The Troubleshooter: The Most Dangerous Dame Page 2

  Johnny blinked the rain out of his eyes. He gave Poddar a wary glance before looking my direction. “Don’t… know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you don’t. But I got good word you’re trying to get some pretty rough poison into the Black Dahlia. You know, where you got a night gig as door muscle. They took a chance on hiring a lug like you. Background check turned out all right, but we both know those are easy to fake.”

  “Take it easy, Mick.” Johnny gingerly sat up, holding his head with his oversized grabbers. “You got your wires crossed. I ain’t done nothing illegal.”

  “Course not, ‘cause you haven’t had time yet. See, I’m in good with the Dahlia’s manager, Mr. Shapiro. He got an anonymous tip that something about you just wasn’t right. That’s when he gave me a call. I figured I could sniff out something if I beat the streets for someone who’d dime you out. I found out a lot about your extracurricular activities, Johnny. Like that stash of Ladykillers you have loaded up at Dock 76.”

  Certain folks are real good at lying. Johnny Knuckles wasn’t one of those folks.

  “I don’t got nothing stashed. Swear on my moms I don’t.” He looked up with wide eyes, trying real hard to look earnest. On an ugly mug like his, it was a gaze of tragic comedy.

  I blew a stream of smoke his direction. “You sure about that, Johnny boy?”

  “Honest, Mick. I just got that new gig. I wouldn’t screw ‘em over like that.”

  I stared at him. Narrowed my eyes a bit. Enjoyed watching him sweat bullets. I had a bit of a rep in New Haven as an unpredictable wild card. Only fitting I used it now and again.

  “What do you think, Poddar?”

  “I think we should get out of this rain, Mick.” Poddar pulled his collar up and frowned at the downpour.

  Poddar still hadn’t gotten into the habit of wearing a topper. I didn’t get it. Not only was a Bogart a stylish fashion accessory, it also did a hell of a job of keeping a man’s hair dry when it rained. It rained all the time in New Haven.

  “I’m talking about Johnny’s story. You buying what he’s selling?”

  Poddar gave Johnny a dark look. Poddar was nicknamed the Prince by the slumdogs in his neck of the world, so it went without saying he was all for just saying no to drugs and all.

  “He’s lying.”

  Johnny swallowed hard. “No way. I swear, man. I’m telling the truth.”

  I smiled. “You know what? I believe you, Johnny.”

  His massive chest heaved a sigh of relief.

  I exhaled smoke through my nostrils. “But I gotta be sure, you know? You say the stash isn’t yours? Hey–maybe my info was a bit off. No kick, right? So you provide a little bit of proof, a sign-off on your good word and we’ll call it a night. Whaddya say?”

  His eyes shifted as he caught wind of the trap he was in. “Uh…sure, Mick. What do you want me to do?”

  “Catch.”

  I tossed a small cylinder-shaped device to him. He fumbled for a bit but finally caught it. It was about the length of his palm, topped by a simple red button. His eyebrows rose.

  “This… this looks like–”

  “Like a detonator?” I smiled. “Sure it does. You see, I wired a few choice explosives to that stash I told you about. You know, at Dock 76? I’m not too fond of narcotics. ‘Specially the type stockpiled on that dock. Ladykiller. Made to slip in a gal’s drink when she’s not looking. Gets her all woozy and unable to think straight. Good-for-nothing pervs like to take a dame like that and do all sorts of filthy things to her. When she gets outta the haze–if they haven’t put her on ice, that is–she won’t remember much. Certainly not enough to know who did the deed.”

  I flicked the gasper butt into the low-hanging fog. “So you understand I can’t let a huge stash like that go into circulation. If there’s one thing I’m guilty of, it’s having a soft spot for dames. Pipe that?”

  Johnny Knuckle’s oversized mitts trembled. “So you want me to…?”

  “Not all that hard to figure out, Johnny boy. You blow up that stash and you’re off the hook. After all, it’s not your problem–right?”

  The rain streamed on Johnny’s bare head, giving him the impression of drowning in his own sweat. His eyes flicked to the detonator in his hand, then back at me. His body tensed, straining his muscles until the veins in his arms seemed ready to burst.

