Empire State Page 5

  "Come on. Home."

  Rad waved both hands impatiently and rocked on his heels.

  "I want to see this. No, I'll be fine. The exercise and fresh air will do me good. Really. Let's go. Home, but docks first. It's not far."

  Rad spun and tottered up the stairs and across the street. Kane almost called out, but thought better of it. Behind him the door to Jerry's speakeasy was closed and dark, no hint of the illicit nightlife within. There were no blimps, no pedestrians, no traffic. But it paid to be careful. Agents of the State could be, would be, anywhere.

  Kane skipped up the stairs two at a time and ran after his friend.

  SIX

  THE DOCKLANDS OF THE Empire State were vast, a spread of wharfs, cranes, piers, warehouses and cargo yards stretching down one side of the island on which the city sat. They might have once been the commercial hub of the State, but Wartime had changed things. Surrounded by the Enemy, there was no longer any need for a trading port. But the city had a use for them still, and soon the whole zone had been turned into a great war machine, the naval foundries working day and night to produce the ironclads, the great fleet of warships that protected the city, taking the fight to the Enemy. Ironclads, like the one that was now anchored far out in the misty dark.

  Rad savoured the cold night air. He was feeling better, sobering up almost with each step from Jerry's. It was times like this he wished he was in better shape – while naturally a large man, the lack of work in the last few months had taken a toll on his fitness.

  They'd walked much further than he'd expected, as far south as you could go, in fact, close to the Battery, right into the heart of the naval zone. But Rad had been determined to get a good look and Kane hadn't really protested that much. But Rad knew that being out this late, in this area, was bound to arouse suspicion. There were lights on in the squat, functional naval buildings that surrounded them. They were being watched, no doubt about it.

  Rad looked out at the anchored ironclad. Its lights were on, and even though their glare made it hard to focus on the boat itself, its indistinct silhouette was a huge, brooding presence. He thought it would be very hard to keep the ironclad's return a secret. So far, lights blazing, it looked like they weren't bothering to try.

  Something uncomfortable wormed at the back of Rad's mind. The fact was that of the hundreds of metal warships that headed out to the war once or twice a year, not a single one had ever come back. Ever. The ships were constructed at a prodigious rate, and when enough were ready a fleet was assembled and a ticker-tape parade organised and they steamed off into the fog, out of sight, and out of mind. And then six months later the cheering crowds gathered again. And again. And again. But the ironclads never returned, and nobody ever talked about it, and the State pretended that the war was going well. And you didn't argue with the State.

  "Well now," said Rad. He felt sober, although he wasn't entirely sure where his feet were, so he leaned on the railing, just in case. "Don't tell me we're winning the war after all?"

  Kane touched the railing, then seemed to think better of it and took his hand away. The browned metal was cold, icy, but Rad enjoyed the sensation.

  "I kinda get the feeling that if this ship was supposed to come back, we would have heard about it," Kane said. "The Chairman of the City Commissioners would be on the steps of city hall gassing to the press. And nobody at the paper has mentioned this at all, and believe me, we'd be the first to know."

  Rad clicked his tongue. "Which means nobody knew it was coming back. Not even the Commissioners." He laughed. "Now there's a nice surprise."

  "So what's it doing back?"

  "And what are they going to do with it now?"

  Kane stood straight and stretched his back. He glanced at the shadows moving passed the windows behind them. Rad followed his look; they shouldn't linger too long.

  Kane smiled. "Perhaps you can get your friend the Skyguard to take a look?"

  Rad huffed, low. "Very funny."

  "Sorry," said Kane. "The new Skyguard."

  Rad pointed to the ship with a fat finger and wagged it. His face split into a too-wide grin and he winced a little.

  "Quarantine!"

  Kane frowned. "Quarantine?"

  "Yep, quarantine. Look." He pointed again. "The ship is out near the harbour entrance, but it's anchored and it's lit. So it's got power still, it's not damaged or wrecked or out of control. It's stopped, and anchored, far enough out that nobody can get to it very easily.

  "But that's not all. Those big blue eyes of yours don't work in the dark? Hell, I've a belly full of moonshine, but even I can see it. There's other boats out there. Unlit boats, all around it. A perimeter, just enough to establish a line. See?"

  Kane frowned and squinted. The waterfront was brightly lit by the streetlights, which reflected off the promenade and into the water. The ironclad's lights, a bright chain of globes that cast odd shadows against the angled metal hull of the warship, reflected back into the water around it. Between the two belts of light, there was a black void. The night was cloudy and the water's dull and calm surface spoiled only when a sharp wave crested, which wasn't often.

  Kane raised his hand to his brow, blotting out the glare of the streetlights. Rad pointed again. There, gently moving against the absolute black of the water: shapes. Rectangles and triangles and squares, indistinct but solid. Several boats, standing off the ironclad, between it and the city. A defensive line.

  Quarantine.

  "You're pretty smart for a drunk guy."

  "Hey hey," said Rad, standing up again and swaying a little. "Drunk private detective, thank you very much."

