A Talent For The Invisible (v1.1) (12 page)

“The front door wants to talk to you,” announced the hulking entertainment unit.

“What is it?”

“Well sir, there’s somebody out here I hate to toss into the street,” said the security door’s high-pitched voice, coming out of the entertainment unit’s speech box. “See, Los Angeles was once the domain of the Spanish and thus the noble tradition of deference to the …”

“Tell me who’s out there.”

“A young lady,” answered the door. “A strikingly lovely young lady with raven tresses and eyes of flashing ebony. Which is why I hate to give her the old heaveho without you have a looksee.”

“This is what the girl in question looks like,” said the entertainment unit. It shifted its bulk, aiming a small monitor screen at Conger.

The girl was Angelica.

“You’ll want to talk to her alone.” Canguru jerked his GLA-style glowsox on his little feet. “I’ll leave and we can rendezvous at midnight, giving you a margin of nearly four full hours to spend with Miss Abril should the occasion arise.” He flat-footed to the open balcony door.

“Okay. Where shall I pick you up?”

“Near the downtown sector of Old Los Angeles, on Olvera Street.” He put on his wet shoes. After giving Conger an address he went away into the darkness.

“Maybe the young lady will want to watch a movie,” suggested the entertainment unit hopefully.

Conger opened the front door.

“How’s that?” asked the entertainment unit.

Angelica took a sip of the synthetic martini the hulking machine had handed her. “Satisfactory,” she said.

“Only satisfactory? Usually my martinis are perfect. Why, only …” The big machine made a metallic gargling sound and ceased functioning.

At the master control box in the far wall Conger had switched him off.

“You said,” he said to the dark slender Angelica, “you wanted to talk.” She took another sip of the drink. “You’re jealous of him,” she said, rubbing a forefinger along the side of the entertainment unit. “Probably because he reminds you of Linn Learmann.”

“His hair isn’t as blond,” said Conger. He walked around on the see-through floor, his footfalls too heavy. “You’ve been in Greater Los Angeles since you left Urbania?”

“Yes,” said Angelica. “Though not with Linn, if that’s what’s making you gruff.” Conger didn’t answer.

“After you went out to the Pharmz complex I got in touch with our NSO man in St. Norbert,” the girl explained. “He told me to contact Dallas.”

“Dallas?”

“NSO built its Overseas Coordinating Office there last summer. You must remember the frumus in congress about the cost of the thermal carpeting for the parking lots. Anyway, NSO had information indicating Sandman had a base, possibly his home base, up here under Los Angeles someplace. I decided to come see—alone and by myself.” Conger continued to walk around the room, his eyes on the black ocean beneath his feet.

Angelica stood still near the center of the clear floor. “It took me a long time to write that letter to you, you know.”

“I figured. It’s a fairly long letter, several sentences.” Angelica said, “Okay, maybe I shouldn’t make decisions for you. After hearing Geer light into you that night though, I decided I didn’t want to be the reason for your screwing up your career.”

“I don’t consider being an invisible man a career.”

“Well, call it your present occupation then. Whatever. I have the feeling you’re not ready to quit. Are you?” Conger had stopped wandering. After a few seconds, he said, “I don’t know.” The girl was standing near him now. “Listen, Jake, there’s something else I wanted to talk about,” she said. “Something besides the fact I’ve missed you, and something besides the fact I was upset when you went stalking out of the briefing today.”

“Would you describe that as stalking?”

“What then?”

“Striding confidently, or strolling with determination …”

“Or traipsing nonchalantly.” She smiled.

Conger, smiling, too, put his hands on her shoulders.

“Wait.” Angelica backed away from his touch. “I have more to tell you.”

“About what,” he asked, “Sandman?”

“Yes, it’s business,” she replied. “When this case is closed I have some leave time coming. I want to spend it with you.”

“So tell me about Sandman.”

“You know about the assassination of State Senator McSherry, don’t you?”

“Canguru told me. And I know where Sandman’s bodysnatchers are going to be sometime between midnight and sunup.”

“Then you already know where their drop down in Level Four is.”

“No,” said Conger. “What we know is the underground entrance near Olvera Street where the truck hauling McSherry is supposed to enter. I’m going to pick them up at that point.”

