Authors: Mike Resnick
"Don't let your imagination run away with you,” replied Chandler as they began encountering heavier traffic.
"Don't let your confidence run away with you,” said Gin. “The more I think about it, the more I think this isn't such a good idea."
"Thinking's not in your job description,” said Chandler. “Until it is, I suggest that you leave the thinking to me."
Gin shrugged. “Whatever you say."
"That's what I say,” answered Chandler. Suddenly he tensed. “Pull over and stop."
The landcar came to a halt.
"Did you spot someone?” asked Gin, reaching for his pistol.
"That alien,” said Chandler, staring at a bald, blue-skinned humanoid who was standing across the street. “Is that a Blue Devil?"
"Yeah. So what?"
Chandler stared at it for another moment, then leaned back and relaxed. “Okay, start driving again."
"You didn't answer my question,” persisted Gin. “Why do you care about Blue Devils?"
"I've never seen one before."
"You spent a long time looking at it."
"I was curious."
They drove in silence for another minute, and then Gin spoke again. “Why do you think a Blue Devil wants to kill you?"
"Did I say I thought so?"
"You didn't have to.” Gin paused. “But for the life of me, I can't figure out why a Blue Devil would give a damn whether you're on Port Marrakech or not."
There was a long pause, during which Gin decided not to push the subject and Chandler totally ignored it. Finally Chandler broke the silence: “How long before we reach wherever it is you're taking me?"
"Another couple of minutes, give or take."
"Tell me about the area we're passing through."
"Do you really care?” asked Gin.
"All morning long I haven't been able to shut you up,” said Chandler with an ironic smile. “Now, when I want you to talk, suddenly you aren't interested."
Gin shrugged. “You're the boss. This part of town is called Little Spica. It's inhabited mostly by descendants of miners from Spica VI and shipbuilders from Spica II. A few Canphorites live on the outskirts, but the Spicans don't think much of most other aliens.” He paused. “There's a great whorehouse over on the next block, if that's to your taste."
"Not especially."
"See this storefront here?” said Gin, slowing down. “They say that Santiago himself killed two women right there on the slidewalk about two hundred years ago. And that bar there, on the left? Best source of alphanella seeds in this part of town.” He paused again. “You ever chewed any seeds?” He shook his head and answered his own question. “No, I suppose not. A man in your line of work needs a clear head."
"How many other cities are there on Port Marrakech?"
"Cities?” repeated Gin. “None. There are a couple of little villages, maybe 500 people apiece, halfway around the world, farming communities mostly. No, most of the people live right here.” They drove out of Little Spica and into an even seedier area, filled with the omnipresent domed, whitewashed buildings, most of them covered with grime, many in need of repair.
"The alien quarter?” suggested Chandler.
"You got it. Mostly Blue Devils. The rest of them are a pretty mixed lot."
"Have you ever seen an alien that looked like a turtle?” asked Chandler.
"I don't even know what a turtle is,” answered Gin. “Why?"
"Just curious,” said Chandler.
"A man like you isn't subject to fits of idle curiosity,” replied Gin. “If you'll describe it to me, maybe I can find out if there's anything here that fits the description."
"Some other time,” said Chandler, dismissing the subject.
They sped through the city, Gin pointing out sites of local, historic and criminal interest, Chandler asking an occasional question. During the next ten minutes their surroundings became progressively more elegant, and finally Gin slowed his vehicle and pulled up to a glistening hotel that looked like some ancient and exotic palace.
"Our first stop,” said Gin. “This is the most expensive hotel in town."
Chandler nodded, then got out of the landcar.
"You want me to come with you?” asked Gin.
"Not necessary,” answered Chandler. “I'll be back in a few minutes."
He entered the lobby, allowed the sparkling slidewalk to take him around a fountain that was engineered so that its thousands of jets of colored water met in such a manner that it formed an almost-solid representation of a nude woman. As quickly as the figure lost its structural integrity, new jets of gold and red and white water would meet in midair, re-forming the figure. The slidewalk deposited him at the registration desk, where a uniformed man approached him from behind a broad, gleaming counter.
"May I help you?” he asked.
