The Milkman: A Freeworld Novel

The Milkman: A Free World Novel

by Michael J. Martineck

Copyright © 2014 by Michael J. Martineck

E-Book Edition

Published by

EDGE Science Fiction and
Fantasy Publishing

An Imprint of

HADES PUBLICATIONS, INC.

CALGARY

Notice

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author(s).

* * * * *

This book is also available in print

* * * * *

Dedication

“What does that mean?” I asked. “Look it up,” my father answered. Which I did, in one of the countless dictionaries placed not so strategically about the house. My father taught me to throw a spiral and swing a golf club, but teaching me to play with words— that I still do. This stab at it is for him.

Chapter One

To Edwin McCallum every act of insubordination was a work of art. Charcoal sketch thefts. Abstract expressionist assaults. A smuggling operation could have all the intricacies of an oil landscape. Despite this, he considered very few policy transgressions to be masterpieces. No one put the time in. Most insubordination spawned from opportunity, passion or a bottoming out of IQ. But this one. This fresco. He saw something more.

The girl could have been his daughter, had his life unfolded into a different shape, if he’d creased and bent this side instead or that, leaving him in another space, not on the street, in the cold, staring at a face turned and pressed to concrete, beautiful if you imagined it asleep, if you ignored the puddle of cold blood and the jagged hack marks in her flesh.

McCallum threaded his fingers and thrust out his arms, bending his wrists back, stretching, stimulating blood flow. He had no extra pounds and used his various muscles frequently and hard. When the cold started poking around, he felt reminders of every indiscretion, lack of good judgment and bad luck his bones had suffered over the years. His face had found some of the creeks and rumples he noticed on other men his age. Only some. His walnut hair showed maybe two strokes of grey. For the most part, he only noticed the middleness of his age in his joints, and on nights like this one.

“Geri Vasquez,” the uniformed operative reported. Brick red pants and cap. Black leather everything else.
One of mine
, McCallum thought. “24, lived up on West Ferry Street, grade 15 Marketing Field Researcher.”

“Grade 15.” McCallum snorted. Was there a grade higher? Newborn? “Anything off her cuff?”

“Waiting for the advocate.” The uniform op couldn’t be too much older than the victim, but he seemed to have his buckle polished, as his old boss used to say. McCallum liked him.

“This an India Group pub?” McCallum pointed a thumb at the large, frosty picture windows.

“Yes sir,” another uniform op answered. Black pants and jacket. An India Group patrolperson. Not one of his. She stood close to the pub door, helping to keep a safe perimeter around the body.

“Anyone come out?” McCallum asked.

“No sir,” she answered.

“You go in?”

“Waiting for an inspector.”

“Really?” McCallum looked into the windows. Faces filled every inch to about the eight-foot line. People used bar stools to get over the first row of viewers and look into the insubordination scene. He hated the lookey-loo part of human nature. This poor girl had been pretty, with nice clothes, a decent hair cut; she would not have wanted them all to see her this way. Still, the ghouls served a momentary purpose. Everyone in the pub knew a dead girl lay outside. Someone inside waiting for her would have stormed out by now.

“She died at the door?” McCallum asked himself. “Why’s an Ambyr girl trying to get into an IG place without a buddy?”

“Don’t know, sir,” the female op answered. “Maybe fleeing her assailant?”

“Lots of maybes,” he mumbled.

An India Group detective would be here any second. McCallum wondered who was on tonight. The lazy one, the well-dressed one, or that guy who lost a hand disarming a small explosive a few years back. He was pleasant enough, quiet, but never—

—he never expected to see her.

* * *

Sylvia Cho didn’t care for the choice of restaurant. It was the kind used to woo people— clients, actors, investors, whomever. Sylvia didn’t like to be wooed, schmoosed, ass-kissed or sucked up to. At least… most of the time. She believed in merit. She judged people and projects on their value and expected the same. No one should ever need to be sold on something. She also understood that here, in Hollywood, in this belief, she was quite alone.

