The Man Who Crossed Worlds (A Miles Franco Urban Fantasy) Read online

  The office was the size of a linen closet, and it took two months of no work before they finally kicked me out. After that I just conducted all my business from the semi-comfort of my apartment, relying on a few discreet newspaper ads to bring in work. It was only in the last few months that my old Tunneler buddy, Desmond, convinced me to take one of his old cell phones and use that as well. I didn’t see much use for the thing myself. Next thing he’d be wanting me to buy a goddamn computer.

  My apartment was predictably crappy, full of used furniture I’d found on the side of the street and hauled up the stairs with the help of anyone who owed me a favor. An actual wall separated my bedroom from the rest of the apartment, which I was pretty proud of. The carpet was a horrid shade of green, faded where the sun came through the dirt-streaked windows, and full of cigarette burns. That wasn’t my fault; I’d given up smoking back when I was still a teenager, after half a dozen attempts at looking cool and rebellious.

  I tossed my keys down next to a filthy goldfish bowl. Munsey and Frank drifted up to the surface of the water, and I obliged them by shaking in a good helping of fish flakes. They were ugly sons of bitches, but they were hard. I liked that. They gobbled up the food while I made my way across the apartment.

  The one good thing about my apartment was the view, if looking out at Bluegate didn’t depress you too much. Most buildings in the immediate neighborhood were only three or four stories, so I sometimes pulled my tattered old armchair up to the window and stared out. The window faced north, and on a dark night I could see the glow from the Bore lighting up the buildings on the opposite side of the river.

  Now, looking out at Bluegate for what could be the last time in a long while, I felt strangely nostalgic about the city. Sure, the place was a wretched hive of scum and villainy, but it wasn’t without its redeeming features. Hell, I’d been raised on these streets, and I was pretty fond of myself.

  I shook my head and stepped away from the window. I wasn’t leaving anything behind, not really. Besides, I’d probably get a chance to come back when the cops got bored trying to find me and learned how to deal with their problems themselves.

  I pulled open the fridge door and found Tania had been telling the truth; she’d cleaned me out of Kemia. The silver fluid acted as a catalyst when making a Tunnel. I wouldn’t be going anywhere without it.

  I checked my watch. Nearly 2 a.m. If I could get to Spencer Davies’ place before the cops started snooping around, I could convince him to sell me some more Kemia. He wouldn’t need much convincing. Davies was a Vei chemist, catering to the freelancers like myself who didn’t have the access to Kemia the government-sanctioned Tunnelers did. He wouldn’t turn down the chance to earn a few hundred bucks to slip into some stripper’s thong.

  I grabbed a couple of extra shirts and underpants from a pile on the floor of my bedroom and shoved them into an old messenger bag I kept at the top of my wardrobe. No time for a shave, or a shower for that matter. Likely I stunk like a wet dog, but I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Heaven was generally pretty warm, and I wouldn’t need anything heavier than the worn suit jacket I was already wearing.

  I was so busy hurrying around the place I kicked a black case on the floor and nearly went down on top of it. When I got my balance back I opened up the case and pulled out my trumpet.

  It wasn’t much to look at. It was dented in a few places, and the metal had long since stopped shining, but it was a good instrument. Occasionally I played with a couple of other guys at bars around the city. We got beer bottles thrown at us more often than not, but it gave me something other than work to worry about. Sometimes the barkeeper would even take pity on us and shout us a hearty meal of fries and ketchup.

  I hadn’t played it since my last gig went bad, when a Vei playing damsel in distress dragged me into a whole lot of nonsense that I should have stayed away from. Still, I kept the instrument well-maintained. Wasn’t any point letting a good trumpet go to waste. Besides, it had—what do you call it? Sentimental value. Not many people have a musical instrument that both created and destroyed a relationship. That bloody woman.

  The clock on the wall kept up its constant movement, but still I put the trumpet to my lips and played a few long, mournful notes. They didn’t come out as clean as I’d like, but it was me that was rusty, not the trumpet.

