The Man Who Couldn't Be Bought (A Miles Franco Short Story)

  THE MAN WHO COULDN’T BE BOUGHT

  A MILES FRANCO SHORT STORY

  Chris Strange

  Copyright 2011 Chris Strange

  Smashwords Edition

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.Chris-Strange.com

  Table of Contents

  The Man Who Couldn’t Be Bought

  A Note From The Author

  Sample of The Man Who Crossed Worlds

  About The Author

  THE MAN WHO COULDN’T BE BOUGHT

  In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the best bar to be playing smooth jazz in. I was wearing my second-best suit and tie for the occasion, and I’d even brushed the tangles out of my mop of curls. We weren’t playing bad—not good either, mind, but not bad—but a few of the dive bar’s seedier-looking patrons looked set to start pitching bottles at us.

  Salin had been the one to set up the gig; I just showed up with my old trumpet that looked like it’d been pulled from the ruins of Hiroshima. For all I knew, it had been. Now I was wishing I’d ignored Salin’s call and stayed at home watching B horror flicks. I gave the surly crowd another glance and used a rest in the music to take a step back, putting Salin and his double bass between me and the crowd.

  I noticed the woman as soon as she came in off the street and took a seat at the table directly in front of the stage. The thick black coat she wore wasn’t unusual; it was only the start of autumn, but already the air had teeth. No, what drew my eye was that she was now the only Vei in a bar full of humans.

  I was so busy watching her I missed the last note, but I doubted any of the louts had the cultural acumen to pick up on it. The song died an undignified death in the hostile room. Salin gave a bow, his hair falling across his lined, dark face, as if expecting applause. Surprisingly, he got some, a single clap from the Vei woman. She glanced around, and huddled back down, returning her hands to her lap. I stroked the corner of my mouth as I studied her. She was strange, all right.

  Salin looked like he was going to launch into the next piece, but Bubbles seemed to have the better idea. He gave the audience a quick appraisal and unplugged his keyboard. I nodded to him and leaned my head down to Salin’s ear.

  “Exit, stage left?”

  Salin’s frown was a permanent affliction, so I didn’t begrudge him it. “We haven’t finished our set, Miles.”

  “We’re getting paid in bar food, and the grub in this place isn’t worth getting beat to hell over.”

  He frowned, looking confused. “Our set,” he repeated.

  I sighed. Arguing with Salin was like arguing with a parrot. I doubted he’d even noticed the way the crowd was looking at us. “Fine. I’m going out for some air. Call me if anyone wants an encore.”

  He nodded, and I returned my trumpet to its case and tucked it behind a chair at the back of the stage. I’d probably get back and find it being used as a beer funnel.

  I glanced at Bubbles and jerked my head toward the door, but he shook his head, already making for the bar. He had that look in his eyes, the one that meant he was going to be blotto by the end of the night. I shrugged and shouldered my way out the back door and into the cold night air.

  The alley was like most of Bluegate at night: dark, littered with cigarette butts and old newspapers, and generally not the sort of place you wanted to be unless you had a masochistic streak.

  I was in the alley listening to the sirens go past and enjoying the relative quiet for less than a minute before a voice behind me spoke. “Miles Franco?”

  I jumped like I had springs attached to my feet. I spun on the spot, heart rate through the stratosphere, my hands moving to my pockets of their own accord.

  The Vei woman put her palms up and took a step back. “I did not want to scare you.”

  Vei are an odd-looking bunch, no one could argue that. Picture a shark with a flattened nose, large eyes and pale skin, and that’d be a good approximation of the woman’s face. From the neck down she looked fairly normal, if a little small and oddly proportioned. Under her coat she wore a necklace of pearls, nearly invisible against her negligible cleavage. She had the smell of money about her, something far more alluring than any perfume. That got my interest, given my current financial state. It wouldn’t be long before I was selling kidneys to keep my landlady from evicting me at the end of a shotgun.

