Tek Money Page 5
Jake tapped the talk key. “Okay, invade my privacy.”
On the phonescreen Gomez raised an eyebrow. “Why are you sulking?”
“I’ll explain later, Sid. Found out anything?”
Nodding, Gomez answered, “The order to wipe out Peter Traynor originated over in sunny Spain.”
“From somewhere in Madrid or environs?”
“Exactly. Oh, and they knocked off Lorenzo Printz early this morning over in the sunny Venice Sector,” added his partner. “He was the hombre who provided the rigged Tek chip.”
Jake’s skycar began to drop down for a landing at the parking area on the outskirts of the Palm Springs Sector. It was midday now, hot and bright.
Jake asked, “Why would the Zabicas Cartel care about Pete?”
“When I put that very question to my source of information, she started packing her bags and implied she didn’t want to pursue that particular line of inquiry any further.”
“Can this be as simple as illicit weapons being smuggled from Gunsmiths to Zabicas?”
“My feeling, amigo, is that it’s a lot more complicated than that,” said Gomez. “But Carlos Zabicas and his henchmen are tangled up in something nasty that probably has to do with an engine of destruction like this fabled Devlin Gun.”
“We’ll have to find out a hell of a lot more about that gun, too.”
“I intend to inquire about it when I call on Señor Barragray out at the Gunsmiths offices this afternoon.”
The skycar glided groundward, settled to a landing in an empty slot in the parking area, rocking very slightly. “Looks like I’m in the Palm Springs Sector, Sid,” said Jake. “I’ve got an appointment with Dillinger. You have anything else to pass along?”
“Nada right now,” said Sid. “You don’t want to share the cause of your gloom with me?”
“Later maybe.”
“Okay, keep in touch,” said Gomez. “Oh, and Lieutenant Drexler sends his warmest personal regards. Adiós.”
Dillinger lived in an old orange trailer on the edge of town. The patch of sandy, weedy ground immediately in front of his place was cluttered with ugly, prickly cactus stuck in squat, gaudy ceramic pots and stunted little elves and gnomes made of earth-colored clay. Dillinger himself, an android, was sitting out in a faded canvas chair just to the left of the doorway. He was thin, looked like a thirty five year old. He had a thin, snide smile, a seedy old-fashioned straw hat tilted at a cocky angle on his head and yellow hightop shoes. His suit was a dusty white and it glowed in the hot desert sunlight. He was drinking beer out of a chilled old-fashioned brown glass bottle.
“Hi, chump,” he greeted Jake as he approached the run-down trailer.
“You can actually guzzle that stuff, huh?”
“You bet, pal. I’m an electronics marvel. I can even piss.” He smiled thinly. “So what can I do you for?”
“Someone who can build an andy as good as you, ought to be building something better than—”
“No preaching on the premises, jocko. Besides, hey, it ain’t none of your beeswax.” He took another swig of cold beer, smiled his smug smile up at his visitor. “What’s your pleasure, chum?”
“Unfortunately, Dillinger, you’re the best man in this particular trade or otherwise I’d—”
“Not man, jerk. Don’t go anthropomorphizing me, pliz.”
“Okay, I want to trace some transactions.”
“That’ll be five hundred smackers in front, sheik.” He held out his dirty left hand, palm up.
“Afterwards.”
“Nuts to you.”
Jake dug out $250 in Banx chits. “Half now.”
“Three hundred dollars.”
“Two-fifty tops or I go to your nearest rival.”
“Geeze, what a tightwad you are.” Dillinger sighed out a beery breath. “And, hey, I know the size of the fees those lamebrain clients fork over to your detective agency.”
Jake dropped the money on the android’s hand. “There’s a guy named Wes Flanders who—”
“Was a guy, past tense. Flanders, so I hear, has been pushing up daisies for some weeks now, pal.”
“You knew him?”
Dillinger smiled. “I have an interest in the financial world, chum. I keep up with the vital statistics.”
“You have any idea what he was up to?”