  Christ, I wanted to take it with me. But it was a weight I couldn’t afford. With a grunt, I returned it to its case and stashed it under my bed next to a pile of old Tunneling textbooks. It was just a trumpet. Just a trumpet.

  Even if it was the only thing I had left of that bloody woman.

  But that was the way it had to be. I turned to head for the door, then paused. I didn’t know when I’d be able to get back, and Heaven could be a dangerous place if you weren’t prepared. “Damn it,” I said, then went back to my wardrobe and took a long, narrow box from behind an old raincoat.

  I pulled the nightstick out and tested the weight of it in my hands. It was an ugly damn thing. The thing was weapon, pure and simple, with no other purpose than to beat the shit out of someone. The knife I carried could be used to scratch a circle, but the nightstick had no such purpose.

  Some Tunnelers carried guns, but I’m not that stupid. Not usually, anyway. For one thing, if you’re ever in a situation where you need to shoot someone, it’s likely that there’s more of them than there are of you. And if you’re me, they’re generally more determined to use their guns than you are. Your best bet is to play the part of a peaceful bystander and hope they don’t shoot out kneecaps.

  For another thing, you have to be dumber than a chimp to take a gat to Heaven. Complicated things like a gun are likely to change at just the wrong moment, safety mechanisms suddenly disappearing and firing pins setting off the gun unexpectedly. Heaven’s just too unpredictable to go waving such a dangerous thing around. The nightstick is much simpler, of course. Swing, smash in some skulls, run for your fucking life. Easy.

  With a bad taste in my mouth, I tucked the nightstick into the pocket I’d stitched into the inside of my suit jacket. It was just a precaution. Chances were I’d bring it back with little to no blood on the vile thing.

  I started to make for the door and stopped again. Goddamn it. One more thing I had to do before I go.

  I picked up my phone and dialed. It rang ten times before there was a click and a groan. “Guh?”

  “Desmond,” I said, “I need a favor.”

  There was another groan, and some rustling sounds. Then he came back on the line. “I knew it was gonna be you, guy. You’re the only one who asks for favors at two in the morning.”

  “I’m going away for a few days. I need you to feed my fish.”

  “You woke me at two in the goddamn morning—”

  “Oh, quit your whining,” I said. “There’s something else. There’s a girl that lives in my building.”

  “Congratulations. But you should know by now she ain’t going to be much interest to me.”

  “Don’t be such a smartass. It’s not like that. She’s just a teenager. She opened a Pin Hole.”

  He went silent for a moment. “On her own?”

  “Well, it sure as hell wasn’t me helping her.”

  “Is she…?”

  “Yeah, she’s fine. Kids are hard these days.”

  “She needs someone to teach her,” Desmond said.

  “Yeah.”

  He paused again, and I could practically hear his sleepy brain connecting the dots. “You bastard. You’re not getting me to do your work that easy.”

  “I’m out the door, Des. If I’m not back in a few days, you might want to drop by, make sure she hasn’t blown her own head off.”

  “You son of a—”

  “Her name’s Tania. Got to go.”

  “Don’t you dare hang up that fucking—”

  I slapped the mouthpiece back on the cradle, slung my bag over my shoulder and took a deep breath. Everything was done. All the loose ends of my life tie
d up in under twenty minutes. Now that was efficiency.

  There was nothing else for it. I cast one more look around the apartment and threw open the front door.

  I found myself staring at a chest that looked like it had been built for pulverizing buildings. I looked up, and up, and finally found the head that was attached.

  Detective Todd glanced at the bag slung over my shoulder, then looked me hard in the eyes. “Going somewhere, Miles?”

  I had to admit, it looked bad. My brain spun, trying to devise a good lie, but Todd didn’t stop to wait. He strode into the apartment, forcing me backward lest I be crushed under his bulk, and shut the door behind him.

  Confused and overloaded, my brain reverted to its backup setting: being an asshole. “You’re a lot uglier than the last hooker I ordered.”

  Todd stared at me for a second, then tilted his head back and burst out laughing.

