Authors: Thomas Claburn
“Hello. I was referred to you by Kenneth Wren, here in San Francisco. Do you have time to answer a few questions?”
“I was just about to head home for the day.”
“Let’s make this brief, then. I’m looking into the death of Dr. Xian Mako. A pair of galvanic spectacles was found on his body. I think whoever killed him left the glasses on his corpse deliberately. I’d like to know why.”
Roderick’s eyes widen. “Dr. Mako is dead?”
“Yes. I take it you knew him?”
“I wouldn’t say that. He was a frequent customer of mine. We exchanged a few messages, but that was the extent of our correspondence. It’s dreadful to think that he was murdered.”
“Frequent? He had a thing for antiques?”
“He preferred owning products outright rather than licensing them. A lot of Americans shop here for that reason.”
“Do you recall selling him a pair of galvanic spectacles?”
“Oh, yes.” Roderick purses his lips. “Those particular glasses were made by Judah Moses, who received a patent for them. Quite an interesting fellow, if you care for such things.”
“Did they have any special significance?”
“Supposedly, they heightened the wearer’s sight by applying electric current to the optic nerve. They’re highly sought after by collectors of medical quackery.”
Sam nods. “Makes sense, with Mako being a doctor and all.”
“Actually, I believe he bought them as a gift.”
“Is that what he said?”
“Not exactly. But he did ask to have them gift wrapped.”
“Any idea who he intended to give them to?”
Roderick shakes his head. “I’m afraid not.”
“Is there anything you can tell me about him? Like who he worked for?”
“As I said, I really didn’t know the man.”
Sam pauses. “Well, thank you. I appreciate your help.”
With a wave, Roderick logs off.
Sam steps out of the booth, relieved to escape the celebrity-scent knockoff. “Marilyn, find a registered health insurance company outside the country that’s willing to carry an anonymous search of the Medical Information Bureau’s medical records database for under one thousand dollars. Find claims made by Dr. Xian Mako or his dependents, if any. Copy results to a transient cache, establish an encrypted connection, then summarize and delete.”
Marilyn replies with another pitch, but her words go unheard.
Standing on the street corner, Sam revisits his encounter with Kenneth Wren. Something doesn’t fit. Wren wouldn’t talk about his own customers, but he pointed him to the Englishman. Assuming the two dealers have mutual clients, the prudent thing to do would be to say nothing at all. Maybe Wren’s concern is protecting himself rather than his customers? Has he been threatened?
Marilyn becomes more insistent. “Sam, would you like to receive a quote?”
“I’m sorry, Marilyn. A quote for what?”
“A quote for data insurance.”
“Some other time.”
“Please be more specific.”
“May 3, 2150,” Sam says. He tries not to sound spiteful; he doesn’t want to trigger one of her pouting loops.
“Your datebook only goes to 2143.”
“Can’t you extend it?”
“The one-hundred-twenty-eight-year limit is generous, considering the current average human life span.”
“Who knows? I might live to one hundred and thirty.”
“That’s statistically unlikely. Your current estimated date of death is 2089.”
“At seventy-four? It was 2091 a few months ago!”
“Your intake of saturated fat has been exceeding recommended levels since last July.”
“Has my health insurance premium gone up?”
“Yes, by 2 percent.”
Sam mutters sarcastically, “Gee, I wonder if that’s why I got a pitch from Aquamarine.”
Marilyn offers helpfully, “Your recommendation from Aquamarine was based on the following factors: topic match, tetrodotoxin, 53 percent; skipped meal flag, breakfast, 12 percent…”
Sam is reminded that he is hungry and begins to think about lunch.
Marilyn drones on. “…dining history type match, seafood, 11 percent; dietary noncompliance flag, 9 percent…”
Sam gives Marilyn and the network the finger—a gesture that would appear to passersby to be directed at the heavens.
“…search history association match, Dr. Xian Mako, 8 percent; establishment rating, excellent, 7 percent.”
“Dr. Mako?” Sam laughs aloud. It hadn’t occurred to him that Aquamarine might have been the source of the poison that killed Dr. Mako. But of course it has to have been. It’s the only restaurant licensed to serve fugu in Northern California. “Marilyn, I could kiss you.”
“If you’re looking for female companionship,” she suggests, “why not call the Vivid Doll House? Vivid’s auto-mates feature secreting orifices and pseudoskin on a lightweight bone frame for a feeling that’s real. And with Vivid’s new Network Services interface, you can talk to your girl like you’re talking to me, starting at only $215 an hour. Haven’t you ever wondered what it would feel like to hold me, Sam?”