  “You often go round sneaking up on people in alleys?” I asked, the words coming out sharper than I intended.

  She cast a look over her shoulder, eyes flicking about like they were chasing fireflies. Vei tend to be flighty, prone to bouts of exaggerated emotion, and this one wasn’t much different. “You are Mr Franco, yes? The Tunneler?”

  Christ. “Nah, wrong guy. I’m a plumber. Pipes, not Tunnels.”

  “No, your friend, the musician, he said you are the Tunneler.”

  I groaned. “Which one ratted me out?”

  “The dark-skinned one with the large guitar.”

  “Double bass,” I corrected.

  She cast another look around as a couple of people walked past the alley and watched them until they were out of sight. It was only then that she swivelled her bulbous head back toward me. She spoke soft and fast, leaning in toward me. “Mr Franco, my name is Anja Roya. I was told I could find you here. I have had trouble. I—”

  The door to the bar slammed open, making the Vei jump twice as high as I had. The first thing to come into the alley was a stiletto heel with a shapely calf attached. That was followed up by a bare thigh and an hourglass body in a silk cocktail dress with a slit right up the side. I was distracted enough by all the interesting curves that it took me a few moments to realize the body also had a woman’s head, with almost-black hair done up in a bun that was probably French or Italian or something.

  I picked up my jaw and tuned in my brain just in time for her to fix the Vei woman with a sneer. “Jan, Amy,” she called back into the bar. “The bitch’s out here.”

  Anja let out an alien yelp and ducked behind me, one hand with a death grip on my shoulder. Two more scantily dressed women strode out of the bar and stood staring at the two of us. I kept my eyes down. I’m not ashamed to admit it; beautiful women scare me. That’s a story for another time, but having the three of them staring at me was enough to dry my throat and turn my face into an oven.

  Anja pawed at my shoulder with long, slender fingers, bringing her wide mouth uncomfortably close to my ear. “I need your—”

  “—help. Yeah, I figured.”

  The women winning the staring match were clearly not a bunch of ordinary gals out looking for a good time. I couldn’t be sure—there wasn’t an official handshake or anything—but I’d put what little money I had on them being Silk Dragons. As whores packing heat, the Dragons ran the east Bluegate drug and prostitution trades. They’d even been claiming territory from the Gravediggers in recent months, and the Gravediggers didn’t give up territory easy.

  I tried to stay out of gang business for the most part. It was bad for my life expectancy. But in Bluegate, that’s like trying to stay dry in a swimming pool.

  “Hey, handsome,” the dark-haired woman said, practically purring. She put one hand on her hip and outstretched the other to me, her finger brushing my chin. “You look strong. Fancy buying me a drink?”

  Jesus, these girls didn’t play around. “Sorry, Miss, I can’t even afford my own drinks these days.”

  “Mmm, I’m sure we can make a trade.” She stretched out one of her oh-so-long legs and set it down even closer to m
e. “How about I buy the drink, and you give up that pretty bird you got shivering behind your back?”

  “She’s not mine to trade,” I said. “In fact, if you look closely, you’ll realize I’m not even here. And even if I was, I wouldn’t have seen anything. Good evening, ladies.”

  The look on the Silk Dragons’ faces brought to mind that of a cat with a mouse under its paw. My stomach turned, but this wasn’t my business. I tried to take a step forward, but Anja whimpered and clutched my arm so tight I was worried it was going to fall off.

  “Mr Franco,” she whispered. “Please.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Damn it, I hated that word. For some reason, I always heard it right before I did something stupid.

  The Silk Dragon lifted a hand and reached past me.

  “Please,” the Vei said again.

  My heart squirmed. “You said your name was Anja?” I whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Reminds me of a girl I once knew.” I sighed. “Ah, to hell with it.”

  I snatched the Silk Dragon’s wrist out of the air, and her face twisted into an animal snarl. Behind her, the other two Silk Dragons dropped into crouches, switchblades appearing in their hands.

  “You know my rates?” I said over my shoulder.