Adorned in miles of bamboo and white cotton, lit with millions of tiny candles, the place had appeal. She didn’t deny that, it just reminded her of a great looking guy who knew it. The kind that aimed his smile, prying a rise out of you. The town was full of them, many trying to get this very spot, at the top of two small stairs, peering out for a well-juiced producer.

She didn’t feel out of place. She kept herself fit, her obsidian hair current and paid attention to fashion. Sylvia had chosen a pencil skirt and sheer top for this meeting. She knew the effects of tight clothing. She also knew her way around a restaurant. She had found herself in most of the Los Angels catchment’s finer places, at one time or another. That was, after all, how things were done. She hadn’t had a meeting in an office or conference room in nine years, since that impossible year after college, when she thought she’d have to club someone in the head to get any attention. Club several people, actually. One murder didn’t turn heads.

Gavin Stoll sat in the center of the room, smiling. Black suit, white silk T-shirt, over a near-perfect body. He was the unnatural offspring of a cheetah and a penguin. He gave Sylvia a quick flick of the hand. Sylvia smiled, using her forceful, professional grin. The mask, she called it. The face that fooled all the boys, and some of the girls. Gavin stood as she crossed the room.

Good God
, she thought.
What the fuck was he going to want?

“So happy to see you,” he said like he meant it. Maybe he did. She didn’t know him any better than he knew her. “Tobacco Road was a blast. Loved, loved, loved it.”

Thank God for the mask. She doubted this guy saw, saw, saw her last film.

“Thank you,” she replied. “It’s done better than I expected.”

“You’re too modest. Refreshing, but useless. Revel in your success.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“So how does it feel?” They both sat.

“Stunning.” She didn’t like to lie if she didn’t have to.

Gavin laughed. “I knew the movie tested well, but it hadn’t prepared me for… the explosion. With no disrespect, I don’t think anyone foresaw your peculiar demographic draw. You’ve had more females 18 to 34 down your picture than any other documentary in decades, while holding on to the boys. Hybrid demos, sister. Those frost the cake, eh?”

“Mmmm cake.” Sylvia said.

“You’ve come to the right place.”

The waiter stood next to the table. Sylvia hadn’t seen him approach. Creepy.

“I’d like the St. George,” Gavin said. “And hope you don’t make any mistakes back there.” He locked eyes with the waiter and waggled his head.

“Excellent choice, sir.” The waiter gave a conspiratorial smirk and padded away.

“I hope you don’t mind that I ordered for us.” Gavin leaned over the table and dropped his voice to loud whisper. “They have a St. Germain pinot noir here, accidently delivered by an IG truck. It’s exquisite. I’ll cry when they run out.”

“Perhaps there’ll be another accident.”

“I can only pray. IG has so many choice vineyards, I’ve been tempted to jump ship.”

Sylvia laughed politely. She didn’t want to encourage Gavin’s pretentions. When it came to wine, she wasn’t a hair-splitter. She could tell the difference between good, bad and awesome. Further subdivisions held little interest to her. Comparing vineyards outside the company held even less. The taste of forbidden fruit? There were probably two India Group people dining right now, pining for Ambyr wine in hushed voices.

“What’s the deal?” Sylvia said.

“A movie. Funding is locked up.”

“Already?”
Without a director?
she decided not to say out loud. “Who’s attached?”

“No one,” Gavin said. “I’m hoping you want to come aboard.”

There is a formula in Hollywood. Good director, good cast, good script. You can only afford to take a chance on one. Everyone knows this rule. Nobody puts up money without two absolutes. The fact that Gavin didn’t have a director or cast, but plenty of money, didn’t all mesh. This scene wasn’t working.

“This must be one Hell of a script.”

“There’s no script.”

Check please
, she yelled in her head.