  I glanced at the front door again and pondered making a run for it. No. Todd was big, but I had a sneaking suspicion he’d catch me and pound me into the ground before I made it halfway down the stairs. It’s hard to stay fit when you’re surviving mostly on a diet of instant noodles.

  Finally, his laughter subsided, and he returned his attention to me. His face had been well-worn over the years, with deep wrinkles across his face. I’d never asked his age, but I would put him in his mid-40s, even though he looked much older. The silver streaks in his hair didn’t give him the dignified look they were supposed to, they just made him look aged.

  When the last of his laughs faded, he pointed me to the dark brown couch that smelled of mothballs. “Hell of a night, huh? Supposed to be my time with my son.”

  “Yeah?” I said, barely listening. “How’s that working out for you?”

  “It’s three in the a.m. and I’m hanging around with you. What do you think?” He gestured to the couch again. “Come on. We got to talk.”

  I glanced at the door once more, then went and took a seat. I rested my bag at my side, leaving my arms free. The nightstick rested against my ribs, hidden inside my jacket, but I didn’t let myself think too much about it.

  Todd dragged my armchair around so it was directly opposite the couch and dropped into it, the springs creaking violently under his weight. “I saw the look on your face back at the station. Didn’t take no genius to work out you’d try to bolt.”

  I tried not to let the guilt show on my face. Apparently, I didn’t do a very good job, because Todd fixed me with a stern look. It’s pretty easy to pull off a stern look when it’s backed up by 240 pounds of muscle.

  Lying wasn’t going to work. I’d have to try honesty for a change. “I don’t think I’m right for this job.”

  Todd shrugged. “Of course you’re not. You’re a bloody civilian, with a criminal record at that.”

  “Why the hell you dragging me into your mess, then?”

  “You’ve seen what the department’s like at the moment. How many of those cops do you think are in the pocket of one gang or another? Sixty per cent? Seventy? How many of them stand to benefit if Chroma hits the streets? Everyone’s gonna try get their hands on a piece of the pie, and none of them will give a fuck if it’s so hot it burns them.”

  It wasn’t exactly breaking news that the police in Bluegate had long since stopped being an instrument of the state. But that didn’t make this my problem. “I’m just a Tunneler. I’m not the department’s dog.”

  Todd reached into his front jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes. He offered me one, and I shook my head.

  “I’ve been watching you since that weapons smuggling case,” he said as he lit up. “You ain’t got one gang-related blotch on your record. That’s almost unheard of for Tunnelers in this town, you know that. Vivian ain’t so keen on having you on board. It was me that swung it.”

  “Gee, thanks, Walt.”

  “There’s something else.” He reached into his pocket, and as he did so the pistol in his shoulder harness became visible beneath his jacket. I tensed, but he didn’t seem to notice. He pulled out a folded bit of paper with a photograph paperclipped to it, and passed it to me. “You know her?”

  The photograph was a poor quality picture of a round-faced lady, middle aged, with her hair in a pixie cut that didn’t suit her. She stared directly at the camera, unsmiling, reminding me of a foster mother I once had. “I know of her. She graduated a few years ahead of me. Shirley O’Neil. She’s a Tunneler.”

  Todd nodded and leaned forward in the armchair, resting his elbows on his knees. “Our info has her working for John Andrews these days. Pulls in a nice six-figure income, so I hear, all off the books, of course.” He threw a glance around my cramped apartment. “We got a lead that suggests she might be connected to Doctor Dee. If it’s Andrews behind this new drug, we can expect him to move fast and hard against his competitors when it hits the streets.”

  I chewed my lip. I thought I was out of my depth before, now I’d been thrown into the river with concrete blocks tied to my feet. John Andrews was a Vei gangster that controlled most of the northern side of Bluegate, and he didn’t do it by shaking hands and kissing babies. That wasn’t his real name, of course, but Vei names tended to be unpronounceable at the best of times, even when you knew a bit of the language.

  “I got a good idea what you’re thinking, Miles. But we’ll be with you all the way on this, me and Vivian. We ain’t gonna hang you out for John Andrews and his cronies to tear apart. But you can give us a street-level view we can’t get from our department.”

