Shadowrun 44 - Drops of Corruption Page 7

  “And it’s the funds from this data that’s paying for our meal tonight?” he asked.

  Jackie snorted. “Hardly. The actual funds have barely started to trickle in. This dinner just comes from using the information to put the right leverage on the right points.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “It’s an unpleasant word, but I guess”—she shrugged— “it applies.”

  Simply delightful, Bannickburn thought. I’m eating Iruffles and she hasn’t even begun to pull down the real money yet.

  “How long do you expect this particular revenue stream to last?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m still learning how to play these things out.” She tossed and re-tossed her salad without actually bringing a lettuce leaf to her mouth. “The first few times I had something like this, I was a little blunt, a little direct, I guess. Mistakes of youth.”

  Bannickburn hid a smile. She didn’t like to speak of her age, but Bannickburn was fairly certain she hadn’t yet hit twenty.

  “I got some nice sums up front,” she continued, “but that was it. I’ve seen, though, how other people tease it out for a while. The initial money is much smaller, but if you milk your pigeons long enough . . .”

  “Milk your pigeons?”

  “Yeah, yeah, mixed metaphor, sorry. Anyway, if you string them along for long enough, you can keep a decent cash flow coming to you. You don’t get the rush of the immediate big payoff, but the total money in the end comes out to more that way. I think I could stretch it out for a year at least.”

  “And you have other similar . . . projects that you’re working on?”

  “You’d better believe it.”

  “So how many do you think you need to have before it’s enough? Before you, you know, move out of the Barrens, find a nicer place, settle into a more regular lifestyle?”

  She gave him a look that made him feel the exact difference in their ages. “Enough?”

  “Enough nuyen. Enough power.”

  She dropped her fork, sat back in her chair, and lightly rubbed her right temple, apparently thinking of something she hadn’t bothered to contemplate before. “Enough? Drek, I don’t know, Robert. I’ve never thought about it that way. The money is useful as a way of keeping score, I guess, and for getting a nice meal but . . . what would I do, buy a SIN? Open a regular bank account?” She shook her head. “I don’t see that happening anytime soon. I mean, is that how you thought of things back in Scotsprawl? Did you think of just working until you had enough?”

  He hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t. But he had been young then. With the amount of power he had, he felt young right into his forties. He never even thought of the word “enough.” There was no such thing—only “more.”

  But the day he’d lost it all, he’d aged about two decades. Survival wasn’t a given anymore—it was an open question. Ridiculous minutiae, like where his next meal would come from, dominated way too many of his waking hours. Since he’d come to Seattle, he’d thought long and hard about what would be enough—what would give him safety and security. But Jackie, so blessedly far removed from any effects of age, and still growing into her considerable powers (though hers were of a completely different nature than his had been) thought now like he once had. Which was wonderful, but Bannickburn couldn’t be sure how well he’d be able to put up with a young version of himself these days.

  Of course, this young version of himself came with a wonderful smile, angelic and devilish at the same time. That helped.

  “No,” he finally said, answering the question that hung awkwardly in the air. “No, I never thought that way. And you shouldn’t, either.”

  She returned her fork to her salad. “I think you need to have more fun in what you’re doing. Yeah, we gotta run to survive, but you have to enjoy the rush, too, right? If it’s all about putting bread on the table, you’re just another wage slave, and who wants that?”

  He thought of the way he’d felt leaping onto Kross’ motorcycle and getting away from the goons at the dock. That had been fun.

  “You’re right,” he said. “You’re right. And I have been enjoying it all more lately.”

  “It’s because of Shivers, isn’t it?”

  “And his boss. Bailey.”

  “Right. Quinn’s his first name, isn’t it?”

  Bannickburn nodded, and he could almost see the information being filed into Jackie’s brain for later use.