  My hand strayed toward the inside of my flogger.

  He finally sagged, exhaling vapor into the rain. He nodded wearily.

  “Ok, Mick. You win. I know about the Ladykillers. I put ‘em there.”

  He eyes widened when he looked up. “But I’m just the handler. I can’t lose those roofies, Mick. You know what’ll happen if I do.”

  “Not my problem, Johnny. I got a motto I go by. Wanna hear it? Here it goes: live by your choices or die by your mistakes. Know what that means?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I know what it means. You’re not gonna do squat to help me.” He leaped up with a wild look on his face. I took a step back and reached for the heat inside my flogger. But Johnny turned and hurled the detonator into the fog as hard as he could. A few seconds later we heard the splash as it cleared the gangplanks and hit the West River.

  He took a few steps between us and put up his cement block fists. “No way I can let you just blow up that payday, Mick. I can’t go out like that.”

  I shrugged. “Why not? You already went out the window. But you got me, Johnny. Guess we’re at a stalemate. Sure I could let Poddar reintroduce you to the bottom of his shoes again, but that wouldn’t do us any good. Except the satisfaction of watching a big lug like you get broke down by a Prince like Poddar, that is. So why don’t you just roll and give up the name of your supplier? Give me a bigger fish to fry, and I take care of the axe over your head.”

  He paused and lowered his fists. “You want me to squeal on my boss? I’m no snitch, Mick.”

  I gave him my most understanding smile. “That’s why it’ll stay between us. You know my word is good, Johnny. Plus you’re running outta choices as I see it. I’m here for a reason. If you think it’s for the stimulating conversation, you’d better guess again.”

  He mulled it over for a moment before nodding. Like I said, pretty smart for a goon.

  “Ok, Mick. All right. You heard of Luther Vitto?”

  “Not too many people I haven’t heard of. Big shot bank investor. Sharks loans to unqualified borrowers on the side. You saying he’s dipping in the narcotics trade too?”

  “Not directly. But I overheard his name when I picked the shipment up. He’s setting this up through third parties to keep his mitts clean.”

  “Right. So when the chips fall, lugs like you get put in bracelets or catch the slugs. Not exactly a bright career move, Johnny boy.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey, I needed the dough. It was just this one job, then I was out.”

  I grinned. “Yeah it always is. See you around, Johnny.”

  I turned to leave. Poddar stared at me.

  “Are you serious?”

  “About what?”

  He jerked a thumb at Johnny Knuckles. “We’re just letting this guy walk?”

  I gave Poddar my patient face. “That’s the way these things work. Favors are the main currency in this town. It’s not always fair and it’s not always satisfying, but it’s how the cogs turn. Mutual back scratching and all that.”

  I took a look around. “Let’s beat it. It isn’t getting any drier, and I got a stop or two to make before I hang my Bogart.”

  Poddar grumbled, but I knew he wouldn’t make a scene. He was too much a gentleman to try to argue his point in front of other people, even a skid rogue like Johnny Knuckles. We left the lug looking dazed in the downpour as we made our way to the parking lot. The lane lines had faded away a long time ago, so the battered and rusty wheelers were haphazardly parked. I walked to dirtiest, most weather-beaten piece of junk in the lot.

  “You can lose the camouflage mode, Maxine.” />
  “As you wish, Mr. Trubble.” The synthetic voice was almost as sexy as the ride itself as my Duesenberg Ghost-inspired wheeler altered her holographic façade and revealed her beetle-black glimmering curves. The doors slid open.

  Poddar walked over to the passenger side. “Why bother with camouflage mode at all? I thought you equipped her with an auto defense system.”

  “That’s true, Ace. But the point is not allowing the temptation in the first place. She’s sure to attract attention in this neighborhood and I might trip over all the stiffs she’d have to put down.” I slid into the driver’s seat. “Head over to Johnson Arms, Maxine.”

  “Finding the quickest route.” Her fusion motors hummed to life and we peeled out the parking lot.

  Poddar gave me a sideways glance. “You all right, Mick?”

  “Right as rain on a weathervane, Ace. Why the concern?”

  “You just seem…distracted. More than usual, I mean.”