* * *

Emory Leveski drove his blue Mazda sedan. Somehow. He couldn’t see the black and blue night, the spots of light from other cars, street lights, sconces over house numbers and ground-level lanterns releasing the last of their solar charge from the day. His body remembered how to keep the car in the lane and the peddle at the right angle and when to turn left and right. His conscious mind had no part of it. It refused to process any new information. That last chunk, with the stabbing and shrieking and collapsing body… that plugged up the pipelines. He was lucky he remembered how to breathe.

Chapter Two

“Operative McCallum,” she said as a simple statement of fact. No question, no surprise, no rise in volume to get his attention.

“Operative McCallum,” he said back, trying to match the flatness of her tone.

“Effchek, now. Again.”

“Back to your maiden name. That’s tough to do.”

“I know people,” she said. “What we got?”

Her uniformed operative gave her the rundown. McCallum watched. Rosalie Effchek. Now. Great. He knelt down next to the dead girl. Blond, in great shape, save the six deep lacerations in her back, clear through her coat. A weird coat. McCallum couldn’t recall ever seeing one like it before. Orange fabric, covered in a kind of transparent jelly. The blood oozed off it, like rain on wax.

“She was cute.” Rosalie squatted down next to McCallum.

“Congratulations on the promotion,” he said.

“Thanks. I guess. Nights like tonight…”

“I know.”

McCallum stood. He watched the egg back up, a mobile forensics lab. Looking more like a breadloaf, and officially called a Mobile Evidence Processing Unit, he had no idea how it got its nickname. Didn’t make any sense. So much about this job failed to make sense.

The egg had an advertisement on the side, a photo of a cigarette smoldering on a dead man’s mouth. Tobacco Road. A movie he’d never see. He hadn’t seen a movie since…

“You going inside?” McCallum glanced in the direction of the pub.

“Yeah,” Rosalie. “I’ll check out the feeds.”

McCallum’s uniformed operative brought him a small, clear bag with a woman’s cuff inside. Thick. Brushed aluminum with thin strips of pale bamboo embedded at set intervals.

“The egg heads cleared it,” the op said. “And the advocate.”

McCallum took the bag and held it up for a second, in the glow of the egg’s rear work lights. The bracelet looked caught, like a fish. Dead outside its natural habitat, which was a young woman’s wrist. Cuffs were such personal things, beyond the obvious, McCallum had learned. The type of cuff a person chose, the number and depth of its scratches, did the owner lock it around his or her wrist or something else? He knew a sculptor who kept his bracelet around his ankle so it wouldn’t mar his media. He had to sit down cross-legged every time he wanted to make a call. The tiny details said big things. This bracelet had been on the shelf two months ago. Flawless. A smart design, went with everything, a bit too expensive for grade 15, but not so expensive that it was a gift from a well-off other. Fresh, new, ready to advance. Flawless. No signs of a fight. Somebody stabbed this girl from behind without any kind of build up she knew about. McCallum wanted to toss the bag into the egg and walk away. He slipped the cuff out of the bag, tapped it awake, called Help.

“Ambyr Communications,” he heard in his ear.

“Police over-ride. Authorization—” He gave his code.

The top of the bracelet changed from dull silver to something like rice-paper. Geri Vasquez’s life appeared, organized into little bubbles of data. She had 60 friends, eight of whom she called regularly, none of whom had been selected tonight. No messages for the last two hours. No one asking Geri where she was, why she was late, how the date was going. Prior of six tonight, she exchanged between 10 and twenty messages an hour. Then nothing. Odd. McCallum tapped the name Geri called the most. “Katrina.”

A buzz in his ear, then “Gee?” A young woman’s voice, crystal clear, popping with energy.

“I’m afraid not.”

Katrina’s voice lowered, tensed and nastied up. “Who is this?”

“Detective McCallum. Ambyr Systems Security. Sorry to alarm you.”

“What are you… where’s Geri?”