  There was a noise from the building behind them. Kane looked over his shoulder, then took Rad's arm and pulled him slightly away, nodding towards the building. Rad turned with no subtlety at all, searching for the alarm and then saw more shapes moving in the windows. Someone was about to come and take a closer look. Rad nodded and let Kane guide him away, tripping slightly over his shoes.

  "Home time, Mr Fortuna. I think I need a drink."

  "You know there's a word for people like you, Rad. It's called 'functional alcoholic'."

  Rad laughed. "That's two words. Don't they teach you anything at fancy journalism school? And I meant tea, dear boy, tea." Rad stumbled a little. "And bed. Maybe in reverse order. Maybe tomorrow. I ain't got no plans. You?"

  Kane pursed his lips and Rad grinned. As they walked off, Rad watched reflections move on the wet street as they headed back up town. Kane's mouth moved without sound, and Rad recognised the way he was looking vaguely into the middle distance ahead of them.

  "I know that look," said Rad. Kane winked.

  "'Quarantine'," he said. "Yeah, I think I've got an idea for my next story."

  By the time Kane led Rad to his building, it had stopped being late and had started being early. Rad waved Kane off and watched as his friend paused, then turned on his heel and headed home with a wave over his shoulder. Rad nodded, then disappeared through the front door.

  Across the street, two men in gas masks and fedoras and trench coats watched Kane walk away. They stood in the shadow of a building for a few minutes, and then left the Empire State.

  SEVEN

  THE RINGING IN RAD'S HEAD was loud enough to wake him and once he was awake it didn't stop. He rolled over, noticing that the room was bright and the insides of his eyelids were red. It was day. He had no idea when he'd got to bed, and no idea how long he'd slept for. The ringing continued.

  Rad jerked upright. It was the telephone in the office. He sighed, and rubbed his face, then winced as the left side smarted like all hell. His fat lip had bled in the night and gummed his bottom teeth up. He touched the side of his face again. It stung when he touched it, and was comfortably numb when he didn't. That would do.

  The phone kept ringing and Rad got out of bed. He was still dressed, although without his coat and jacket and shoes. He rubbed his bald scalp as he glanced around the room, and wondered where hi
s hat was.

  The phone kept ringing and Rad stood up. He felt OK. It wasn't like drinking was a new experience. He was a regular at Jerry's. Jerry was a pal. But right now he needed coffee, black and strong and hot, by the pot. Rad shuffled in his socks over the floorboards towards the hotplate on the dresser. His kitchen was in his bedroom, as was his living room. Apartments in the Empire State didn't come cheap, which is why he didn't have one. The back room of his office did the trick. It was only him, after all, and he was lucky that his building had been a hotel once upon a time, as it meant he even had a basic washroom with a working shower.

  The phone kept ringing and Rad thought about answering it, but it was too early for a phone call, that was just rude. Unless it was four in the afternoon, in which case the phone call was polite and not answering it was rude. He found the coffee, but it was Wartime and it was rationed and there wasn't enough for the magic pot. If he eked it out, this week's ration would last a few more days. But this week was being interesting, so Rad threw caution to the wind and decided to use all the coffee right now. He knew he'd regret it later, but right at the moment he knew his head would thank him for it.

  Rad put a kettle on the hotplate and the phone stopped ringing. Rad started cleaning dried blood off his bottom teeth carefully with his tongue, and checked the grandfather clock sagging like an old man the corner. It was four in the afternoon and he'd been rude. Maybe it was a job? Maybe it was Kane? Maybe Kane had found out what was going on down at the docks with the quarantined ironclad. Dammit, he'd missed the phone call.

  The coffee was good. Making it stronger than usual seemed to improve it, as it was hardly the best money could buy, considering it wasn't bought with money but with coupons. He had it black, even though he normally took it with canned milk. But the milk ration was even smaller than the coffee ration, so he decided to save it.

  Rad still couldn't see his hat, but the coffee warmed him and began to clear his head as well as the bloody debris in his mouth. He thought about the phone call he'd missed and about the ironclad, and about where he'd left his hat. His shirt and pants had dried out as he slept, but the shirt was creased badly and the pants were still filthy from sitting in a puddle in an alleyway. He thought about the goons with gas masks and fedoras, and he wondered where he'd left his fedora.

  The office of Rad Bradley, Private Detective, was separated from the back roomcum-apartment by the same kind of door that led into the office itself from the main building corridor. Half wood, half bubbled glass, thin and cheap, suitable for lowrent office space but not something you'd want in your home. His name wasn't stencilled on the inner door because it was just supposed to separate the big office from the small office.

  The bubbled glass offered enough privacy, but was clear enough for Rad to now see someone walking around his office. He checked the clock again. Four-ten. Technically office hours, although he didn't like the fact that his front door was unlocked. But he didn't remember locking it the previous night, so he only had himself to blame. Himself and Jerry and Jerry's magical moonshine.

  The hard soles of the person in the office hammered sharply on the wooden floor as they paced around. Maybe they'd been sitting in the chair in front of Rad's desk all this time, and now having seen Rad's shadow moving around decided to get his attention. Maybe they'd had just come in. Maybe it was a client? Maybe it was a burglar. Maybe it was a goon in a gas mask and a fedora, and Rad frowned as he still couldn't see where his hat was.