  “The work they’re giving me has been good. Fun sometimes.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m still not sold on these guys, but if the work’s good, okay. Just keep your guard up.” Bannickburn grinned widely, and his brogue thickened as he spoke. “Keep my guard up? Lass, you don’t get to where I’ve been without knowing that. I’ve thrown too many knockout punches myself not to have learned how to avoid them. Good God above, you’d think you were speaking to an infant.”

  She laughed. “All right, all right. You’re the almighty Robert Lionel Bannickburn, I know. You can handle yourself.”

  “And you’d be well not to forget it!” he said, but his tone remained light.

  “I couldn’t if I tried. Especially as long as I have to look at those horrendous sideburns.”

  He thumped the table in mock anger. “Now you’ve done it, lass! Two things you never insult in a Scotsman are his clan and his ’burns! I’ve no choice now but to force-feed you haggis!”

  “Evening, Robert. Is this young lady giving you trouble?” said a friendly voice. Jackie looked up, and while her face didn’t exactly fall, it also didn’t remain open and cordial. Bannickburn pivoted right and saw Quinn Bailey standing behind him.

  “Quinn! Fancy meeting you here!”

  “Yes, I love a good coincidence. I guess it’s inevitable, since we share the same tastes.” He threw Jackie a leer that would have been offensive if it wasn’t so over the top. “In many things.”

  Bannickburn chuckled. Jackie remained impassive. Half a century of life had taught Bannickburn how to handle the situation from here. He might not have the drive and power of youth, but he’d be damned if he hadn’t learned at least some social grace.

  “I’d love to invite you to join us, Quinn, but I’m sure you understand that some evenings are not to be interrupted.” He smiled at Jackie, and she grinned back. It was genuine.

  “Of course, of course. Just giving you my good wishes for the evening. Perhaps, though, if you have some time tomorrow morning we could talk? You’re going to like what I’ve got to tell you—you’re going to like it a lot.”

  “Certainly,” Bannickburn said. They exchanged a lime and a place, Bailey said a smooth good-bye, and Bannickburn returned his full attention to Jackie.

  “What, in your experience,” he asked, “is the difference between setting up a bribe and setting up blackmail?”

  She was off and talking again, allowing Bannickburn to marvel at her all over again, and wonder how long it would take for her to rise so far that she left him behind.

  The date ended the way Bannickburn believed all dates should, and he reflected on the end of the evening in careful detail as he reclined in bed, savoring each moment on that particular piece of furniture. He wished Jackie were still there with him, to provide visual reinforcement of his recent memories, but she’d gotten up to jack in to the Matrix. Bannickburn wasn’t sure if it was a meeting or datachasing or both, but it had her whole attention.

  He drifted into and out of sleep, but every time he opened his eyes, everything in front of him looked the same. The black chair with the narrow “S” back, the soft blue lights blinking on Jackie’s wide array of electronic devices, the dim lights from the wall sconces—everything was the same, and Jackie sat in the middle of it in the exact same position.

  Then he opened his eyes and she wasn’t in her chair anymore. He couldn’t see her anywhere, but half of the basement apartment was pitch black. If he got up, he’d probably find her there, but he didn’t feel like getting up.

  Then she walked o
ut of the darkness, light catching her long white T-shirt in a way that woke Bannickburn up a little more. She looked serious, though, which likely meant conversation instead of anything else. Her eyes bounced this way and that, and her shoulders twitched involuntarily. She wanted to talk, but she was still coming down from being online. Where she probably wished she still was.

  “Are you awake?” she asked.

  “If you want me to be,” he said, with all the gallantry he could muster.

  “You know who Bailey is, don’t you?”

  The question took him by surprise. He hadn’t thought about Bailey since the man had left their table. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He pushed himself up into a semiupright position. “No, I’m too drowsy. Give me a moment, though, and maybe I’ll come up with it.”

  That was a lie. He knew exactly what she meant. And she was right. Ever since the run with Kross, he’d had a pretty clear idea of who Bailey was, and what kind of position he occupied. After all, there weren’t a whole lot of people who used ork muscle to run talismans off the Tacoma docks. But Bannickburn kept telling himself that if he never actually admitted what Bailey was, then that meant he wasn’t becoming involved with the type of person he knew Bailey to be.

