night.  Depending on where you were coming from.

Dahl removed his hat, stooped his lean frame as he entered, and looked around.  Mid last-century commie housing.  Walls thin enough to hear your neighbour fart.  Mould, roaches, flaking plaster.  ProleTrash construction a half century past its due date.  Dahl was well acquainted with digs like this.  His ex-wife got to keep the posh doorman flat.  Prenup, her money.  Yeah, he could afford something better on a Detective Sergeant’s salary, but these days he didn’t give a shit. 

Dahl popped a wakeUp and downed it with take-out Turkish from Samad’s at the corner.  Extra large, four sugars.  Then he took a moment to scan the flat.  It’s the stuff people have that tells you who they are.  In this case, funky boho.  Worn comfortable looking furniture.  Ancient vinyl LPs in plastic crates.  A doghouse bass in a corner next to an easel.  The smell of turpentine and linseed oil.  Charcoal sketches on the walls.  Stacked unframed paintings.  Dahl nodded in appreciation.  Good shit.

“Wanna hit?” Dahl pulled a hipflask from the pocket of his trench coat draped over the chair next to his.  “Bourbon.”

A woman sitting across the kitchen table with a thorn rune tattoo on her cheek grabbed the flask.  The big yellow happy face on her t-shirt stared at Dahl blankly.  “Yeah, thanks.”  There was more contempt than gratitude in her voice.  She fondled her lip rings with her tongue and looked at him with silver bIo.EyeZ like he was a drowned rat or something.

Dahl did look like a drowned rat—rumpled suit, collar open, tie cockeyed, that boozed-out no-sleep haven’t-shaved-in-days look.  But it had nothing to do with it being 4:50 in the zKuntin AM.  These days Dahl always looked like a drowned rat.  Maybe it had something to do with hitting the sauce after his wife split.  But never on the job.  Well, almost never.  He downed a mouthful of Turkish while his dark eyes scrutinized the woman.  She took a swig of the hipflask.  Good.  A mellow witness is a talking witness.

“Please, as much as you want,” Dahl said as he slipped on his eyeVid glasses, “I hope you don’t mind if I take a moment to check the facts.”  Something to do while he waited for the booze to hit.  He tapped an icon on his wristApp and the case evidenceLog entries appeared floating above the kitchen table.

Missing person’s name: George Stein; citizen ID number: 15CZ-670-93-8856; no driver’s license, no passport, thirty-eight, works at a Bata shoe store, one meter eighty tall, a series of photos culled from CCTV footage.  Dahl scrolled down…shares flat with sister Jana Stein (his eyeVid photoMatched the woman sitting across from him); she’s thirty-two, works at a BillaHypermarket, etc. etc.—he skipped the rest and scrolled down to the bottom line: Jana’s call that her brother was missing was logged in at 4:12 AM.  The precinct eyeT immediately ran a copBot check of all local CCTV cam footage in the area—the 7th floor hall, the lift, the stairs, the lobby downstairs, the building exterior, the neighbourhood.  Vids showed George coming home and entering 7F at 3:36 AM.  After that, no CCTV trace of him anywhere.  The copBot pointed out that the CCTV vids were seamless—no obvious glitches, no obvious interruptions in the data flow.  This meant that either George had never walked out of 7F, or the vids had been altered.  George wasn’t in the flat, so, unless he just vanished into thin air, the vids must have been altered.  Professionally altered because they were seamless.  The copBot therefore instantly flagged the case.  This was why Detective Sergeant Viktor ‘Shorty’ Dahl, Serious Crimes Division, was at flat 7F in this zKuntin building at this zKuntin hour.  A kidnapping, abduction, whatever, take your pick, with the CCTV vids altered, implied a professional job, which implied a serious crime.

Dahl quickly scrolled through the rest of the evidenceLog: no signs of a break in.  No obvious signs of a break in.  Yeah, that was uniform’s opinion.  Forensics hadn’t shown up yet, so maybe they’d dig up something, but if the vids were professionally altered, chances were good it was a professional job, so probably they’d find nothing.  That was about it.  Except for a final image of George caught by CCTV at 3:28 that morning as he entered the lobby: black beret cocked at a rakish angle, goatee, earrings, tattooed hand holding a cigarrette.

Dahl caught Jana through his eyeVid glasses.  “Jana, that’s your name, right?  Jana?”

Jana swept back a strand of long silver hair that matched her eyes and nodded her head imperceptibly.  Dahl noticed paint smears on her fingers.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Dahl, but everyone calls me Shorty.”  He grabbed some Yeheyuans from his pocket, soft pack, tapped one out and offered it.  “Fag?”

Jana reached for it.  “Thanks, Shorty,” she said.

Dahl didn’t give a shit about her sarcastic ‘tude.  He’d been around long enough.  He flicked his lighter, lit hers first.  He took a long drag.  “Who’s artwork?” he gestured with his cigarette, “yours?”

“Yeah, mine,” Jana said, “most of it.”

“Good shit.”

“You’re buttering me up.”

“No, seriously, I like it,” Dahl held Jana’s silver eyes.  They were hard to read.   “Who plays that bass in the corner?”

“George.”  This time Jana’s voice was a whisper. He felt sorry for her.   She seemed alone, lost.  He took a drag on his cigarette.  There was something about Jana that reminded him of his ex-wife.  Before she lost her spirit.  But then again, a lot of things reminded him of his ex-wife.

“Look, I’m sorry.  I know this is difficult, and it may seem insensitive, but unfortunately there’s all this paper-pusher bullshit I gotta get out of the way, so please bear with me.  Here it goes: I hereby inform you that this interview is being recorded, that you have the right to ask me to turn the recording off at any moment, that you are not required to answer any question that you don’t want to answer, and that your right to remain silent will not be held against you in any way.”  The law said all police-citizen interviews had to be video recorded, starting with the reading of the rights.  Supposedly to keep everyone honest.

“Yeah, okay, whatever.”  Jana gestured impatiently with her cigarette.  She knew it was bullshit.  Any eyeT nerd could do vid deepFake.

“Can you verify that this is your brother?”  Dahl tapped his wristApp and a holo of a CCTV shot of George appeared floating above it.

Jana nodded.

“And that you and George share this flat.”

Jana nodded again.

“Thank you.  Now I’d just like to verify what you’ve already told uniform,” Dahl scanned the file on his eyeVid, “George came home at about three thirty AM, shortly after that you went out to get some groceries, and you were gone no more than fifteen minutes?” 

