Spares - Michael Marshall Smith [32]
“Do it,” I said. It must have been great when computers could only fuck you up at work, by pretending they couldn’t find the printer. Now they’re so intelligent they can fuck you up all the time.
Howie shoved a lunchtime news sheet toward me. I scanned the two-line reports and saw that a Minimart in the Portal had been firebombed an hour ago. I pressed the MORE INFORMATION icon and the sheet shimmered blank for a moment before feeding up the rest of the details. There weren’t many: a grayscale photo and six lines of text. It was the same Minimart I’d been to, and the owner was missing presumed dead. No witnesses, naturally. It probably only made the paper because a piece of shrapnel smashed the car window of a passing high-lifer. Howie knew the guy had recognized me on my way back to Mal’s the night before. He hadn’t known what the report’s final line made clear: The Minimart owner had in the past been a known associate of Johnny Vinaldi.
“It wasn’t me,” I said.
“Didn’t think it was,” Howie said, though it had obviously crossed his mind. “Just shows Vinaldi’s problems aren’t getting any better,” he added, trying to look bland as he said it. He knew that I understood he was distantly connected to Vinaldi, and that I appeared not to hold it against him. Other people, notably those going round whacking small business owners, might take a different view.
“Yeah, Mal said something similar. He was equally vague.” I didn’t know whether I was trying to encourage the conversation or end it. Hearing the name from Mal had been one thing; from anyone else it was different. It sparked a mixture of hard-won calm and wordless rage that I didn’t know what to do with.
Howie seemed to want to talk about it. “In the last two weeks, five of Vinaldi’s closest associates have been clipped. I don’t mean losers like the Minimart stooge,” he said, “I’m talking guys who ran most of the thirties and forties. The latest was last night.” I nodded, remembering the report I’d seen on the morning news. “He gets new people in immediately, of course, but it’s rattling him. Also, the new guys are having to learning-curve it, and someone seems to be pushing him pretty hard on all fronts. Deals going sour, DEA agents turning him, the works.”
“So it’s some other lowlife trying to take over his rackets. Vinaldi can cope with that.” I knew from experience just how capable Vinaldi was of dealing with outside interference, and I didn’t want to discuss it.
Howie shook his head. “It looks organized. Bottom line is he’s fine until confidence starts to go. Then the rats will start jumping to whatever new ship hoves in view.”
“Who the fuck could take him on?” I’d tried, with all the so-called resources of the NRPD behind me, and my life would never be the same again.
“That’s what I’d like to know. When I go to the John I have to give his guys twenty per cent of my turds, so I have a vested interest. Probably Vinaldi’d like to know too.”
“And Jack Randall makes three,” I said. “So he can buy them all a cigar.”
Howie smiled painfully. “I’m sorry, Jack.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. I finished my beer in a swallow, stood up, and left the bar.
At four o’clock I was on 54, rapping impatiently on my third door of the afternoon. There was singing coming from behind the scarred panel in front of me, so I knew someone was in. A collection of corner boys had gathered fifty yards down the corridor, so I didn’t want to be hanging around outside any longer than I had to. I’d already been to 63 and 38, and both had been a waste of time. The lower of the two apartments had already been looted, and nobody within walking distance would admit to having heard of the victim. I’d walked back to the elevator, eye-fucked all the way, and counted myself lucky just to have gotten back out again in one piece. On 63, I’d talked to the second victim’s parents, both still blank-eyed with shock. They didn’t demand to see a badge, or ask if I thought their daughter’s murderer would be caught. They didn’t know anything