  “Holy flaming drek, Robert, you know he’s Mafia. You know it. Part of the Bigio family, to be precise. A caporegime, just as brutal as any of them, only he’s got manners and a veneer of civility. But that’s all it is, just a thin surface. And that’s who’s giving you marching orders.”

  “No one’s giving me orders,” Bannickburn said. He was feeling much more alert now.

  “No one besides him is giving you work, either. You’re getting sucked into the family, and that’s not a safe place to be.”

  “This is what you’ve been doing all night? Finding out Bailey’s background and preparing this speech? Wouldn’t it have been more fun to stay in bed?”

  She snorted. “Finding out about Bailey took about ten minutes. I did it while I was shopping at Hacker House, which was one of about fifteen things I did on the Matrix tonight, thank you very much. Even you could have found it out if you’d wanted to.”

  Bannickburn decided that, in the light of the rest of I lie night, he’d not take offense at that remark. But the confidence of her words raised his hackles a little—on the Matrix, she oozed power, while he was just as weak online as he was everywhere else. He knew how she must feel when jacked in, and he envied her for it.

  “All right, then,” he said. “Yes. Bailey’s Mafia, and, as it turns out, the Mafia pays well. Are you telling me you’ve never worked with organized crime before?” “No. I mean, yes, I’ve worked with organized crime.” “And are they more powerful than the corps? More ruthless than the corps?’

  “Sometimes.”

  “And sometimes not. So I’m not sure exactly what it is you want me to be worried about.”

  Jackie paced back and forth a few times, and Bannickburn let a few glimpses of her legs distract him. But then she was ready to speak.

  “You should know this already. You’re almost thirty years older than me and you haven’t exactly been spending your time in a cave. But you want to pretend you don’t, so I’ll tell you. Any Johnson is dangerous, any Johnson might double-cross you and try to kill you—we know this. But at the end of the day, even if the corps— or the government—don’t want to be respectable, they want to seem respectable. So they’ll put in the token effort. But the Mafia doesn’t care about being respectable. That’s the last thing in the world they want. They want to look intimidating, tough—evil. So while the corps are occasionally forced to do good or decent things that they don’t want to do to keep up an image, the Mafia never is. It’s just the opposite—when the Mafia wants to be ruthless sons of bitches, they have nothing holding them back, and even when they don’t want to be ruthless sons of bitches, they sometimes have to be, because they have an image to keep up. No one we deal with really has a conscience—but mobsters never even have to pretend they have one.”

  “Okay. So. They’re bad guys. Maybe I like them, but they’re bad guys. I’ll be careful.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Jackie said, her voice rising with concern and anger. “You’re in. They’ve got some of their hooks into you. You may not know it, but they do. You can’t be careful anymore. You can only get away. It’s the leaky faucet that becomes a flood.” “What?”

  “Drop by drop. They wear you down. They’re patient, and they know how to get their way. It’s just a trickle, so you don’t notice what they’re doing until you’re completely swamped. Completely overwhelmed.”

  Bannickburn didn’t notice any leaks. He’d done some work, that was all, and he could walk away any time. As far as he was concerned, that meant he was being careful enough, and could proceed as he’d planned. But he needed a way to end the conversation amicably.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Let me just meet with Quinn tomorrow. I’ll tell him I’m booked, that I can’t take anything new for a while. I’ll take a few steps back. Okay?” She stopped her pacing and looked at him squarely. Her gaze could detect bulldrek as effectively as any of Bannickburn’s old spells. He wasn’t sure how well he held up to her analysis, but finally she decided to act like she believed him, regardless of whether she actually did or not.

  “Okay,” she said, and returned to bed, allowing Bannickburn to pretend the whole conversation hadn’t happened and that the night—well, the morning, now—was still proceeding perfectly.

