Nightside CIty (27 page)

“We aren’t exactly partners,” I said, “except
maybe on a trial basis. I owe him a lot of money—a
lot
of
money, and other debts as well. I agreed to work it off as his
partner, but we haven’t settled the details. Why?”

“He knows about that business we discussed,”
she said.

“Yeah, I know,” I told her. “He tapped my
com.”

“You didn’t tell him?”

“Not intentionally.”

“Look, Hsing, if it’s that easy to tap your
com maybe you ought to do something about it. I thought we had a
deal.”

“We do,” I said. “I’ll take care of it; I’ve
already cleared everything out of active memory. Mishima got to it
before I did that, and I’d let him work on my security because of
this partnership thing. The information’s safe now—at least on
my
system.”

“Yes, and what about
his
?”

“What about it?”

“Are you going to clear it out?”

“No,” I said, “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“You said... look,
is
he your partner
or isn’t he?”

I blinked, and considered that, and said,
“No, he isn’t.”

“You don’t feel any special attachment to
him? He’s not under your protection?”

Now, that was an odd way of putting it, I
thought. “I owe him a lot,” I said.

I knew that wasn’t what she was after. I knew
what she had in mind.

“That’s all?”

I hesitated, but finally I said, “That’s
all.”

I knew what I was doing—but Mishima had
brought it on himself. He should have known better. He’d gotten
involved uninvited again, and this was once too often.

I knew, back when I got that skimmer at the
Starshine Palace, that Mishima made mistakes, didn’t always see the
obvious.

I owed him, but that didn’t make me his
keeper. I wasn’t responsible for his mistakes.

And I’d never
asked
him to come out
looking for me or pay my medical bills.

“That’s what I wanted to know,” she said, and
I caught her just before she exited.

“Hey,” I said, “I won’t stop you; you do what
you need to. But please, remember that I owe him, and that I can’t
pay a debt to a memory.”

She looked at me out of the screen, then
nodded. “I’ll try,” she said.

Then the screen blanked for a second, and the
numbers from the bottom surged up to fill it again.

I erased them. I didn’t want to think about
it.

The thought of warning Mishima crossed my
mind, but I decided against it. Nakada wouldn’t appreciate it—and
he’d brought it on himself. I’d warned him, and he’d said he could
take care of himself. Here was his chance.

The thought of calling the cops also crossed
my mind; after all, I had plenty of evidence against Orchid and
Rigmus, and enough against Lee and the others to at least start an
investigation.

I decided against that, too. I wasn’t feeling
suicidal. I knew that if I ever brought the cops into it, with
Nakada on the other side I’d have the deck stacked against me. And
most of my com evidence about the scam Orchid and Lee were running
on Nakada had been acquired illegally. If I ever turned it over to
anyone I would be signing my own reconstruction order.

And this doesn’t even mention that the casino
cops work under an IRC service contract.

So I didn’t call the cops, about Mishima or
anything else.

It was much later, when I was eating a bowl
of rice and considering bed and staring at the negative balance in
my primary credit account, that the com beeped again.

I touched, and ‘Chan appeared.

“Carlie,” he said, “I thought you ought to
know. Big Jim Mishima’s been arrested.”

“What’s it to me?” I asked.

“Oh, come on, Carlie,” he said. “Don’t give
me that. I was there in the hospital. I saw you when he brought you
in.”

“All right,” I said. “Who’s arrested him?
What’s the charge?”

“The casino cops picked him up for cheating,
at the New York. A security unit broke his jaw, and the management
has him under heavy privacy seal. I hear that as victim’s privilege
they want to wipe his memory and files for the last ten days.”

That made sense. It was something that I
could live with. I didn’t like it, but I could live with it. It
would make everything simple. I nodded.

“Carlie,” ‘Chan said, “what’s going on? Is
this something of yours?”

I shook my head. “‘Chan,” I said, “if it is,
do you really want to be involved?”

He considered that, and said, “No.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said. Something
occurred to me. “Hey,” I asked, “how’d you hear about it?”

