Two
Strained sunlight filtered through the half-open blinds, bathing the small studio apartment in its Californian glow. Yellowed walls, the sheet rock exposed beneath ripped lime green wallpaper and old posters of older horror movies, stained with tobacco smoke and pollution that no window could keep out, greeted the man as he opened his eyes. He laid on a sheetless mattress, dressed only in torn old boxers. A cough blasted out of him like a gunshot as he sat up. He ran a hand over his buzzed hair, stood, and coughed again.
He made his way to the kitchenette, prepared himself a cup of cold Nucaff. Distilled water. Nucaff powder. He sipped at it and smoked a cigarette while looking out the window. The beach stretched away from him, the Pacific frothy and tinged brown. The glint of broken bottles made him avert his eyes. He turned and looked out another window. The smog didn’t look that bad today. He may be able to go outside with a respirator. Maybe.
He stubbed out his smoke in a black plastic ashtray, drank the last of his Nucaff. Snapped his fingers to turn the television on. Comcast News Channel. Some cinnimeth looking anchor talking about the Boston riots. She was going on how they were disturbing the peace while the footage on the bluescreen behind her was of Arkonian-Sendai Security drones spitting rounds of live ammo into a group of hippies that were just standing around holding signs.
He lifted a finger, swiped it left through the air. Channel changed to some reality show about some obese human whale eating what looked to be five pizzas and guzzling a gallon of Coke. “She weighs in at a staggering twelve hundred pounds. Doctors--”
Flick.
“Californian refugees, fleeing in droves have virtually taken over Utah and Idaho--”
Flick.
“Oh fuck you, you piece of fucking shi--”
Flick.
He sighed. Muted the TV by bending his finger. A black woman was yelling at an Asian man, arms flailing. He reached for his pack of smokes. One left. Shit. He took it out, put it between his lips and it sparked to life.
The TV began playing a classic rock song by the Clash and the words WORK! DON’T ANSWER! flashed across the screen.
“Answer, audio only,” he sighed. “This is Lavigne.”
“Morning, Detective. We have one for you.” The voice of his sarge, Ashley Morse came through the TV. The picture had returned to it, the black woman beating on the Asian man’s chest while he sported an erection in his silk briefs.
“Where?” He asked, took a drag of his cigarette.
“Sherman Oaks.”
“The fucking Valley? Fine. What’s the deal?”
“The usual. ArkSen being accused of rape and attempted murder.” Morse replied.
“Again? Has the girl gone public?”
“Not a girl.”
“What?”
“Not a girl. A guy, twenty-one. Unemployed NuBaptist. Picked up last night outside a sushi joint for not having a scannable ID. Name of John Hernandez.”
“Legitimate rape?” Lavigne asked.
“As legitimate as they come, no pun intended. Camera caught the whole thing.”
“Shit. Has it leaked?”
“Just get your ass to the station.” Morse said. “You dressed?”
“Yes.”
“Alright, get dressed and get down here ASAP. Miller is going to have a shitfit.” Morse said.
“Oh, one more thing,” Lavigne said. “Who was it? The Agent who raped the boy?”
“Hernandez.”
“Shit.” Lavigne spat into his ashtray. “I have to buy smokes, and then I’ll be in.”
“Good, we’ll be in the Van Nuys branch today.”
“Keeps getting better and better. They clear out the cockroaches?”
A long pause. “Get down here pronto.”
----------
He started up his Arkonian-Sendai hovercar and lifted out of the garage of his shitty apartment building, flew up and looked down at Santa Monica, the pier shining faintly through the smog. He brought the vehicle to speed, landed at a 7-11, bought a pack of White Mints, his cigarette of choice, and an extra large NuCaff, Splenda and Kream. Corporate credstick. Accepted. He breathed a sigh of relief, and then ordered four more packs of the White Mints. Might be a long case, and, well, his credstick only had funds available when he had an assignment.
He got back into his hovercar, lifted off, and headed toward the freeway, putting the car on autopilot. He smoked and drank his Nucaff as his vehicle merged into traffic.
----------
Twenty-five minutes later, Lavingne’s hovercar landed in the parking lot of the Van Nuys branch of Arkonian-Sendai Security Enterprises, between two cruisers that were a well shined black, the armored plates glistening in the muted sun, the reflections of palm trees making Lavigne smirk.
The office was nestled in a strip mall between a Thai restaurant that had some of the worst Pad Thai (but the best curry- it was weird) in the Valley, and a Starbucks that served real coffee. If you asked in hushed tones, and had actual cash on you. Which was borderline illegal. The benefits of having a cinner as a manager. The reason it was allowed next to an ArkSen Office? Real coffee. A vicious circle that’s been spinning since the beginning of time.
Lavigne stepped out of the hovercar, threw his White Mint down and stomped on it, twisting his foot for no reason, habit and tradition. The cigarette automatically went out if you let go of it.
Ashley Morse came out the door, a cigarette, a Black Eagle, combusting into life between her lips. She was short, about five-three, but thin, almost childlike with steely gray eyes and black hair. “Welcome to work, Detective.”
“Good to be in,” he paused, took his pack out of his pocket, “Van Nuys.”
“Ah, dripping with sarcasm, nothing’s changed since you were assigned to SVU.” Morse let out a blue cloud of smoke. She watched him light another smoke. “I called you in on this because you know Hernandez.”
“Thanks.” Lavigne said dryly. “Worked with him for fifteen years.”
“Seven.”
“What?”
“You worked with him for seven years, Detective. Smog get to your fucking brain? You’re thirty-two.”
“So I fucking exaggerated. Why are we already yelling at each other?”
