Kiss of the Blue Dragon (10 page)

“Emerald City?” he said. He physically recoiled as he whispered the words. That shook me up. Hank had seen it all at the ripe age of twenty-five, as does anyone who works in the news business.

“What’s the matter?” I asked with an uneasy chuckle. “You act as if I just said she was being held by ghouls and trolls.”

“That’s not far from the truth from what I hear,” he said, shaking his head. “We had a reporter go down there one time and never return. It’s like a bog. People get swallowed up and are never seen again.”

I stared hard at him, then exchanged a look with Mike. A jolt of fear crisscrossed between us and I swallowed hard. As I held Mike’s steady gaze, I remembered one of his many platitudes that always put things in perspective.
The Buddha once said, Birth and death are like sunrise and sunset. Now come. Now go
. Easy come, easy go. Even I could understand that. I was, if nothing else, a fatalist.

I let go of my captive breath and looked at my brother calmly. “I’m going to go after Lola, Hank. I know the dangers. I accept them. Mike feels the
same way. He’s looking for his brother. We’re in this together. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Thanks, but if it’s all the same to you, I will worry. Only in my spare time, mind you.” He twirled the pencil. “Let me ask you this. How do you know Lola’s there?”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Mike shift his weight. I did so, as well. “I can’t say.” Actually, I wouldn’t say.
It’s the whole vision thing, Hank. Psychic nah-nah-noo-noo. Like mother like daughter
. “I can’t reveal my sources.”

He chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “I can relate. Well, I know I won’t change your mind. Did you tell Mom and Dad you’re doing this?”

I bit my lower lip. “Not exactly.”

“Gotcha. Mum’s the word.”

“Thanks.”

“The least I can do is tell you what I know about that hellhole so you can go in with eyes wide open. And they will be, literally. It’s pitch-black down there.”

“But I thought it was fully lit, like the station at Chicago and State.”

“That’s just a tourist trap. The tourists come down and look around, listen to a lecture about Emerald City’s founding fathers, buy primitive art painted by moles, take a few pictures and leave. It’s the underground’s version of an interpretative center. But if you go far enough through the rail tunnels you’ll find nothing but inky fingers of abandoned railways lit by the occasional gas outlet. Now and then there’s a gas explosion. There’s one pocket of moles who
survived a bad blast about ten years ago. They were badly scarred. Jon Moore, one of our researchers, tells me the burn survivors are treated like a leper colony by the other moles.”

“How does anybody know what goes on there if no one comes back?”

“Some do, but they’re mostly N.G.O. types and ministers who go there to help the homeless. The moles don’t like writers and reporters snooping around. And like most subcultures on the edge of society, the moles’s leaders want to control everything. They don’t want to be mainstreamed because that means they’ll lose power. So on behalf of their captive followers, the Emerald City council members have spurned all efforts to integrate their people back into normal society.”

“How do you know all this?” I still didn’t quite understand how reporters did what they did.

“Jon told me. He pulled a groundhog.” He took a long sip of coffee, clearly thinking an explanation was unnecessary.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s a groundhog?”

He frowned in exaggerated dismay. “I thought you retribution specialists heard it all on the streets.”

“We don’t listen,” I deadpanned. “We do the talking.”

“So true,” Mike muttered without cracking a smile as he gave me a long-suffering glare.

Hank laughed out loud. “You’ve got her number, Mike. Okay, let me explain. A groundhog is someone who abandons Emerald City and comes back up above ground to live. Most people don’t know the
difference between a free-ranger and a groundhog. Moles think of free-rangers as wayward souls who foolishly choose to live aboveground. But groundhogs are considered traitors. Jon could write a book about his experiences, let me tell you. There he is now talking to another reporter.” Hank motioned to a young man leaning against a desk in the newsroom across from his office and gestured for him to step inside.

“Hey, Jon, this is my sister, Angel, and her friend Mike. They want to wander around Emerald City. Can she call you if she needs anything?”

“Sure.”

