Immortal in Death

"Might be, for you, sweet butt. You taking Crack's advice and turning in your badge to shake your talent in the Down and Dirty?"

"Not in this lifetime."

He laughed, patting his gleaming belly. "Don't know why it is I got a liking for you. You come on in, wet your whistle, and tell Crack what's rocking down."

She'd been in worse clubs, and would be eternally grateful she'd been in better. The stale smells from the night hung still: incense, bad perfumes, liquor, smoke from dubious leaves, unwashed bodies, and casual sex.

It was too early for even the most dedicated partier. Chairs were overturned onto tables, and she could see where someone had made a careless pass with a mop over the sticky floor. Substances she didn't care to identify had been left behind.

Still, the bottles behind the main bar gleamed in the colored lights. On the stage to the right, a dancer draped in pink net practiced a routine to the blare of simulated brass.

A jerk of Crack's huge head had the domestic droid and the dancer wandering off. "What's your pleasure, white girl?"

"Coffee, black."

Crack lumbered behind the bar, still gri

Eve lifted a shoulder. When in Rome. "Sure."

She watched him program the coffee, then uncode a cabinet where he took out a bottle fit for a Genie. And, leaning on the cloudy bar, smelling the smells, she relaxed a little. She knew why she had a liking for Crack, a nighthawk she barely knew but understood. He was part of a world she'd wandered in most of her life.

"Now, whatcha doing in this nasty place, honey pot? Being a cop?"

"Afraid so." She sampled the coffee, sucked in her breath. "Jesus, some reserve."

"Only for my favorite people. It skims under the legal limit." He winked. "Just. What you want Crack to do for you?"

"Did you know Boomer? Carter Joha

"I know Boomer. He's meat now."

"Yeah, that's right. Somebody slaughtered him. You ever do business with him, Crack?"

"He come in now and then." Crack preferred his reserve straight up. He sipped, then smacked his tattooed lips in appreciation. "Sometimes he flush, sometimes not. He liked to watch the show and talk the shit. Not much harm in old Boomer. Heard he got his face erased."

"That's right. Who'd want to do that?".

"He pissed somebody off bad, I'd say. Boomer, he had big ears. If he popped a few, he had a big mouth, too."

"When did you see him last?"

"Hell, now, hard to remember. Few weeks, anyway. Seems to me he came through one night with a pocket full of credits. Bought himself a bottle, a few tabs, and a privacy room. Lucille went with him. No, not Lucille, shit. Was Hetta. All you white girls look alike," he said with a wink.

"Did he tell anyone how he came to have full pockets?"

"Mighta told Hetta, he was blissed out enough. Seems she picked up some more tabs for him. He wanted to stay happy. She said something about how old Boomer was going to be an entrepreneur or some horseshit like. We had ourselves a laugh over it, then he come out and got up onstage naked. We had a bigger laugh. Dude had the most pitiful cock you ever seen."

"So he was celebrating a deal."

"That'd be my take. We got busy. I had to crack a few heads, toss out some bodies. I remember how I was out on the street, and he come rushing out. I grabbed hold, just fooling. He didn't look happy no more, he looked piss-your-pants scared."

"He say anything?"

"Just shook himself loose and took off ru

"Who spooked him? Who'd he talk to?"

"Can't tell you that, sweet face."

"Did you see any of these people here that night?" Eve took photos out of her bag, spread them out. Pandora, Jerry, Justin, Redford, and because it was necessary, Mavis and Leonardo.

"Hey, I know these two. Fancy-face models." His wide fingers traced lovingly over Pandora and Jerry. "The redhead, she come in now and then, trolling for partners, looking to score. Could be she was here that night, but can't say for certain sure. These others aren't on our guest list, so to speak. Least I can't make 'em."

"Did you ever see the redhead with Boomer?"

"He wasn't her pick. She liked them big, stupid, and young. Boomer was just stupid."

"What do you hear about a new blend on the streets, Crack?"

His big face went blank, closed off. "Don't hear nothing."

Friendly only went so far, she knew. Silently, Eve took out credits, laid them on the bar. "Hearing improved?"

He studied the credits, then looked back at her face. Recognizing the tactic as negotiations, she added to them. The credits slid across the bar and disappeared.

"Some rumblings recent, maybe, about some new shit. High powered, good long buzz, tough on the credit balance. Heard it called Immortality. None's come passing this way, not yet. Most people 'round here can't afford designer. They'll have to wait for the knockoff, and that takes a few months more."

"Did Boomer talk about it?"

"Is that what he was into?" Speculation shifted into Crack's eyes. "He never flapped to me about it. Like I said, I heard some rumblings pass through. It's getting good advance hype, chemi-heads are jazzed over it, but I ain't heard anybody had a taste. It's good business," he said with a smile. "You got a product, a new one, you get the clientele wired up, hungry. Then when it hits, they'll pay. They'll pay big."

"Yeah, good business," She leaned forward. "Don't try a sample, Crack. It's fatal." When he started to blow that off, she put a hand on his beefy arm. "I mean literally. It's poison, slow-acting poison. If there's anyone you care about who uses, you warn them off this shit, or you won't have them very long."

He studied her face. "No jive here, white girl? This ain't cop talk?"

"No jive, no cop talk. A regular user's got about five years before it overloads the nervous system and takes him out. That's straight, Crack. And whoever's manufacturing it knows it."

"Hell of a way to make a profit."

"Isn't it just. Now, where can I find Hetta?"

Crack blew out a breath, shook his head. "Nobody go

"Last name?"

"Moppett. Hetta Moppett, rented a room over on Ninth last I heard, around a hundred and twentieth. Anytime you want to take up where she left off, sugarpuss, just let me know."

Hetta Moppett hadn't paid her rent in three weeks, nor had she shown her ski

Eve listened to his angry yammering as she hoofed it up the stairs in the miserable three-floor walk-up. She had his master code in hand, and was certain he'd already used it as she unlocked Hetta's door.

It was a single room, narrow bed, dingy window, with a few attempts at homey with the frilly pink curtain and cheap shiny pink pillows. Eve did a quick toss, turned up an address log, a credit book with over three thousand in deposit, some framed photographs, and an expired driver's license that listed Hetta's last address in Jersey.

The closet was half full, and from the scarred suitcase on the top shelf, Eve judged it to be all Hetta had. She ran the 'link, made a dupe of all the calls on disc, then copied the license.

If Hetta had gone on a trip, she'd taken no more with her than walking-around credits, the clothes on her back, and her club companion's license.

Eve wasn't betting on it.

She called the morgue from her car 'link. "Run the Jane Does," she ordered. "White, blond, twenty-eight, about a hundred and thirty pounds, five foot four. Transmitting copy of driver's license holo."