“I don’t know…” Jana shrugged, “maybe...something like that.  I don’t check the time all that much.  I just went down to Samad’s to get milk, it’s over at the corner,” her cigarette indicated the window, “you can see it.  Open 24-7.”

“Yeah, I know.”  Dahl raised his cup of Turkish and drained it to the mud.  He put it down, reluctantly hauled himself up and trudged to the window.  Regulations.  Jana mentioned it, so he was required to record it with his eyeVid: raining hard now, seventh floor view of proleTrash concrete panel buildings, glowing streetlights below reflected in pothole puddles, graffiti, the rusting carcass of a car.  On the corner, in-your-face relentlessly flashing letters: Samad’s 24/7—Fresh Turkish—Donuts—Sandwiches— Samad’s 24/7—Tobacco—Beer—Wine—Samad’s 24/7—American Hot Dogs... the harsh garish colours bouncing off the wet street.

Dahl returned to the table and eased himself back into his chair.  “So that would have been at around four AM?”

“Yeah, I guess, if you say so…more or less…”

“Do you always shop so late at night?”

“It’s open 24-7, isn’t it?”

“Okay, so you go to Samad’s, you come back, and no George.  How do you know he didn’t just walk out?”

“Yeah, with no shoes, no coat…”  A tired fuck-you in her voice.  She had a point.

“Hey, I have to ask.  When you got back, there was nothing out of the ordinary?  Nothing out of place?”

“I already told the cops, nothing…just the digital clocks…there’s one on the stove and one on the microwave.  They were blinking like the power had gone out or something.”

Dahl looked at the appliances.  His eyeVid got a shot of the digital displays incessantly flashing 00:00.  Maybe it was important, maybe it wasn’t.  Both appliances were ancient, no web connection, and this is what old shit did if the power was interrupted.  The grid would have flagged a power interruption, but the copBot said didn’t.  Maybe it was a temporary outage only in a circuit in the flat.  He stared at the smoke slowly curling up from his cigarette and reflected.  He’d have the eyeT nerds check for local power micro-fluctuations.  He’d also have them go through the local CCTV vids with a fine-tooth comb and look for suspicious routing, traces of digital dust indicating a hack, loops, splices, whatever.  Seamlessly altering CCTV vids required someone who possessed, or could afford, serious hacking talent.  Meaning the gov, a corp, organized crime, or a switch electroWizard.  But then, why the hell would any of them want to kidnap a nobody?  Were CivDef operatives scumHoovering to satisfy some contractual arrest quota?  No, that made no sense—too much effort was involved here, not worth it for a zKuntin quota.  So, if it wasn’t scumHoovering, was it a mob hit?  A gov disappearance?  Corporate skullduggery?  But why?  It came back to George being a nobody.  Was there more to him, and maybe Jana, than met the eye?  Maybe.  But it didn’t feel right.

“So, tell me about George.”  Dahl flicked cigarette ashes into the mud at the bottom of his coffee cup.

“He’s my brother.  What else do you want to know?”

“Look, if you don’t help me out, there’s not much I can do.”

“Why don’t you just check the fucking CCTV you’ve got all over the fucking place?” 

“I did.  He never left this place.”

Jana’s silver eyes flashed you’re shittin’ me.  “You’re telling me that he just vanished in a puff of smoke?”

“No.  What I’m suggesting is that someone messed with the CCTV, and if I’m to find out who and why, it would help to know about George.  I understand he works at a Bata shoe store?”

“Yeah, his day job.  It’s in the New Town,” Jana waved her cigarette in the general direction, “near Charles Square.”

“You don’t strike me as the nine-to-five sort.  Is he?”

“Yeah, sure,” voice drenched in derision, “nine to five, he lives for that shit.  Look, I said it’s a day job.  Other than the money, he doesn’t give a fuck.  He’s into music.  Big into trad jazz.  Obsessed.  He doesn’t give a zKuntin rat’s ass about anything else, not money, not politics...but the music bizz is hard going.  I mean, he has a regular gig at the Rue B, every Saturday…but it doesn’t pay much…he needs the day job.”

“Does he have any enemies?”

Jana shrugged but shook her head no.

“Politics?”

Jana took a last drag and angrily flicked the butt into the mud in the coffee cup.  “I just said he doesn’t give a rat’s ass.”

“Has he borrowed money?”

“Look around.  Does it look like it?”

“Maybe he’s addicted to something expensive. Gambling?”

Jana glared at Dahl.

“Drugs?”

“Fuck you, Shorty, everyone does drugs.”

“I meant shit that hooks you for real…junk…shabu…trank.”

“No.”

Dahl took a last drag and indifferently dropped his butt into his coffee cup, on top of Jana’s.

“Any regular hangouts?”

“Yeah, some…” Jana thought for a moment, “Ahh, Serenity…Ëvazion…The Pink Nowhere…Rat’s Ass…”

Dahl’s eyeVid identified each one.  Rat’s Ass, Serenity and The Pink Nowhere were in Real.  Ëvazion was virtual.

“And what about you, Jana?  Any problems in your life?”

“I just paint.”

A tear slowly coursed down Jana’s cheek, leaving a streak of black mascara.

“Look…I’m sorry about George…I’ll do what I can.”  Dahl picked up the hipflask.  “More?”

Jana nodded.  He handed her the flask.  “I have to stick around until forensics show up.”  He checked on his eyeVid.  “It shouldn’t be long.”

   
2

Three flights up, no elevator, but the rent was cheap.  I’d hung my shingle a month ago.  Two-timing cheaters from the posh classes were my bread and butter.  I got paid by the lawyers.  Yeah, it was a living, but not why I signed up for this business.

My break came on a Thursday in September.  I was in my office.  The five o’clock news droned in the background.

“…despite this, the dispute over water is fast escalating between the two countries.

And now, somewhat lighter news.  It seems that last Tuesday a band of orcs, backed up by a dragon, robbed the central bank in Avalon Five.  Yes, you heard that right, a robbery by a band of orcs and a dragon, but in case you’re wondering, Avalon Five is a game and the robbery took place in SIM.  Nevertheless, real money was stolen, a cool twenty-five million.  Net police are still investigating…”

Weird story.  Got my attention.  Then the buzzer rang.  I killed the news.  A minute later Anoushka came in and closed the door behind her.  She was fiftyish, rotund.  Real good at hiding chewing gum in her cheek.  And at running a business.  A class act.  She leaned on the door, a twinkle in her brown eyes.    

“There’s a gentleman to see ya,” she said, “I gotta hunch about this one.”  

“Then by all means send him in.”

Anoushka opened the door and stepped out into the outer office.  “Mr. Franks will see ya,” she said.

