The newscast winked out and was replaced by a red-bearded human face. 'I wish you'd put on some clothes before you answer the phone.'
Nohar growled. 'What the hell do you want, Bobby?'
'Tough night?'
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27
Nohar closed his eyes and sighed. 'What do you think?'
'Heard about Nugoya. Tough break—'
'Tough all over. What do you want?'
Bobby coughed. 'If you're going to be like that. I was going to give you the background I hacked on Nugoya —'
'Great, real useful.'
'Did anyone ever tell you that you can be a real asshole at times, Nohar? As I was saying—' Bobby paused. Nohar didn't interrupt. 'As I was saying, I was going to give you that data when the Fed landed on my doorstep.'
Nohar sat up, fully awake now. Cat tumbled off his chest and ran off into the kitchen. 'Shit. You in trouble?'
Bobby laughed and shook his head. 'No, apparently I'm still clean. As we all know, everything I do on my computer is perfectly legal.'
Nohar shook his head at that.
Bobby went on. 'Wasn't me at all. They were asking about you. That's how I heard about Nugoya and last night.'
'Me?'
'Yes, thought I'd call you. They wanted to know about your politics, of all things.' Bobby put his hand to his forehead and chuckled. 'They had this babe with them. Was she a hard case—'
'Skip the commentary, what were they looking for?'
'Some hired gun, I think. Named Hassan. I think they wanted to know if they could link the two of you.'
'An Afghan canine and an Indian tiger—do they know how silly that sounds?'
'The war's been over for eighteen years. Things change. Just wanted you to know the Fed's interested in you. I got to go. Still want the data on Nugoya?' 'Keep it.'
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'Don't let the Fed screw you.'
'I try to avoid it.'
Bobby's face winked out and the news came back on.
Wonderful stuff to wake up to. Not only was he broke and one day closer to eviction, but now the FBI was curious about him.
The comm was talking about dead politicians. No-har told it to shut up.
There were still two messages on his comm, waiting for his attention. One had been forwarded from his office—
Maybe it was a client.
Yeah, real likely, and maybe a morey would get elected president. Nohar told the comm, 'Classify. Phone messages.'
'two messages. July twenty-ninth, message one, ten-oh-five a. m. unlisted number—'
The voice of the computer was a flat, neutral monotone. Nohar never understood the urge people had to make computers sound like anything but. He told the comm, 'Play.'
Nohar didn't like calls that didn't ID themselves. People who called from unlisted locations generally had something to hide.
This caller definitely had something to hide, the screen came up a generic test pattern. This guy either didn't have a video pickup, or had turned his camera off.
'I hope to reach you, Mr. Rajasthan.' The voice that came over the comm sounded like it was at the bottom of a well. It sounded bubbly. The words oozed. 'I have need of the service of a private investigator. Please meet me at Lakeview Cemetery today at one-thirty p.m. This is not something I can discuss on a phone. I look for you by the grave of Eliza Wilkins.'
That was the end of the message.
'Damn. It was a client.'
FORESTS OF THE NtGHT
29
'instructions unclear.' The comm thought Nohar was talking to it.
Nohar told it, 'Comm off,' and the comm shut off obligingly.
It was a client, and a damn secretive one at that. Nohar didn't trust the situation one bit. There was little he could do about it. Nohar was so low on cash that he would have to at least meet the guy—
Nohar suddenly realized that it was already fifteen after one.
It took him two minutes to dress and another five to call Lakeview and get a plot number for Wilkins. Nohar did it with the video off, because if they saw he was a moreau it would have taken five times as long.
The first thing to greet him as he walked out into the misting rain was the acrid smell of burning plastic. The smoke made his nose itch. He realized the smell was coming from a burning car up by the traffic barriers.
Across the street from his apartment was an abandoned bus. There was a fresh graffiti logo on it. 'ZIP- PERHEAD-Off The Pink.'
Another gang with it in for humans.
He walked up Mayfield, toward the cemetery, passing a knot of pink cops at the traffic barrier. Apparently this was the latest violence the news was going on about when he woke up. The fire was burning a prewar Japanese compact, an ancient Subaru. The car was wrapped around one of the concrete pylons. The way the thing had gone up—was still going; the cops were letting it burn itself out in the middle of the street—it had to have been wired with explosives. Inductors might explode, but they don't bum very well.
The cops didn't stop him—any other part of town and they probably would have on general principles.
The car wasn't all. It had been a busy morning. A block past the cops, things got ugly. Upwind of the burning plastic, Nohar could smell the scent of some-
30
S. ANDREW SWANN
one, multiple someones, who had bought it nasty. He smelled blood, fear, and
cordite. The victims smelted
canine.
He rounded the old cemetery gate—sealed by a solid four meter concrete wall behind the flaking wrought iron—and headed down toward Coventry. When he turned the comer, he could see the medics loading body-bags— three vans' worth of body-bags. Canine had been a good guess. Nohar caught sight of one of the victims before the black plastic was zipped over the face. The body was a vulpine female with a small caliber gunshot wound to the right eye. One of the Hispanic medics saw him looking over. There was the fresh smell of fear from the pink.
Another day, Nohar would have ignored it. Today, however, he had just had a case blow up in his face, the Fed was taking an unhealthy interest in him, the record July heat and the misting rain were making his fur itch under his trench coat, and—if his luck held— he was going to be late and miss his potential client. Today he was in a particularly bad mood. Nohar could not resist the urge to smile. Some moreaus don't have the facial equipment to produce a convincing smile, but Nohar's evolved feline cheeks could pull his mouth into a quite perceptible arc. The same gesture also bared an impressive set of teeth. Predominant among which were two glistening-white canines the size of a man's thumb.
The poor guy didn't deserve it. Nohar could tell he was nervous enough just being in Moreytown. He didn't need to have a huge predatory morey looking at him like he was lunch.
Nohar didn't hang around for the reaction. He was still running late. Two blocks further down, at the intersection of Mayfield and Coventry, was the only open gate on this side of Lakeview Cemetery—seemed
