Forests of the Night

  Not a morey in the lot, and the whitest bunch of pinks he had ever seen. Especially under the canopy. There, he figured on fifty people who got to use the folding chairs, at least another fifty standing back under cover, and a hundred or so milling about beyond some sort of private security line in back of the paying customers. Even with his poor eyesight he could make the types. The pinks who knew the corpse were obvious, they wore their money—he could see the glints of their shoes and jewelry whenever they moved—and they were, with few exceptions, white. The pinks who wanted to know the corpse were just as easily made, and they were closer to the normal mix of human coloring, a few blacks, orientals, hispanics. The black cops were totally out of it, with their cheap suits and their attention on everything but the service. The private security goons—they were white—were better dressed than the cops and were intent on keeping the flow of riffraff behind the tent. Then, in the back with the crowd, were the vids. Cameras and mikes at the ready . . .

  Some of the riffraff—mostly blacks and orientals-were carrying signs. Looked like a full fledged protest was going on. The vids were paying as much, if not more, attention to the riffraff than to the service. Nohar wished he could make out more of the signs, but the best he could do was read the occasional word. Lots of isms, "Racism," "Sexism," "Speciesism." The signs that weren't isms seemed to mention capital-R Rights.

  The Right to what, Nohar couldn't read.

  Nohar wondered who had died—irritating, because he thought he had heard something about this, and the job his anonymous client had in mind probably involved the stiff. Perhaps the guy left all his money to some morey squeeze and they needed to track her down.

  Nohar heard a truck, and hoped it wasn't security. The pinks might take offense at a morey walking around the human part of the cemetery. But instead of security, Nohar saw an unmarked cargo van. A Dodge Electroline painted institution-green. It was window less, boxy, cheap, and either remote-driven or programmed. It wasn't the kind of vehicle Nohar expected to see in a cemetery. It pulled on to the shoulder and backed toward him. When it stopped, the rear doors opened with a pneumatic hiss.

  The smell was overpowering. His sensitive nose was suddenly exposed to an open sewer. Nohar was enveloped by the odor of sweat, and bile, and ammonia. Even a pink would've been able to sense it.

  He had no idea what this guy was supposed to look like, or who he was—but Nohar did not expect another frank. They were supposed to be rare. Despite that, what the opening door revealed couldn 't be anything but a frank. And a failure at that.

  Once Nohar's eyes had adjusted to the nearly black interior of the cargo van, he could see it. The frank was vaguely humanoid and had a pasty white color to its rubbery skin. Its limbs seemed tubular and boneless, and its fingers were fused into a mittenlike hand. It wore a pink's clothes, but its pale bulk was fighting them. Rolls of white flesh cascaded over its belt, its collar, even its shoes. Glassy eyes, a lump of a nose, and a lipless mouth were collected together on a pear-shaped head. Its face seemed incapable of showing any expression. It seemed that, if the clothes were removed, the frank would just slide down and form a puddle on the ground.

  The frank also massed more than Nohar did though it was a meter shorter.

  Whatever gene-tech had designed this monstrosity had screwed-up bigtime. Until now, Nohar could never quite fathom the reason for the pinks' horror at the franks. It seemed bizarre to him that humans, who took all the genetic tinkering with other species in stride, were so aghast when someone tinkered with their own. If this was a sample of what happened, Nohar could begin to understand. Maybe, thought Nohar, pink genes didn't take kindly to fiddling.

  The voice was the same as the one over the comm— deep, bubbly, and, somehow, slimy. "Are you the detective, Nohar Rajasthan?"

  Briefly, Nohar wondered if he needed the money this badly-he did. "Yes."

  Nohar began to feel warmth coming from the back of the van. Nohar realized that the frank had the heat on in the van, all the way. Back where the frank was sitting it could be fifty degrees. An unpleasant sound emerged from the frank's mass. It could have been a belch. "We have fifteen minutes before van goes to next stop, forgive. I need to smuggle myself out. Have to keep meeting secret."

  Nohar shrugged. "Then you better get on with it."