“Thank you very much.”  I heard a clipped Indian accent. 

Anoushka ushered him in.  “Mr. Franks, this is Drax.”

One look and yeah, definitely not Joe Average.

“Call me Lukas.”  I stood up and extended my hand.

“Of course, I know you are Lukas, Mr. Lukas man.”  Drax’s hands were stuffed deep in the pockets of his overcoat.  It was cashmere, long, black, a genuine PradaZi.  Clearly the dude had money.

Drax was in his twenties, plumpy, South Asian, and looked mad as a hatter, as if he had stuck his finger into an electric socket, or maybe he hadn’t slept in a week and was cruising on bennies.  Dark bugged out eyes, dark circles under them, dark disheveled hair.  But the thing that grabbed my attention was the chip on his temple, one of those newfangled mind-net interface devices.  Roughly the size of a ten-carat diamond, it sparkled like one, and cost about as much.  Cutting-edge flash.  Not many of them out there—hell, I’d never seen one before.  Not in Real, anyway. 

“Can I take your coat, Drax?” Anoushka asked.

“Oh, no, thank you very much, I don’t mind to keep it on.”  His hands remained stuffed deep in the pockets. 

“Suit yourself,” Anoushka said and then looked at me, “if you don’t mind…” she gestured toward the front door.  It was way past five.

“No, no, of course, go home, thanks Anoushka, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, then.”  She gave me a wink and shut the door behind her.

“Please, take a load off.”  I gestured with my already extended unshaken hand to the armchair beside my desk.  I knew not shaking wasn’t a diss.  Chalk it up to aspy awkwardness.  I made myself comfortable in my swivel chair.

Drax eased himself down and I waited for him to say something.  Instead, he just sat there looking like he was at the bus terminal killing time.

Okay, clearly a nerdy geek.  But maybe Switch?  He had the chip.  I’d never met one, but Switch used the new-fangled chip to meld their mind with the net—a direct brain-to-dataStream connection.  I wouldn’t know, but I figured it must be a totally out-there experience, so any Switch must be totally out there, which would explain Drax.

“So, Drax?” I asked, just to get a conversation rolling, “Just Drax…?”

“Absolutely, man, just Drax.”

 “So…what can I do for you, Drax?”

“It is my partner, man.  He’s missing.”

“Oh?” I leaned back in my chair, “how long?”

“I haven’t seen him since he left the loft last Tuesday.”

That was two days ago.

“And have you reported this to the police?”

“No, Mr. Lukas, man.  I would just as soon if possible that the police are not involved.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I don’t trust the police.”

“Okay, got it.”  He wasn’t entirely crazy.  Lots of people didn’t trust cops.  Too many crooked ones.  Too much corruption.  “So, what’s his name?  Your partner’s?”

“He is Ritter, Ritter Beck.”

“Is that Ritter with one or two t’s?”

Drax said two.  I entered the name on my app and specified a hundred-kilometer radius.  Five Ritter Beck holos appeared floating above my desk.

“Is he one of these?” I asked.

“This one,” he pointed at the third one, “indeed, totally.”

Foppish Thin White Duke, down to the gold Rolex and a pack of Gauloises.  Tasteful perfect make-up.  Stunning delicate features—handsome, if not downright beautiful.  A chip sparkled on his temple.  Conspicuous Switch bling, like Drax.

“Now, just to clarify, would Ritter be a business partner, or a significant other partner?”

“Business, strictly business, Mr. Lukas man.  You see the thing is, I am a software developer and I work with Ritter.  He is brilliant, totally brilliant in fractal programming.  His grasp of Mandelbrot set software mapping is absolutely unbelievable.”

I had no idea what the hell fractal programming was, let alone Mandelbrot set software mapping.  But if Ritter was a programmer, unlike Drax, he certainly didn’t look like a geeky nerd.  He looked like some ultraKool fashionista.

“You said you last saw him when he left the loft.  Whose loft is this?”

“It is a company loft—it is paid for as a business expense.  We use it to live and work.”

“Do either of you have another place?”

“I do not, and I assume Ritter doesn’t, but I am not entirely positively sure.”

“Not sure?”

“He lives in the loft.  It’s a big loft, room for anyone I’m working with, if they want to live there.  Ritter sometimes spends a day or two somewhere else, I don’t know where, but he always lets me know.  My theory is it must be some affair he’s having.  Or maybe he goes on benders, but I don’t think he’s that sort.  Anyway, this time he’s gone but he said nothing.”

“And where is your loft?”

“It is in Redcent, Mr. Lukas, man.”

“Redcent?”  I raised an eyebrow.  Redcent’s a dangerous ratHole populated by bottomFeeders, sharks, and losers without a red cent to their name.

“In Potters Bar,” Drax said, giving me a look as if that explained it.

Potters Bar?  I drew a blank.  Then it hit me.  It was a rumour I’d heard: industrial buildings in Redcent where fine china was once manufactured, abandoned when the business went south, and now occupied by electroWizards, technoAnarchists and other wacked-out types who’d dropped out of Real and wanted to stay off the radar.

By six-thirty Drax had scribbled his hancock on the dotted line and I had a contract.  I saw him out, returned to my desk, put my feet up, and texted Lars.  Lars was a young eyeT over at Mitsuhu Corp.  He was pretty good at hacking, and he owed me.  Long story, but here’s the short version: a couple of months ago I’d saved his ass from a lowlife trank dealer known on the street as muddahFukka.  I’m not going to get into the details, but bottom line, Lars wasn’t exactly innocent, given that he’d hacked muddahFukka’s client list.  Yeah, he had his reasons, but you’d think Lars would have been more careful.  Unfortunately, he wasn’t.  He figured muddahFukka for a luddite and was sloppy in ghosting his hack.  It turned out that MuddaFukka had a serious firewall and a searchBot picked up the intrusion and followed Lar’s trace.  Maybe it was beginner’s green fuckup on Lars’ part, but the consequences were drastic—muddahFukka marked him for a hit.  Lars, at his wit’s end, came to see me.  He couldn’t afford to pay me, but I was sick of lawyers and divorces, and I needed a little excitement.  I agreed to take his case for free, with the understanding that Lars would owe me some of his time if I ever needed it.  I tracked muddahFukka down, had a talk with him and explained things.  OK, maybe I also broke his finger and flattened his nose a little, but mainly I explained things.  I explained why, for business and health reasons, it was in his interest to leave Lars alone.  MuddahFukka bought my spiel, so yeah, Lars owed me, and now was as good time as any to start cashing in.  I sent him the pic of Ritter and asked him to scour the net and find the most recent CCTV vid of him.  I then poured myself a stiff one, lit a Lucky, put my feet up, and waited, hoping Lars would come through.

