Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets (30 page)

A ringing sound. The phone in the room is ringing.

I clear my throat and pick up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Communicating with you is an arduous task,” whispers a voice at the other end.

“Let’s meet straightaway,” I say quickly.

“My house on the edge, in four hours. Come alone, make sure you’re not followed.”

“As places for secret meetings go, that seems a bit reckless.”

“Trust me, I know the way
he
moves and I’m sure he won’t expect it. Furthermore, our clandestine status is inevitably destined to come to an end,” argues the whisperer, and reaffirms definitively, “in exactly four hours.”

He hangs up. Happiness and anxiety. Just like a first date with a girl.

“Because I’m calling you from a different phone,” I explain into the mouthpiece, while I finish doing up the buttons on my shirt. “… No, tell me all about it later… that’s right… the café where you bought me that sandwich yesterday, that way I can have some lunch… do you remember where it is? Don’t say it on the phone, just to be on the safe side… yes, now.”

The Inspector certainly isn’t much help, but he’s better than nothing. I tuck my shirt into my trousers and tighten my belt. I’ve lost weight and gone down one hole. The miracle of stress. I put my police gun holster under my jacket, light a cigarette and head for the hallway, twirling the car keys around my finger.

A noise. The jangle of the keys covered it, but there it goes again, shortly afterwards. The sound of a gun being loaded, maybe? Animated shadows under the door.

Oh shit. I throw myself behind the bed just before I hear the shots. Splinters of wood cover the carpet as soon as I duck, thrown around the room by a second blast and subsequently moved aside by a gigantic boot.

The beast crashes into the room tearing off what remains of the door. The largest ogre I’ve ever seen is brandishing two sub-machine guns, one in each hand as though they were a couple of bananas. He has to pull his head into his shoulders in order to cross the threshold, wreaking havoc on the woodwork.

I leap out from behind the mattress and open fire on the giant. The first hit gets him right in the chest, but it’s not enough. Ignoring the wound, the beast lets out a deafening yell. I slightly adjust my aim, the Altra spits more lead. The yell is abruptly cut short when the nine millimetre calibre shatters three yellowed teeth and enters his skull through his mouth, spattering the ogre’s brain onto his companions who are stuck outside.

The spurt of sticky liquid forces them to look for cover, downcast by the death of what must have been their leader. It’s always the biggest one in the group, if you think about it. That must be why Ugube is a hippo.

One of those in the hallway is talking excitedly in their native language. Despite the dense slang I can work out that he’s calling for help. Ugly business, as Beron would say.

I try to work out the exact position of Mr Chatterbox. Listening to his voice I reckon he’s right next to the door hinges, which are just hanging there now, completely useless. I make a rough guess and shoot at the wall dividing the room from the hallway. It’s just a thin partition wall.

He yells, falls and we both fire off shots. His aim is obviously off, it hits the ceiling, way off-target. I’m not going to give him a second chance to redeem himself. I can hear running in the hallway and furious grunts.

“These aren’t professionals, though…” I replace the magazine, nearly empty—one shot left—it slides into a position with a
clack
.

Right, I’ve got to get out now. It’s not hard to come up with a plan, despite the unrealistic hammer of gunfire produced by the other pig, designed to hold me back while the back-up gets here. Options are thin on the ground anyway.

There’s the door, which is obviously unusable.

Then there’s a window which looks out onto the heart-wrenching balcony above the railway tracks.

Two floors up. I’ll kill myself.

During a break in the shooting I hear the recorded voice in the station announcing the main stops of the next departing train. I can see the roof through the bars of the railing. If I can manage to jump onto it I could reduce the fall by one story. The sliding glass door has already fallen victim to the ogres’ shaky aim… a leap and an acrobatic number worthy of a flying squirrel should do it. I’d better wait for the next hand grenade.

Some random shots in the general direction of the door to hold them back, then I’m off.

First a small leap to get my right foot onto the handrail. I push down as hard as I can to project myself off it. The time I spend flying through the air feels endless.