  At least the frank took Nohar's appearance in stride. In most of the directories it didn't mention that Nohar was the only moreau in the city with a private investigator's license. For some people, his address wasn't a big enough clue. Of course a pink detective would have a problem with this guy, even more so than with Nugoya. At least with Nugoya, a pink could pretend the guy had been human.

  "What kind of job? Surveillance or missing persons?"

  Nohar heard flesh shifting as the frank moved. “Do you know who is being buried down the hill?"

  Chalk one up for obvious conclusions. The stiff was involved. "Rich, human, lots of friends."

  Another ugly sound emerged from the mass of white flesh. It might have been a laugh. "The dead man is a politician. His name is Daryl Johnson. He is the campaign manager for twelfth district congressman, Joseph Binder."

  Nohar was wondering about the frank's weird accent when he realized that the frank had ducked his first question. "What's the job?"

  "I must know who killed Daryl Johnson."

  Nohar almost laughed, but he knew the frank was serious. "Outside my specialty."So much for the money he needed. "I don't mess with police investigations—"

  "There is no police investigation."

  Nohar was getting irritated with the frank's bubbling monotone. "I work with moreys. I don't work with human problems. You got the wrong P.I."

  "Binder pressures the police, they close the case. I need to know if someone in my company is responsible for Johnson's death ..."

  Nohar looked straight into the frank's eyes. That usually unnerved people, but the frank was as expressionless as ever. “Did you hear what I said?'' It took Nohar a while to realize that the reason he didn't like the frank's eyes was because they didn't blink.

  "Let me finish, Mr. Rajasthan. You are the only person I can contact for this job. For obvious reasons, I am unable to hire a human investigator—"

  "No solidarity shit."

  "Practical matter. No qualified human is willing to talk to me. My company is Midwest Lapidary Imports. We're privately owned. We import gemstones from South Africa. The board is formed of South African refugees—"

  "All like you?"

  The frank showed no offence at the question. "Yes, like me. We retain contacts in the mining industry—"

  Nohar got a picture of the South African gene-techs trying to create a modified human miner. Hell, maybe the frank's appearance wasn't a mistake. For all Nohar knew, this guy was perfectly adapted for work in a five-mile-deep hole. Nohar stopped musing and waited for the frank to get to the point.

  "To succeed, the owners of Midwest Lapidary Imports, MLI, need to remain hidden, unnoticed, private. The company will not survive if our existence is widely known.

  "With Johnson's death there is the possibility that one of our number is behind the murder ..."

  Nohar sighed. Learn something new every day. A bunch of franks were importing diamonds from South Africa, probably illegally. The pinks would just love that idea. The Supreme Court was still debating if the 29th amendment even covered the franks. No one knew yet if the franks were covered by the Bill of Rights, the limited morey amendment, or nothing at all. Before the pinks hi this country had even locked down the legal status of engineered humans, here were a few, acting just like eager little capitalists. "You said Binder's blocking the investigation. What are you worried about?"

  "One kills once, one kills again. You have no idea what it would mean if one of our number is directly involved in a human's death. The company is a worthy project, but someone may commit atrocities in its name. I cannot, nor can anyone else, abide our secrecy, our existence, if one of us kills to further our ends.
"

  "How is your organization involved?"

  "The police call it a robbery-murder because there are over three million dollars in campaign funds missing from his house—"

  "Sounds plausible." Nohar realized that he was just leading the frank on. He had some natural curiosity, but there was no sane way he could touch this case.

  The frank's bulk groaned and rippled as he leaned toward Nohar. The heat and stench that floated off of the frank's body almost made Nohar wince. "I am the accountant for MLI. The three million that is missing is never there. Campaign records the police use are wrong about this. The money comes from MLI, and should be there. But 1 handle the books and such a sum never leaves our accounts, or, if it does, it returns before the sum is debited.

  "I do not go to the police. For now I must retain the secrecy. I can be wrong. I cannot damage the company until my suspicions are proved correct. I can't work within MLI. I have no idea who of my colleagues are involved. And I am closely watched—"

  Nohar stood up. "I don't deal with anything involving murder. I have to walk from this one—find an out of towner."

