I reached the great neon district of Lower New York, with its blinding propaganda and advertisements hitting me like a brick wall. “The newest Automatics, safe for all, built Green-eyed.” “Drink Coca-Cola — all the celebrities are doing it, too.” “Police took out another smuggler trying to cross the mostly frozen Hudson River.” “War veterans are meeting at the Legion Hall in a week.” Under the Plate, these were our sun and moon, seeing as the rich had robbed us of our true light. I’d have to check out that last one, see if any friends from the Great War had survived this long.
The Times Building was one of the infamous Control Points for the Plate — yet another reminder of how close, yet far, the Upper City was to us. Some Upper City executives liked old Manhattan, and preferred to commute to work by walking through Times Square and using an executive elevator. It was obvious their nostalgia was clouding their judgment about how dangerous this city had become; bumping into the wrong person or taking one wrong turn could end up corpsing them.
Still, because these executives lived close to the Times, the few blocks around the city centre were ritzier than the rest of the Lower City. The streets were clean, the buildings refurbished, and people carried themselves differently. Even the Automatics that came here were more diverse than just the standard Grifter model. Blue-eye female Hoofer models were abundant here, walking alongside top-heavy male Boomer models that often worked construction or maintenance. Ritzy folks down here could afford Titan models, gorilla-like Automatics that followed their every move and had the strength to crush anyone who got in their way. I even caught a glimpse of a rare Moller, one of the most human-looking Automatics. It looked uncannily female, though its porcelain-like face and small, shifty eyes made my skin crawl when I locked eyes with it. I suddenly realized how far I was from the Talbot, and how nervous I was about letting Allen into the driver’s seat. It was my backup, after all, and if they ran, I needed someone faster than I was on foot.
I had to focus.
The lights in the centre of the square hit red, and the scramble began as the crosswalks opened and people and machines ran this way and that in a free-for-all. Some people, drunk and stupid, ran headlong into others. Businessmen and gangsters tried to keep to the outside, avoiding the local cops who patrolled the area on foot. Standing in the centre of it, everything was a blur, with faces changing a mile a minute, making me feel as if I were looking at the world’s longest police lineup and had just one minute to make the ID.
But a lot can happen in a minute.
Like catching a glimpse of your target. A sickly, thin man was walking between five others, all of them wearing dark suits and carrying heavy briefcases. One was shorter and fatter than the rest, his face obscured by a hat and a tall collar. He leaned in to say something to the sickly one, whom I recognized as Belik, so I figured that he was Morris.
The other four men with them all wore identical suits and dark glasses and had the same erect posture that made them look like floating statues.
I carefully drew my handgun, keeping it close to my side as I weaved through the pedestrians to get closer. Being stealthy in Times Square was easy enough, but men as jumpy as Belik and his associates had an edge when it came to spotting threats.
And luck just wasn’t on my side that day.
Belik’s eyes met mine for a brief second as I raised my weapon. The rest of the men instantly sensed something and turned to me as well. Now I recognized another one of them — a tall, lanky asshole in a black hat. Masters.
Morris and Masters each grabbed Belik by an arm, and the three of them took off running. The three men who had stayed back lifted their briefcases, grabbing the black boxes and pulling them apart. As I should have expected — the briefcases were Foldguns. Seconds later, the sleek, angular shotguns rested in their hands, ready to pump me full of lead. Each man loaded a shell into his Foldgun’s chamber with a distinctive crack sound that was almost as loud as a gunshot and mistakable.
People either heard the guns or saw the Brunos, and soon the street was filled with the sounds of running and screaming. The men pushed past the screaming pedestrians toward me. I had to get out of here before I became little more than a bloody stain. I fired two rounds at the three hit men. One entered the lead man’s leg, and the other flew close to another man’s head, but ricocheted off a light pole beside him.
At the sound of the shots, people ran or dove for cover behind anything they could — garbage bins, light poles, statues — leaving a large pathway open in the centre of the square. A rare sight indeed. This afforded me a view of Belik and the other two jumping into a black Packard 900 parked at the edge of the square.
I soon heard the familiar crank of my Talbot’s engine. Allen had apparently gotten the hint that things had gone south. The tires screeched as they caught the pavement and sped toward me. I ran to the street to meet him as the Packard peeled out.
Allen swung the Talbot in using the handbrake, sliding in front of me and allowing me to duck down as pellets from three shotgun shells smashed into the metal panels and bulletproof window of the driver’s side. I pushed myself up and dove