About an hour later I got my answer: an encrypted link to droneCam footage from Redcent.  In case you’re asking, droneCam because most of the fixed CCTV cams in Redcent are banjaxed—meaning, you know, duct-taped, spray-painted, stolen, whatever.

It was footage from Tuesday night.  I hit play.  Lars had it all cued up and zoomed in.  At 19:52 Ritter, in full Thin White Duke regalia, steps out of an uber and walks into the frame —Armani coat, Armani suit, silk shirt open at the collar, gold Rolex, gleaming chip.  He stops in front of a bricked-up window next to a pink steel door, leans against the wall, taps a Gauloise, flips his gold Zippo and lights the fag.  The rising smoke is washed in a fuchsia glow from a huge neon sign floating above, ‘This Is Nowhere’ in flowing script, a neon arrow pointing down at the door.  The Pink Nowhere, a retro LGBTQ+ club, the chatBot informed me.

Ritter hangs alone with his Gauloise for a while—maybe waiting for someone?  People pass by, some enter the club, but no one acknowledges him.  He finishes his smoke, flips the butt, and enters the pink door at 20:09.  That was it.  The vid continued to 06:00 (when the drone ran out of juice and zipped off to its dock), but no more Ritter.  He never came out.  Unless it was after 6 AM.  But I didn’t think so.  I had a hunch.

I highlighted Ritter and ran the image through recognition software.  I poured myself another one and waited for the AI to do its thing.  It didn’t take it long.  A close-up of a grrrl popped up: messed-up ice-blonde hair, sheer white lace skirt and a black leather biker jacket.  I zoomed in on her face.  Pale, peach lipstick, smoky eye-shadow.  And a chip just like Ritter’s.  She’s leaning-in close to a dude in shades, goatee, a beret cocked at a rakish angle.  They look intimate.  They’re in a crowd chilling in front of The Pink Nowhere, and it’s 02:04.  I saved the faces and hit play.  They chat, smoke, touch playfully, and leave together at 02:26.

So, the AI concluded that the grrrl was Ritter.  That had been my hunch.  And if that was the case, I had to act fast. The trail was still warm.  Time to hit the streets.

3

Wires lit by dim streetlights cast patterns on the pavement.  My car jerked and rattled as it hit potholes and followed the tram tracks into Redcent.  Yeah, my ride was a roachCoach, an old Peugeot, but it was a ratrodded roachCoach.  Meaning it looked like a clunker but drove like a muscle car.  That was the point.  In Redcent, wheels that don’t look like a junker get jacked for a joyride.  Or trashed for giggles.

It was just short of nine o’clock when my Peugeot parked itself in front of a tittyBar.  I could see The Pink Nowhere up ahead on the corner.  I checked my piece and made sure it was loaded.  Heckler & Koch nine-millimeter, fifteen rounds.  You never know in Redcent, and yes, I have a license.  I opened the door.  Rats squealed and scattered as I stepped out into shifting shades of pale light thrown by a cheap holo of a topless grrrl twerking above the tittyBar’s door.

Across the street a monster boombox pounded hardcore DubaiDubStep.  A posse of Razr4Kids hung out on trashed furniture in front of a decaying car.  The smell of krokodil doobies wafted my way.  They glared at me and vogued aggro.  I smiled ‘make my day’ and casually opened my jacket and displayed my piece in the light of the twerking tittyBar holo.  I didn’t want them fucking with my ride.  They got the message.

A battered armored car slowly rumbled by.  Cop patrol.  I pushed the pink steel door and walked in.  Fuschia lights lit a magenta stair leading down to the club.  Dark Blue played in the background, the sound low.  The bar, off to the side, was also lit in fuchsia and magenta.  Both booze and dreamWater served.  Licensing regulations said one or the other.  But that was on paper, and this was Redcent.

Nine o’clock, no-man’s land between dinner and party.  The place was mostly empty.  To the side of the bar, a lounge area.  Low moody lighting.  Wing chairs, a few sofas, all plush elegantly faded high-Victorian.  A few seduscious boner-generating babes were sprawled out on the furniture.  Hookers?  Tranz?  Who the fuck knew in this place.  They looked stunning and they looked tripped out. 

I went up to the bar.  The bartender slash dreamWater mixer was wiping a glass.  Built like a Bulgarian weightlifter, she had tattooed arms as thick as my thighs, a pink bouffant, and cartoon slut makeup.  Her low-cut silver sparkle sleeveless cocktail gown displayed a bootylicios silicone cleavage.  I parked my butt on a stool.  There was no one else at the bar.  She gave me a look.

“You don’t look like you belong here, honey,” she said.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” was my comeback.  Hey, lame, but I try.

“In that case, what’ll it be, sailor?”  She gave me a wink and sashayed up.

I decided to splurge.

“Laphroaig, neat.  My name’s Lukas, by the way.”

“I’m Harley,” she said as she poured, “Harley Quinn.”

I was about to quip ‘in that case I’m Batman’ but I bit my tongue.  Maybe she didn’t have the comic book character’s sinuous figure, but she looked just as dangerous.  Probably kept a bat and a .45 under the bar and doubled as a bouncer.

She placed the drink in front of me.  “That’ll be fifteen.  Ten if you got fold.”

“Thanks, Harley.”  I pulled fifteen in fold.  “Keep the change.”  I plunked the cash on the bar.  “By the way, ever seen this dude?”

I flicked my wrist app and Ritter’s Thin White Duke holo floated above the bar.

“Yeah, comes in every once in a while,” leery sidelong glance at me, “why?”

“His name’s Ritter.  Ritter Beck.  Ring a bell?”

She narrowed her eyes.  “Maybe.”

“How about this one, ever seen her?”

I popped the holo of the grrrl with ice-blonde hair and the black leather biker jacket.

“Yeah.  Also comes in once in a while.”

“Ever seen them together?

“Sweetie, you’re asking too many questions.”  She lit a cigarette, brought her face close to mine, puckered her hot pink lips and slowly blew smoke in my face.  “You a cop or something?”

I ignored the fumes diss and flashed my best smile, “No, I’m a PI.”

“Oh, a dick?”  She licked her lips and slowly leaned over to look down at my crotch.

“I’m not impressed,” she straightened up sounding disappointed.  I wasn’t.  Her silicone cleavage had been centimeters from my face.

“Look Harley, I’m just trying to trace Ritter.  He’s disappeared.”