"It's possible,” said Chandler. “Do you have a Carlos Mendoza registered here?"
The man asked his computer, which replied in the negative.
"That's curious,” said Chandler, frowning. “I was supposed to meet him here."
"There are no reservations in the name of Mendoza,” said the man.
"Well, I'm sure he'll show up sooner or later."
"We're fully booked for the next three months, sir."
"That's his problem,” said Chandler with a shrug. “I wonder if I could leave a message for him."
"Certainly, sir."
"Good. If Mr. Mendoza should show up, please tell him that the Whistler has completed his business here."
"That's all?"
"Not quite,” said Chandler. “When Mendoza gets my message, he'll probably give you an envelope with my name on it. Please deposit it in your safe until I come by for it."
"I may not be on duty when you return,” said the man. “If this is a financial transaction, we'll need some form of identification before we can release the funds to you, sir."
Chandler placed his fingers on the shining counter, then pressed down on it. “Did it register?"
The clerk checked a hidden screen behind the counter. “Yes, Mr. Whistler. We now have your fingerprints in our permanent file."
"Good,” said Chandler, placing a 500-credit note on the counter. “I am sure I can count on your discretion."
"Absolutely, sir.” He picked up the bill and placed it in a pocket. “How can we contact you if Mr. Mendoza should deliver the envelope?"
"I'll contact you,” answered Chandler, turning on his heel and walking back out to the landcar.
He repeated the process at three more hotels. When he emerged from the last of them, he entered the vehicle, leaned back, and relaxed.
"All right,” he said to Gin. “I think I've announced my presence sufficiently."
"I saw you slipping some money to each desk clerk,” noted Gin. “Are you paying them to spread the word?"
Chandler smiled in amusement. “I gave each of them 500 credits not to tell anyone that I was on Port Marrakech."
"Let me get this straight,” said Gin. “You want to announce your presence, so you're paying them to keep it a secret? I don't understand."
"At least a couple of them will decide that if it's worth 500 credits to me to keep my presence here a secret, it ought to be worth a couple of thousand credits to someone else to know I'm here.” He paused. “By tonight just about everyone who might want to avail themselves of my services will know I'm here."
Gin grinned. “I never thought of that!"
"You didn't have to. I did."
"Where to now?"
"If I weren't on Port Marrakech, and you had a sizeable sum of money and wanted to have someone killed, who would you hire?"
"I'd go right to the Surgeon,” replied Gin without hesitation.
"The Surgeon?"
"His real name is Vittorio something-or-other, but everyone calls him the Surgeon. He can slice you into pieces before you even know he's there."
"Where can I find him?"
Gin shrugged. “Half a dozen places. He gets around. He's got a little action here and a little action there."
"Choose the likeliest spot and drive there."
"This time of day he's probably at The Wolfman's. That's a restaurant over in the Platinum Quarter, near where we were drinking last night."
"The Platinum Quarter? I didn't see anything that opulent last night."
"It's pretty run-down,” agreed Gin. “But right before Port Marrakech was mined out, someone discovered platinum, and there was one last flurry of activity before they decided that there wasn't enough to make mining it worthwhile. The Platinum Quarter is what got built over where the mine used to be. The miners left so many tunnels there that you can get from almost any building in the Quarter to any other building without ever coming up for air—if you know your way around.” He paused. “Every now and then someone who doesn't know the tunnel system goes down there, and as often as not he's never seen again."
"It's not big enough to get permanently lost in,” commented Chandler. “I assume these missing people don't live long enough to starve to death."
"Whistler, we got guys living down there who haven't seen the sun in ten years,” answered Gin. “You pay ‘em what they want for safe passage, or they take it anyway and leave your corpse for the worms.” He paused again. “You've never seen anything like a Port Marrakech worm. Damned things are a couple of feet long, and they've actually got teeth. You leave a body down there and they can strip it to the bone in less than a day."
"Pleasant place."
"The men who live down there are worse than the worms. Some people say they've got the worms trained to recognize ‘em and leave ‘em alone; others say that they eat the worms to stay alive."
"Does the Surgeon ever go down to the tunnels?” asked Chandler.
