The Most Dangerous Dame

“I can use a tracking program to find our tech-savvy friend. When I do, I’ll send you the coordinates.”

“What, you can’t do that now? I thought you were a cybernetic whiz and all.”

She gave a slight shake of her head, still focused on the invisible data. “You have no idea what I’m dealing with. This man is nearly as skilled as I am, and he’s aware I’m looking for him. Every stream I touch is potentially a trap loaded with the equivalent of digital napalm meant to infiltrate my system and shut down my functions. At the same time I’m uploading similar digital virus programs meant to do the same to him. It’s like playing tennis with an unpinned hand grenade. Surely you understand the analogy.”

“Sounds explosive. Call me back if you’re the one left standing.” I waved the display away.

Blurred buildings and electric lights whizzed by as Maxine weaved in and out of traffic. Droplets of rain skidded across the surface the windshield as other cars ate our vapor trails, but it still felt as if we moved in slow motion. I could almost feel the time as it disappeared, tick by tick, counting down to a deadline with an emphasis on dead.

Maxine squealed into a lot at the fringes of the Trade District. Benny and I stepped out and fell in with the crowds that milled about despite the drizzle. Umbrellas were as common as hats and just as fashionable. Some were decorated with fringes, feathers, even blinking lights. They bobbed together in a display of organized chaos as the thick crowds attended to their spending addictions by visiting the endless vendors vying for their attention. From sidewalk booths to towering shopping malls, everything had a price and everyone was fair game to hustle or get hustled.

Most everybody had a reason to go to the Trade District, unless they suffered from severe agoraphobia or were so ripe with berries they could afford to get mugged by the shops in the Uppers. Otherwise they came to the District for everything from cloned cucumbers to synthetic servants for their mansions. The forecast called for heavy spending, and like the rest of New Haven it rained every day.

We wandered past the center and made our way to the back lots, known affectionately as the Gray Market. Less savory than its brighter lit counterparts, it was the part of the District where the real deals went down. The buildings were older, the lights dimmer. It was nearly as crowded as up front, but the patrons were a bit shadier. Nine out of ten packed heat in case things got shifty.

Things always got shifty in the Gray Market.

Vendors called out their wares, hoping to snag the curious or inexperienced.

“Got red hot peppers. Grown right here in the Haven. Guaranteed to scorch yer guts.”

“You boys looking for an unregistered synoid? Got a pleasure unit here. She’ll do all the nasty things you want. Forget a pro skirt — no risk of STDs from a synoid.”

“Got fur coats here. Leather bombers. Genuine, made from cloned cattle. Make you a deal right now.”

“Get your smokes here, gents. Lucky Strikes, Cubans, whatever your pleasure. Buy ‘em by the case, I make you a deal.”

“Need a gat? I got handguns, Thompsons, scatterguns. Enough lead to send everyone you hate straight to hell.”

We kept walking. I glanced at Benny. “You know what to do, right?”

“Fuggetaboutit, Mick. I got it down pat.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

Poddar waited for us under a canopy in a little dive called the Rat Shack. He sat alone at the table, completely relaxed as he bit into a thick sandwich. It was funny in a way. I’d always had Poddar pegged for the square type, because he was. But I also knew he was dangerous — it just never really hit me until that moment. There was something about his causality in the core of the mean surroundings. He appeared completely in his element sitting at that crappy excuse for a restaurant, watching dirty water stream from the overhanging canopy and sparkle in the winking neon.

I glanced at the sign. “Nice. Word is their vermin steak is the best in town.”

Poddar looked at the half-eaten, fully loaded steak and Swiss in his hand. “Not half bad. You ordering?”

“Just ate. Lambrou’s. Shoulda been there. The moussaka was to die for.”

“Next time. Where’s Natasha?”

“Outta the picture.”

“Safe?”

“No one’s safe, Poddar. She’s a big girl now. This had to happen.”

He studied me for a second. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugged slightly. “Ok.” A slight smile played on his lips when he nodded at Benny. “I see your partner hasn’t been rubbed out yet.”

Benny frowned. “How come everyone keeps sayin’ that?”

“Don’t sweat it, Benny.” I glanced around. The dive looked like a food truck had been renovated and expanded into a dingy restaurant. There were no other patrons, just the cook lounging behind the counter. He was an oily, baldheaded, hairy slab of flab with a filthy apron and an anchor tattoo on his burly arm. He waved a grease-spattered spoon in greeting.

I nodded back before turning to Poddar. “I see Kilby isn’t here. I’d have thought to find you stapled to her side.”