“He was up to no good.” Dillinger laughed, winking up at Jake. “Wait out here while I pop into the villa and grab a lapper.”
Jake watched a grey lizard, who was perched atop an elf, bask in the hot sun.
Dillinger returned swinging a greasy old-fashioned laptop computer. “This is an authentic antique—except for the snazzy modifications I built into her.”
“You didn’t do the work.”
“Well, my creator, then,” admitted the android. He settled into the faded canvas chair and spread the computer across his knees. “We have what the doubledomes refer to as a symbiotic relationship, however. So it’s okay, get me, for me to take credit.”
“I’d be interested in meeting the other half of your team.”
Dillinger laughed a dry, nasty laugh. “Sure, next time it snows down in Hell, I’ll give you a jingle, pal.”
“Let’s get back to Flanders.” Jake dragged an old tin oil drum away from the side of the trailer and sat on it, watching the android.
“I got to nosing around in his affairs a few weeks back, when I heard he’d been bumped off,” explained Dillinger, running his fingers over the keypad. “Let’s return to him once again. Okay, are you paying attention? Flanders, who was a minor league player when it came to tracking financial data, was trying to trace some kale that came from Spain to Portugal to the Barbados to Manhattan and ended up here in good old SoCal.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“Twenty five million dollars.”
“An impressive sum.”
“Drop in the bucket to most of the ginks involved, but interesting nevertheless.”
“Where’d it start—in Madrid?”
“That’s what Flanders thought—but that’s because he didn’t get a chance to trace it any further back before they gunned him down in the street,” said the android, chuckling. “Plus which, he was sort of a dope and maybe he never would’ve tumbled onto the truth. But they didn’t take any chances.”
“Okay, so where did the money originate?”
“We’ll get to that in a minute, pal. First, though, let me explain where it ended up.”
“Somewhere in the vicinity of a Gunsmiths exec.”
“Not exactly,” said Dillinger with a thin smile. “I traced the sly investigations that Wes Flanders thought he was making—and, believe you me, the guy left a trail a mile wide—and he had the same hunch as you about this dough. Actually, though, pal, the whole wad ended up in the Gunsmiths, Ltd., Employees Scholarship Fund.”
“Twenty five million is a big sum to hide in a scholarship fund. You sure, Dillinger?”
Reaching up with his dingy left hand, the android tilted his old straw hat to an even jauntier angle. “You know, don’t you, how come I can ferret out the sort of financial dope that I do, Cardigan? It’s because I got access to a lot of good cheat codes. The little formulas that the smart boys who design these so-called foolproof systems build in so they can sneak a gander whenever they feel like it. Don’t ask me how I come by this stuff, because that’s, like the feller says, a trade secret.” He rested his fingers on the keypad. “I can get anything that Banx knows and I can sneak into about eighty percent of all the other financial facilities in the entire—”
“Impressive, but I’m already a loyal customer, Dillinger,” Jake reminded him. “No need to sell me.”
“I enjoy bragging, though, it’s part of my nature,” said the android. “The point of the narrative is, pal, that when I tell you the kale was dumped in that scholarship fund account, you can take it as gospel.”
“And who can draw on that particular account?”
“And nobody else can touch the money?”
Dillinger shrugged. “Not directly, but who can say who one of those three is likely to pass it on to.”
“All three of them don’t have to be in on a withdrawal?”
“Naw, any one of them can take out whatever he wants.”
“Is the twenty five million still there?”
“Was the last time I looked.”
Jake said, “All right, Dillinger, now let’s get back to the other end. You implied that the money didn’t originate with the Zabicas Cartel over in Madrid?”
Dillinger had been working on the keys as Jake talked. He glanced up now, frowning. “What do you know?”
“Something wrong?”
“I’ve been trying to go back to the point I Was at when I poked into this before. Trying to get back to the source of the loot, you know,” explained the android. “But this is getting odd. Somebody’s put up extra blocks since last time I was browsing, and it looks like maybe I was wrong about the original source. Hey, they’re trying to—trying to—”
A small flash of intense blue light grew out of the small computer screen. It seemed to swallow up the android’s right hand and then go sizzling up his arm.