I land hard, the carriage produces the noise you would expect from a huge tin tambourine filled with hysterical passengers, ready to scream at the slightest movement.

May the Gods bless Onirò, their greatest gift. Bruised all over but free from injuries which hinder my movements, I jump again, this time off the train and over simple wire netting which separates the back of the hotel from the railway tracks. Some people waiting on the station platform, point in amazement, their eyes wide; but as vain as I am, I’d rather not stop to sign autographs. I land awkwardly, fall against the wall and accidentally bang my elbow, but I’m still standing.

I find myself in a narrow channel, the ground is concrete, between the wire netting and the wall of the building. The heels of my shoes echo when I run. The braver occupants of the carriage watch my mishaps, intimidated by the gunfire. With my head down, I dodge the shower of death coming from the ogres who have followed in my footsteps as far as the balcony, but they seemingly daren’t go any further. Frustrated orders and swearing foretell my successful escape when I turn the corner into the main part of the courtyard, the car park for hotel guests.

They left a guard at the entrance, the sap of the day. He heard the gunshots but hesitated at the wrong time. Maybe when he opened the car door with the revolver in his hand, he thought: ‘this is it, my big moment’. Then I burst out from behind the building and blasted his guts out without batting an eyelid. He rolls out of the SUV, a dead weight, dragged out by the lead inside his belly. I fire at one of the tyres on their car and jump into my vehicle.

My banger is old, but she’s reliable. The mafia gang, who have thundered down the stairs in an attempt to cut me off, rattle off their last bullets against the side of my car.

It’s clear that those hours of sleep could not go unpunished. But these here are six more legs of ham, added to the eight from yesterday.

“Whatever happens,” I can feel the pain coming back with a vengeance, “I paid a high price for my skin.”

What a consolation.

Once I’m a safe distance away, I give myself time at the traffic lights to have a snort, to nip the pain in the bud. It’s green and a car overtakes me, honking its horn. The Altra jumps into my hand now at the least sudden noise. Underneath every wide-brimmed hat and hiding in the darkness, everywhere I look I see a bullet with my name on it falling to the ground. When it bounces off the tarmac it will play my requiem, the Banshees will weep their ecstasy. My mother will have an excuse to drink more and the Brunette will find herself some rich chump to keep her in the lap of luxury. Lonadir will split his sides laughing, but for centuries to come, filled with deferential brown-nosers, he will miss my style. Or maybe he’ll just laugh.

That’s quite enough of that, it isn’t productive to think like this. It’s not over yet, it’s just the paranoia of an Onirò addict, whose brain has gone to mush. I’ve got myself out of situations worse than this.

The defeatist side of me reminds me that no, that isn’t true.

The café in front of the Lovl tower car park turns out to be a self-service place, designed for the employees working in the tower, clean and decent but devoid of eccentricity. There are also a couple of young elves with manes of red hair sitting at the head of two different assemblies. They’re most likely getting experience with the lower ranks of administration, and they’re trying to look friendly and polite towards the staff they’ve been assigned for training purposes. Soon they’ll learn that the terror provoked by asses is far more efficient for getting people to collaborate, but I do appreciate their efforts. Maybe I attribute such noble motives to them because they’re good-looking, and they are plotting who knows what wickedness while using humans like pawns. It’s not such a far-removed idea, seeing as how the world is going. Plus, it’s Sunday, people should be at home. They could be optimising their salaries by having meetings outside office hours. I wonder what it’s like during the week, all the suits rushing to get a plate of pasta, everything in a hurry, trying not to stain their shirts so as not to waste their lunch break. Then I surprise myself by imagining that those two elves and the others at the tables are simply two friends, an absurd idea. As if they could be friends with members of inferior races. For them, the world is a stage and humans are simple extras. At best, I believe they feel that level of affection for us that other people feel for a pet.

I watch the queue of people move slowly forward past the chilled salad and thick-cut roast beef. Every now and then I check Cohl’s position, who spontaneously offered to get me a couple of sandwiches while I have breakfast. “Spontaneously” at my insistent request, sweetened by the promise of exciting revelations. So he joined the queue and announced that he had also found out something important. I thought to myself, why ruin the surprise for him? First I’ll let him happily tell me all about the progress he’s made, then I’ll blow him away.