Jon was older than Hank by about five years, I’d guess. He was five-foot-seven, thin and very pale. Ghost pale. He wore dark sunglasses, which he lowered down his nose to pierce me with pupils that had forgotten how to contract. They were like marbles, hard and permanent. My skin prickled beneath that eerie gaze. The glasses went back up and the moment passed.

Catching Jon’s look, Hank said, “Yeah, I know, she’s nuts, but you won’t talk her out of it, believe me. She wants to find somebody down there who’s been kidnapped. Go over the map in the newsroom with her, will you, and show her all the working tunnels?”

“Sure.”

Man of few words, I thought. I guess he still had a lot to learn about social graces aboveground.

Hank turned to me. “Jon lived down under, as it were, until he was eighteen. He came up for an edu
cation and has been here ever since. Some members of his extended family consider him a traitor, but his parents wanted him to have a better life. After college, he was hired here at the station as a consultant and researcher. He gives us all the background we need when stories break from down below.”

We chatted awhile, made arrangements, then Jon left. “His eyes are…penetrating,” I remarked.

“Even though he’s been a groundhog for nearly a decade, he still can’t handle the light. His eyes never really adjusted. Hence, the sunglasses.” Hank reached for a file on his desk. “By the way, I did some digging on the north side R.M.O. hierarchy. It may come in handy. I also did a run on Lola’s background. She has quite a history.”

My skin burned down to the roots of my hair. After all these years, her criminal background still embarrassed me. Especially when the subject came up with members of my foster family, who had as much integrity as Lola had scams.

Hank pursed his lips as he reviewed the information. “I think it’s very possible she did a reading for Vladimir Gorky. I’m not sure you know, Angel, just how well connected your mom is.”

“With the bad guys, you mean.”

“Yeah, well, those lines get blurrier every day, don’t they?”

“Not if you’re a decent person.”

He closed the folder. “That’s what I’ve always loved best about you, Angel. You expect a lot from others. And yourself. Too much, sometimes.”

“Let’s cut with the Freudian analysis, little bro.” I crossed my legs with some effort. My steel pants shimmered from the overhead lighting. “Why did the Mafiya take her? And if they did, why is she being held underground? The Sgarristas don’t usually associate with moles, do they?”

“No. I dunno what gives here, but I’ll keep digging.” He leaned forward and slumped a cheek in his upraised hand, looking at me as if I were an impossible puzzle. “Angel, I’ve always looked up to you.”

My face softened with a wary half smile. “Uh-oh, here comes the lecture.”

“I’ve never questioned your judgment.” He frowned and wiped his supporting hand over his face, leaning back with a loud sigh. “I don’t know how to say this without hurting you but…is she really worth it?”

My smile faded. What was Lola worth to me? My own life? She would never have risked hers for me. So what was I trying to prove by rescuing my mother? That I could go one better than her? Was I trying to rub in her face that blood ties really mattered? I wasn’t so sure myself. Maybe I was the one I was trying to convince.

“I don’t know, Hank,” I said at last. “I just know I’m going to do this. Trust me. I’ll come back alive.”

He looked at me like someone waving goodbye to a loved one for the last time. Then he laughed. “Sure, sis. I know you will. You always do.”

Rick’s Café Americain

M
ike and I talked at length with Jon about where we should go once we entered the black labyrinth underground. After picking his brain, we decided to head north to the old Wrigleyville station. Jon’s clan squatted there and he said his family would give us advice on where to look for Lola. He assured us most moles were friendly and just trying to get by like anybody above ground. The problem was the Rogues and the Shadowmen.

The Rogues were descendants of the mentally ill who’d sought shelter in the abandoned subway system during the healthcare crisis in the early 2000s. They were usually loners and erratic at best.

The Shadowmen were members of a vicious gang
that sometimes went aboveground to fight as mercenaries for other gangs. They spent most of their hours weight lifting and ate lots of meat. I liked to think they raised rabbits in underground warrens, but more likely they hunted plentiful rats. According to Jon, the Shadowmen were monstrous, unconscionable thugs who should be avoided at all costs.