  8

  Bailey had friends who considered themselves experts on various parts of a woman’s body. He knew a leg guy, a breast guy, a neck guy, even a small-of-the-back guy. He had listened at great length to their monologues on their favorite subjects, and had to admit that each of them made excellent points. But none of them knew eyes like he knew eyes, and that was their critical mistake. The better you are at reading eyes, the better chance you have at studying whatever other elements you would like to examine.

  He’d had about ten seconds to assess the look in the eyes of Bannickburn’s lady friend the other night, and he hadn’t seen anything good. Mistrust, hostility, and an active, predatory intelligence. That wasn’t a good combination. He had a pretty good guess what she’d been telling Bannickburn since Bailey had left the two of them to their dinner, and he’d spent most of his morning working up a counter plan. Part of it involved getting to Splat before Bannickburn.

  The restaurant likely wouldn’t last more than a few months—it was too crowded, too profitable to survive so close to Redmond. Soon, it would be hit by the inevitable series of break-ins, robberies, and vandalism, leading to either closure or buyout by the Bigios or Finnigans, who were adept at using the promise of protection to expand their empires. Once they bought it, the mob might keep it open but would most likely shut it down, eliminating competition and making sure profits kept flowing to their regular joints. And Redmond would get back to the business of being barren.

  For this brief moment, though, it was warm, lively, and served fantastic omelets. Plaid wallpaper covered most of the dents and divots in the walls, and the lights only blinked occasionally with the poor flow of electricity. The windows were clean, the plates were slightly less clean. The clientele, for the most part, had woken up only an hour or two before, so they were too low-key to throw the dishes at each other, which allowed the dishes to survive long enough to gain stains.

  When Bannickburn arrived, he looked impressively alert. Bailey knew he’d probably had a late night—but then again, that was the norm for people in Redmond, which was why Splat served breakfast all day.

  Bailey saw him across the crowded room and waved him over. Bannickburn sauntered to the table, and Bailey could immediately see that the elf’s girlfriend had gotten to him. But Bailey was ready.

  “Morning, Robert.”

  “Morning, Quinn. For a few more minutes, at least.”

  Quinn smiled, then launched in
to his prepared speech before Bannickburn could open his menu.

  “There’s something I’ve got to tell you before I tell you anything else. Robert, you’ve been working for the Bigio family lately. That’s right, the mob. I’m a mobster. Boogety boogety boogety.” Bailey wiggled his fingers in mock menace. “I’m sure you’ve heard how frightening we are, and it’s all true. We’re bad, bad people. If they had fried baby on the menu, you can be sure that’s what I’d be ordering.”

  Bannickburn kept his face blank, and Bailey plunged on.

  “We’re not nice people. I won’t pretend we are. I’ve killed people, and some of them probably didn’t deserve it, but that was what needed to be done at the time, and if it makes you feel better about me, then I’ll assure you my poor heart bled a little just before I put a bullet in their sad brains. I’m not going to try to convince you that, sure, we’re the Mafia, but we’re not that bad— we’re actually nice! Because we’re not.”

  “This is a hell of a pep talk so far,” Bannickburn said. “Should we order our food before you further explain what a bastard you are?”

  “Ah, if you’ve learned anything in your life, I’m sure you’ve learned about that vast spectrum between nice people and bastards. I’m somewhere in there, and you are, too, and I’m fairly certain we’re not that far apart.” Bailey motioned for a waiter, who started to ignore him, did a double take when he saw who was waving at him, then walked over.

  “I’ve always loved that speech,” Bannickburn said. “The one at the end of every action trideo, where the bad guy takes a minute to tell the good guy how much alike they are.”

  “Me, too. I guess you should be saying, ‘Then I’ll see you in hell,’ any minute now.”

  Bannickburn leaned forward, his gray eyes carrying a hint of a burning ember. “Why the speech, Quinn?” Bailey replied smoothly, “Because I should put all my cards on the table before I ask you to do what I want you to do. This is what you have to know if you’re going to do the job, and I thought it would be best if I laid it out right off the bat.”