Shapeshifter - 5. How to buy time

~*Noom*~

“Hello, Franko? It’s Mike Jorenson. I just found your latest assignment offer and wanted to ask if it’s still active. Yeah, I know I’m late, but you know how things are. I’m a married man.”

I sat back and watched Mike do his phone magic. There were dozens of paper stacks covering every square inch of the coffee table and the couches, some even sat on my lap because we had run out of space long before we had run out of papers to sort and look through. Most of them were prints of information we had found on the Internet, but we’d just started making notes and mind maps, and that stack also seemed to grow rapidly.

While Mike talked to Franko on the phone, I studied the print of my scrap’s vita. I had found it online at one of the student information points for Babylon Central University, even though I hadn’t known rich people still did the whole education thing. I’d been really surprised to find Kel’s picture there, and even more stunned to find out he was a business studies major.

I sifted through my stack of files lazily while Mike went on. “So if he doesn’t get it done soon, the job will be open again? What’s the deadline?” There was a short silence as Mike listened, then he threw a glance at me that didn’t predict good things to come. “48 hours? Wow that’s a tight schedule. No, no, I’m alright with that. Just give me a holler if anything new comes up. Thanks, Franko.”

Putting the phone back into his pocket Mike sat down again and grabbed his beer can to take a big sip. “Well, that didn’t go so well, I’d say. Seems to be a Mafia job if you ask me. Franko mentioned something about scag debts that got too high. But your target is filthy rich, there’s no reason not to pay for his fixes.”

I nodded in agreement and put the student profile away. There was some more information about Kel’s family, most of it legally acquired, like the financial status of his father, their businesses and corporations and tax payments, but the numbers irked me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was though.

“Something about this whole thing here bothers me, but I don’t know what it is,” I mumbled, and Mike scooted closer to grab the papers from me. He was pretty good with numbers and taxes, having to deal with that kind of stuff all the time, and I hoped he would make out what I had missed.

He studied the papers quietly for a few minutes, then made a thoughtful sound and started to leaf through the financial history of Flatlands Inc. “There’s nothing wrong with those numbers, they’re perfect. But the taxes are too high for the profit margin they put on their home page, so either mister DeLargo has some serious private property he doesn’t want to talk about, or they’re lying about their profits on their official website. I don’t think they’d be coy about their success but finding out about private ownerships will be quite some work.”

I frowned as I digested what I’d heard. So daddy dearest had personal articles of value stashed away somewhere, but paid for those with his company. It was odd to keep money somewhere where you had to pay taxes for it if there were chances to invest and not pay extra, and after more than three hours of investigation, I had a quite accurate picture of the deviousness of Kel’s family. Theodore DeLargo would never put up with such weak points, never.

“Can you do it? I have a premonition that this information here will be quite valuable soon,” I asked, and Mike just nodded. Of course he could do it, it would just be a matter of time.

“How much?” Mike asked. Nothing was ever for free in my world, and of course I would pay him for his work. It was his business after all, this information gathering.

“Five thousand flat premium and a third of what ever I’ll gain through the information you gather for me,” I offered and held out my hand. Mike took it without qualms, shook on it and got up to start gathering the papers strewn around.

“I’ll start today. Finding hidden money isn’t as easy as TV makes it look like, but I’ve got my contacts at the IRS. As soon as I find out something, I’ll call you, but don’t be coy if you stumble across something yourself. The more I know, the faster I’ll be.”

~*~

After leaving Mike’s, I went for a walk in a neighborhood I’d hoped to never visit again: Irish Town, a conglomerate of small plazas and streets almost exclusively inhabited by Irish immigrants. The majority of those people had either fled when the IRA had been at the peak of their activity back in Ireland, or followed when the IRA had been disbanded a few years later. Now they represented a new form of criminal organization, leasing people to the Mafia to work as drug dealers and pimps with no knowledge of the higher-ups whatsoever. This intriguing system was so effective, they had broadened the bandwidth of their illegal skills over the last few months to black market trading, extortion and money laundry, while still working as subcontractors for the Babylon Mafia.

