Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [59]
Webster watched as he gestured silently and Christine Bowman came through, her gun also ready, her head swivelling back and forth with great alertness as though she was coming into an unsecured crime scene instead of her boss’s office. She looked carefully back down the corridor and beckoned. A moment later she was followed by a portly man.
Webster recognized the fat cop who’d been sweating in his body armour at the Mayans’ apartment. The one who looked so pissed off at the IDEA interference. He didn’t look too happy now, either.
‘Can’t you guys take a crap without getting your guns out?’ he said.
Harrigan smiled. ‘All our important guests get an armed escort.’
Chavez sat down in the chair Webster had vacated, directly in front of the desk. He looked Harrigan in the eye. ‘If you want to butter me up, you could try giving me some of that bourbon.’ The big Texan chuckled and reached for the bottle of Wild Turkey. Behind him the Bowmans each found a chair. Raymond began methodically stripping down his weapon and checking that all the moving parts were clean. Webster ignored them, phasing everything out as he concentrated on his computer screen.
The big Texan took another glass from his desk drawer and poured a whisky for the cop. ‘Thanks for coming out here to see us, Mr Chavez.’
The cop sipped his drink. ‘So, you got some problems you want to share with me?’
‘Well, this is a little embarrassing, so I hope you’ll bear with me.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘It looks like one of our people might actually be working for the enemy.’
‘And who’s that?’ said the fat cop.
Harrigan bent down, reaching under his desk and dragging out the picnic cooler they used for the confiscated drugs. ‘The girl you met at the Mayans’.’ He grunted as he put the cooler up on the desk. ‘Calls herself Miss Summerfield.’
‘No, I’d already worked that out.’ Chavez swirled his drink casually around in his glass. ‘I meant who’s your enemy?’
Harrigan flushed with anger and slammed a meaty hand on the cooler. ‘The kind of scum who’s peddling this poison on our streets.’
‘Amen,’ said Chavez dryly.
‘What do you know about this stuff called warlock?’
‘Not much. Our labs haven’t even had enough samples to test it properly.’
‘That’s too bad.’
‘Too bad but not surprising, when you consider that the IDEA insists on confiscating every single white pill we find.’
‘Can you blame an old soldier because he has one last crusade?’ The big man came out from behind his desk and stood in front of Chavez’s chair, towering over him. Chavez could smell the whisky and cigar smoke on the Texan. ‘One day soon this tired body will drop in its tracks,’ he said, his voice a low, lazy drawl.
But not before this speech is over, thought Chavez. Unfortunately.
The Texan continued in his unhurried fashion. ‘Right now, however, there’s a war on. Against the vermin who sell this stuff. The ones who grow rich on the agony of the addicts. They let young kids destroy their minds. Rot their bodies with lethal viruses from dirty needles. The ones who turn this evil into cash.’
The Texan perched on the edge of his desk, sitting there breathing heavily like a man exhausted after a long race. ‘And I’m not about to quit until we find the source of this poison and put the suppliers behind bars. We want to catch the big fish this time. Once we’ve nailed these bastards, then I can die in peace.’ His glass glinted as he raised it in toast to Chavez.
‘Admirable sentiments,’ said the fat cop, raising his own glass. ‘We’d like to find out where this stuff is coming from, too. But we’d also like to know if it is physically addictive, whether it has a psychedelic effect, whether it’s injectable. All things that you seem to be assuming, Mr Harrigan.’
The old Texan grinned. ‘You speak your mind, Mr Chavez. And you’ve got quite a mind to speak. I like that.’
‘Save the bullshit and pour me another whisky please.’ Chavez leaned forward and handed his glass to the old man. ‘If you really want to know about warlock you ought to talk to my man