She shrugged who gives a shit, took a drag, and said nothing.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a CCTV in this place?”  I looked around.  The book said all bars are required to have CCTV, connected directly to copCentral.

“It’s broken, darling.”

Yeah, this was a Redcent joint, so maybe it was broken.  But I didn’t buy it.  This was a fancy Redcent joint, which meant mob-run, and in Redcent that meant Russians—the Organitskaya.  The Organitskaya don’t fuck with security.

“So, when was the last time you saw either one of them?”  I plunked down a fifty in fold.

“Tuesday night,” she grabbed the fifty and shoved it in her bra.  “The dude comes in most weeks.”  She put her cigarette out.   “He usually has me mix up an Orchid, then he just sits there,” she gestured at the lounge area, “all by himself, eyes closed, for hours.  He’s a chipHead, probably Switch, so I figure he’s off deepFreaking.”

“Tuesday night, did you see him leave?”

“The place was packed.  I don’t keep track of everyone.”

“And what about the grrrl?”

“What about her?”

“Was she here Tuesday night?”

“Yeah, she was here.  Later.”

“Were they ever together?  Or here at the same time?”

No answer.  She had glasses to wipe.  I figured my quarter had run out.  I plunked another fifty.

“Does she have a name?”

“Calls herself Luna.”

“Is she a chipHead too?”

“She’s got a chip, but she’s probably not Switch.  She’s different.  Sultry.  Flirts a lot.”

“Do you know this guy?”

I flashed a holo of the dude in shades and a goatee.

“Sure.  Calls himself G.  He’s popular around here.  I think he’s a musician or something.”

“What’s his real name?”“How the fuck would I know?”

“Are there any private rooms in this place, you know, where private things happen?”

Harley Quinn shrugged and turned around.  I’d probably raised a taboo subject, unhealthy to talk about.  Or else my quarter had run out again.  Harley had just cost me a hundred in fold, but Drax was paying expenses.  Besides, my Spidey sense said I had found out what happened to Ritter.  He was Luna.  Yeah, their personalities were different, but hell, maybe Luna felt free, and Ritter didn’t.  I downed my Laphroaig, thanked Harley Quinn, and headed up the stairs.

As soon as I stepped outside I felt a big meaty hand land on my shoulder.  I was about to spin and break the asshole’s arm but the cold touch of metal on the back of my head changed my mind.

“Don’t turn, keep walking.” Russian accent.  My gut said Organitskaya.  Not good.

4

I couldn’t see them.  They knew what they were doing.  They stayed behind me as they hustled me down the street and into an empty lot.  They shoved me through weeds and garbage and then pushed me face first into a wall.  The meaty hand grabbed my coat and spun me around.  Now I could see them: a big gorilla and a weasel, both in expensive sharkskin suits.  The weasel had a Smith & Wesson .44 magnum shoved in my face.

“Gentlemen, what can I do for you?” I asked.  I faked a smile and slowly raised my hands.  Hey, I know when I’m beat. 

The gorilla stepped up and punched me in the stomach.  It felt like a zKuntin high voltage sledgehammer.  I doubled over.  “Ouch,” I grunted, hoping it sounded sarcastic.  I nearly passed out so it probably didn’t.

The gorilla straightened me up and threw me against the wall.  I noticed he had a bionic right arm.  It looked to be state of the art. That explained the sledgehammer punch.  And the electric shock.  A teslaFist is a popular mobster option.

The gorilla reached in, took my Heckler & Koch, popped the clip, pocketed it, and tossed the gun.

The weasel stared at me with viper eyes.  He kept the magnum shoved in my face.  “Boris, please explain to gentleman what his problem is.”

 Boris the gorilla stuck his face in mine.  He had a dead expression, a scar running from his forehead to his chin, and a nose that had clearly been broken one time too many.  “Your problem is,” I smelled cigarettes and vodka, “you ask too many questions.”

“Hey, it’s what I’m paid to do,” I answered, doing my best to channel nonchalant.

“He’s trying to be funny,” the weasel said, “show him how much we laugh.” 

Boris’ teslaFist slammed into my stomach—again.  I doubled over—again. Fuck me! Fuck me!  I saw stars.  Boris pulled me up and threw me against the wall—again.  More stars.

“Why are you looking for Ritter?” the weasel asked.

“I told you,” I managed between gasps, “I’m a PI.  It’s what I’m paid to do.”

“So where is he?”

“I don’t know.  That’s why I’m looking for him.”

“Stop looking,” the weasel said, “and never come to Pink Nowhere again.  Understand?  We make sure you do.”  He holstered his magnum and grabbed me from behind.  His hands felt like steel vices.

Boris worked me over.  Every punch another electric sledgehammer.  I couldn’t breathe. I was nauseous.  But hey, there was an upside.  I was just being given a polite reminder.    Body blows only.   I got to keep my teeth.  And my pretty face.  Still, I was getting worked over good.  Real good.  I couldn’t think straight, I couldn’t see straight.  But I’d learned how to take shit like this in the Unit.  Just close down your mind.  If you can.

Eventually Boris stopped pummeling me.  The weasel let me let go.  I dropped to the ground.  I felt like puking.

“You understand now, yes?”

“Yeah, you bet,” I managed between groans, “never get blindsided by Russian gorillas.” 

Sometimes I can’t help being a wise guy.  I regretted it instantly.

“Still funny,” the weasel said.  “Pick him up, Boris.”

Boris was about to when a pistol shot rang out.

A tall thin dude wearing a dark trench coat and fedora stood there gazing at us with dangerous dark eyes.  He had that booze-no-sleep haven’t-shaved-in-days look.  “That’s enough,” he said.  There was something in his voice that telegraphed no bullshit.  He pointed a cop standard issue SIG Sauer at the Russians.

“Shorty,” the weasel said with an unctuous smile, “we weren’t expecting you.”

“I bet you weren’t.  And it’s DS Shorty.  What the fuck are you two up to?”

“We’re only teaching lesson to gentleman.  But don’t worry, no damage.  See, not even scratch on him.”

“Vasili…Boris…how many times have I told you, not in public, and not when I’m around.  I really don’t want to have to haul you in for this kind of shit.  It’s not worth the zKuntin paperwork.  Anyway,” he looked down at me, “it seems like you’ve had enough fun for now.”

Grunting and panting, I managed to haul myself up using the wall for support.  “Thanks,” I croaked, “that was getting uncomfortable.”

“You are wise guy,” Boris growled at me, “don’t forget lesson.”

“Enough of this shit,” the detective’s eyes flashed menacing, “get lost.”

