Count Zero
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Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 Next page "It's okay," he said. "Don't worry." "God," she said, leaning against his shoulder, looking up at the pink neon HYPERMART sign that slashed the granite face of the old building, "I used to dream about New York, back on the mesa. I had a graphics program that would take me through all the streets, into museums and things. I wanted to come here more than anything in the world "Well, you made it. You're here." She started to sob, hugged him, her face against his bare chest, shaking. "I'm scared. I'm so scared. ``It'll be okay,'' he said, stroking her hair, his eyes on the main entrance. He had no reason to believe anything would ever be okay for either of them. She seemed to have no idea that the words that had brought them here had come from her mouth. But then, he thought, she hadn't spoken them There were bag people huddled on either side of Hypermart's entranceway, prone hummocks of rag gone the exact shade of the sidewalk; they looked to Turner as though they were being slowly extruded from the dark concrete, to become mobile extensions of the city. "lammer's," the voice said, muffled by his chest, and he felt a cold revulsion, "a club. Find Danbala's horse." And then she was crying again He took her hand and walked past the sleeping transients, in under the tarnished gilt scroliwork and through the glass doors. He saw an espresso machine down an aisle of tents and shuttered stalls, a girl with a black crest of hair swabbing a counter. "Coffee." he said. "Food. Come on. You need to cat." He smiled at the girl while Angie settled herself on a stool. How about cash?" he said. "You ever take cash?" She stared at him, shrugged. He took a twenty from Rudy's ziploc and showed it to her. `What do you want?" "Coffees. Some food." "That all you got? Nothing smaller?" He shook his head. "Sorry. Can't make the change." "You don't have to." "You crazy?" "No, but I want coffee "That's some tip, mister. I don't make that in a week." ``It's yours.'' Anger crossed her face. "You're with those shitheads up- stairs. Keep your money. I'm closing." "We aren't with anybody," he said, leaning across the counter slightly, so that the parka fell open and she could see the Smith & Wesson. "We're looking for a club. A place called Jammer s. The girl glanced at Angie, back to Turner. "She sick? Dusted? What is this?" "Here's the money," Turner said. "Give us our coffee. You want to earn the change, tell me how to find Jammer's place It's worth it to me. Understand?" She slid the worn bill out of sight and moved to the espresso machine. "I don't think I understand anything any- more." She rattled cups and milk-filmed glasses out of the way. "What is it with Jammer's? You a friend of his? You know Jackie?" "Sure," Turner said. "She came by early this morning with this little wilson from the `burbs. I guess they went up there . "Where?" "Jammer's. Then the weirdness started." "Yeah?" "All these creeps from Barrytown, greaseballs and white- shoes, walking in like they owned the place. And now they damn well do, the top two floors. Started buying people out of their stalls. A lot of people on the lower floors just packed and left. Too weird. . . "How many came?" Steam roared out of the machine. "Maybe a hundred. I been scared shit all day, but I can't reach my boss. I close up in thirty minutes anyway. The day girl never showed, or else she came in, caught the trouble smell, and walked . ." She took the little steaming cup and put it in front of Angie. "You okay, honey?" Angie nodded. "You have any idea what these people are up to?" Turner asked. The girl had returned to the machine. It roared again. "I think they're waiting for someone," she said quietly and brought Turner an espresso. "Either for someone to try to leave Jammer's or for someone to try to get in . Turner looked down at the swirls of brown foam on his coffee. "And nobody here called the police?" "The police? Mister, this is Hypermart. People here don't call the police . Angie's cup shattered on the marble counter. "Short and straight, hired man," the voice whispered. "You know the way. Walk in." The countergirl's mouth was open. "Jesus," she said, "she's gotta be dusted bad She looked at Turner coldly. "You give it to her?" "No," Turner said, "but she's sick. It'll be okay." He drank off the black bitter coffee. It seemed to him, just for a second, that he could feel the whole Sprawl breathing, and its breath was old and sick and tired, all up and down the stations from Boston to Atlanta. . . ~~JEsus,~' BOBBY SAID to Jackie, "can't you wrap it up or something?" Jammer's burn filled the office with a smell, like overdone pork, that turned Bobby's