  “Yes,” Anja said.

  “They just doubled.”

  I shoved the Silk Dragon back into her friends, sending the shorter of them sprawling into a garbage can. The dark-haired one ran her tongue along her teeth and pulled a snub-nosed revolver from her garter.

  “Anja,” I said, my hands going through my pockets. “I think it’s time for us to get lost.”

  From one pocket I pulled a small silver coin, from the other, a thimble-sized bottle of silvery, viscous liquid. I’d add the cost of the Kemia onto Anja’s bill. Along with a good chunk of hazard pay.

  But making Tunnels isn’t the only thing us Tunnelers are good for.

  I uncorked the little bottle with my teeth and shoved Anja behind a dumpster. Not very suave, I’ll grant you, but with the Silk Dragon aiming her revolver at us, I wasn’t going to take any chances with my paycheck. Client, I mean.

  “Don’t be stupid, pretty,” she said, advancing on me with the gun raised. “She’s too much trouble for you. Walk away.”

  “You’ve got no idea how much I want to, lady.”

  I upended the bottle of Kemia, pouring the silvery catalyst over the coin in my other hand. The fluid flowed into the lines I’d scratched into the surface of the metal, weakening the fabric of our Universe.

  And then there was a pulse of something pushing against reality.

  Tunneling relied on making a connection between our reality and the reality of Heaven. Not the afterlife Heaven with clouds and pearly gates. It just picked up the name from some expeditionary soldier’s half-forgotten joke. In Heaven, the laws of physics were more like rough guidelines. It was the sort of place that could drive you mad if you weren’t already a little crazy, or a native, like the Vei. But if you knew what you were doing, and you had the skill, there were ways of harnessing that strange reality.

  I liked to hum while I was Tunneling. It got me into the right frame of mind. I let my mind wander into a kind of nonsensical dream state, matching time with the bizarre pulsation pushing through reality. And then I threw a dash of energy into the Kemia-soaked coin.

  This wasn’t a full-sized Tunnel I was playing with. We called this one a Pin Hole, a tiny link that opened between Heaven and Earth. Each one was different, depending on how you crafted it, but they all relied on harnessing the shifting, unpredictable nature of Heaven and imposing it on our reality. This particular Pin Hole was one of my favorites.

  The Silk Dragon thumbed back the hammer on her revolver, but she was far too slow. Something indescribable shifted, and there was a feeling of wrongness as the new reality took shape.

  And then the air in the alley turned to smoke.

  I dived to the side as the gun barked. The sound of the shot echoed around the concrete walls, damn near deafening me, but the smoke was so dense I couldn’t see more than the hint of a muzzle flash. We were invisible—or as near to it as possible—for a moment at least.

  I groped through the smoke, ignoring the impressively blue language coming from the Silk Dragons. Finally, my hand found what it was looking for, and closed on the wool of Anja’s coat sleeve.

  “This better be worth it, sweetheart,” I said, and hauled her to her feet. Another gunshot went off, hitting the ground a few feet from me. It would seem I’d made a few new enemies. I’d have to add them to the list.

  I half-dragged Anja out of the alley, toward the back of bar. The tapping of her heels on the concrete made stealth impossible, and we only had a minute or so before the smoke dissipated, but it would be enough. Well, that’s what I kept telling myself.

  “You got a car, lady?” I asked, puffing already.

  “What? No. You do not?”

  “Not quite. I hope you know how to hang on.”

  I ride a rusted 250cc Japanese motorbike, only kept running by good engineering and a fair amount of luck. At the best of times it was a struggle to keep myself and my trumpet and whatever other crap I had with me balanced, especially given the nonexistent skills of Bluegate’s drivers. With a half-hysterical Vei on the back, it was damn near suicide.

  “Sit still, goddamn it!” I yelled over my shoulder, but she didn’t take any notice. I’d let her wear my helmet, and it was a snug fit given the shape of her head. Even if her ears weren’t being crushed, she’d have trouble hearing me over the sound of her own incoherent babbling.