A lone Rogue I was confident I could handle, but the Shadowmen weighed heavily on my mind as we traveled home. Mike and I decided it would be best to leave in complete darkness. There was a little time to kill. I listened to my messages as I dressed for our late-night mission.

When I heard Marco’s recorded voice, I froze and felt a strange quiver inside. It had been a long time since I’d both dreaded and eagerly awaited contact from the same man. I couldn’t concentrate on his words. It was pathetic. Get a grip, Baker! I hit Replay and listened closer.

I know what you’re up to, Baker. You’ve decided to go it alone. But you need my help
.

“Like hell I do,” I said to the answering disk.

I’m coming over
.

“Shit.”

I’ll be there no later than eight.

I looked at the clock. It was seven forty-five. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

Don’t be stupid, Baker. We’re in this together.

I bristled at that. He didn’t know anything about me. I would succeed or fail on my own just as I had since I was seven. I quickly dressed in my black cat-burglar-style outfit, strapped my organizer on my leg
and headed down to Rick’s Café. I’d wait there until Mike came for me. Marco would never think to look for me there.

The sidewalk outside the AutoMates Reality Bar at the corner of Southport and Roscoe was crowded with locals and tourists who mingled with second-beer buzzes, deep in sometimes-slurred conversation. Above them a neon sign declared that this was Rick’s Café Americain.

I strolled in through the side entrance and immediately walked into a haze of unfiltered French cigarette smoke and a soft breeze from the giant overhead fans. The place smelled like 1942 Morocco.

Obviously I’d never been there, but I’d seen the movie
Casablanca
a million times. I thought I could detect the scents of the north African city where so many had gone to escape Nazi-occupied Europe. I stood a moment, taking it all in—the bristly worsted wool of double-breasted suits on men seated at the crowd of round tables. Even though they were compubots, they somehow managed to sweat in their crisp white shirts from the Mediterranean heat pumped in through the vents, giving the place a vividly accurate air.

The men chatted with small-waisted compubot women dressed in vintage World War II-era suits and dresses that carried heady whiffs of classic perfumes like Coco Chanel No. 5 and a vanilla hint of Shalimar. Automates, Inc. left no detail to chance.

There were several of these classic movie fran
chise bars in the Chicago area. Tiffany’s was downtown, featuring an Audrey Hepburn compubot, and a place in Cicero featured James Cagney. Of all the gin joints in town, though, I walked into this one. Because it was in my own neighborhood. The only reason I was the lucky customer who always got to go home with the star was because I’d done a retribution job for one of the AutoMates executives a couple years ago.

I said hello to the Moroccan host at the door who wore a fez. Sam played the piano and sang with his usual bright smile gleaming in the smoky spotlight. He winked when he saw me enter through the oversize doors, never missing a note. The tourists at tables scattered around the large room were enraptured by his routine. Ingrid Bergman sat at a table alone, looking so damned classy I sighed. She took one look at me and her eyes narrowed.

I know AutoMates aren’t programmed to feel on their own, but I swear she was jealous of me. Maybe I flattered myself. And maybe I took this whole reality entertainment thing too far. But it was a nice escape. I could use some of that before going to my possible death in the bowels of Chicago.

When Carl, the plump, white-haired waiter with the Austro-Hungarian accent, passed by in his bulging tuxedo, bearing a tray of martinis, I followed him to a table to catch his ear.

“Where’s Rick?” I inquired after Carl deposited his drinks. Whenever I was here, I always called Bogie by the name of his character in
Casablanca
.
It lessened the chance of confusing the supporting cast and shorting out their programs.

“Rick?” he sniffed as he headed back to the bar, with me following. “Madam, he’s probably in the back, having a private party.”

“Tell him I want to have a drink with him.”