“No, Marilyn.” It’s easier to lie.
Astride his Ducati, Sam takes Geary Street across to Japantown. The red lights along the way display a promiscuity promo. Sponsored by the Chinese-backed Church of Christ Capitalist, the campaign aims to counter the falling birth rate among California’s affluent Chinese expats, a demographic trend that’s cutting into the Church’s overseas tithing take. Though its audio track is broadcast in Mandarin, the steamy spot’s crossover appeal has been snarling traffic as drivers linger through several light changes for encore presentations.
Outside Aquamarine, a lone environmental protester wearing a sandwich-board display dodges back and forth, vying for attention with five paid counter-protesters. The “contesters” match his movements, hoping the malcontent’s message will get lost amid their own sandwich-board displays. A glimpse of the video screen worn by the protester reveals a commercial trawler cutting through an ocean dark with blood. But as the contesters close around him again, all that Sam sees are ads extolling the health benefits of seafood.
A valet in a Mao jacket approaches and steadies Sam’s motorcycle while Sam dismounts, giving a reverent nod as he takes the classic bike under his protection.
Behind the glass doors, the meticulously attired staff is preparing for the lunch rush. Men and women in business dress line the bar, waiting for the 11:30 a.m. seating. The live fish in the display tanks appear less animated, as if aware of their inevitable relocation to someone’s plate.
Sam asks the maitre d’ where he can find the manager, Tetsuo Washi. He’s directed to the mezzanine lounge at the top of the stairs, just beyond the bar.
On his way up, he passes a sharply dressed man with the beginnings of a dark beard. Ordinarily, Sam wouldn’t give such an encounter further thought, but the man’s expression as they exchange glances strikes him as oddly smug. He stops and watches him descend, trying to place the face. At the landing, the man looks back over his shoulder, wearing a hint of a grin, and then continues on.
Perplexed, Sam ascends the last few steps, almost colliding with the manager, who’s about to head downstairs himself. Recognizing the tall restaurateur from the image he requested on his way over, Sam introduces himself.
Tetsuo nods politely. “A spec? What brings you here?”
“A patron of yours. Dr. Xian Mako. He was found dead yesterday morning with fugu poison in his system.”
“That’s most unfortunate. Dr. Mako was a good customer.”
“Do you have a moment to talk?” Sam gestures at the nearby banquette.
Taking a seat, Tetsuo leans forward. “I assure you that we had nothing to do with his death. Dr. Mako hasn’t dined here for several months.”
“I understand the delicacy of this matter.”
Tetsuo inclines his head in acknowledgement.
Sam continues, “If he was here the night before last, I wouldn’t have to mention it in my report to the city. Any number of vendors might be importing blowfish illegally.”
“Your discretion is most appreciated, but as I said, Dr. Mako hasn’t dined here recently.”
Tetsuo’s insistence seems genuine enough, but Sam finds it hard to give up on so obvious a link between victim and poison. “Would you do me the favor of allowing me access to your records?”
“You know I cannot do that without a warrant.”
“I can get one,” Sam bluffs. “But it’s something of an inconvenience.”
Hands pressed together as if in prayer, propped up by his elbows, Tetsuo weighs Sam’s request. “I don’t wish to be rude, Mr. Crane. Perhaps you could query our database through my assistant?”
“Works for me.”
“Matsushima, Mr. Crane here would like to ask you a few questions about a customer, Xian Mako. Please answer him directly through external speakers using authorized guest permissions.”
The gentle voice of a young woman replies, “Yes, sir. Proceed, Mr. Crane.”
“Matsushima, when did Dr. Xian Mako last dine here?”
“January 21, 2050.”
Just a few months ago. “Did he order fugu?”
“Yes.”
“Was he alone?”
“No.”
“Who was with him?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Crane, but you cannot access that information.”
Gritting his teeth, Sam struggles to remember which query protocols he can use in limited-access situations. It seems unlikely he’ll be able to find out what he wants to know directly, but it might be possible to arrive at the truth though a more circuitous route.
“Matsushima, how much was the bill for Dr. Mako’s table that night?”
“Thirty thousand two hundred forty dollars.”
Checking the menu, Sam sees that works out nicely to four six-thousand-dollar prix fixe dinners with tax and tip. Considering the cost, Aquamarine’s clientele, and the doctor’s apparent lack of family, it’s likely a business dinner.
“Matsushima, was there any change in Dr. Mako’s available credit between 6:00 p.m. on January 21 of this year and 1:00 a.m. the following morning?”
“No, there was no change.”