McCallum had heard the confusion before. No one called from someone else’s cuff. Unless…

“Katrina, what was Geri doing tonight?”

“Where’s Geri?”

“I need your help. Can you help me, Katrina?”

“Yeah. I’m rattling here. Is she OK? Is something wrong?”

“Something’s wrong. I won’t lie to you,” McCallum said slowly and softly. “Can you tell me what Geri was doing tonight?”

“Work,” Katrina said. “She was working tonight. A pie night. No idea what that means.”

“That’s alright.”

“Is she alright? Why are you on her cuff? Can I talk to her? She can’t be in trouble. She was working.”

“I will have to get back to you.” He clicked off. He couldn’t listen to her descent into pleading. He couldn’t tell the girl her friend was dead before telling the parents.

Official messages were easy to find on Geri’s bracelet. She had them separated by color and shape. Aqua squares for work-related memos. None related to tonight.

“What were you up to, honey?” McCallum said.

“No feeds,” Effchek shouted from the door of the pub.

“What?” McCallum turned, scrunching up his face. He must have misheard.

“No feeds,” Rosalie shouted again. “Either end. The manager says they’re malfunctioning.”

Damn them all to Hell
, McCallum shouted in his head. The uniform operative didn’t need to hear his frustrations. Not yet, anyway. He’d have to see how long he was going to keep all this steam in his kettle. With no video images of the act, that might not be too long.

* * *

Sylvia stared at Gavin Stoll’s mouth. The tiny curl in the corners, the ‘I know something you don’t’ grin both irked and intrigued her. She didn’t get into the movie business because she was incurious; she could get past a grin she wanted to slap away.

“The Milkman,” Gavin said.

“What the fuck are you talking about.” She decided coy time had elapsed.

“The Milkman. In the Lake Erie region.”

“Is this a title? A working title, I hope.”

“There’s a guy somewhere in the Niagara Falls catchment who tests milk and posts his findings.”

Sylvia’s lips scrunched hard to the right, all on their own. This didn’t make a whole lot of sense. “The company lets some guy product test and post results?”

“Yeah,” Gavin said. “He outs dairy farms that hold milk too long or contain too much feces or whatever.”

“And the company lets him.”

Gavin leaned forward, full smile glaring. “The company can’t find him.”

“No way.” She didn’t give the answer any thought. Her mind jumped ahead, tracking the vigilante down, interviewing supporters and dairy farmers, wide pastoral shots, cut to tight dark ones of some ghost-geek in a barn, with bales of electronics, fooling the company, a Robin Hood of milk.

The waiter returned with a bottle swaddled in a napkin. He made a show of secretly giving Gavin a glimpse of the label. They exchanged grins and the waiter uncorked and brought the neck to the top of Sylvia’s glass. Her hand sliced over the opening, peach-color knuckles like a tiny but impassable mountain range.

“None for me, thanks,” Sylvia said.

Gavin said, “Really? You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Sorry.” She wanted to get on with the conversation. It took the waiter five hours to pour a drop into Gavin’s glass, watch him swish it and smell it and taste it and pronounce it perfect.
The Milkman
, she wanted to snap. Is he real? Can we sniff around better than Ambyr Systems detectives? Is this doable? Because if it is…

“Interested?” Gavin asked.

“What are we talking?” She knew how to be crisp. Don’t ever let them see your tongue hanging out. Hold the drool. Besides, it sounded too good to be true.

“A quick documentary. Couple of talkers, a little corporate shit, how this bastard can’t be trusted. That type of thing. Of course, you … you, Sylvia Cho … you can hide the pill in the peanut butter. You could slip the real message in under the corporate one without their lifting an eyebrow.”

She could. She knew she could. Let Public Affair’s coifed, tailored models talk while the whole time she gets to tell the world about some wacko who is actually beating the system. Amazing. It didn’t even matter if the guy existed. Just the chance to prance the idea around was golden. This could be a masterpiece— redemption for all the propaganda she had to film. Art. Meaning. A difference.