“Okay, okay, of course,” Vasili said, “take it easy.  We’ll see you around, DS Shorty.  Stay out of trouble.”

With that, the two Russians walked off.

The detective regarded me.  “So, what was that all about?”

“It seems I ask too many questions,” I wheezed holding my stomach, “I’m Franks, by the way, Lukas Franks, PI.  I guess I owe you one.”

“I’m Detective Sergeant Dahl,” he put his hand out, “but everyone calls me Shorty.”

“Yeah, Shorty, I get it,” I said as I shook his hand looking up at him.  He was a good fifteen cm taller than I am.

I pulled out my app, hit the flashlight icon, and found my Heckler & Koch amongst the crap and the weeds.

“Nice piece,” Dahl said as he eyed it, “got a license?”

“Yeah, I got a license, but empty it’s not much use.”  I managed a smile, showed him the empty butt, and shoved it into my shoulder holster.

Dahl slipped on an eyeVid and looked at me, no doubt getting my mug nice and centered.  Through the lenses I could see his eyes go out of focus.  Probably reading my files.

“Yeah, you check out,” he said about a minute later, “licensed PI, licensed to carry concealed, the whole nine yards.”  He took the eyeVid off.   “Here, I think you need this.”  He handed me a hip flask.  I caught a glimpse of post-booze blues in his eyes.

“Thanks.”  I took a good swig.  Bourbon.  Not bad.

“You’re lucky they were just playing around,” Dahl said.  “You okay?”

“Yeah, still got all my parts.  They’ve just been re-arranged a bit.”

Dahl pulled out a pack of Yeheyuans, took one, and offered me one.

“Thanks.”

“You’re not dead and you still have a face.”  He lit my fag.  “They must have liked you.”

“Could have fooled me.” I took a drag.  It felt good.

“So, you were asking questions.  In The Pink Nowhere.”

“Yeah.”

“That was stupid.  Seriously stupid.   You’re new at this game, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” What was I going to say?  I was new at this game.

“Lesson one—you don’t walk into an Organitskaya joint asking questions.  The Pink Nowhere is an Organitskaya joint.”

“Thanks.  I’ll remember.”

“What were you asking about?”

“I’m looking for someone who was last seen in The Pink Nowhere.”

“Who?”

I figured I’d play ball.  DS Dahl seemed like an okay guy.  Besides, I needed to build up contacts in the cop community.  Still, I couldn’t tell him about Ritter.  Drax wanted the cops out of it.  But the guy who met Luna was another matter.  I flashed the image of the dude “G” in shades and a goatee.

Dahl stared at the holo. “Where the fuck did you get that?”

“Why do you ask?’

“No reason.”

Yeah, sure, no reason.

We walked up to the edge of the lot.

“Okay, that’s George Stein and I’m lookin’ for him,” Dahl said.  He must have thought about it and decided to play ball too.

“You’re shittin’ me.”  My mouth dropped open.

“No, I’m not.  Dude disappeared sometime in the wee hours Wednesday morning.  Why are you looking for him?  Who hired you?  His sister sure as hell doesn’t look like she can afford a private dick.”

“Hey, you know I can’t disclose client shit.”

“Well, in case you care, his disappearance smells like a professional job.”

“And you want to know if I know anything about that?”

“No,” Dahl looked at me.  Again, I caught the blues in his hard eyes.  “What I’m saying is, watch

your ass.”

“Thanks.”

We swapped contact info, promised to share leads, shook on it, and wished each other luck.

5

It was almost ten.  My Peugeot was still in front of the tittyBar.  So were the Razr4Kids.  This time they didn’t notice me.  The krokodil had kicked in.  They were in zombie mode.  Just as well because I could barely walk.

The light of the holo eased me into the driver’s seat, flickering as the topless grrrl twerked.  I felt like I’d been hit by a garbage truck.  I needed to get my shit together.  I needed to think.  I hit Home and the autoDrive took over.  I leaned back and closed my eyes.  Thinking.  Yeah, so the evening had pretty much gone FUBAR.  And if it wasn’t for DS Dahl it would have gone way worse.  Yeah, I owed him one.  But I wasn’t sure I agreed with him about why I’d gotten pummeled.  Well, not entirely.  Yeah, he was right about lesson one and asking questions in a mob joint, and yeah, I did end up looking like the zKuntin greenhorn I was, but my spidey sense was telling me that the goons hadn’t worked me over only because I was asking questions in an Organitskaya joint.  They worked me over because I was asking questions about Ritter.  Why was he so important to them?  What did the Organitskaya want with him?  Or was it Luna?  Did they get it was the same person?

Luna had left The Pink Nowhere less than forty-eight hours ago.  Did she know the Organitskaya were looking for her?  Was she hoping to throw them off?  Is that why she went in as Ritter and out as Luna?  Where would she have gone?

By the time I got home it was a half eleven.  The night was still young.  I popped a pain killer, showered and changed.  I shoved a fresh clip into my Heckler and Koch and put an extra one in my pocket.  It was turning out to be that kind of night.  DS Dahl was right—I was new at this game.  And I didn’t have a lot of good cards to play.  But I had one.   Abdul.  I figured that at this point I could do worse than check with him.  Long shot, but maybe he’d heard something.

I hadn’t seen Abdul in a while.  I met him in Baghdad when I was in the Unit.  The reason I was in Baghdad is still classified, but what I can tell you is that Abdul was running cigarettes and guns, which meant he knew people, had connections, and always knew the score.  His intel kept the Unit a step ahead of the opposition, so we didn’t give a zKunt about the cigarettes or guns.  Unfortunately, he ended up pissing off the Israeli Zeev syndicate and he had to get the hell out of Dodge.  The Unit arranged for him to get a passport and some credits to start over again.  That was five years ago.  Now he owned a falafel joint on the wrong side of the tracks from where he ran ‘community services’.  Meaning protection rackets, loan sharking, crap like that.  Some things just don’t change.  Abdul was still bending the rules, had a new set of connections, and still knew the score.  And the best part was he owed me for saving his ass more than once (sorry, also still classified).

The place was a narrow hole-in-the wall on a crap street in a crap ‘hood.  Like I said, wrong side of the tracks.  A chintzy ‘Abdul’s Falafel’ holo lit up the front.  Inside tiny tables were crammed together, jampacked asses to elbows.  Abdul must be doing something right.  The cigarette smoke was thick as Delhi smog.  Abdul was manning the bar, serving strong coffee and hard liquor.  I pasted a big smile on my face, shoved my way in, and elbowed myself a spot at the bar.  I looked around—always good to check local conditions.  Nothing to worry about, other than the four bruisers crammed at a table in the back corner.  Abdul’s goons, no doubt.