I wasn’t interested in their business model though. What I was interested in was the knowledge their dealers had about Kelaste and his ‘medication’.

There were lots of people wandering the streets, going about their business, and I got a few ugly glances because I was recognized as a stranger to the district. The folks from Irish Town didn’t like intruders very much, and they showed it. They only ceased to care when night fell, because every proper person around here would rather drop dead than walk the streets at night. They knew what went on there in the dead of night, but they’d never rat out a fellow Irishman. The police had themselves to blame for that loyalty; when the Irish had started to trickle in, they had not treated them well. Having been paid by the Babylon Mafia to keep competition down, they had driven many young fellows out of the city, and their corruption wasn’t forgotten easily.

I tugged down my washed-out black hoodie to hide the hilt of my ever loyal Beretta at the small of my back, shoved my hands into the frayed pockets of my skin tight red pants and avoided crossing anyone’s path as I strolled down the cobblestoned Grayson Avenue. Looking innocuous wasn’t one of my talents, but at least I could manage to look disinterested. As I reached Foster Plaza, a venue that had morphed out of several intersections when city officials had demolished old public buildings, an old lady in black and dark blue smacked my arm with her purse, babbled something in Gaelic and spit on my boots before walking on. Yep, I definitely still hated this place.

Foster Plaza was the central meeting point for teenagers, dealers and hooligans on weekdays, whereas on weekends a big fish and vegetable market dominated the open space. If you visited this plaza at night, you ran a pretty high risk of being robbed and stabbed, but in daylight it was strangely calm. Since even dealers and addicts had parents, and most of them probably lived in Irish Town too, they actually were well behaved as long as there was light on the sky.

“Yo, Noom! Fancy seeing ya’ here,” a voice said behind me and made me turn around. Crooked teeth were bared by a snarly grin, dominating an even uglier, unshaven face as the guy strolled closer. Thomas, or Tommy for short, had been my favorite dealer a time long past, but I wouldn’t have recognized him if he hadn’t called out my name. His clothes were dirty and crusty, his hair unkempt, and somehow he had lost an eye since I’d last seen him.

“Hey Tommy,” I answered, trying to keep the disdain out of my voice. He’d never done anything to deserve my anger, but I just couldn’t stand the thought of talking to a dealer - any dealer - after what had happened to me. “A friend of mine needs a fix, but I don’t know which dealer he frequents. Maybe you can help me out?”

At first, he seemed hesitant, but when I described my little hostage, Tommy broke into a huge toothy grin. “What, you’re friends with that guy? Climbing up the social ladder, eh?” he teased, then shrugged. “He’s got no favorite, that one. He tries to pay with sexual favors every time though, and most of us won’t go for that. He's always got money with him, so I don’t know what his deal is, but he’s well acquainted with Tony’s crew because they cover most of the nightclubs.”

I frowned at that. If Kel always paid one way or the other, why would anyone want him dead? Maybe someone higher up the ranks had found out that some of the dealers gave out scat for a hump and wanted to make an example of Kel, but if that were the case, Tommy would have mentioned it. I gave him a cigarette for his help, said my farewell, and walked on.

It took me a little bit longer to find one of Tony’s men, but when I finally did, I recognized him immediately. It was the weaselly guy I’d seen Kel with the night before, the one with the disgusting cock. He wasn’t as ready to talk as Tommy had been, but when I described Kel with as much detail as I could muster, he finally relented.

“Yeah, I know ‘im. He’s a good sport. Never begs, never makes debts. Either he pays, or he… recompenses, if you know what I mean,” he grumbled, then grinned smugly. He did seem more suspicious of me though, so I decided to purchase something for Kel, just to make my point. I was pretty sure the guy ripped me off, but I didn’t comment on that.

“He got any problems you know of? Any reason why he would send me to buy his stuff?” I inquired, making a big deal of looking around nervously, pretending to be afraid of being caught.