“Rick never drinks with customers.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’d heard it all before. It was one of the great moments in the movie, when Rick suddenly agrees to drink with Ingrid—I mean, Ilsa, and her husband, Victor Laszlo. Rick was the classic cynic with the heart of gold.

Across the room he came out of the private room, where guests entered only at his invitation, and went to the bar. He struck a match, lighting a cigarette, and found me through the veil of smoke. Talk about smoldering looks. I was definitely going to have that drink. Unfortunately, it was going to be seltzer. I never imbibed before a job.

I meandered my way toward the bar, with one eye over my shoulder looking for Mike. The place was filling up fast. I stopped briefly to chat with a retributionist I’d met on the south side. But Bogie was waiting, and I moved on.

“Hello, Angel,” he said when I reached the bar. He never cracked a smile, but I could tell by the glint in his eyes he was glad to see me. He was the master of understatement. “What brings you here?”

“I’m going out on a surveillance op and may not come back.”

He took a drink from his bourbon glass. “You always come back, Angel.”

“That’s nice of you to say, Rick, but you never know when—” I glanced at the door and stopped cold. There was Mike standing out like a sore thumb in his martial arts garb, and beside him stood Detective Marco, looking dashing, as always, in his well-tailored suit with its knee-length coat. I made a mental note to kill Mike the next time we were alone for bringing Marco here.

The good detective was being obnoxiously persistent in his pursuit of me. I was almost flattered, but I didn’t want him to know I’d resorted to robot and instead felt embarrassed, then indignant. What I did in my private life was none of his business. It was because of arrogant men like him that I’d turned to Bogie in the first place. I glared defiantly at Marco from the distance until he spotted me through the smoky room. When he saw me standing next to Bogie, his strong jaw turned to stone and he frowned. He was pissed. Good. I’d give him even more to stew over.

I turned back to Bogie and ran my hands up his flawless, sharply tailored white tuxedo. “Kiss me, Rick. Kiss me like it’s the last time.”

It was as if Pavlov had just rung his bell. Bogie heard that line from the movie and lunged for my lips. I half expected music to swell in the background. Instead, Sam and his orchestra finished a number and the place fell silent.

“Look!” a lady in red polka dots shouted to her husband, pointing at us. “Is that Rick and Ilsa? No, who is that woman? Was she in the movie?”

I reddened as it seemed the whole room was focused on our corner.

“Come on, Ms. Baker,” Bogie said, “Let’s go in the back.”

I didn’t argue when he took my arm and firmly led me to his private party room. I felt Ilsa’s mental daggers in my back and gave her an immature grin of triumph as I departed. She strolled to Sam’s piano, and I knew what song she would request.

No sooner had we reached the relative privacy of Rick’s gaming room than Marco marched in. He shut the door behind him and slowly walked toward me, hands in his pockets, an ironic smile on his face. He stopped too close.

I put my hands on my hips and turned to him. “What do you want?”

“What the hell is this all about?”

“What is
what
all about?”

“This!” He motioned to Bogie, ignoring him completely. He obviously hadn’t seen any of the “Compubots are people, too” ad campaign commercials. AutoMates had feelings, albeit preprogrammed feelings, and I felt indignant on Bogie’s behalf.

“Don’t be rude, Marco. This is Rick Blaine. He owns this place.”

“Yeah, right.”

Bogie stepped between us. “That’s enough, Mr…?”

“Marco,” I said, filling in the blank. “Detective Marco. He’s a big shot, Rick. Educated out the wazoo, bent on revenge with a Superman complex. He’ll use you up and spit you out and take no prisoners and make you feel the whole time like he really understands your feelings.”

Bogie processed this smoothly. “I see. I’m sure Captain Renault can answer whatever questions you have, Detective Marco. He’s the local authority here in Casablanca.”

“Captain Renault?” Marco looked at me with labored patience, still ignoring Bogie.

“You know,” I whispered, “the little French guy who’s always running interference with the Nazis. He and Rick go off together at the end of the movie. It’s one of the classic lines of all time. Rick says to Renault, ‘Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’ Don’t tell me you haven’t even seen
Casablanca
. Men like you kill me, Marco, you really do. Get some culture, for God’s sake.”