  "I have a five thousand retainer, and I will pay five times your usual rate, another five thousand when you complete the job successfully."

  Nohar froze, his usual rate was five hundred a day. No, he told himself, it's a bad job all over. You don't get involved with killings. You don't get involved with pinks. You don't get involved with things bigger than you are. Against his will, he found himself saying, "Double the retainer."

  It was a ludicrous request. The frank would never go for it. He'd be able to walk away clean.

  "Agreed."

  Damn it. "Plus expenses."

  "Of course."

  Nohar had trapped himself.

  "Time closes in on us." The frank handed him an envelope. Ten thousand. He'd been anticipated. "Start with Johnson, work back. Do not contact anyone at MLI. I'll contact you every few days. Get any information about MLI through me. We have few minutes. Any immediate questions?''

  Nohar was still looking at the cash. "Why is a bunch of franks backing a reactionary right winger like Binder?"

  "Quid pro quo, Mr. Rajasthan. The corporate entity will see its interests served in the Senate. The fact that we're of a background Binder despises is of little consequence. Binder doesn't know who runs MLI. Anything else?"

  "What's your name?"

  Nohar heard the engine start up again. As the door closed with its pneumatic hiss, Nohar heard the frank say, "You can call me John Smith."

  The ugly green van drove away, leaving a pair of divots in the grass. The ghost of the frank's smell remained, emanating from the money Nohar still held in his hand.

  Once he took the money, he did the job. No matter what.

  No matter what, damn it.

  Nohar put the money in one of the cavernous pockets of his trenchcoat. Now that he was on the job, he pulled out his camera, slipped in a ramcard, and started recording the funeral.

  Chapter 3

  The ATM was half a block from Nohar's place. To his relief, it appeared to be working. At least the lights were on. He stopped in front of the armored door, and, under the blank stare of the disabled external camera, he pulled his card and slipped it into the slot. The mechanism gave an arthritic wheeze and he feared it was going to eat his card again. Fortunately, the keypad flashed green at him. He punched in his ID number while the servos on the lensless camera followed his every move.

  The door slid aside with a grinding noise and he ducked into the too-small room. When the door shut behind him, he finally felt comfortable with all that money on him.

  The chair the bank provided was too small to sit on. The best he could do was to lean against it and hunch over, hanging his tail over the back of the seat. Besides, somebody had pissed all over the damn thing.

  There was a short burst of static, and a voice came through one of the intact speakers. "Welcome to Society Bank's Green Machine—bzt—Mr. Noharajasthan. Please state clearly what transaction you wish—"

  The voice was supposed to be female human, but it was tinny and muffled. Nohar interrupted. "Deposit, Card Account. Ten-Thousand-Dollars."

  "Please repeat clearly."

  "Deposit. Card Account. Ten-Thousand-Dollars."

  "Please type in request."

  Great, the damn thing couldn't hear him. He typed in the transaction on the terminal.

  "Is this a cash transaction?"

  It didn't believe him. "Yes," he said and typed at the same time.

  A drawer opened under the terminal. Unlike most of the ATM, it seemed to be in perfect working order, "—bzt—please place paper currency in the drawer. There will be a slight pause while the bills are screened."

  Nohar placed the two packets of bills in the drawer. Nohar knew that the note of surprise he heard in the ATM's voice was in his own head more than anywhere else. "Your currency checks as valid. Thank you for banking with Society, Mr. Noharajasthan. The current balance on your card account is—bzt—ten-thousand-one-hundred-ninety-three-dollars and sixty-five cents. You may pick up your card and receipt at the door. Have a nice day."

  Nohar left the ATM and turned up the collar of his coat against a sudden burst of more intense rain. He typed in his ID again at the keypad, blinking twice as water got in his eyes. The ATM released his card and the receipt. As he pocketed the items, he noticed a couple of ratboys hanging around across the street.

  An ATM in use attracted vermin.

  The two ratboys were crossing the street. Nohar had hoped that his appearance would have put them off. Apparently, they were too zoned or too stupid, perhaps both. As they closed he could smell that they were probably on something. Itching for a fight, both of them.

  "Kitty."