The scrawny dealer shrugged and frowned. “Well… No. I mean, there was someone looking for him this morning, but that guy just asked around if anyone had seen your friend, and he wasn’t a cop. A guy from the Mafia, if you ask me, but none of us dared to ask what it was about. None of our business, you see.” He gave me the small satchel, and I shoved it into my pocket, looking around again.

I didn’t like what I was hearing. Someone was already looking for Kel, probably to find out if he was still breathing, and I had just confirmed that he was very much alive. I had to think quick.

“Well, if that guy comes back and asks again, you’ll maybe want to keep quiet about me. I’ve heard some undercover cops are looking for people they can bully into ratting out their suppliers, and that wouldn’t sit too well with your business, would it?”

I nodded my farewell and didn’t wait for his answer, I just walked away. I felt his eyes follow me until I left the plaza, but I didn’t dare look back, because I desperately needed him to believe me and for that I had to look sincere.

Now I had a little more information, some smack I didn’t want in my pockets, and more questions than before. I still needed to do something about my job, and since I hadn’t been able to find out who had paid for the hit, I would have to fake Kel’s death to win some time.

But how was I supposed to do that?

~*~

I still had no idea what to do when I arrived at home. The door fell shut behind me, and the slamming sound provoked other noises from upstairs; there was a soft thud, then a low curse, then silence settled over the house. I looked up the stairs alarmed. Had my sexy captive somehow gotten out of his bindings?

I didn’t take off my boots when I walked over to the stairs. If Kelaste tried to flee, I needed to be able to follow quickly and good footwear was the key to successful coursing. I pulled my gun before I reached the top of the stairs, aiming for the most probable hideouts he’d choose up there. I didn’t want to be surprised or jumped, because then I’d have to seriously hurt him. Better threaten him with a weapon he already knew than hitting him, at least that’s what I thought.

When I reached my living room-bedroom combo and found him, I had to snicker. Somehow he’d fallen off the couch and gotten caught under the coffee table, and now he didn’t dare to move since the cups from before still sat on it, ready to spill their contents all over my furniture.

“Thoughtful of you,” I remarked with a smirk, put away the gun and walked closer to pick up the coffee mugs and put them next to the computer. Kel just gave me a dirty look, then he wiggled out from under the coffee table.

I could see his cheeks and fingers shudder rhythmically and sighed. Grabbing his arm, I pulled him up and pushed him back onto the couch. “You havin’ the shakes?” I inquired unhappily, remembering the scat I had in my pocket. I really didn’t like drugs, but this was none of my business. If I wanted to enjoy his company, I’d have to deal with this, like it or not.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, obviously ashamed about his state, and nodded. He was not yet crazed by the cravings, which was impressive for someone who’d been using for so long, but long-time drug abuse didn’t automatically mean intense addiction. If he didn’t need his high 24/7, he was a highly functioning addict, and I liked people who managed their weaknesses in a sufferable way.

Funny how he didn’t feel like my hostage anymore. Our new relationship had crept in stealthily and so quickly, I had to take a mental step back to realize it was there. Even then it didn’t really scare me, which was even more odd. I petted his head for a moment, I couldn’t stop myself from doing it.

“Stay there, we gotta talk,” I snapped, and turned to go to my weapon’s chest. I punched in the code, got out my first aid kit and a Bowie knife and stomped back to where he was sitting and staring at me with his freaky silver eyes. As I bent over his tied-back hands, I huffed, “If you try anything funny, I’ll gut you with this,” and cut the cable binders to free his arms. He’d need them to prepare his fix, and maybe I’d win brownie points with him for that small favor, who knew.

Surprisingly, he didn’t even try to move until I took a step back. Only then did he slowly pull his arms back front and massage his wrists, still blushing from bashfulness and nerves.

He didn’t say anything, but it felt like I could almost hear his thoughts as I watched him cowering there, too insecure to look at me. “Yes, I was out trying to find whoever put money on your head. No, I didn’t succeed. Yes, you’re still in big trouble,” I rattled off the answers and relished his surprised expression. It was nice being able to impress His Highness with such mundane things, but then he didn’t really strike me as the pampered heir I’d imagined him to be.

