The Chick Is In The Mail

the people she works for, it never happened. Am I getting through, Noir?'

I said, 'Is this an order?'

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the Chief's wheezy breath. 'Of course not, stupid,' he said finally. 'How can I order you to do something that's never going to happen, for people who don't exist? Especially when I'm not even talking to you right now.'

He hung up. 'Yes, sir,' I said to the dead phone.

Margo was undoing the front of her bulletproof vest. Hope sprang to life again, but she was just getting something out of an inside pocket. 'Here,' she said.

She reached across my desk again, this time holding a disk which she popped into the ancient computer with a gesture that sneered. She tapped a few keys, her fingers moving faster than I could follow, and the page I'd been working on disappeared, to be replaced by a head-and-shoulders portrait of a blond-haired woman.

'This,' Margo said, 'is the person we want you to find.'

The face that looked back at me was pretty, maybe even beautiful if you liked that tanned-SoCal-goddess look. There was a time when I would have said she was in her late teens or early twenties. Now, I wouldn't even bother trying to guess.

'She have a name?' I queried.

'Immaterial,' Margo said immediately.

'Related, are you?'

Margo grimaced. 'I know, but I'm serious. Her birth name really is immaterial, because she's not using it now.'

She reached out and touched the keys again, and the picture changed to a full-length shot of what appeared to be the same woman, standing next to a purple-and-black motorcycle. She was dressed in elaborate protective gear: full snug-fitting leathers, high-topped racing boots, lace-on plastic knee and elbow guards, even a shiny perforated breastplate, all of it neatly color coordinated to match the bike. Other figures, similarly dressed, stood around in the background, or sat on other bikes.

Jesus, I thought. A roadgrrl.

'According to our information,' Margo went on, 'she is now known as Rhonda Honda.'

Marvelous. Now it was beginning to add up. You get these cases all the time: somebody's darling daughter runs off to join a roadgrrl gang, and the distressed family wants her back. Or now and then it's somebody's darling wife; that happens too.

Damn unusual, though, for somebody like me to catch a case like this. Not if the people concerned could afford anything better… I said, 'You know, you'd do better to take this to one of the big private agencies, like Herod Foxxe or Gabriel Mallet-they've got the staff and the facilities, I'm just a-'

'No.' She was shaking her head. 'We've already tried that. It's been six months now since she disappeared, and it took a private agency most of that time to find out the little we know now. You're familiar with the Peter Pick Agency?'

I nodded, repressing a couple of adjectives and a noun that came to mind. Margo said, 'Their man was able to determine that she'd joined up with these bikers-'

'Roadgrrls.'

'Roadgirls?' She did a kind of double take. 'I'm not-'

'Roadgrrls.' I pronounced it carefully for her, trying not to grin. She probably didn't know it, but she'd given her age away with that one word. Nice clean morph job, but this babe had to be at least as old as me.

'Bikers,' I told her, 'are a lot of overage punks who hang around cheap bars and pool halls-or nursing homes, now-and trade lies about how tough they were in the old days. Roadkids are a whole different breed.'

'Yes.' She nodded vigorously. 'You know about these things, Noir. You worked undercover among the outlaw clubs for almost a year, when you were with the state police. Still got your own bike, don't you?' Christ, somebody knew way too much about me. 'You can get close to these people, talk their language. That's why we picked you.'

She gestured at the photo on the screen. 'That was taken by the Peter Pick op just before he lost her. Supposed to be a good man, but he let her slip away. Somewhere near Salinas, as I recall. His report's on that disk.'

I studied the picture. 'Just what did you have in mind, if I do find her? If you want strongarm stuff, go back to Peter Pick.'

'No, no.' She scaled a white card across the desk at me. It bore a hand-printed phone number. 'Just call that number when you find her. Any time, day or night. We'll take it from there.'

As I stowed the card in my wallet she said, 'Noir-this really is important. More important than you can imagine.'

'I'll give it my best.'

'Of course you will.' This time she actually smiled. 'After all, you're a Public Investigator.'

* * *

At home, that evening, I put dinner in the microwave and fired up my computer-an old Micromac, still better than what I had at work-and checked my messages. The only new one was from my ex-wife, asking why the current alimony payment was late, and threatening various actions, including coming down and unscrewing my head, if it got any later.