  "Pretty kitty."

  Nohar decided to ignore them. All he wanted was to get home and shuck his wet coat. He walked down the road, past them.

  The damn rodents didn't seem to know any better. They cut around in front of him, blocking his path.

  "No, no, wrong, kitty." This rat was a dirty brown, shiny black in the rain. His nose seemed to twitch in time to his spastic tail. He wore an abbreviated leather vest and denim cutoffs. He was taking the lead in this idiotic display. "Doncha know who we are?"

  This was more than enough for Nohar. "You're two rodent wetbacks too stoned for your own good. You're future road kill if you keep this up."

  The big one—well, the relatively big one, maybe 70 kilos, mostly fat—didn't like that. "We the Ziphead, man, and you better up some bucks for that. We rule here . . ."

  This was nuts. These guys were Latin American cannon fodder. Honduras, Nicaragua, Cuba, Panama, all the Central American countries went for quantity and quick reproduction. Huge standing armies from zero—most of the rats were never even trained to use their weapons.

  Two of those, those jokes, were trying to face down someone whose genes had gone through a multibillion dollar evolution simulation to produce the elite troops of the Indian Special Forces. Nohar had no special training, but it was still ludicrous.

  He smiled, teeth and all. He couldn't take this seriously. "Ever occur to you I just made a deposit?"

  Fearless Leader was put out. "You don't fuck with us—stray—we'll shave you."

  "We vanish what don't give us respect—"

  “Stigmata de nada.”'

  Stupid and stoned. That last line only made sense to them, and they found it uproariously funny. Nohar stepped to the side and left them to their inside joke.

  "Fucking stray," Snick. Bigboy had pulled a weapon, sounded like a knife. Nohar slowly turned around. Bigboy had a switchblade out and was showing the world that he couldn't use it. It was long, pointed, and had no edge to speak of. Bigboy was swishing the thing like a baton. Wide slicing arcs that, had they connected with anything solid, might raise a welt and would probably sprain Bigboy's wrist all to hell. "Teach you some respect. I'll have your tail for a belt."

  Nohar stowed
the comments. He spread his legs apart and bent down, lowering his center of gravity. He thrust his left arm, claws forward, in a defensive posture, while his right arm hung back behind him, hand cupped to slice at any opening Bigboy gave him. He growled, deep in his diaphragm. The sound didn't make it out of his throat.

  Bigboy was oblivious in his advance. Fearless Leader had a little more brains and hung back. Bigboy was reeking of excitement and adrenaline. Fearless was almost as jacked, but he was beginning to realize he might have bitten off more than he could chew.

  Bigboy swung one of his wide, predictable arcs. Nohar caught Bigboy's wrist with his left hand, remembering Nugoya, and smiled at the rat. Nohar's right hand swung forward in a well aimed sweep that left four light trails of blood on Bigboy's overlarge gut.

  "Listen, ratboy, I could have pulled you into that sweep. We'd have a nice view of your intestines— Drop the knife."

  The knife clattered to the ground. Nohar stepped on it and let Bigboy go. Fearless was still backpedaling. Fearless didn't seem to get the point, he was still on his line of bullshit. “Your pussy bastard ass is mine.''

  Fearless was reaching behind, into the waistband of his cutoffs. Nohar knew instinctively that the rat was going for a gun. Nohar was about to jump Fearless-he could clear the distance easily before the rat got his hand untangled from his pants—but the action was broken by a burst of high-pitched rapid-fire Spanish from down the street, by the old bus.

  They all turned that way to face a snow-white female rodent. She wore the same abbreviated leather vest and denim cutoffs. Her naked tail was writhing, and she sounded pissed. Nohar immediately pegged her as a superior. Bigboy and Fearless seemed to forget about him and began talking back to her in Spanish as well. All babble to him, he just hoped she was cussing the fools out.

  Cat and mouse is not a smart game to play when you are the mouse.

  The three rodents were talking among themselves, and Nohar began to slowly withdraw from the rodent fiasco.

  Nohar had nearly gotten to the door to his apartment. Bigboy and Fearless had slunk away, but the white one stayed.