stomach. "You don't bandage a burn," she said, helping Jammer sit down in his chair. She began to open his desk drawers, one after another. "You got any painkillers? Derms? Anything?" Jammer shook his head, his long face slack and pale. "Maybe. Behind the bar, there's a kit. . . "Get it!" Jackie snapped. "Go on!" "What are you so worried about him for." Bobby began, hurt by her tone. "He tried to let those Gothicks in here. "Get the box, asshole! He just got weak for a second, is all. He got scared. Get me that box or you'll need it yourself." He darted out into the club and found Beauvoir wiring pink hotdogs of plastic explosive to a yellow plastic box like the control unit for a kid's toy truck. The hotdogs were mashed around the hinges of the doors and on either side of the lock. ~What's that for?" Bobby asked, scrambling over the bar. "Somebody might want in," Beauvoir said. "They do, we'll open it for them." Bobby paused to admire the arrangement. "Why don't you just mash it up against the glass, so it'll blow straight out?" "Too obvious," Beauvoir said, straightening up, the yel- low detonator in his hands. "But I'm glad you think about these things. If we try to blow it straight out, some of it blows back in. This way is . . . neater." Bobby shrugged and ducked behind the bar. There were wire racks filled with plastic sacks of krill wafers, an assort- ment of abandoned umbrellas, an unabridged dictionary, a woman's blue shoe, a white plastic case with a runny-looking red cross painted on it with nail polish . . . He grabbed the case and climbed back over the bar. `~Hey, Jackie he said, putting the first-aid kit down beside Jammer's deck. "Forget it." She popped the case open and rummaged through its contents. "Jammer, there's more poppers in here than anything else . . Jammer smiled wealdy. "Here. These'll do you." She unrolled a sheet of red derms and began to peel them off the backing, smoothing three across the back of the burnt hand. "What you need's a local, though." "I was thinking," Jammer said, staring up at Bobby. "Maybe now's when you can earn yourself a little running time "How's that?" Bobby asked, eyeing the deck. "Stands to reason," Jammer said, "that whoever's got those jerks outside, they've also got the phones tapped." Bobby nodded. Beauvoir had said the same thing, when he'd run his plan down to them. "Well, when Beauvoir and I decided you and I might hit the matrix for a little look-see, I actually had something else in mind." Jammer showed Bobby his expanse of small white teeth. "See, I'm in this because I owed Beauvoir and Lucas a favor. But there are people who owe me favors, too, favors that go way back. Favors I never needed to call in." "Jammer." Jackie said, "you gotta relax. Just sit back. You could go into shock." "How's your memory, Bobby? I'm going to run a se- quence by you. You practice it on my deck. No power, not jacked. Okay?" Bobby nodded. "So dry-run this a couple of times. Entrance code. Let you in the back door." "Whose back door?" Bobby spun the black deck around and poised his fingers above the keyboard. "The Yakuza," Jammer said. Jackie was staring at him. "Hey, what do you" "Like I said. It's an old favor. But you know what they say, the Yakuza never forget. Cuts both ways A whiff of singed flesh reached Bobby and he winced. "How come you didn't mention this to Beauvoir?" Jackie was folding things back into the white case. `Honey," Jammer said, "you'll learn. Some things you teach yourself to remember to forget." "Now look," Bobby said, fixing Jackie with what he hoped was his heaviest look, "I'm running this. So I don't need your loas, okay, they get on my nerves . "She doesn't call them up," Beauvoir said, crouching by the office door, the detonator in one hand and the South Mrican riot gun in the other, "they just come. They want to come, they're there. Anyway, they like you . Jackie settled the trodes across her forehead. "Bobby," she said, "you'll be fine. Don't worry, just jack." She'd removed her headscarf. Her hair was cornrowed between neat furrows of shiny brown skin, with antique resistors woven in at random intervals, little cylinders of brown phenolic resin ringed with color-coded bands of paint. "When you punch out past the Basketball," Jammer said to Bobby, "you wanna dive right three clicks and go for the floor, I mean straight down.. "Past the what?" "Basketball. That's the Dallas-Fort Worth Sunbelt Co-Pros- perity Sphere, you wanna get your ass down fast, all the way, then you run how I told you, for about twenty clicks. It's all used-car lots and tax accountants down there, but just stand on that mother, okay?" Bobby nodded, grinning. "Anybody sees you going by, well, that's their lookout. |
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