  There was no time to change. Maybe it was a client, a job, the first in a few months. Wartime was hard on a PI and he was now out of coffee rations.

  He opened the connecting door six inches. The shadow stopped walking around and resolved itself into a woman in a red dress and black hat, holding a black clutch. She was made up, the skin of her face uniformly powdered to a perfect matte finish, which only popped the glossy red of her lips out even more. She was wearing red heels, immaculate and loud against the wooden floor. Rad's socks were much quieter as he stepped into the main office and closed the inner door behind him with one hand, the half cup of coffee in the other. He smiled, nicely he thought, but the woman flinched and backed away. She raised the clutch bag in front of her in an instinctively defensive pose, and shook her head.

  "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have disturbed you. I'm fine, thanks," she said as she took two steps backwards, bang bang, then turned and took another two, bang bang, towards the closed but unlocked main door.

  Rad slid over to his desk, and the woman turned. Her eyes were grey, part of the monochrome of her powdered face. She looked expectantly at Rad, clearly afraid and wanting him to make the first move, to take charge. It was obvious she was out of her depth, in unknown territory. But Rad was one of the good guys, he liked to think, licensed and everything. Then he realised it was nearly five in the afternoon and he was standing in his socks, and a creased shirt, and dirty pants, holding a half mug of coffee. He smiled broadly, then shrank it a little as he remembered his blood-blackened lower teeth. His desk was near the inner door, so he slowly reached over and put the mug down.

  "Well, ma'am, I wasn't expecting you but that doesn't mean you're not welcome," Rad began, turning at the corner of his desk. His prospective new client was pretty and nervous. He smiled again, keeping his lips tight. He needed to get paid and, looking at her attire, her makeup, and hat, she looked like she could provide handsomely.

  "I, that is, well, I..." The woman didn't move any closer, but instead waved the clutch purse around with each syllable spoken. Her eyes were on Rad most of the time, but spent a good while flicking to the corners of the room, checking the office out, making sure she'd made the right decision and come to the right place.

  "Ma'am, take a seat." Rad gestured to the chair in front of the desk, and the woman hesitated only a moment before taking two steps and sitting down. She perched on the edge, as you did in that kind of dress in this kind of office in that part of town, sitting across from a dirty man in old white socks. The clutch was now pressed firmly to her chest.

  Rad took a slow sip of his coffee, letting his eyes drift from the woman to show her he was relaxed. "My name is Rad Bradley, but I'm guessing you know that thanks to the fancy sign outside, and I'm a private detective, licensed by the Empire State. But I'm guessing you know that as well, because that's why you're here. How you got my name, address and occupation is none of my business. What is my business is your problem, because clearly you have a problem." Rad spread his hands out, palms out. "You're free to tell me about it, and I can let you know if it's the kind of difficulty I can assist with, and it won't cost a dime." And then he shut up, and wondered whether he'd blabbed at her for too long and put her off.

  The woman didn't move on the edge of the chair, but as Rad swigged from the mug again he saw her shoulders drop an inch. Whoever she was, she'd be lousy at poker.

  She ran the fingers of one hand along the top of her purse, and when they stopped at the edge she pinched the black leather hard enough to push the blood out of her fingertips. Her lip gloss was as thick as house paint, and when she opened her mouth to speak Rad saw a set of perfect white teeth. She wasn't from this end of the city, that was for sure. Not that this end of the city was bad. Rad knew there were a hundred worse places, dangerous places even, you could find yourself in on the island of the Empire State. But for a woman like her, Rad's office was practically in the middle of a warzone.

  "You are correct, Mr Bradley," the woman said slowly and clearly, taking care with each word and speaking them with a voice that only came from an expensive education in an old family pile on the Upper East Side.

  "You have a problem?" Rad's voice echoed in his coffee mug.

  "I have a problem." Her voice was tight. She was trying to hold it in, to stay calm and poised, but as she spoke her wordsper-minute started tracking upwards. Rad was used to nervous clients and people in trouble, so he sat back and said nothing, and let her spill it out.

  "I really don't know quite who
to turn to, Mr Bradley. The police don't want to know. Worse than that, in fact. They've told me not to call them again. They're not interested in the slightest. I guess what with it being difficult for everyone, being Wartime."

  Rad nodded. "Being Wartime," he agreed, but he wasn't really sure and didn't say any more.

  "I want to employ you, or hire you, whatever the right word is for a private detective, to find my partner. Sam has been missing for three days now."

  The woman's grip on her small bag increased. She tried to moisten her lips before she continued, but the scarlet gloss proved an impenetrable, waterproof barrier. Rad coughed and cut in quietly.

  "Your partner, he's missing? Are you married, or is it something else?"

  The woman shook her head. "My partner. We're not married... it's something else. I have a photo." She looked down to unclip her bag, and her face vanished behind the broad rim of her black hat. When it reappeared there were trails under her eyes where tears cut through the powder foundation, and when she handed Rad the half-letter card photograph her hand was shaking.