So Mako didn’t pay. Sam wonders if the evening was a freebie of some sort, possibly from a would-be employer or business associate. Perhaps it was an act of solidarity that all four diners risked their lives that night. It would be fitting behavior for an outing meant to foster corporate esprit de corps. Certainly the lack of a toxin-scan charge suggests some measure of fraternal bravado among the diners. Or a desire not to offend the chef.
“This is all very interesting, Mr. Crane,” Tetsuo says, “but what does it have to do with what happened yesterday or the day before?”
“Probably nothing,” Sam admits as he stands. One more question comes to mind. “By the way, do you know who was working Mako’s table that evening?”
Tetsuo drums his fingers together. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t bother my staff, Mr. Crane.”
“Whatever. Thank you for your help.”
Descending the stairs, Sam nearly succumbs to the scent of steamed salmon and ginger. Despite his hunger, he keeps walking toward the door.
CHAPTER Four
T
he Gas Saloon
on Divisadero reeks of exhaust. Patrons of the converted body shop like it that way. There are no tables; the car collectors prefer parking inside, where they and their precious machines can see and be seen. The idling of engines precludes the possibility of music, but no one seems to mind—the effect perhaps of a carbon-monoxide buzz.
Sam pulls up to the bar, an auto lift raised waist-high. Beside him, a biker sporting a Confederate kepi is buffing his Harley. The bartender, a lanky Irishman named Sean, looks up.
“What’ll you have, Sam?”
“What are you sampling?”
“Got a fine 1997 from here in California, refined at Tosco, thirty cents an ounce.”
“Ninety-two octane?”
Sean nods. “I also have a pungent 1999 from Yukos’ Kuibyshev facility, infused with naphthalene mothballs. You’ll probably have to clean your valves afterwards, but it burns quite nicely. ‘Tisn’t cheap, though.”
“Any racing fuel?”
“I have about a gallon of propylene oxide. But it’s noxious stuff. I can’t really recommend it.”
“Let me try the ‘97.”
Sean dons rubber gloves. Placing a demitasse on the bar, he stretches a pressurized hose from a stainless-steel keg and pours a splash of fuel.
Sam swirls the liquid to check for sediment, then sniffs. The sharp scent burns his nostrils. “Okay, I’ll take two hundred fifty-six ounces.”
“J.D., issue two gallons of Tosco ‘97 to Sam Crane,” Sean says to his agent.
“Awaiting approval,” the creaky voice of John D. Rockefeller replies.
Marilyn chimes in. “Sam, will you accept a debit from the Gas Saloon?”
“Yes, Marilyn.”
The light on the fuel keg goes from red to green. Sam takes the hose from Sean and fills up his fuel tank. To him, it’s an intimate act, feeding his machine. More modern devices are far more emotionally assertive, with their simulated intelligence and their plaintive manipulation. But compared to the primal act of refueling, such artifice leaves him cold.
Toward the far wall, a restored 1979 Ford Pinto painted with flames stands with its hood yawning wide. Three paunchy men lean into the car’s maw, entranced by the engine.
After scanning the familiar menu, Sam settles for Jelly Chicken, Like Fries, and pirate cola—which tastes every bit as real as the real thing, despite assertions to the contrary by Global Cola. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for vat patties; free-range meat has far more flavor than the stuff grown in test tubes. The $300-per-pound price tag makes it even harder to swallow.
Slipping on his earbud and eye tap, Sam checks his messages while he eats. There’s a voice file from Tony Roan: “Hi, Sam. Tony here. The video you asked about doesn’t exist. It seems the cameras were removed from the headlands at the beginning of year, as a result of result of a lawsuit filed three years ago by the Modesty Foundation, one of those morality PACs. Apparently, some National Parking Service employee was streaming the feed, which included explicit scenes of animals mating. It gets better: The Tissue Growers of America filed an amicus brief alleging that video of live animals harms its members financially by making live animals more appealing than lab flesh. So no pictures. I hear the FBI may still have some fixed lenses in the area, but they’re almost never in working order, thanks to the eco-thugs. Most of the agencies are using drones now because of that. Anyway, I hope that helps. This is making me miss the old days. Let’s get together for a beer soon. Ciao.”
Sam resists the urge to bury his head in his hands, not wanting to drive his eye tap into his head.
A message from Luis offers no solace. It’s the official crime scene report. As expected, genetic material from over five thousand men and women was found on or near the body. Some two thousand of those individuals have criminal records.
Another message proves more promising. A Dutch insurance company accepted his offer to search the Medical Information Bureau’s database. Contained in the forwarded report is Dr. Mako’s home address.
Yanking his eye tap off, Sam shakes his head in an effort to reestablish reality. But despite his disorientation, he’s grinning. Next stop: Green Street.