The Inspector comes back with a tray loaded up with food.

“So, who’s going to go first?” asks Nohl, with the confidence of a hustler with an ace up his sleeve.

“Go ahead.” I dig into the first sandwich. I’m famished. The physical activity required for flooring seven ogres calls for something more than a piece of coconut.

“I squeezed the informers, and something came out.”

“Uhm.”

“Do you know Pupone from the Seventh?

I shake my head to say no.

“He hangs out in a bar near Cicisbeo. Anyway, it turns out he knows Gilder by sight, and he remembers hearing that he belonged to a group of political activists Freedom and Justice, Equality and Freedom, or something like that.”

“Go on.”

“So then I made a few calls, thinking that the elf had maybe asked his family to conceal him. Within the anarchic circles there are rumours that the Freedom Front are hiding a fugitive elf, and that they are planning something big. A showstopper, do you know what I mean?” he explains, gesticulating excitedly.

“That ties in with what I know.” I attack the other sandwich.

“Unfortunately, nobody knows exactly what it’s about,
but
…” He smiles and pauses for dramatic effect. “… I’ve found out where to meet one of them. He’s a regular at another bar on the Eighth, in the north-east. He gets drunk a lot and talks too much.”

He’s waiting for a round of applause which never comes, but I do give him an encouraging ‘good work’.

“What did you find out?” he asks, intrigued by such benevolence, which is in fact designed to flatter.

I devour the end of the sandwich and have a drink of water.

“You’re absolutely right when you say it’s something big, even though I can’t say what it is exactly either. But it’s fucking big, I can guarantee it.”

I leave him on tenterhooks a little longer while I sip my water.

“Gilder knows a secret of vital importance to the elves, and I reckon Inla was aware of it too. The elders are prepared to do anything to protect it. They have already tried to kill me twice since I last saw you.”

“The elves?!”

“Not directly, of course. Hired assassins. Ogres.”

“What, just like that, in the street?!”

“Precisely.”

“And you got away without so much as a scratch?”

“Hardly. I almost died.”

Cohl realises that there’s more to it than that. In fact, it’s not even the most important part. He can see it in my face, and I don’t try very hard to mask it. In the meantime I try to think of the best words to use to persuade him to follow me, without compromising the secrecy of my private habits.

“You need to think very carefully kid. If you decide to go on, you’ll have to stay until the very end, and I can’t guarantee your survival.”

“This is the most incredible thing I’ve heard so far!” He thinks this is funny, the bastard. “You mean, you’re trying to
protect me
? ‘Hardman’ Arkham?!”

It’s embarrassing to be so good at faking it. At times you do some really humiliating stuff, and even if you know it’s just a deliberate act to manipulate the victim, you still feel like shit. I keep my expression grave, I watch him laugh his stupid head off. The hilarity culminates with an emphatic ‘how sweet’, and evaporates when he returns to being aware of the danger involved.

Order is resumed, we stare at each other with serious faces.

“This is no joke, Nohl.”

“I’m touched, Lieutenant, I really I am. Your real feelings towards me are so sweet!”

“Cut the crap.”

“Okay, okay. So, you didn’t actually think that I would throw in the towel now, did you? What, did you want the TV cameras all to yourself then? You can forget it. Nothing will make me drop this case, as the Father is my witness!”

I take a moment to assess his level of sincerity. There is anxiety in his eyes, intertwined with stubborn determination. When there is real need of this indomitable willpower, the determination to survive, that latent fear could triumph and sentence us both to death. But underneath all this, he’s just a kid. It’s only natural for him to be a bit scared of kicking the bucket, at the same time he also feels as though he has to show what he’s made of. This is his chance, the ship that will never sail again.

“My car’s had it.” This is the made-up explanation I offer for the hotel ambush. “So we’ll have to take yours. It won’t exactly go unnoticed but at least it won’t get jumped by the mafia.”

“Where are we going?”