  I sighed. “You ever meet a ghost, Poddar?”

  Surprisingly, he nodded after second’s thought. “Yes.”

  “What…seriously?”

  “You asked a question, Mick. Your interpretation of a ghost might be different from mine.”

  I’d forgotten how twisted conversations with Poddar could get. I shook my head. “I ran into one last night. A dame I haven’t thought of in a long time. Didn’t have time to even catch up on things before she vanished like harbor mist.”

  His face softened a bit. “Did you…love her?”

  I considered the notion for a moment. “Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll ever understand that word, Poddar.”

  “First you must understand it is more than just a word. Then you will begin to appreciate its significance.”

  I smiled. “No wonder your moll is so sweet on you, Poddar. With lines like that, you’re bound to keep the dames swooning.”

  His frown returned. “I still don’t like the idea of letting him keep the drugs, Mick. If we let that go then we’re as responsible as he is for ruining lives.”

  I smiled. “Couldn’t agree with you more, Ace. Maxine?”

  “Auto detonation ready, Mr. Trubble.”

  A holographic screen sprang up out of her display console. On it was a grid with the position of the explosives pulsing in red. I pointed to the auto detonate button and nodded to Poddar. “You’ll do the honors?”

  He gave a wry smile and shook his head. “I should have known.”

  “Yeah, you should have. There’s no way I let Johnny Knuckles get his mitts on that stash. Not on my watch. Why don’t you show him how we feel about targeting women?”

  Poddar pressed the button on the display. An explosion mushroomed in the distance behind us, painting the night sky in lovely shades of red and orange.

  Poddar leaned back in his seat with a satisfied smile. “I can only imagine the look on Johnny’s face.”

  “Yeah.” I grinned as the streets and buildings blurred by. “Sometimes I love my job.”

  Chapter 3: Mean Ol’ Broad Part Deux

  Sergeant Johnson was in the weapons division of the United Havens Special Forces. Since actual warfare is mostly synthetic, he didn’t see much action in the skirmishes with the Outer Havens. Still, he managed to get his arm blown off in an explosion while repairing a Tesla cannon. He got his discharge and never looked back as he made his way to New Haven, where he manufactured iron at his own shop called Johnson Arms. In a town where everyone packed heat, he never had to worry about a shortage of customers.

  He was at his workbench in the back when we strode in. Sparks rained on his fireproofed shoulders as he soldered on his latest lethal masterpiece.

  “Mick Trubble.” He lifted his face shield, revealing dark goggles and a bearded face underneath. He smiled. “Give me just a minute.”

  “Take your time, Sarge.”

  The lobby walls were lined with an assortment of firearms. Mostly military grade, but a few high-tech doodads for the tech savvy who preferred style over substance. Glass shelves were packed with various ammo clips and Tesla cells for the mech-powered heat.

  I took a look at a brand new Thompson, the preferred weapon for goons and gangsters. The cylinder-shaped magazine carried a couple hundred rounds before emptying. All that ammo was probably why most of the suckers had such bad aim.

  “She’s yours for a song.” Johnson removed the headgear and welder’s apron, revealing a sweat-stained shirt covering his burly frame. His left arm was a clunky collection of gears and pistons. Most folks went for flesh-colored synthetics, but ol’ Sarge built his arm himself and wore it proudly.

  I shook my head. “Not today, Sarge. Don’t care too much for heavy iron. If I can’t get outta a jam in seven shots or less I’m toast anyway.”

  Johnson wiped his forehead with a grimy rag. “I hear you. But a lotta folks aren’t as forward thinking as you are, Mick. Those Thompsons sell like hotcakes. I actually have contracts with certain outfits around town. My work doesn’t jam or overheat like some of the junk those other so-called gunsmiths try to pass off.”

  I set the Thompson back on the rack. “Well, that’s why I came to you, Sarge. You were highly recommended.”

  “I appreciate it. Hope you like your new piece. But since you’re into handguns, I thought I’d show you a few other choices. You know–in case you’re looking for a handy backup.”

  I patted my flogger. “I already got a Replacement Killer. Been using it as my main piece temporarily. But hey–no harm in looking.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “Right. Check these out.”