“It was on the casino grapevine,” he said.
“I’m at the Ginza now, and we get a lot of feed from the New
York.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t think of anything more to
say. ‘Chan just stared out of the screen at me.

“Thanks for calling,” I finally said.

“No problem,” he replied. “Carlie, are you in
trouble? Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” I said. “Thanks, but I’m okay.” I
exited.

But I wasn’t sure I was okay. I wasn’t sure
at all.

Sayuri Nakada had removed one threat, and
done a fairly neat job of it—but I was still around. Mishima’s
employees were still around, too. She’d started removing enemies;
could she really stop with just one?

And did I really want to leave her free to
buy up Nightside City? Did I want to risk the crew at the Ipsy
trying a little demonstration blast, despite their promise? Could I
be sure that Orchid and Rigmus wouldn’t decide to remove me, ITEOD
files or no ITEOD files?

Did I really want to stay in Nightside City,
in my rundown little office in the burbs, taking two-buck jobs from
the dregs of the city, hanging out at Lui’s because I wasn’t
welcome anywhere better, ignored by my friends back in the Trap, by
my father dreaming eternally in Trap Under, just sitting and
waiting for the sun?

I was sick of it all. I knew all along that I
had to get off Epimetheus eventually, and I decided that the time
had come. I could still beat the rush. I didn’t have the fare, but
I knew just what to do about that.

I didn’t want to try blackmail—Big Jim
Mishima, with his broken jaw to keep him from talking, had tried
that. I couldn’t very well go to the cops. But I had information to
sell, and I knew where to sell it. Mishima had told me.

I did a little work on the com, pulling stuff
back into active memory and packaging things up neatly on a pocket
datatab; when I was finished with that, I put all my best working
software on another pocket tab.

After that, I erased my whole system, right
back down to the landlord’s lousy original housekeeping programs. I
was done with it; even if something went wrong, I was done with it
all.

Then I called a cab and went down to the
street. I took the shoulderbag with the HG-2 in it.

The cab was a Daewoo; I’d never seen one
before. I took it as an omen, of sorts, that new things were
happening, that my life was about to change. I got in out of the
wind and told it to take me to the New York—the business entrance
on the roof, not the street.

It dropped me there, in the middle of a
shimmering holo that was half siren, half demon, and I buzzed at
the door.

The scanners gave me the once over and asked
my business.

“I have an important message,” I said. “For
Yoshio Nakada. About his great-granddaughter Sayuri.”

The scanners locked in on me. The door didn’t
open.

“Ask Mis’ Vo,” I said. Old Vijay Vo was still
the manager of the New York. “He’ll know whether Mis’ Nakada will
want to hear about this.”

I waited, and after a moment the door opened.
A floater hung inside, blocking my way. “Leave the gun,” it
said.

I gave it the HG-2, and it gave me a receipt
and let me pass. A line of golden flitterbugs formed an arrow and
led the way.

The manager’s office was done in dark red
plush; the ceiling shimmered with red and gold field effects. Vo
sat behind his desk; I stood.

“You ought to know who I am,” I told Vo.

“I do, Mis’ Hsing,” he said.

“And you know I’ve been investigating Sayuri
Nakada.”

He nodded.

“Well, I think that Yoshio Nakada will be
very interested in what I found out, and I want to talk to him. You
must have a line to him here.”

“We have a line to his office, yes. You can’t
just tell me, and trust me to act accordingly?”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Mis’ Vo,” I
said, “but this is a matter of vital interest to Nakada Enterprises
and the Nakada family, and I hope to earn a fat fee out of it. I
don’t know you. I don’t know how you stand in relation to either
Yoshio or Sayuri. I know nothing at all against you, but no, I
can’t, at present, trust you.”

He leaned back and watched me thoughtfully
for a few seconds.

“All right,” he said. He was a man of
decision; I appreciated that. I’d also expected it, from what I’d
heard of him.

“You understand the com delay, don’t you?” he
asked me.

I nodded. “How much is it at present?”

“About twelve minutes each way, a little over
twenty-three round-trip. Prometheus isn’t too far away just
now.”