By the time Luis arrives at Dr. Mako’s flat, Sam is scowling, having been there for forty-five minutes already. The well-dressed policeman climbs the steps with the assistance of his umbrella, marking his approach with the clack of metal on concrete. A particularly tall officer follows behind him.
“Sorry I’m late.” Luis pats his hair flat, though gale-force winds would be impotent against his pomade. “Had to break up a fight between a couple of ‘gents in the Tenderloin.”
Sam stows his tablet and hefts a flimsy smile. He’s familiar with “disencampment incentives,” the bureaucratic term for beating loiterers. “No problem,” he says. “Been running around like a madman all morning. I was just catching up on the news.”
“Anything interesting?”
“The war for eyeballs continues. A bunch of Content Corp billboards were hacked last night. Entertainment Corp denies responsibility, and meanwhile is accusing Content Corp of polluting its ad stream with blank vector files. Seems not one of the fill areas sold in Casablanca last night had the sponsor’s logo.”
Luis shrugs. “They sabotage each other to get free coverage.”
“There was some outbreak in Brazil. But it was in the pay-per-view section.”
“Ignorance costs more.”
Sam exhales slowly, trying to come up with a response that doesn’t involve his fist and Luis’ jaw. Silence is the best he can do.
“You know Karl Midge?”
Rising from his seat on the stoop, Sam offers his hand. “Sam Crane.”
“Karl,” says the towering policeman, as if rationing his words. Without further ceremony, he kneels before the door and sets to work on the lock.
Luis leans on his umbrella. “This is unlike you, playing things by the book.”
“This isn’t the sort of case I usually take on,” Sam answers. “If I’d known you were gonna be so late, I’d have kicked the door in to spare myself the grief.”
“I’m just giving you a hard time.”
“You’ve given me nothing,” Sam snaps. “Mako’s been dead for over thirty-six hours. It’s taken me this long just to figure out where he lived!”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Like I said, I should’ve just kicked in the damn door.”
“Quit whining. You knew this wouldn’t be a quick close.”
“I didn’t know Jacob would get killed.”
Luis nods sympathetically. “I saw the report. I’m really sorry.”
Sam considers telling Luis he doesn’t blame him. But he can’t.
Karl rises from his knees, expressionless, and opens the door.
A central hallway runs the length of the flat, terminating in a living room with a view of the bay. A scent that’s somewhere between ammonia and yeast lingers in the air—someone must have cleaned.
Sam notices the pristine maple floor as he steps inside. No polymers here. It’s real wood, $500 dollars a square foot at least, and installed recently. Stunning ukiyo-e prints adorn the walls. If Dr. Mako was unemployed, it was because he didn’t need to work.
The three men search the apartment. The job goes quickly because there are no personal effects to be found. No family pictures. No trash. The food in the refrigerator consists of unopened, recently purchased packages.
Finally, Sam says, “There’s nothing here. It’s like a show home.”
Casting a glance at Karl, who’s busy taking air-trace samples with a mass spectrometer, Luis nods. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve never seen you so disinterested in a case.”
“I got a lot on my plate, Sam.”
“I should cut my loses and file my report right now.”
Luis bristles. “After two days? You know that’ll get me audited.”
“It’d serve you right for throwing me into the deep end.”
“Man, you sure can whine.”
“Don’t put this off on me. This kind of case should be handled at an official level, not dumped like some low-priority mugging. In fact, I’m surprised the Feds aren’t all over this, much less you and yours.”
From down the hallway, Karl chimes in, “That smell is BioClean, by the way.”
Furrows crease Luis’ brow.
“BioClean?” Sam asks.
“Engineered microbes. They eat hair and dead skin, produce ammonia, and die. It’s the luxury alternative to genetic decoys.”
“So much for DNA evidence. How difficult is it to obtain the stuff?”
“Very, unless you work in the intelligence community.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on here, Luis?”
“Karl, excuse us for a moment.” Luis leads the way into the bedroom and shuts the door.
Splintered daylight breaks through the blinds. In an aquarium beneath the window, fake tropical fish—red scats and striped monos—execute their programs to the soothing sound of the tank’s otherwise-pointless air pump.
Addressing his agent, Luis asks for privacy.
Sam accepts and leans back against the door, arms folded.
“You gotta let this one go, Sam.”
“Why?”
“I know you’d do anything for your kid,” Luis says, his voice taut. “It’s the same for me.”
After a moment, Sam understands. “Did someone threaten your boy?”
“I can’t talk about it, even offline.”
“I can’t help if you don’t tell me what this is about.”