“Well, I’ve found out the truck will deliver Senator McSherry’s remains to the storeroom behind a combination restaurant and horse parlor called Hal The Bookie’s down on Level Four,” said the dark girl agent. “From there, somehow, the body will get taken even further down. To one of the uncharted bootleg levels Inspector Knerr was telling us about this morning.”

“What does Linn Learmann think about all this?”

“I don’t have to report in to him,” said Angelica. “The National Security Office isn’t as paternalistic as you people.”

“I thought we were all practicing patience and putting our faith in Linn’s stakeout.”

“Screw patience. Do you want to work with me on locating Sandman’s Lab?”

“Sure.”

Angelica bit her thumb knuckle. “Okay, to be on the safe side you may as well go ahead with your plan. You tag the truck when it heads underground. I’ll go straight to Hal The Bookie’s and wait there.” She glanced sideways at the entertainment unit. “Did that clock in his backside turn off when you threw the switch?”

“No, it’s autonomous.”

“Then we don’t have to leave here for two hours.” She faced him, smiling again.

The robot Mexican fell over and said,
“Merde!”

Canguru dropped to his knees. A flung taco skimmed his curly hair, dripping chopped olives and imitation onion flakes. “They certainly have their riots at odd hours in your country.”

“This looks to be a protest march not a riot,” said Conger. He and the little spy were standing in an alley off Olvera Street.

Out on the synthetic Mexican Street two hundred young people were tramping up and down, waving tri-op signs, playing canned political messages.

“There’s Father William Francis Nolan,” pointed out Canguru.

“Where?”

“Oops, he fell off their shoulders and that cyborg cop with the tractor-tread is rolling over him.”

Canguru winced in sympathy. “They call him the Guerrilla Priest of . . .”

“Does he have anything to do with Sandman?”

“No, but …”

“Then I don’t want to clutter my mind with him.”

“Bring back the real chicanos!” shouted Father Nolan, once the policeman’s boot rolled off his neck.

“Shut down the detention camps!”

“Get rid of mechanical Mexicans!”

Conger scanned the short street. “The truck’s going to have a tough time getting in there.”

“The riot can’t go on forever,” said Canguru.

Leaning against a pseudoadobe wall, Conger asked, “Why did Yerkzes put away all the Mexicans?”

“He feared an invasion of California South from Mexico as I understand it,” said Canguru. “First he took away all their radios, TVs and home entertainment units, to keep them from communicating with any potential invaders from south of the border. That didn’t seem sufficient to him after awhile, so he built camps in Death Valley. It’s rumored he owns 60% of the detention camp contracting company.”

“There’s Rowland Gull in a bucket,” said Conger, looking up.

A municipal hopper, painted a bright blue and gold, was humming down out of the midnight sky. In a swaying canvas bucket beneath it rode Mad Governor Yerkzes’ press secretary. “Boys and girls,” the pale young man said through a blue and gold bullhorn. “Boys and girls, I’d appreciate your attention. My name is Rowland Gull. I work for Governor Yerkzes.”

“Boo, boo!”

“Screw you!”

“Shut down the detention camps!”

“Boys and girls, the governor has asked me to read a brief statement pertaining to the Mexican-American situation,” continued Gull, swinging in a gentle arc. “Here it is. ‘My fellow Californians, good afternoon …’ Well, let’s amend that. ‘My fellow Californians, good evening. This is your governor speaking to you from the bottom of my heart. Let me first assure you that no one will be reprimanded over this little incident, nor will you be punished in any way. After all, does not the great …’”

“Put this on,” Conger told Canguru. He’d taken two lightweight gasmasks out of the kit strapped to his side. As the little blond spy strapped his on, Conger pulled him back into the alley with him. “Those two cops over by the Open-All-Night Cantina are breaking out canisters of stungas.”

“Your floating friend is going to have to amend his statement again.”

Gas mortars commenced chuffing out on Olvera Street Canguru yawned, scratched his curly head. “Almost 2AM,” he said.

They were at the mouth of the alley again. All the young protestors, plus Father Nolan, had been carted away in police landwagons over an hour ago. The allnight cantinas were functioning again, all the robot sidewalk Mexicans were upright, playing guitars and vending souvenirs. There were not too many tourists availing themselves of the street.