That might not seem too far to him, since he
was used to it, but I realized I was about to start the slowest
conversation of my life. You can’t put a message on a Wheeler drive
unless you put it on a ship, and you can’t hold a conversation by
ship. I was limited to light-speed.

I nodded again. “All right,” I said.

He turned me over to the flitterbugs again,
and they led me out of his office and into the New York’s holy of
holies, or of holos anyway, a bare little room with holos on all
six sides.

One of Vo’s assistants was there. She jacked
in for a minute to put me through.

I’d expected them to keep the line open
full-time, but I suppose the power bill would have been
ridiculous.

She unplugged, and said, “You’ll get his
office, but probably not the old man himself. It’s all yours.”

She turned and left me alone—but I didn’t
doubt that Vo was listening somewhere. I didn’t mind; as long as I
got through to Yoshio Nakada’s people on Prometheus I figured I was
all set.

The holo signaled that I was transmitting,
and I began talking.

I wanted to get as much in each message as
possible— to keep those twenty-three minute delays to a
minimum.

I said, “My name is Carlisle Hsing. I’m a
freelance private investigator here in Nightside City. I recently
had a case that led me, unexpectedly, to investigate Sayuri Nakada.
I believe the information I acquired may be of great interest to
her family and her financial backers. The client who originally
hired me for the job has refused to pay my bill, so that I feel
justified in offering the information for sale on the open market.
My asking price is five hundred thousand credits—if you accept
this, I’ll include an account showing that more than ninety percent
of that is to cover legitimate expenses incurred in the
investigation. The rest is mostly needed to pay my fare from
Nightside City to Prometheus, since I believe my life is in danger
here. I also ask for protection once I’m there, if it’s necessary.
This information may lead to several felony prosecutions. It may
also remind you of certain episodes in Sayuri Nakada’s life prior
to her departure from Prometheus. And I hope very much that it will
prevent a large waste of money, and consequent damage to the Nakada
reputation. End of message.”

Then I sat, and I waited.

Twenty-three minutes later the wall in front
of me vanished, and I had a view of an office on Prometheus, done
in slick white and chrome. A window showed me a rich blue sky, and
I realized I was calling the dayside there—but that didn’t mean
much. The day on Prometheus doesn’t burn the skin from your back or
the sight from your eyes. It doesn’t last forever. It’s nine hours
of pleasant warmth and light.

A handsome woman looked at me from that
office, listening to the words I’d spoken, and then said, “Please
wait here, Mis’ Hsing; I don’t have the authority to act on this,
but I’ll get someone who does.”

I won’t drag you through it step by step. I
was locked in that little holoroom for eleven hours, time enough to
see the sky outside that window darken and sprinkle itself with
stars and even a small moon. I spoke to four different people. I
never did speak to Yoshio himself; I only got as far as an aide
named Ziyang Subbha. He approved my request, didn’t even dicker
very seriously about the price. He authorized a draft against the
New York for four hundred ninety-two thousand, five hundred
credits.

I plugged my tab into the transmitter and
sent it all, everything I had, everything that had happened since
Zar Pickens beeped from my doorstep, everything I’ve just told you,
with all the documentation.

Then I got my draft, put it on my card, got
my gun back, and went home. I packed up everything I wanted; there
wasn’t much. I paid all my bills, including everything I owed
Mishima—though with his memory wiped he might never know what it
was all about. I hesitated over the price of the wrecked cab, and
then put half of it in the account of the Q.Q.T. cab that had coded
my card for a tip, and kept the other half for myself. I thought
about stopping at Lui’s Tavern for some goodbyes, but decided not
to bother; I admitted to myself that I’d never really been much
more than another face in the crowd there. I thought about calling
a few programs that knew me well, but decided against that,
too—software doesn’t miss people the way humans do, and it gets
used to the way all we humans are constantly moving about, in and
out of contact. I left a message for ‘Chan, but I didn’t send it
directly; I put it on delay, to be delivered after twenty-four
hours. I didn’t want to have any family arguments about what I was
doing.