"From time to time. ‘Course, everyone knows who he is, so they leave him alone. Mostly, they make their money from hiding anyone who's got to disappear for awhile, and they pick up a little extra from people who've got no business being there in the first place."
"Interesting,” commented Chandler noncommittally.
"Interesting, hell—it's goddamned dangerous,” said Gin devoutly. “If you're thinking of going down into the tunnels, you and me are gonna part company."
"I'll keep that in mind."
They drove for another few minutes, and then Gin stopped in front of a small rectangular building that seemed out of place in this city of domes and angles. There were no signs on the windows or the door, but Gin assured Chandler that advertising was unnecessary, and that everyone who had a reason to be there knew where the Wolfman's restaurant was.
"I'd better go in with you,” he announced as Chandler got out of the landcar. “You go around asking for the Surgeon without anyone knowing who you are and you're liable to undergo an operation you hadn't planned on."
Chandler followed Gin into the restaurant, which seemed to be on the dismal side of normal, with cheap chairs and torn booths, scarred tables, a very small bar along the left-hand wall, and a surly-looking waiter and waitress.
Standing behind the bar was a creature out of a child's worst nightmare. It stood and walked like a man, but its head was that of a wolf, with a prolonged foreface and impressive canines. Its ears were not quite human and not quite canine, but were quite large and pointed and set high atop its head. Its face, neck, chest and hands were covered with fur, and it wore an elegant formal outfit that covered the rest of its body.
Gin lead Chandler right up to it.
"Whistler, meet the Wolfman,” he said, stepping aside.
"I've heard of you,” said the Wolfman, extending a hand/paw.
"I'm surprised I haven't heard of you,” replied Chandler, reaching out his own hand. “Cosmetic surgery?"
"Yes."
"Why a wolf?” asked Chandler.
"Why not?” was the reply, as the Wolfman made a croaking sound deep in his throat that Chandler took to be a chuckle. “At least people remember me once they've seen me.” He paused. “Of course, I can see where that's not necessarily an advantage in your line of work.” He stared at Chandler. “Why do I think you didn't come here to sample my food?"
"I'm looking for someone."
"Oh?"
"The Surgeon."
"He's not here,” answered the Wolfman.
Chandler looked questioningly at Gin, who had been studying the few occupied tables. Gin shook his head.
"You might try again tomorrow,” added the Wolfman. “He's one of my best customers. He comes around four or five times a week.” The Wolfman pointed toward a table near the bar, one that backed up to a wall and gave the occupant a clear view of the doorway. “That's his regular table."
"Not any more,” said Chandler.
"Oh?"
"That table is mine now,” said Chandler. “You might pass the word."
"I don't know if the Surgeon is going to be real pleased with that."
"That's not my problem,” said Chandler. “He's changing jobs or worlds—it's up to him."
"Does he know about it?” asked the Wolfman.
"He will,” said Chandler. “If you see him first, you can tell him."
"Not me, friend,” said the Wolfman. “I spent four years having this face created. The Surgeon could slash it to ribbons in three seconds."
"He won't,” said Chandler. “You're under my protection, starting right now."
"I don't want any part of this,” said the Wolfman nervously. He paused. “Maybe you're as good as they say you are, and maybe not. But I've seen the Surgeon."
"You won't see him again,” said Chandler. “Remember: no one sits at that table except me."
He laid a bill on the bar, then turned and walked toward the door. Gin caught up with him just as he stepped outside.
"Boy, I hope to hell you know what you're doing!” exclaimed the driver. “I thought you just wanted to talk to the Surgeon."
"If he's a reasonable man, that's all I'll have to do,” answered Chandler. “But I'm setting up shop here. This is the easiest way to establish my credentials and get rid of my biggest rival at the same time.” He climbed into the vehicle. “Take me to the next spot on your list. I'd like to get this over with before dinner."
Gin shook his head in wonderment. “You're the first guy I've ever seen who was in a hurry to go up against the Surgeon."
"You look unhappy,” noted Chandler.
"I was kind of hoping this job might last for more than half a day,” said Gin ironically.