“Abdul buddy, long time no see!”

Abdul was pouring a vodka.  He didn’t look happy to see me.  “Not long enough, Lukas.”  He was slim, handsome, wore a silk Versace-Khan suit, shirt open, seriously bling gold chain.  A foul smelling Bulgarian Sportak hung out the side of his sandpaper face.  “What do you want?  Every time I see you, you bring trouble.” 

“That was Baghdad.”

“Bullshit, here too.  I don’t need trouble.  I am making honest living.”

“Sure you are, which is exactly why I’m here.  I have a business proposition.”

“What business proposition?”

“Ever hear of a club called The Pink Nowhere?”

“It’s in Redcent.  Place for fruits.”

“I hear the Organitskaya runs it.”

“Maybe.”

“Got any contacts there?”

“In the Organitskaya?  Why do you care?”

“Because I do.  So here’s my proposition.  See, I’m looking for someone, and they, that being the Organitskaya, suggested I stop looking.  I want to know why.”

“You should listen to them, Lukas and stop looking.”

“Yeah, well, that’s just it, I can’t.  I have a client.  It’s my first real job.  I want to end up smelling like roses.”

“What job?”

“Didn’t I tell you?  I’m a private eye now.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not.  I’m just starting.  Like I said, my first real job.”

“Lukas, my friend, even for you it’s not healthy to mess with the Organitskaya.  If they say stop looking, stop looking.”

“I get it, but I need to know why.”

“And you want me to find out?  Screw that Lukas, I’m no infoWhore.”

“I never said you were.  But I do need to know.”

“And so you come to me…what do I get out of this?”

“Oh, I don’t know…let’s see…maybe I keep my mouth shut?”

“Lukas, you call that a deal?  If you’re going to be blackmailing me, tell me why I don’t just kill you now.”  Abdul made a point of looking at the bruisers in the corner.

“Abdul, Abdul, who said anything about blackmailing?  That’s an ugly word.  Look, we go back. Way back.  As shady as you are, I’ve always trusted you, and I know you trust me.  Look at it this way.  You tell me things, it helps my business.  I don’t tell the cops things, it helps your business.  It’s like yin and yang, and we’re both happy, right?”

“Fuck that yin yang shit.  I don’t care how far back we go—if you ever rat on me, I swear I kill you.”

“Stop being such a drama queen.  You still owe me, buddy.

Abdul gave me a dirty look.  He didn’t like to be reminded, but he knew I was right.  He was honourable when it came to these things.

“So, who are you looking for?”

“First, I need your word.  You keep this quiet.”

“Of course, I keep this quiet.  You think I want to us to get iced by the Organitskaya?  Well, maybe in your case…”

“Very funny, Abdul.”

“I’m not being funny.”

“His name’s Ritter Beck.” I showed him a photo—paper print.  Old fashioned.  Can’t be hacked.  “He’s a computer geek.”  I didn’t tell him about Luna.

“And you want to know why the Organitskaya are interested in him?”

“That’s it.  You got it.”

“I get back to you, Lukas.”

6

It was way past eleven when I left Abdul’s.  My body still ached.  It felt good to lean back in the car and relax.  Lean back and think.  So where would Luna go?  On the CCTV vid she’s seen leaving The Pink Nowhere with George at 2:26 AM.  DS Dahl said George disappeared in the wee hours, which had to have been after that.  Did she go with George to his flat, wherever that was?  Were they together when George disappeared?  Shorty didn’t mention anyone else, except for a sister, so I figured that at some point George and Luna had parted ways.  Call it a hunch.  Where would Luna, probably alone, go?  If she knew the Organitskaya were after her, she’d aim to disappear.  And, assuming she didn’t hop an uber (everyone knew most ubers were mob run, so she’d be taking a big chance), she had to be somewhere within a reasonable walking distance of The Pink Nowhere.  This was Redcent, so basically her options were to squat in some abandoned trashHole, crash on a couch if she knew someone, or find a hotel or flophouse, preferably a noTell, to hole up in.

I figured Luna wasn’t the squatting type (zero comfort and dangerous), didn’t know anyone in Redcent (outside of Potter’s Bar, which was at the opposite end of the hood), and would probably want guaranteed anonymity.  Which meant a noTell establishment.  Yeah, it meant premium rates, but I doubted Luna was short of funds.  The problem would be identifying a noTell hotel.  By definition, they don’t tell.

I Googled hotels within an hour or so walking distance of The Pink Nowhere.  Twenty-eight popped up.  Bloody hell!  It never occurred to me there were so many hotels in Redcent but given that most were probably flophouses and/or whorehouses, maybe it made sense.  I scanned the list—places with names like the Mercure, the Casa, the Kayak, the Hotel Grand (yeah, right), even a Monet Garden (keep dreaming).  None caught my eye as a likely noTell, but then I was a rookie in the business, so what did I know?  Gotta earn your stripes.  I popped the closest one into the Peugeot’s satNav, the nHow Tribe hotel.  Yeah, I know, but I don’t name them.  I hit ‘enter’.  I was there in no time.  I checked the place out.  Trashy outside.  Trashy inside.  A night clerk smoking Bombay black and cruisin’ porn.  Never heard of Luna.  Too baked to be lying.

I hit the next dive.  Again nothing.  Pretty soon it was a routine.  Walk in, suss-out the lay of the land, show the night clerk, the hookers, the dealers, the nightcrawlers, dope fiends, whoever’s around, Luna’s picture.  Keep an eye peeled for their reaction.  Diddley squat.  Nada.  Maybe they were all poker players.  On to the next fleabag.

By four AM I was bleary-eyed wiped-out tired.  The next place on the list was over by the railroad tracks.  It was the Kranepool.  I entered it into the Peugeot’s satNav and popped another wakeUp.  The auto drive kicked in.  I waited for the benny buzz to kick in.

By the time the Peugeot rolled to a stop the benny buzz had hit.  I was feeling good.  I got out the car.  I looked around.  Standard-issue railroad track ‘hood.  One side of the street was lined with graffiti-spattered boarded-up brick buildings.  Broken glass on the sidewalk.  Along the other side, a chain-link fence with razor wire, and behind that, the Kranepool.  It was a coffinHotel—a stack of prefab capsules barely bigger than a mattress.  The capsules were stacked four levels high and accessible by open-grate corridors.  The lighting was soccer stadium harsh.  The railroad tracks ran in deep shadows behind the hotel.  An endless freight train slowly rumbled by.