I fumbled for the small satchel in my pocket, pulled it out and threw it onto the first aid kit on the coffee table as I sat down.

His eyes followed the gray powder instinctively, then he blinked three times and finally looked at my face. It made me grin how he suddenly tried to ignore the thing he must have wanted most in the world right now, just so he wouldn’t seem too desperate.

“What happens now? You gonna shoot me?” he inquired a bit hoarsely, but his gaze never wavered from my face.

I should have said yes and just shot him.

“I want to be perfectly clear on this, so listen,” I said instead as I shoved the Bowie knife into my ratty belt and flicked the heroin closer to him. “Somebody out there is willing to spend a lot of money to have you killed. That someone also has people out there asking around for you. Neither of us know who is behind this, so right now, I’m about the only person you can trust because I’ve already got you, I know about the money, I’ve got no qualms about killing people, and I’ve got the means to do it. That you’re still alive should be enough for you to trust me, right?”

I didn’t just see him grapple with the meaning of my words, I could also feel it, and it freaked me out. I didn’t want to show him any weakness though, so I jumped up and busied myself with putting away the knife and rummaging around in the weapon’s chest. I nearly missed his answer through all the noise I was making.

“Right,” he whispered, and I could feel his gaze drop away from the back of my head. He had a pretty impressive stare, that one. “So what now?”

I closed the chest with a loud thud and walked back to the table, fighting down the urge to destroy something. It was just nerves, nothing more, but he was way too talented in keeping me on edge for my comfort.

“We’re gonna fake your death, you’ll get your fix, I’ll probably tie you down again and then I’m gonna go cash in some money, because that's what I’d do under normal circumstances.” My words were curt and to the point, my teeth clenched when I said them, but he still got them right. He didn’t even flinch as he thoughtfully snatched the satchel and inspected the contents.

Everything went fine until he dropped the bombshell. “I’m afraid of needles, I can’t do it myself.”

I think my jaw unhinged and dropped to the ground. “Are you for real?” I blurted out and stared at him disbelievingly. How could a junkie be afraid of needles? How had he even managed to stay on this habit if he didn’t dare to inject himself? At least now the toilet stall show made a lot more sense. He’d needed that wasted punk to help him with it, and- lucky me- now he needed my help. Me, a most vocal opponent to using drugs. Oh, sweet irony!

“Fine, I’ll do it,” I snarled, and this time he did flinch at the tone of my voice. Maybe I was not the only one affected by this strange empathetic bond, but that did nothing to reassure me. I really didn’t like the thought of having someone besides me inside my head. The thought alone was too odd to comprehend.

He did agree to prepare the shot, and soon enough the strangely sweet smell of cooking scat floated through my living room. It made me even more moody. Kelaste didn’t know my past, but if he’d known, he probably would have foregone this opportunity just to be sensible.

The lure of heroin doesn’t stop with the addiction, you know. Whenever you smell that old, familiar scent your brain does the good-ol’-times routine and beckons you to go back, try it again, just one more time, just a tiny little bit.

That was the main reason why I hated addicts so much, they always had that smell on their hair, their clothes, their skin, and it made me angry.

With every passing minute, Kel cringed more and more, and it was all the confirmation I needed. He definitely felt a hint of what I felt but didn’t seem surprised by it. When he finally had the syringe ready, I stepped closer and put the tourniquet on his arm. “I’ll pull some blood first, then you get your shit sorted out. I’ll be gone for a couple of hours, but if you wake up and leave the house, don’t even think about coming back.”

I stung him with an empty syringe attached, pulled a good amount of blood, then attached the full syringe and sent him to Nirvana. He was out within a few mere moments after loosening the tourniquet, and I just left him lying there happily.

My last march for the day would lead me to Franko’s, and I’d need to keep my wits about me if I wanted to lie to his face and get away with it.