He made a surprised, whimpering sound and stood straight up. His small computer fell, hit a gnome and then bounced to the gritty earth. His straw hat popped free of his head and his arms went, rigid, to his sides.
Dillinger tried to speak, but no words came out. He stood stiff as a soldier at attention and he began gnashing his teeth. Then silence filled him and he fell over with a rattling crash.
The fallen computer spoke. “Don’t follow this any further, Cardigan,” it warned. Then it, too, died.
11
THE EMERGENCY CENTER in the Santa Monica Sector was down near the Pacific Ocean. The visitor parking/landing area overlooked a wide stretch of yellow beach and the clear blue sea. When the black skycar descended for a landing, ten seagulls had been waddling over the grey surface of the field. They scattered now, swirling up into the afternoon.
The man who stepped out of the car was lean, deeply tanned and wearing a dark blue suit. He reached back into the car, poking around in a scatter of ID badges that were strewn on the passenger seat. Selecting one that identified him as Dr. Warren S. Heddison of the Woodland Hills Sector, he attached it to his jacket.
The badge was completely convincing and in less than five minutes he was on Level 13 and striding toward Jabb Marx’s room.
A white enameled medibot was placing a lunch tray on the stand beside the banged-up detective. “Good afternoon, doctor.”
“That’ll be all for now, nurse. I’m this man’s medgroup physician and I have to do a prelim.”
“As you wish, doctor.”
When the bot was gone, the tanned man moved closer to the bed. “Broken nose, three cracked ribs, minor concussion,” he said slowly. “I am mightily impressed, Jabb.”
The big operative said, “Listen, he’s a dirty fighter. Hell, he kneed me in the balls before I even—”
“We hired you, old man, because of your reputation for being a dirty fighter,” reminded the spurious doctor. “We wanted somebody inside the Kendricks agency who’d be able to pick a fight with Cardigan and incapacitate him.”
“Soon as I get out of here, I can—”
“No, you won’t make any further attempts, Jabb.” He shook his head.
“But, listen, about the fee you promised. I really need the money, what with two ex-wives and a kid who—”
“Oh, we always pay, regardless of results. That’s agency policy.” He went over to the window. “Damn, a gull just crapped on my car.”
“I know I can take care of Cardigan if you give me—”
“We’ll use some other plan.” He smiled as he turned to face the injured detective. “How does this sound? We have you beaten up so severely that you die. Then we see that Cardigan is framed for the job. That would get him off the Devlin Gun business, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s not funny.”
“Have I ever claimed to be a comedian?” he asked. “No, I’m a very effective government agent. And that, I assure you, is a job where a sense of humor is a distinct handicap.”
“Quit talking about having me killed, funny or not.”
The false Dr. Heddison said, “I really dropped in to tell you that you’re to be paid, despite the way you futzed up the job. In fact, the ten thousand dollars has already been, discreetly, deposited in your various accounts.”
“Great, I really appreciate—”
“But, old man, you have to be extremely careful from here on out. Don’t confide in anyone, don’t go near Cardigan again. Is that understood?”
“Listen, in spite of the thing with Cardigan going wrong—I’m still a pro. I’m not going to screw up again, Gardner.”
“Ah, but you just have.” He frowned in disappointment. “You used my name.”
“Nobody’s here and the room isn’t tapped. I checked that.”
“So did I. Yet it’s bad policy, Jabb, to use my name at all.”
“Hell, I’m not even certain your name is Gardner Munsey. So even if—”
“I’ll be going now,” he announced. “Enjoy your lunch and watch yourself.” He walked to the door. “We’ll be watching you, too.”
Wolfe Bosco sighed a large forlorn sigh. “I’m ashamed to have you see me like this,” said the small, wrinkled man, both elbows resting on top of his narrow little desk.