“I don’t want your help. I want this case buried.”
“Well, Jacob’s being buried tomorrow. Let’s entomb the records with his casket and forget all about it.” Not that Jacob left enough for anything other than a biodegradable urn; even Luis probably couldn’t save up enough to be buried when he died.
Luis meets Sam’s sarcasm with a cold stare. “Give it a month, file your report, and forget all about Dr. Mako. Take the fall. Please.”
Grabbing Luis by his coat, Sam shoves him against the wall. “You gave this case to me because you thought the Solve-O-Matic was more likely than I was to come up with a perp!”
Sam takes Luis’ silence as confirmation. He releases the policeman and turns toward the bedroom window. Beyond the rooftops, he can see the Golden Gate Bridge straddling a stream of cargo ships stacked with containers, their comings and goings choreographed from Angel Island by sea traffic control. In the sky beyond, planes queue for the automated decent into San Francisco International. At a lower altitude, air trucks and corporate sky cars zigzag along the narrow flight paths required by neighborhood noise ordinances.
But the clockwork world is a bourgeois mirage. The law of the land—in practice, the law of the network—bends for the rich, breaks for the criminal, and betrays the poor. Sam knows better than to expect justice by default. But America markets itself so well that consumers of the dream keep coming, never mind the defective merchandise. The ad always exceeds the experience.
“Take care of yourself, Luis,” Sam mutters. “Your kid too.” He makes a point of not slamming the door on his way out.
A mediocre rendition of “Honeysuckle Rose” drifts from the maw of the Twenty-Fourth Street BART subway station and up the still escalator. There’s a busker below feigning a trumpet solo to prerecorded music. Pirate live concerts do occur, and are usually better than Entertainment Corp’s canned versions. But the city’s gunshot-location system—not coincidentally, funded by Entertainment Corp—can identify unlicensed performances and dispatch copyright enforcement agents in minutes.
The sounds go unnoticed by the teens wearing counter-camera face paint who glide by on gyro-stabilized scooters. They’re deaf to insurrection, preferring instead songs about rebellion from artists who exist only in the minds of marketing execs.
It would be enough to make Sam sick if the homeless hadn’t beaten him to it. ‘Gents redolent of wine and urine lie sprawled on the sidewalk beside overstuffed shopping carts.
The more ambitious among them gather garbage they’ll spin into gold. Recycling earns some a skimpy income, but the real money comes from hoarding. Or more precisely, from extortion. The city pays the Homeless Union well to keep the ‘gents from dumping their trash en masse.
Sam loiters with the winos, leaning on his motorcycle. He’s keeping an eye on The Third Eye, a psychic supply store that has spared no expense on neon signage. The apartment above is home to Ernesto Cebra, the waiter who served Mako’s table four months earlier. A call to Aquamarine under false pretenses was enough to learn the man’s name. Sam doubts now that Tetsuo’s earlier protectiveness of his staff was anything more sinister than reflex.
Ernesto emerges about fifteen minutes later, short, serious-looking. He wears a pressed white shirt and black pants, newly shined shoes, and a black jacket.
The moment Sam calls his name, Ernesto turns and runs.
Sam takes off in pursuit. Mission Street blurs. A woman emerges from a doorway. A glancing blow. Sam careens into an ice-cream pushcart, stumbles, and keeps going. Spanish curses follow.
Ernesto crosses Twenty-Fifth Street as the light is turning. The waiting cars accelerate. Sam does too. A screech and a horn to his right. He leaps up, rolls onto the hood, and tumbles to the asphalt beside the curb.
Struggling for the breath hammered from his lungs, Sam hauls himself to his feet. His left hand looks like he’s been massaging a cheese grater.
The car stops. The driver gets out and starts shouting something about the hood. Bystanders watch, accustomed to seeing conflict as entertainment.
Ernesto is halfway down the block.
The shouting draws nearer. Sam turns. A big man with a beer belly points in accusation. “You scratched the goddamn plastic!” He shoves Sam.
Sam decks him with a practiced right to the gut. He stands seething over the crumpled man, exultant. Too much so. His exhilaration sickens him.
Horns sound.
The man staggers back to his car, eyes pinched with hate. “You’ll be sorry,” he growls.
Sam watches the man drive away, more disappointed in himself than sorry. Then he’s distracted by a commotion up the block. A small crowd has gathered where he last saw Ernesto.
A police cruiser thunders over the rooftops. It must’ve been on patrol nearby. Sam resigns himself to a night in jail. He should know better. But the cruiser passes by, descending further up the street. He follows, burying his bloody left hand in a wad of tissue in his pocket.