Her gray clothes would pass for an early morning jog, and of course were ideal for not being seen in dark and twilight, but as the day warmed they’d become more conspicuous as clothing too drab for any self-respecting coed. Fortunately, with the setup work done, now she had a couple of hours to go back to the hotel and sleep. No point running her reserves down when she didn’t have to.
After a late breakfast, she drove out to the East Chicago Sub-Urb, under a deep blue sky that seemed to stretch forever and was dotted with fleecy clouds. Weeds and trees grew up through the occasional crumbling, abandoned building along the roadside. Many buildings that had been abandoned during the war as young men went into the army and old men, boys, and women fled to the Sub-Urbs had never been reclaimed. For every family of the next generation brave enough to reclaim the surface, another chose the stars and the promise of rejuv, instead. As she neared the Sub-Urb itself, cheap, pre-fab Galplas houses with carefully tended yards and the occasional small vegetable patch clustered in neighborhoods around a couple of large manufacturing plants, where plant employees who had seen the surface in their twice daily bus rides to and from the Urb were gradually recolonizing the surface in search of sunshine and fresh air.
Every Sub-Urb had its “street” corridors, if you knew how to find them. The maintenance database was a dead giveaway. Just look for the run-down area the maintenance workers were reluctant to enter alone. Spray painted graffiti covered the walls, with the lights ripped out except for the smallest amount needed to avoid tripping over the trash pushed into the corners. Public com stations had been vandalized to keep unwary strays from calling for help. Had Marilyn Grant truly come down here alone, she would certainly have been considered one of those unwary strays. As it was, a single look at Cally O’Neal’s game face was enough to ward off other predators in an environment where Darwin had refined the gift of telling predator from prey to a high art. She knew she had found what she needed when she came to a small patch of corridor whose perfect lighting shone like a beacon in the gloom, where a lone boy of perhaps twelve was raptly absorbed in the mural he was painting over the primed Galplas. Cally looked at the image of a benevolent mother, in a red beanbag chair, nursing her baby and her eyes softened in spite of herself.
“Is she someone you know?” she asked softly.
“My momma and baby sister, before the flu came through last year.” He didn’t startle when she spoke, as if he’d sensed she was there, but felt no need to turn away from his work. “I don’t know you.”
“No, you don’t. I’m from… outside. I’m… shopping.”
“Strange place to shop.”
“I was hoping that since you live here you might be able to tell me who to talk to if I wanted to buy some things.”
He turned to look at her and she could see the crucifix and a Saint Christopher medal hanging on the outside of his paint-splattered T-shirt, and it may have been her imagination that he seemed just a bit disappointed as he asked, “You sure you want to buy those things? Might be some better places to do some shopping, some better things to buy.”
“There probably are,” she agreed, “but I’ve got a list to take care of.”
“I’ll take care of it, Tony.” A neatly dressed young man stepped out of the shadows and Cally half-smiled at him.
“I get the feeling you might know somebody who can help me take care of my list.”
“I might. Depends on what you want and what kind of money you got.”
She pulled out a well-used wad of mixed FedCred and medium-bill dollars and let him see it before wordlessly shoving it back in her left front pocket.
“Yeah, we can talk.” He motioned for her to follow him farther down into the half-light of the corridor beyond the mural. “Surprised you made it down this far without trouble, that kind of cash.”
“Trouble doesn’t usually come looking for me.” She shrugged, letting her eyes go back into thousand-yard-stare mode. “I have that kind of face.”
“Fine. Whatcha buyin’?”
She left with significantly less cash, the necessary drugs and needles, a small bottle of ether, and the most expensive thing, a good quality fan-intake air scrubber — fortunately a more or less common consumer item with anyone who smoked anything… sensitive… in an Urb. The legitimate shopping section yielded a cheap hot plate, a set of permanent markers, a small mortar and pestle, a pair of glass screw-cap salt and pepper shakers, a set of glass tumblers, a bottle of Everclear, a box of long wooden party toothpicks and she was ready to go back to the hotel and do some cooking.
It took some creative stacking involving her suitcase, the hotel alarm clock, and the Gideons’ Bible from the desk drawer to rig the scrubber above the hot plate and above the height of the tumbler. Grinding the various solids to a consistency to dissolve easily in the warm ether just took a bit of patience. From a small pouch in her suitcase a couple of other bottles yielded various metabolites that ought to be found in Petane’s system. Voila. Instant history of abuse. Good for about seventy-two hours in solution. Anything goes wrong on Monday I’ll have to make up fresh ones, though. She poured each solution into one of the screw cap shakers, sealing the holes in the lids securely with duct tape, putting a tiny mark on each — red for her, blue for him — and put them in the small fridge, hanging the Do Not Disturb sign out on the doorknob. Wouldn’t do to have maid service in, now would it?
She cleaned up her minimal mess and put the gear away out of sight in the lower dresser drawer, resetting the hotel clock radio after plugging it back in where it was supposed to go. Amazing that it was only four in the afternoon. Time enough to grab a snack and a stylish new outfit — she wrinkled her nose at the creases in the clothes in her suitcase — before going out. Now where can a girl find some fun on a Saturday night in Chicago?
Chapter Six
It was a few minutes past seven when she boarded the express train to the Fleet Recruit Training Command, clad in a blue plaid pleated mini skirt, bobby socks, low-heeled black leather pumps, and a white oxford shirt. She took the few minutes of the train ride to paint lips and nails a playful pink and subtly emphasize the big, wide, brown eyes. Thank you, Wendy. Raccoon eyes the right way, indeed.
The data on the net was right. Across the street from the train station was a modest cedar-sided building, clearly built to resemble an old prewar lake cabin, with a sign in English and Kanji informing patrons that this was the Famous New Kobe Sushi Bar and Pool Emporium. A small cloud of the thick tobacco smoke wafted out the door as she opened it, along with a not-unpleasant mix of soy, ginger, wasabi, and beer. Judging from the number of Fleet uniforms in attendance, she’d found her fun. A quick glance around the room as she entered, smiling mischievously at the wolf whistles, showed that one of Milwaukee’s finest was the local fad brew. Worked for her. She took a seat at the bar and ordered herself one, but accepted the intervention of one of the spacers who jumped to buy it for her.
“Well, I can’t ask if you come here often, because I’d sure remember seeing you, so… Hi. I’m Eric Takeuchi.” He held out his hand for hers, but when he took it instead of shaking it he brought it to his lips, watching her carefully to make sure he wasn’t crossing the line.
Seducer. Do I want to play? Dunno. She took him in at a glance. The straight black hair that was just a little long for regulation in front and tended to flop a bit on his forehead, the cheerful male interest in the dark brown eyes, the impeccable uniform. He’s nice enough looking, I guess, but definitely a prince charming rather than a prince sincere type. Dunno yet. A bit of dinner, a few games of pool. Maybe if he’s a gracious loser.