“Who has sign off?” She asked.

“That’s the best part. I bundled. Lots of private savings and surplus. Corporate has little to say.”

“Little’s not nothing.”

“Such is the world,” Gavin said. “Such is the world you can change.”

That was a bit strong, but the sentiment was right. She loved the Milkman. Three minutes in and she was in love.

“What do you need from me?”

Gavin glanced at the empty wine glass, then up to her.

“An abortion. Then you’ll be clear to work.”

* * *

Emory Leveski sat at his kitchen table, in the dark. He wanted a glass of water. Warm. Body temperature. Nothing too cold. He just wasn’t sure he could handle a glass. He still shook. Maybe if he concentrated. Maybe if he used both hands, like a little kid. Yeah, that gave him another idea. Emory stood, went to the cupboard and took out a plastic sippy cup, with a lid and a stopper, hiding a tiny membrane. The cup had cartoony butterflies and frogs and bent green cattails on it. He got the lid off, water in and the lid back on without too much spillage. He sat back down to suck on the little spout.

The water felt so good in his mouth. He could feel cell walls cheering the rush of liquid, imagined them opening their gates and welcoming water like a hero returning from battle. Dry spots cracking and surrendering across his palate and down his throat.
This is better
, he thought.
The sippy cup makes me drink more slowly
. You had to work at it, suck… like that girl, wheezing in her last breath.

The tremors returned. He set the cup down and pressed his palms to the table. No matter what he tried thinking about — sex, long division, picturing the most perfect brook rolling over speckled, polished stone — his mind replayed the same scene. That girl, the jelly coat, the stab, the stab, the stab.

Crazy. He had to get control. Emory was a compact person. He understood that. That didn’t mean fragile. He could do better than this. What about those Lamaze techniques? Those classes weren’t that long ago. Breath in through the mouth, out through the nose? No.

“What are you doing?” Lillian’s voice, from his right. He turned and looked at her, arms folded across her chest. A T-shirt and long, flannel pajama-pants. She looked so cute in her short, new-mom hair.

“I don’t know,” he answered.

“It’s creepy.” She turned on the kitchen light and strolled to the refrigerator. “How did things go?”

“I don’t honestly… I saw a girl get murdered.”

“What? You’re kidding me.”

“No,” Emory said. “Right where I was going. Right at my meeting spot. I was still in the car and…”

Lillian plunged into the chair next to him.

He said, “God, it was awful.”

“Did you… what did you do?”

“Nothing. I couldn’t. It was like… like when you’re running up a beach, in the water, you know? You can’t move half as fast as you want. It was like that. By the time I figured out what was happening, it was the past. I’m so freakin’ slow.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Lillian said. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t know. I mean, nothing happened to me. Nothing physical.”

“Did you get a good look at the killer? Did you tell the ops? Did they give you any trouble?”

“None,” Emory said. “I didn’t stay.”

Lillian reached over and took his hands. She tried to press the shaking out of them. “It’s OK. I’m sure they’ll do what they do.”

“No, it’s not OK. I wanted to help, but then, I kept thinking… I wanted to stay and tell the ops everything, but, in the back of my head, I kept thinking, ‘Shit, Emory. You’re insubordinate yourself.’”

“You are not insubordinate. Not that kind.”

“Yeah, see what you just did? Not that kind.”

“What you do is not murder. It’s the antithesis.”

“To the company?”

Lillian gave his hands another squeeze. “There are policies and there are policies.”

“I agree,” Emory said. “But what if someone else understood that too? What if they decided to mix things up? No… together.”

“Calm down,” Lillian said. “I’ll make you some tea or something.”

“No. Listen. What if this wasn’t a wrong place, wrong time thing? What if this wasn’t a coincidence? What if somebody out there decided the best way to get the Milkman was framing him for a murder?”