Besides the Los Santos Atomicos, at least a dozen other people, mainly junkies and prostitutes, died in the fires that engulfed the grimy neighborhood. And Easy Money moved up a rung in the hierarchy of the movers and shakers in their little world.
Looking back, none of it had seemed important to Jonny at the time.
When he heard of the deaths it seemed somehow normal.
Just one more senseless act in the long series of senseless acts that made up their lives. However, Raquin's death had moved events from the abstract into a personal affront. He knew Raquin.
And he knew Easy had killed him. Jonny would finish Easy Money simply because nobody else would and because the little prick deserved it.
Jonny slowed his breathing, counted each intake of breath, centering himself as his roshi had taught him. Visions of horned, tattooed Easy swam before him as he hunted for that savage part of himself he had sought before whenever he had to kill.
But the passion was gone, seemed pointless now. The speed had been cut with something unpleasant. It was wearing off already, leaving him feeling numb and stupid. Jonny gulped down the rest of his beer and tried to get into the buzz from the liquor.
He wondered if perhaps he had figured things wrong. If the smuggler lords really were after Easy maybe he was not needed, after all. There was always work to do, money to be made. He had to establish a new connection. Something bothered Jonny, though. He could not figure out who, besides the Committee, would be looking for him. Had he trod on someone's toes in the last few days looking for Easy? He could not remember.
The bar seemed to tip slightly as Jonny downed his second Asahi and gin. When he wiped a hand across his brow it came away cool and covered in sweat. He left the bar, pushing carelessly through a tight knot of nervous teenagers from the Valley made up to look like they had grafts and implants. Near the restroom, a Zombie Analytic flashed Jonny in quick succession: Marilyn Monroe, Jim Morrison and Aoki Vega. He ignored her.
Inside the restroom, Jonny splashed rusty water onto his face.
The room stank of human waste, and the paper towel dispenser was empty. On the floor he found half a copy of 'Twilight of the Gods'.
The toilet was full of Nietzsche. Jonny dried his hands with the few remaining pages. The water made him feel a little better. However, the come down from the speed had left him jumpy and nervous.
When Jonny left the restroom, a hand clamped on his arm.
'Jonny, how's it going?' asked a short man that Jonny did not recognize. The man's smile was wide and toothy, intended to give the impression that he was a very dangerous character. He wore shades whose lenses were dichromatic holograms depicting some cavern.
Where his eyes should have been were twin bottomless pits.
'That's a good way to lose some teeth or an eye,' Jonny said evenly.
The little man's smile faded only slightly. He relaxed his grip on Jonny's arm, but did not release him.
'Sorry Jonny,' he said. 'Look, could I buy you a drink or something?'
'No.'
Jonny shook off the little man's grip and headed back to the bar to get drunk. But again, strong fingers caught him.
'Where are you going in such a hurry?' the little man asked. 'Let's talk. I've got a deal for you.'
Jonny jammed his elbow into the little man's midsection, spun and pressed the barrel of the Futukoro into the man's throat.
'If you ever grab me again, I will kill you. Do you understand that?' Jonny whispered.
The little man released Jonny's arm and stepped back, his hands held in front of his chest, palms out. 'It's cool,' the little man said giddily. 'It's cool.'
Jonny pushed the man away roughly and left him chattering to himself. He was sweating again. Jonny went back to the bar and drank cheap fishy-tasting Japanese vodka, thinking as he drank, about how vile it was and how he wished he could afford the good stuff. He put the little man out of his mind. Jonny wondered if he should call Sumi, but that seemed like a bad idea. She would ask questions he did not want to answer. Eventually, his thoughts drifted to Raquin. Jonny wondered what it was like to burn to death. He remembered that someone had once told him that you would not feel anything, that the fire would consume all the oxygen and you would smother before you ever felt the flames. That seemed like small comfort. How much better was it to smother than to burn?
Jonny continued drinking straight shots of the fishy vodka until the taste disappeared altogether. Taking six of the shot-glasses, he constructed a little pyramid, but Random took the glasses away and soon Jonny ran out of money. While he was fishing in his pouch for more dope, there was a slight tug on his arm. Somehow, when he turned, Jonny knew the little man would be standing there. His shades were off and he held his hands up as if to ward off a blow.
'Truce, okay? I did not grab you,' the little man said. 'I just tapped you on the shoulder.'
Jonny nodded. 'I could tell you were a quick study. What do you want?'
The man leaned forward, anxiously. 'Look Jonny, I didn't want to tell you before- I'm working for Mister Conover. He sent me to get you. If you don't come back with me, my ass is grass.'
'Sorry to hear that. Tell Mister Conover I'll get in touch with him as soon as I'm through with the deal I'm working on now.'
'I can't do that. He wants you now,' said the little man.
'Hopefully', he added, 'You know that whatever it is you're working on, Mister Conover will make it worth your while to drop.'
Jonny shook his head. 'No thanks; this is personal.'
The little man leaned closer. 'You aren't looking for Easy Money, are you?'
'What if I am?'
'Well, that's great,' said the little man. 'That's the job- Easy Money copped something that belongs to Mister Conover. And Mister Conover wants you to help him get it back.'
Jonny nodded, took a piece of ice from someone's empty glass, and rubbed it across his forehead. 'My problem, friend, is that I know Mister Conover pretty well and I know that he is a professional', Jonny said. 'No offense, but why would he send a hard guy like you to get me?'
The little man looked around, apparently to make sure that nobody was eavesdropping. 'This really isn't my job,' he whispered.
Jonny smiled. 'No shit?' he said.
'I'm more of a bookkeeper. It's just that Mister Conover's got all his muscle guys out looking for Easy Money', he said. The little man looked at Jonny gravely. 'You know how it is.'
'Yeah, I know how it is,' said Jonny, genuinely amused.
'He told me that you always hang out at Carnaby's Pit,' the little man continued. He made a face as if he had just smelled something foul. 'To tell you the truth, it's a little bit much for me.'
Jonny laughed. 'Sometimes it's a bit much for me, too,' he said.
The little man smiled; for real, this time. 'Then you'll come with me?' he asked.
Jonny shrugged. 'That stuff about looking for Easy, you weren't just being cute again, were you?'
'No, all that was true', he said.
'Good.'
'Then you'll come?'
'I'm not sure. I hate to beat a point to death, but how do I know you work for Mister Conover?'
'Oh yeah', said the little man brightening. He reached into his jacket pocket. 'Mister Conover said to give you this.'
He handed Jonny a plastic bag containing two gelatinous blue capsules. The manufacturer's markings were Swiss, the capsules NATO issue, banded with an orange warning stripe indicating myotoxins. Jonny had seen the stuff on the Committee. Frosty the Snowman. It was a necrotic, a synthetic variation on pit viper venom that killed by breaking down collagen fibers, effectively dissolving skin and muscle tissue. The NATO variation, he had heard, was constructed with 'certain open' segments along its DNA chain, allowing the toxin to bind with polypeptides in the victim's collagen and replicate itself there. Rumor had it that Frosty could break down the skin and muscle tissue of a seventy kilo man in just under fourteen hours. It was not the kind of drug that many people would have access to. Jonny stuffed the bag into his pouch.