“There comes another truck now,” said Conger.

Squinting, Canguru said, “It’s them, senhor. A maroon landtruck with Gibson’s Hobby House freshly lettered on the side.”

Conger applied his invisibility lotion. “Okay, I’ll grab on when they slow to drive into the warehouse over there.”

“My sources assure me there’s a concealed rampway which leads underground in that warehouse. I’ll wait here a bit, then get myself down to Level Four by another … what’s the matter?”

“There.” Conger was perspiring across his forehead. He turned, more slowly, invisible. “Ever since Big Mac and Ting gave me those truth shots I’ve been having trouble with the transitions from visible to invisible and back.”

“After we catch Sandman you ought to take some time off and have a complete physical,” suggested the little spy. “Although most doctors don’t know how to conduct a really first rate …”

Conger left the alley. Three fat teenage boys burst out of a tacoteria, licking chile gravy off their pudgy fingers. Conger pivoted to avoid colliding with them.

Moving fast, and unseen, he caught up with the grape-colored novelty truck as it rolled into the whitewashed brick warehouse at the far end of Olvera Street.

A loading step hung beneath the back doors of the truck. Conger jumped, landed on that. He held on to the door handles.

The landtruck drove slowly across the nearly empty warehouse. After the street doors slid shut a section of the wall rose up and out of the way.

The truck and Conger shot ahead into darkness, headed underground.

The tile walls of the tunnel were sweating, spotted with dingy brown beads of water. Now that the truck was nearing Level Four there was hardly any traffic on the underground road system. More graffiti appeared on the walls, several ambitious homemade murals. Under one glowcolor wall decoration, an allegorical painting of the history of California, a tattered old man with a bloody face was sleeping. He was huddled right on the rutted road. Further down there were some remnants of pedestrian catwalks and on these more ragged people sprawled, some sleeping, some drinking from plastic wine pouches, a few attempting to make love.

This far below Greater Los Angeles the lighting system was falling apart. For whole stretches of the tunnel roads the overhead light strips hung down in dark tangles from the ceilings. A few of the twisted dusty strips throbbed, giving off a thin speckled light. As the landtruck Conger was holding onto bounced around the curving roads its headlamps splashed light on the dark tunnel walls. The people crouching here were younger, most of them awake. They sat and watched the truck go by, the sudden illumination not even causing them to blink.

At last there was light all around. The truck carrying State Senator McSherry’s body emerged onto the streets of Level Four.

The truck bounced even more on the potholed streets. All the low buildings glowed and flashed. There was an enormous loud mix of music all around. Every kind of popular music there had been for the last two centuries was being played. It roared out of the wide open doorways, came blasting from floating speakers over the clubs and bistros.

The novelty truck, with Conger on behind, went ten blocks straight through the underground city, then swung off to the right. The air on this new street was hot and muggy. There were mostly whorehouses along here, real and android.
Reconditioned Robot Hookers/Only $5 Per 15

Minutes! Live Former Convent Girls/Reasonable Prices!,
Cyborgs/Satisfaction Guaranteed!
Conger noticed more tourists on the street. The derelicts slumped in the gutters were better dressed.

The truck rolled on. The bordellos thinned, giving way to betting parlors, a scatter of indoor dog and pony race tracks.

At the next corner stood Hal The Bookie’s.
Eat & Bet! Booths For
Ladies!
The land truck passed the place, turned into an alley leading to a tinroof storeroom behind it.

Big Mac was waiting for the truck. He sat on a carton of canned waffleburgers, a new laser pistol in his right hand. He guided the truck in to a stop with his empty left hand. “You took long enough, craphead,” he said when the truck’s engine turned off.

“We had to wait until a riot was over, Mac. Some kids had a riot,” explained Jerry Ting as he jumped from the cab. “Isn’t that right, Vic.”

Inside the cab a low voice said, “It certainly …”

“No more gabble, buttwipe,” said the black AEF agent. “Let’s get the corpse into the car so I can drive it on to the descent point.”

“Another reason we took a little extra time,” said Ting. “Vic got squeamish about picking up the guy’s body and sticking it into the plyosack.”