  A segmented section of the wall flipped over to reveal a cache of assorted handguns. Most of them were mech-enhanced, but there were a few old school revolvers as well.

  “Clap your eyes on this one.” Johnson handed over a mean-looking piece. “Rare piece of work there. Hard to find because–”

  “Because it’s issued by the Secret Service.” I peered down the sights. “It’s a Bond 953 special tactics handgun. Usually biologically bonded to the owner, so it won’t work for anyone else. This one has been hacked and modified, no small feat.”

  I clicked a button on the grip. A holographic screen sprang from a transmitter on the rear sight. I turned slowly, scanning the room in sweeping patterns.

  “Automatic targeting with smart scan threat detector along with x-ray, infrared, and night vision sensors. Fusion rounds are powered by a Tesla cell that can fire 200 electrolaser bursts without overheating. Dampening muzzle and variant bullet magazine optional.”

  Johnson stared, and Poddar gave me a sidelong look. I handed the heater back to Johnson.

  “Pretty impressive,” he finally said. “Not too many know the exact specs on Service weaponry. Unless they’re former SS, that is.”

  I shrugged off the unasked question. “Photographic memory. I read something and it sticks. No big deal.”

  He nodded. “So…can’t interest you in this baby? She’ll be gone quick, I tell you.”

  “I kinda doubt that, Sarge. Walking around with unauthorized SS armory is a real quick way to get buried deep and fast. So I hear, anyway. Only a rube would wanna cross the Service. Smart eggs know better than to stick their grabbers in the fire.”

  Johnson smiled as he put the iron away. “There’s always a buyer, Mick. This is New Haven, after all. The Service has no jurisdiction here, remember?”

  I guess I could have told him New Haven had recently been infiltrated and nearly destroyed by Secret Service agents. And I was one of those agents before my memory was laundered and inserted into an independent synoid. Only I didn’t feel like getting laughed at. Or having to go through a lengthy and bewildering explanation about memory transplants and a mentally imprisoned populace.

  I nodded instead. “Yeah.”

  Johnson scratched his beard as he went through more cases of weaponry. “And here’s your custom order. Keeping it old school. Can’t be mad at you.”

  He held up my baby. The Mean Ol’
Broad, resurrected from the dead.

  “As you requested, a snub nose Magnum base seven-shot revolver. Rubber grip designed according to your hand’s specifications. Mech enhancements only to preserve durability and shot efficiency along with biological recognition to disarm the safety.”

  He shook his head. “I gotta say, I was a bit disappointed. As far as custom jobs go, this wasn’t exactly a challenge to build.”

  I ignored him as I got reacquainted with my girl. I knew I was back in business as soon as I touched her. There was no way to know if Johnson could have replicated the old piece of iron that had been melted into slag by the New Man a short while back, but Sarge’s work was as good as advertised.

  The Mean Ol’ Broad was more than just an ordinary heater. I’d gotten her from a codger named Wiseman, who’d showed me the ropes of troubleshooting back when I was a wandering amnesiac. That put a lot of sentimental value in the old girl. I’d felt lost without her.

  I smiled. “Feels like a winner, Johnson. ‘Course, I gotta throw lead before I know if she’s the right girl for me.”

  He jerked a thumb toward the back. “The targets are outside.”

  About a hundred rounds later I nodded in appreciation. “I gotta admit you do some solid work, brother. I’ll take her.”

  Johnson removed his protective muffs and snorted. “Of course you’ll take her. Nice shooting, by the way.”

  He narrowed his eyes and whistled as the results came in on the console. “Ninety-seven percent rating. I’ve only seen that a few times, Mick.” He gave me a keen glance. “From the mandroids at the precinct.”

  “Street sweepers? Shouldn’t those can openers make one hundred?”

  “Nothing’s perfect, Mick. That’s why they do the shots–to get their targeting programs lined up. But you…that’s unheard of. For anyone outside of the Service, anyhow.”

  I turned and looked him in the eye. “You got something on your mind, Sarge? Stop the foreplay and get straight to the nasty.”

  He chuckled. “No questions, Mick. A man in my business doesn’t get a lot of business asking questions. I only make observations.”