I groaned and hit the reply button. Dear Blanche, I typed, knowing that would piss her off. Or 'him,' I'm supposed to say, but screw it, gendermorph be damned, I'll start going along with that the day she/he quits grabbing half my pay… As you undoubtedly know, I wrote, the city is broke right now. I haven't been paid for a month. You'll get yours if and when I get mine.

I sent it off and turned off the mail, not wanting to read the reply. For God's sake, I wouldn't mind so much, but Blanche, or rather Mad Marvin, makes more from a single pro wrestling match than I make in a month.

The microwave dinged. I got my dinner out and brought it back to the little desk, balancing the hot box on my lap and eating it while reading the online news. Not that I really gave a damn, but it was a distraction from the tasteless soysteak.

Not much of the news was new. The President was still undergoing treatment for undisclosed medical problems; the First Lady had issued another statement promising he'd be back on the job any day. I wondered why anybody gave a damn. After all, the Presidency had been an almost wholly ceremonial office for over a decade. But the public took a keen interest in the First Family and their problems; like the old British royal family, they had prestige-and money, and therefore power-all out of proportion to their legal status.

Here at home, the mayor and the city council continued to argue over whose idea it had been to invest the entire municipal treasury in Indian government bonds, two weeks before the Pakistanis nuked New Delhi into an ashtray. An Alaskan nationalist militia, a militant Kwakiutl splinter faction, and an animal- rights group had all claimed credit for last week's sinking of a Japanese fishing vessel with no survivors. The Dow-Jones showed Blood-Crip stock up and Mafia down.

Dinner finished, I poured myself a shot of bourbon for dessert, dug out Margo's disk, and pulled up the Pick op's report.

It was a very neat, professional report. Unfortunately it didn't really contain much information. The subject had definitely been identified as the person now known as Rhonda Honda. She was now riding with, and probably a member of, a motorcycle gang known as the Devil Dolls. That was all, though the Pick guy tried to pad it out to make it sound more substantial.

I punched up the full-length photo again and sat back and looked at it, remembering Margo saying 'bikers.' She'd better not make that mistake around any real bikers, or roadkids either, or she might find herself needing that bulletproof for real. That's one thing the two groups do have in common, besides motorcycles and attitude: they hate each other, enough to get severely physical with outsiders who confuse them.

Actually the difference is mainly one of styles and generations. Your classic biker is a traditionalist: raggedy-assed denim, heavy boots, wind-in-the- armpits vests covered with faded patches, with the rawhide-faced old mamas favoring fringed leather bras and lots of body piercings.

Roadgrrls, on the other hand, go in for the armored look: bright-colored high-tech protective gear, the kind of thing you might see on a dirt-bike racer or a hockey player. Their male counterparts prefer snug-fitting racing leathers and everybody wears spaceman-looking full-face helmets.

Even more important, while any real biker would walk before he'd ride any bike but a Harley-preferably one made before the Xiang-BMW takeover-no roadkid would be caught dead on anything that slow and old-fashioned. Their tastes run to hot Japanese and European sportbikes, preferably customized beyond recognition. This one appeared to have herself a new Honda Kamikaze.

The bourbon glass was empty. I poured myself another one. 'Here's looking for you, kid,' I said to the picture on the screen.

* * *

Mike Donne said, 'You know, Noir, I wonder about you sometimes.'

We were sitting in his office at the Gabriel Mallet Agency. It was a lot bigger than mine; it was nearly as big as my apartment. He had on a light gray suit that had to have cost as much as I made in a month. I didn't care about the office, but I did envy him that suit. The last good suit I had, a nice Italian silk job, got ruined a year or so back by some paint-spraying animal-rights activists protesting the exploitation of silkworms.

I wouldn't have minded a morph job like his, either. He looked younger than he had when we were on the force together, a decade and a half ago. Any morph work I could afford would probably leave me looking worse than ever. Go to some cut-rate clinic, get some alcoholic doctor who switches my dick with my nose, no thanks.

Donne said, 'When are you going to give it up, Noir? You're too good a detective to spend the rest of your life in a cheesy little office and a crappy old apartment.'

I said, 'I'm a public cop, Mike. It's what I do.'

He made a disgusted face. 'It's what nobody does anymore, and you damn well know it. I'm not even talking about anything new-as long as we both been alive, anybody who really wanted something guarded went to a private security outfit, or if they wanted somebody caught they hired a bounty hunter. Hell, they