She stopped, looked him over, tilting her head. “You sucked in bed.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
“That was mean.” Lavigne took another drag. They were both talking in dry, flat tones.
“Truth is never mean, Detective.”
“We also never slept together, Sarge.”
“Also the truth.”
“So…”
“I’m going to finish this cigarette, you’re going to finish that cigarette,” she paused, “and then we’re going to go inside, and we’ll go over the case file we have on Hernandez. And then you’ll go over after him.”
“He’s not in custody?”
“Never said he was.”
“You implied.”
“No. Must have been your imagination.”
“Well, fuck. Any idea where he is?” Lavigne asked, nodding politely to an overweight couple going into the Thai joint.
Morse shrugged. “Hasn’t reported in since last night. You knew him, where do you think he would go?”
It was Lavigne’s turn to shrug. “Never really knew him that well, we just took down some cinn houses together.”
Morse lifted an eyebrow, crushed out her Black Eagle. He threw down his own. She led him inside the sterile white office, to her desk which was so white it hurt his eyes. “So, Hernandez. He strike you as a rapist of young men?”
“Not at the time, Sarge. Of course, I don’t know what he jacked into, when he went home. Could have been illegal Honduran child porn, for all I knew, maybe that kid’s pony show. Maybe he had his own family in there. Shit, maybe he just played video games, and this was a one time impulse thing. His first and only time.”
“If there’s one thing we both know about rapists, Lavigne, it’s never their first time.”
“What…” he paused, searching for the right words, “what about their first time?”
“Shut the fuck up, you know what I mean.”
He didn’t, but he nodded anyway. “He wasn’t dumb enough to leave his implant in, was he?”
“The ArkSen one, nah, we found that in his kitchenette sink. If he jacks into cyberspace, we can maybe nab him, unless he’s really fucking good at hiding his tracks.”
“So, we just wait for him to jack in, and we got him.”
“If he does. Before last night, it had been six months since his last log in, and that was only to say goodbye to his mom.”
“Ah, man, Ruth died?” Lavigne frowned.
“Never really knew him that well, eh?”
He shrugged. “Anyway. Did you guys ever lift that smoking ban?”
“Its California, you’re lucky you can still smoke outside.”
“Like it would make a difference with the smog.”
“You’re the one we have on this, everyone else is tied up with the assassinations.” She pulled up a file on a tablet that laid on her desk.
“What assassinations?” Lavigne asked, lips tight.
“You ever watch TV?”
“Not really. I mean, it’s on, but..”
“You’re jacking off in cyberspace.”
“Well, not always.”
“But most of the time.”
“I’d say the ratio of jacking off to, say, reading is…”
“Anyway.”
“Anyway,” Lavigne sighed. “Alright, what assassinations?”
“ArkSen personnel being wiped out across the country, last one was last night in Lew/Aub.”
“Where?”
“Small city in Maine. Dude landed his hovercar, went into a cheap Chinese place and dusted two cops. Just walked out of the place. We’ve tried to keep it quiet, but there are always witnesses.” Morse said.
“You haven’t…”
“Wasted the witnesses? Lavigne, we aren’t State Mercs. We don’t have that kind of authority.”
“I’m surprised corporate hasn’t gotten the clearance.”
“Well, I’m not going to say they’re not trying.” Morse shook her head. “Here’s the file on Hernandez,” she touched a button on her tablet. His phone began to vibrate in his pocket. “I have some cash, let’s go see if Spiky McBrewster has any coffee.”
He gave her a small smile.
-----------
They stood next to his hovercar, smoking and savoring the smell and flavor of coffee. “You okay with this?” Morse asked.
“I’d rather be hunting down the assassins, but yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“This is just as important. We don’t need the press from Hernandez. I think we’ve managed to get the kid to sign an NDA, under penalty of death, but if he does it again…”
“Yeah I know, another PR nightmare.”
“Like we can afford another one.”
“Wouldn’t be able to dust hippies in Boston, then.”
“Oh, so you do watch the news.”
He laughed, “sometimes. Must have missed the assassinations.”
“We’re on it. Almost every single cop in America is on the case.”
“Gives a company like MercLaw a good opportunity to step in, take some clients.” Lavigne said, throwing down one smoke, putting another in his life.
She looked at him.
“What?”
“MercLaw?”
“Yeah, MercLaw. You know, that big firm out of Toronto?”
“I’ve heard of them, small potatoes firm, how would they even steal a small town client?”
“They’re growing. Got a job offer from them a couple months ago.”
“Oh yeah? How much?”
“More than this shit job.”
“Really?”
He nodded.
“Why didn’t you take it?” Morse asked.
“And leave this glorious career, and your smiling face?” he chuckled, and then looked at her face, “honestly, I forgot about it and deleted the email.” He shrugged.
“Oh.” Morse said, going back to business. “Your credstick isn’t limitless, so don’t go buying a case of smokes and a kilo of cinn. We need itemized receipts. All personal purchases will be reimbursed out of your account.” He lifted up his White Mint. She sighed, “I’ll overlook the smokes, I know how you work. Get Hernandez, bring him in, or shoot him, I don’t care. Oh-” she brought out her phone, a wide, flat piece of black plastic. She swiped the screen, pushed. “Your firearm is now activated. You have it on you, right?”
“Um.”
“Its in your apartment?”
“Yes.” He replied. Hopefully.
“Alright, go home, take a fucking shower, buy some new clothes. On ArkSen. You reek. Good hunting.”
He got into his hovercar, and lifted off. Put it on auto, and finished his coffee on the way back to Santa Monica.
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