I was parked in front of a gate with a buzzer.  I pressed the button.  A cam scanned me.  I got buzzed in.  Reception was in a trailer next to the stack of capsules.  I stepped in.  The décor was plastic laminate.  The dude behind the counter was skinny but sinewy.  Maybe twenty.  Tattoos up the wazoo.  Greased-back hair.  Too much mascara.

“What, another one?  What the fuck do you want?” he demanded.  Clearly in a crap mood.  Maybe I’d woken him up.

“Hello to you, too,” I said.  Yeah, he needed a lesson in manners, but, honestly, I didn’t give a zKunt.  This was Redcent.  It came with the territory.

His hand reached below the counter.

I was faster.  My Heckler and Koch pointed at his face.  “Very slowly put both hands on the counter.”

He glared at me but did.

“Stay frozen.”  I kept my gun pointed at his mug, went around the counter.  “A cobra.  Nice.”  I picked it up.  “Do you know how to use it?” I asked.

Cobras are whip-like segmented stainless-steel rods capable of delivering a 500 volt jolt.  Nasty.

“Fuck you.”

“Take it easy,” I said, and tossed the cobra on the floor.  “I’m Lukas, by the way.”  Maybe introductions would lower the aggro level.  “What’s your name?”  I holstered my gun and offered my hand.

“Axel.”  He shook my hand reluctantly, still glaring.

“Okay Axel, just a question and I’ll be out of your hair.”  I showed him Luna’s picture. “Seen her around?”  He stiffened.  Had I finally hit a noTell?  I could tell he’d seen her.

“Where is she?” 

“Hey, I didn’t say I’d seen her.”

“You didn’t have to.   You’re not exactly a poker player.”

“Fuck you.”

“Jeez, is that all you ever say?  Look, I can make this easy, or I can make it hard.  I’d rather go with easy.”  I pulled a wad of fold, counted out two hundred, and threw it on the counter.

“Make it three.”

I threw down another hundred.  What the hell.  Drax was paying.

“She’s in 417.”

“Thanks.”

“But you’re the second one who’s come looking for her tonight.  She’s got company.”

“Company?”

“Yeah, a grrrl.  Total volcanic weirdo.”

“Volcanic?”  Maybe I wasn’t up on the latest lingo.

“Yeah, you know, miss massacre.  She pulled blades on me.”

“Isn’t that why you have a cobra?”

“She was faster than you.”

“And you told her where Luna is?”

“Hey, I didn’t want my throat slit.  Like I said, the grrrl’s volcanic.”

“How long ago?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Fuck me!”  I bolted out of the trailer, hurtled up the steel steps two at a time to the fourth level, dashed down the gangway, found 417.  I was out of breath.  No time to think.  I drew my gun, shot the lock and kicked the door in.

Fuck me!

Luna was in the rear of the capsule, back to the wall, shaking and whimpering.  Cuts crisscrossed her face, blood streamed down her chest and on to the temperfoam mattress.  Facing her was a raven haired grrrl.  Perfect figure in shiny black latex tight like it was sprayed on.  She spun around.  Sharp red nightVision eyes.  I caught a glimpse of her hands.  Fuck me!  I’d expected a blade artist, not a zKuntin’ vampire.  Vampires were interrogation specialists.  They had retractable tungsten-carbide fingernail razors to slice and dice, letting blood slowly flow until the victim talked.  Victims usually ended up drained and dead from a thousand cuts anyway.

“Freeze!” I yelled.

This vampire was clearly neuroEnhanced for speed because before I could register what was happening, she pirouetted and sprung at me, instantly closing the three-meter gap between us.  Blood sprayed the wall next to Luna, shooting out of a severed carotid artery.  My reflexes took over.  I pulled the trigger.  Maybe she was fast, but I don’t miss.  Two shots.  First one in the mouth.  Instant loss of motor function.  Second one in the forehead.  She was dead before she landed, but not before her fingernails sliced through my coat and cut my forearm.  Axel wasn’t shittin’.  Fucking fast.

The capsule was a mess.  Blood and brains all over the place.  I went up to Luna.  A bloody gurgled last breath, and she was gone.  Fuck me!  The Organitskaya had gotten to her before I had.  I closed her eyelids, threw the bed-sheet over her and walked out 0nto the gangway.  I pulled up DS Dahl’s contact info and gave him a call.

Before I reached Axel’s office my phone rang.  It was Abdul.

“Lukas, you’ll never believe this one.”

“Try me.”

“That Ritter guy you are looking for is a master hacker.  He did a job for the Organitskaya.  They had him hack a game.”

“Don’t tell me, Avalon Five.”

“If you already know these things, Lukas, why do you bother me?”

“It was a guess.”

“Well you better find him fast.  They sent a vampire after him to recover a couple million credits he skimmed off the take.”

“It’s too late.”

“So they already got him?”

“Yeah.”

“Too bad for you.  And very stupid of him if you ask me.”

Yeah, too bad.  I’d never met her, but I’d grown somewhat fond of Luna.  And my first real case was down the toilet.   And yeah, it was real stupid double-crossing the Organitskaya.

Fifteen minutes later cop car lights flashed all over the place.  The uniforms had secured the crime scene.

“So you found your missing person,” DS Dahl said.  We stood in a pool of light out in front of the trailer. “Congratulations.  Too bad he’s dead.”  This time two bodies.  And a fucking mess.  His face kept changing colors in the flashing cop car lights.  He lit a Yeheyuan and offered me the pack.  I took one.

“She’s dead,” I said, “I think that’s what she’d prefer.”

“Yeah, right.  Whatever.  You okay?” he gestured at my arm.  Blood was seeping through a bandage.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”  Besides the cobra, Axel had a first aid kit under the counter.  He knew how to use that one.  “Any luck finding George?”

“No.  He’s disappeared into thin air.  And I mean that literally.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.  He’s not the first one.  It’s always the same.  The EyeTs swear the CCTV vids aren’t altered.  Forensics insist everything is clean.  There’s no explanation.”

That was weird, but I figured there must be an explanation.  But not now.  I was wiped out.

“Look, it’s late and I’ve had a hell of a day,” I said, “I’ll see you around, DS.”  The benny was wearing off, I still felt like I’d been hit by a garbage truck, and now I was cut up as well. 

“Call me Shorty.  And yeah, take care, Lukas.”

“Thanks, Shorty.”

I took a last drag, tossed my butt and we shook hands.  Not a great ending for my first real case. I went off to collapse in my car. 

“Home,” I said.  The Peugeot pulled away from the kerb and into the street.  I closed my eyes and wondered what the hell I’d tell Drax.