“Wait! Wait, okay, I might have been in contact with them.” My eyebrows rose. “But not to that extent!” he hurried to add. “They contacted me a few days ago and asked for me to do some favours for them, since there ain’t much heat on me. Just a few simple drop-offs near 90th — they don’t like going there. I’ve done if before, and they pay me well to be discreet. It was just some scrap parts, is all. I can give you the address.”
“Smart man.”
He grabbed some paper and began scribbling an address on it.
I glanced at it, then shoved it into my pocket. “Get out of the city, Stern. If I see you, or hear any mention of you again in Manhattan, I’ll pretend you were the killer, and one of these bullets will be for you.”
“I understand. Thank you, Roche.” Stern turned and ran through the hallway into his room. Did he say my name with gratitude or spite? Fuck it, it didn’t matter now.
“Leave the Automatic parts. If you want to keep your hands, that is.” I didn’t need to hear a response to that — I knew he’d listen.
“You aren’t planning on allowing a racketeering criminal to walk away without any repercussions, are you?” Allen stood in front of me, trying its best to be intimidating.
“I am. He gets to live outside of the Lower City. That’s his punishment. He’s still a cop, even if he has a … side business. And I might need a friend outside of Manhattan one day.” I brushed past Allen before it could say anything else and walked out of the apartment. The machine looked around, trying to decide what to do next, but it relented and followed me, probably reminding itself that this wasn’t a regular case. We headed down the hall, and I lit a cigarette, striding to the elevator as Allen followed.
“This is not what I would call proper procedure, Detective Roche. We must return to arrest him.”
“I think you keep forgetting, Allen, that I’m not exactly police.” I had a drag of the dart. Good, but not as good as whiskey. “You did nothing, so all you did was help in an investigation. You’re not even an accessory if they try to convict you of anything that I did.”
“I’m quite curious to know what you mean by that. I hope you tell me someday.”
Allen stared into my eyes for a moment before turning its gaze to the elevator doors. “Despite this fact, Detective, and returning to the more pressing point of our visit with Stern, we have no other angles to this case. The city is large enough that these two men, Belik and Morris, could be hiding literally anywhere. What do you propose we do?”
“We split up. We now know they run a smuggling ring for Automatic parts, meaning our search just narrowed down substantially. You get the warrant and talk to some Blue-eyes downtown, get us an angle on where they’re getting their parts. If this little operation that Belik and Morris are running is in competition with the Iron Hands, I’ll bet money that a ton of metal men are buying from them, since they’ll be cheaper and safer. I don’t speak Bitwise, but I feel that you may, seeing as you still got the whole, uh … robot aesthetic.”
“And yourself, Detective?” It looked at me queerly.
“I have friends in low places to check up on. Leave it at that.”
Allen went off to search the speakeasy back in SoHo. I didn’t know how it’d do, but hopefully it would get some leads. The Talbot purred as I slowed down, bringing it to first gear as I slid across West 108th, scanning the broken buildings. This side of the city, from 90th to 110th street, was almost completely abandoned — broken streets, demolished buildings. The few intact houses that remained were raided for squatters daily. The once musky city air had been replaced with the stench of mould, sewage, and decay, which wafted around every single building. The Upper City crowd kept saying they’d renovate the area once the Depression lifted, but I was sure I’d be in the dirt before they followed through with that.
Beyond 110th was where things got interesting. With everyone moving to the Lower City after the great wealth migration to the Upper City, most of northern Manhattan was left to rot. I remembered listening to a few people who hoped to find a way out to the Grotto to join up with some sort of squatter group that had built a new Hooverville up there. At least they’d gotten out of Central Park; they’d been starting to make the place look trashy. When I was a rookie, we were instructed not to go past 110th. The sixth borough of New York was said to be a seedy den of murder and lawless pleasure — the Old West all over again, like I’d said to Allen. At least, that’s what I’d heard. But then again, no one who went there ever came back.
“Fucking hate this place.” Toby was in the passenger seat, leaning back, its feet on the dash as it tried to stretch out in the cramped interior. “You really have to look for some fucking dumping ground out here?”
“Afraid so. It’s the only lead we’ve got, and I need to know what Stern was asked to drop off. If it’s nothing, we can cross it off. And if it’s not nothing, our night will be more interesting.”
“Huh, sure.” Toby looked out the window, its eyes gleaming as they took in the broken buildings, the shadows creeping around, keeping their distance. “You think they know you from your car? The squatters skulking around out there, I mean.”
“I’d hope as much.”
“So