  “Walt—”

  “It’s our best bet for stopping this before it gets any innocent folks hurt.”

  The bastard was really pushing the hard sell. It was easy to make promises, but John Andrews’ reach was long. I didn’t trust a thin blue line to hold him back. “I don’t know O’Neil personally. She’s just a face and a reputation to me.”

  “I know. But she’s got herself a personal assistant, a Vei by the name of Lance Peterson.”

  It took me a second to place the name. “I smuggled him and his brother into Bluegate last year,” I said slowly. “I thought he was a good kid.”

  Detective Todd shrugged. “Maybe he got mixed up with the wrong bunch. It’s easy enough to do in this city.”

  “You want me to talk to him.”

  “We need an angle, Miles. We can keep him out of trouble if he helps us on this. If he doesn’t…” Todd shrugged.

  Goddamn it. This was what I got for not taking one of those nice salaries and working for a gang. Being the good guy is a son of a bitch.

  Todd grinned at me. “I knew you’d come around.”

  “I haven’t said I’ll do it yet.”

  He slapped me on the shoulder, and it felt like one of my lungs collapsed. “It’s written all over your face.” He pulled another slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. “Meet you back at the station in twenty, then we’ll head out. It ain’t too late to go visit him now. People are so much more cooperative when they’re sleep-deprived.” He winked at me, stood up, and made for the door.

  “You’re a real bastard, you know that, Walt?” I said.

  He lifted his hand above his head, waving without turning back, and walked out the door.

  I went to the fridge, got a beer, and popped the top. I stood over the sink and slugged it back, barely tasting it. I’d been so looking forward to a little peace.

  “Fuck it.”

  All right. I’d play their game if it would get them off my back. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t cheat a little. I tossed the empty into the sink, returned my getaway bag to my bedroom, and grabbed my address book and my motorbike helmet.

  I’d go see Peterson. But not with any goddamn cops holding my leash. If I was going to do this, I was doing it my way.

  I slammed the door behind me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I rode a 250cc Yamaha motorbike constructed sometime between the Ice Age and the Fall of Rome. Like all my things, it was dented and
scratched almost beyond recognition, but it ran well, and it was damn fuel efficient.

  The rain was already hammering down when I rode out of my basement’s parking lot. The dark clouds reflected the city’s light back onto me. I revved the bike, wiped the rain of my helmet visor with the back of my hand, and peeled out onto the road.

  The address I had for Lance Peterson was in John Andrews’ territory to the north of the city, back past the police station. There was even less traffic now, but the increasingly heavy rain and wind made me take things carefully. It’d be a real fine thing if I screwed this up before I began because I hit an oil patch that was slick with rain and went tumbling onto the road. The bike would survive—it was a solid old thing—but I didn’t count myself that lucky, especially if some opportunistic criminals decided they liked the look of my shoes.

  Peterson’s neighborhood was full of run-down Chinese restaurants and squashed-together villas. I slowed, squinting through the rain and the darkness to find the right address. After a few minutes of weaving through the streets, I found it, a white villa with paint peeling from the weatherboard and a non-matching gaudy staircase leading up to the front door.

  I switched off my bike, put out the kickstand, and removed my helmet. The house was dark, like all the others. This wasn’t really a bad neighborhood, so people here were probably sleeping at this time of night instead of shooting up Ink or trawling the streets as the police department’s shiny new lackey. I put my hands in my pockets and hurried up the stairs to the shelter of the house’s veranda, despite already being thoroughly soaked on the ride there.

  As I tried to wipe the rain from my face, I pondered what to do now I was there. Detective Todd hadn’t exactly been specific about Peterson’s situation these days. Last time I saw him he was just a poor Vei kid trying to make a new life for himself in Bluegate. Vei immigrants tended to live in groups to make the rent easier to pay, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find eight or ten Vei living in this little villa, crammed in like kittens in a sack. It probably wouldn’t make a good impression on them if I kicked in the door and started demanding to speak to Peterson.