Marco finally turned his look of disbelief from me to Bogie. “I can’t believe you’d resort to this…this
thing
. What are you doing with your life, Baker? Are you absolutely determined to throw it away?”

“Will you shut
up?
” My face positively burned. “You have no right to come in here and mock him, or anyone else. This is none of your business.”

“It’s time for you to go, Detective Marco,” Bogie said, stepping forward.

When Bogie grabbed Marco’s arm, he jerked it away. “Get your hands off me, you damned compubot.”

“Marco, stop!” I hissed.

Suddenly the sounds of Sam playing “As Time Goes By” drifted in from the other room.

“I knew it!” I muttered. Ilsa
was
jealous. She had Sam play that song knowing Rick couldn’t resist.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Bogie headed out of the room like a man walking to his destiny. My knight in shining armor had hung up his lance to trot after his beloved damsel, and Ingrid Bergman didn’t even have to whistle.

I growled under my breath. “Boy, that was really mature, Marco. You almost got in a fight with a compubot, you know that?”

“You should talk. You almost got laid by one.”

I bit my tongue. He didn’t know the half of it.

“Look,” he said, running his hand over his frown, “Mike told me you think you know where Lola is.”

“Did he tell you where?”

“No. But I don’t think now is the time to go off on a wild-goose chase. I just found out that the R.M.O. and the Mongolians are about to go to war over those missing Chinese orphans that have been in the news. The R.M.O. apparently stole the girls before the Mongolians could sell them on the black market.”

“Maybe that’s why the R.M.O. lost interest in us. They had bigger fish to fry.” And maybe, I thought, that’s where Lin came from. Janet Drummond said her husband had done work for Corleone Capone. “This sounds serious.”

“It is,” Marco said. “So promise me you won’t go to Little Beijing and mess with Capone.”

“I promise.”

“And promise me you won’t go to West Devon and get involved with Gorky’s gang.”

“No problem.”

He looked at me so thoroughly goose bumps rose
on my arms. Suddenly it dawned on me—duh—he was jealous of Bogie. The air between us thickened and I swallowed.

“You’re not going to tell me where you’re going, are you?” he said in husky voice, now looking at my lips.

His gaze was like a laser beam, burning me up. “No.”

He nodded. “I didn’t think so.”

He stepped even closer. I felt chilled, then flushed, then chilled again. God, what was he doing to me?

“So,” he murmured, “use your talents, okay? Stay one step ahead of trouble.”

“Okay.” My voice was breathy. I couldn’t get enough air. “I’m good at that.”

“And wear this.” He pulled a minuscule tracking device out of his jacket pocket and held it out between his thumb and forefinger. “This will tell headquarters where you are. If you get into trouble, turn it on. I’ve got a buddy at HQ who is going to keep an eye on the monitor for me. I’ll be able to reach you at a moment’s notice. Just pinch the little button in the middle and a silent alarm will go off.”

“Sure, Marco. Thanks,” I said, though I had no intention of turning it on. I held out my hand, and he dropped the silver button into my palm. I dropped the tracker into my pocket and gave him a dubious look. “So why are you giving up so easily? You’re ridiculously tenacious. I thought you might pull my fingernails out one at a time until I told you what’s up.”

He shifted weight to one foot and slipped his hands into his pockets as he grinned. “Now why would I do that? If I try to play the hero, you’ll just end up having to rescue me again. I have no doubt you’ll succeed at whatever it is you’re planning. Just be careful, Baker.”

He whispered this last word in a tone so intimate I felt liked I’d been slammed up against a wall.

“Yeah,” I brayed, “don’t want to lose your free psychic, huh? Ha, ha.”

He didn’t even hear me. He was moving in for the kill—I mean, the kiss. His lips touched mine and my head literally swooned. Shit.
Shit, shit, shit
. Get a grip, Baker.