  I was already regretting my decision to get involved in this crap. What the hell had I done? I could be playing jazz to people who didn’t care, and instead I was racing through the night with an unwanted fare on the back of my bike, praying to the Eight that a bunch of armed whores weren’t on my tail. This wasn’t the way to live a free life. Not a long one, anyway.

  I’d put my money on Anja being an illegal immigrant. She probably bribed her way through Immigration at the Bore, the main channel to Heaven, or maybe she paid some seedy freelance Tunneler like myself to smuggle her in. I dealt with a lot of illegals, but usually I was smart enough to pick the ones that weren’t going to get me killed. What the hell was I doing with this one?

  When Anja nearly unbalanced me for the third time, my second thoughts stopped being so secondary. I was tired, I was cranky, and I wasn’t in the mood to put up with any more of this woman’s nonsense.

  I sharply turned into an abandoned construction site, taking perverse delight in Anja’s rising screams. Skeletal buildings and long-forgotten construction equipment surrounded us, cast into shadow. I brought the bike to a halt, killed the engine, and clambered off, then dragged the trembling Vei down as well.

  “Listen,” I said, pulling her helmet off and holding her by the arm in case her legs decided they had better things to do than keep her upright. “You need to cool it, lady. I’ve got half a mind to slap a few stamps on you and mail you back to those crazy bitches. What the hell are you into?”

  She was shaking, but she still had the fortitude to give me a look so cold my nose grew icicles. She dropped her eyes a second later, silent.

  I ran a hand through my curls and forced myself to exhale. “I got better things to do than be out here. If you want my help, you’d better start telling me exactly what you want and give me some damn compelling reasons why I should be a part of it.”

  “You are a Tunneler. I need a Tunneler. You do not need to know more.” Her voice had more bite than I was expecting. What happened to the flaky little Vei from the alley?

  Still, I wasn’t going to let her get away that easy. “Maybe you should go find yourself another Tunneler. Me, I like to know who the hell I’m working with. Keeps me alive, you understand? So go on. There’s a phone booth around the corner. See if you can find yourself some other sap before those Dragons find you.”

  She slapped me. H
ard.

  For a moment, there was no sound but the echoing crack and a slight ringing in my ears. My brain was still playing catch-up when her face dropped and she brought her hands to her cheeks, eyes so wide I wondered if her eyelids had withered away entirely.

  And then she started babbling in Vei. It’s a harsh language, ever-changing and full of sharp consonants. I can speak it well enough, but her mouth was a blur and trying to translate it would’ve made my brain start smoking. My cheek was starting to throb, and for a moment I had a savage daydream of slapping her back just like they did in old black-and-white films before they invented women’s rights. But it’s not really my style, so I settled for grabbing her by the shoulders and giving her a quick, sharp shake.

  “Knock it off,” I said.

  She shut her trap and stared at me for a moment before switching back to English. “I am so sorry. The—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Later. We don’t have time right now. There’s a lot of nasty people out there looking for us.” Despite my words, I set my feet and folded my arms across my chest.

  She got the message. Vei didn’t cry, at least not that I’d seen, but Anja looked like she might make an exception for me. “My brother, he manages an establishment near the Avenues.”

  “What kind of establishment?”

  “The kind that offers jobs to illegals without asking questions. I work there, helping my brother with the accounts. We report ourselves as a bar, but most of our income comes from other sources.”

  Other sources? My gut twisted. “Ink?”

  She gave the briefest of nods. Hell. I stay away from drug jobs, for the most part, and Ink smuggled in from Heaven was the nastiest drug out there. There’s two ways that sort of career ends; either your box has a barred-window or it doesn’t. Still, I kept listening, though I couldn’t figure out why I didn’t just walk away right then.

  “I did not want to be involved,” she said. “But it was the only place we could get work.”

  “I know,” I said, and it was the truth. “So where do our lovely ladies of the night come in?”