Jake was sitting opposite him in one of the many small cubicles on this level of the Actors Guild: America offices in the Hollywood Sector of Greater LA. “I’ve seen you somewhere before—in a more elevated occupation?”
Bosco sat up and spread his arms wide. “It’s me, Jake. Wolfe Bosco, once a crackerjack talent agent, here and then up on the New Hollywood satellite. At present, alas, a mere shadow of my former grand self.”
“That’s right, you’ve helped us with information on a couple cases,” recalled Jake. “Up on that movie satellite a few months ago you provided Gomez with—”
“That guy.” The little fallen agent made a wry face. “I was living like a king, my client Jacko Fuller was starring in Love Me Forever and then—”
“He’s an android, isn’t he? You must be a great agent to con them into hiring an andy and thinking he’s not.”
“Like I told your Judas of a partner, Jake, everybody in the movie business is young, extremely youthful,” he said. “They didn’t know that my Jacko was merely a replica of a big superstar of a generation ago. Hell, they didn’t even tumble to the fact he isn’t flesh and blood,” he said sadly. “Not until Gomez goes and spills the beans.”
“Nope, Wolfe. Gomez didn’t tell anybody about your con.”
“You think not? Well, it was just one day—” He held up a single, knobby little finger. “One day after him and that skinny carrot-topped Newz reporter scrammed off New Hollywood, I was called on the carpet by the adolescent who was producing this epic flicker. Me and Jacko got bounced right then and there and it’s been downhill ever since.” He raised a hand and let it fall, rapidly, to smack the desktop. “We’re rooming in a dump on LaCienega that’s even rattier than the place we shared before we ascended to fame and fortune.”
Jake said, “If you’re finished with the autobiography, Wolfe, I’d like to commence with the business I came here for.”
“You want to hire some talent?” He eyed Jake hopefully. “I still run a little agency on the side and maybe I got somebody to fill the bill.” He lowered his voice. “Strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to do this, but for an old friend and customer—”
“I’m trying to locate a young woman who figures in a case we’re working on, Wolfe,” Jake told him, taking a sheet of faxpaper out of his coat pocket. “Here’s my sear
ch permit from the front office.”
“This is going to be dull,” lamented the little agent. “It isn’t even show business.”
“I think maybe she’s an actress. Called herself Janine Traynor, but there’s nobody by that name living or working in Greater LA,” said Jake. “I’ll give you a description and we can see if it fits anybody in the Guild files.”
“Okay, okay.” With no enthusiasm whatsoever, Bosco pulled a keypad over closer to the center of his desk. “A few months ago I was basking in the perennial sunshine up on New Hollywood. Today, boy, I’m helping a seedy skip tracer track down some flea-brained actress. That’s what they call tragedy, Jake—a fall from greatness.”
“Sad,” said Jake. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah, in a sec.” He hit a key and behind him a large rectangular wall panel changed into a vidscreen. “Commence with the description of this strayed lady.”
On the screen appeared a woman’s face.
“We’ll start with the hair,” said Jake. “It was dark and—”
“Hold your horses.” Bosco pushed at another key and another panel blossomed into a screen. It showed forty eight squares, each a different dark shade. There was a number superimposed on each. “We go about this scientifically around here. Which kind of dark hair are we talking about?”
After studying the chart for a moment, Jake replied, “Number thirty.”
The woman in the picture acquired dark hair of shade #30.
In a little over ten minutes there was a photo of the woman who told Jake she was Janine Traynor on the wall behind the little agent.
“That’s her,” decided Jake. “Is she in your files?”
“If she’s an actress, she’s got to be.” He, boredom showing on his wrinkled little face, poked at another key.
A small box appeared at the bottom of the photo of Janine. It read—No person of this description on roster.
Jake said, “Tell them to look for her with different color hair.”
“More dull work.”
Janine turned to a redhaired young woman in the picture. A new box announced—Janet Mavity/Guild Card #137596-SS/Rep: Self.