“Silica beads and oil. The metalhead was runnin’ alcohol and cheap Automatic fluid over the border. Sounds like somethin’ Toby might start doing soon, eh?”
“Too bad I couldn’t have gotten some of that before you locked him up. That shit’s expensive.” Toby rotated its arms, and a faint creaking could be heard.
“Then ask for some, man. Y’know I’m a good cop. Good to the law and to my friends.” Sinclair pulled a sealed plastic bag from the inside of his jacket and threw it into the pot. The tiny white beads and thick, viscous fluid inside the bag sloshed as it knocked over several piles of chips. “If you can win it, that is.”
“Anytime, copper.” Toby lifted its eyebrows in a sort of smirk, as its mouth wasn’t capable of that expression — though it was quite adept at swallowing shot after shot.
Reynolds spoke up. “You up to anything, Roche?” He was a bigger guy — not unfit, but he definitely enjoyed his chair at work. No receding hairline, though — not yet, anyway. “Any crazy stories from your Night Calls? You look a smidge worse for wear tonight.”
I did my best to keep the feeling of dizziness at bay as I tried to think of something. Night Calls had been sparse recently, but they were always interesting.
“Things are slow in my line of work … mostly. A couple weeks ago I was hunting down a guy who’d been running an Automatic prostitution ring for some hard cash. Hell, his excuse was ‘It’s the Depression; I’ll get my money however I want.’”
“And how’s that special in any way? Come on, when we were partners in ’23, we busted at least a dozen a month,” Sinclair piped up. He always loved hearing about the shit that the bigwigs from the 5th put me through. “The call girls were more human than Automatic, though, back in those days …”
“While I was running this op, I realized I had to get close to this guy without him noticing me in any way. I spent weeks tailing all his escorts and call girls, mapping out their positions, until I found out which ones worked right out of his hideout. A few days later I went in, looking as legit as I could.”
“What do you mean by legit?” Toby asked.
“Legit as in looking as inconspicuous as I can in a whorehouse.”
“I don’t get it.”
I rolled my eyes. You had to spoon-feed information to these things. I wondered how they ever got work done without someone holding their hands.
Sinclair began to laugh. “You telling us you pitched a robot?”
I couldn’t keep from grinning at that point. “Yeah, I pitched a robot. Then afterward, while the metal bird was counting the change I gave it, I busted the guy in his office, with my pants still around my ankles. You should’ve seen his face.”
The table erupted in laughter. Sinclair put his face in his hands, trying to catch his breath. I had to laugh at that, too. My face hurt from smiling. We had to take whatever joy we could get these days. Even Toby laughed — after having the joke spoon-fed to it, that is.
After a while, we all died down, and the game was still standing motionless where we’d left it. Looking at the clock, I saw that it was tomorrow already; Sunday had turned to Monday, and my body was informing me that it was ready to go limp for a while after my little adventure.
“Shit, guys, I gotta roll. I got things to catch up on.” I lifted myself from the chair as everyone shot out a sound of disappointment.
“C’mon, Roche, another hand?” Sinclair complained. “Or another smut story?”
“Can’t. You know how it goes.”
“If only I did. I’d rather be doin’ what you do instead of pushin’ paperwork for scraps.” He chuckled glumly.
I nodded. He’d kill me if he knew how much I made these days, in this economy.
I bid them goodbye as I left the kitchen and passed through the front door, which led to a yard covered in dying grass. The blades crunched and crackled under my shoes as I strolled past the open gate and over to my car. I started the engine, listening to it hiccup and sputter for a few moments before quieting itself.
I stared out the window at the sleepless city as I began to drive. Jersey. Of all fucking places, Sinclair had to live in Jersey. Still, Union was a nice little town, and thankfully it was far enough away from the recent bloodbath.
I drove eastward, heading toward the Lower City and home. During the drive I had another distant glimpse of the Plate. I lost sight of the towering monstrosity for some time while passing through the Lincoln Tunnel, but it was much closer once I reached the other end.
I had to admit that the Plate was looking lovely this morning — a floating steel slab that held an entire city above our heads, mocking us silently, though the red and blue flickering lights along its support catwalks did look like stars twinkling in the darkness. Everything in the Lower City revolved around that damn piece of metal: billboards, skyscrapers, jobs, everything. But at least the Plate relied on us for support; the entire slab rested on several Control Points built out of taller buildings, including GE, the Empire, and even my own apartment building.
But the Plate wasn’t enough to distract me from the filth of the Lower City. People there were robbed of hope, robbed of sunlight, living in eternal darkness. The prostitutes didn’t work specific hours, and Mob killings weren’t saved for the dead of night. Hell, even when the city lights went on at six in the morning, it still seemed damn dark. Nothing was
