Nice quiet place like this.” He squeezed the wrist tighter, numbing the fingertips on the gun’s cold metal. “Perfect for a little conversation.”
The Rachael child had shrunk back in the booth, watching the two men to either side of her.
“Yeah. It’s lovely.” The speed of the other man’s movement indicated some kind of professional status; if not cop, then something equally deadly. Deckard nodded slowly. “Very intimate.”
“I knew you’d agree.” The thin smile had remained on the other man’s face.
“Now m going to let go of you, and then we can just sit here politely looking at each other without things getting all ugly between us. I’m going to do that, Deckard, because I know you really do want to talk to me. The bit with the gun lb just chalk that up as a nervous reaction on your part.”
The other’s hand still hadn’t let go of Deckard’s wrist. “I don’t go in much for conversation.”
“You will.” The man loosened his grip slightly. “Because you either talk to me or you can forget about going much farther than this bar. Your ass is in the proverbial sling, Deckard. I can get it out.”
Deckard was silent for a few moments, then nodded. “All right. Let’s talk.”
“You’re a smart man, Deckard.” He let go and sat back in the booth, folding his arms on the table. “Or smart enough.”
“Who is this?” The Rachael child sounded annoyed as she scowled at the broad-shouldered figure.
Deckard didn’t answer her, but looked closer at the other man, letting the angles of the face assemble and connect with one in his memory.
“I know you,” said Deckard. “You were there at the Outer Hollywood station. I remember now—” The whole scene flashed through Deckard’s mind, including the corpse of David Holden, laid out in a reproduction of the interview room at what had been the Tyrell Corporation headquarters in L.A. “You were the one who killed that Kowalski replicant right in front of me.”
“That’s right.” The man looked pleased with himself, as though flattered by Deckard’s recall. “There really wasn’t time for proper introductions. The name’s Marley.” He extended his hand across the table again, as though to shake Deckard’s. “Or at least that’ll do for now.”
Deckard looked at the hand in distaste. “You must be joking.”
“Not about this.” The man shrugged and pulled his hand back. “You’re a tenderhearted soul, aren’t you? It’s not as if you hadn’t ever killed any replicants.”
“I never went around bragging about it.”
“Ah . . . I see. The money was enough for you.” Marley appeared even more amused. “Well, Deckard, you don’t have to like me. You just have to . . . shall we say? . . . do business with me.”
The constant, self-assured smile irritated Deckard. “What kind of business?”
Marley didn’t answer; he looked up to the nearest video screen. “You’re right, you know; this isn’t too interesting.” Some kind of sporting event that involved oxygen masks and a medical triage staff at each end of the playing field was on. “That’s all right, though.” He turned the smile back toward Deckard. “There’s something better coming on in a few minutes.”
“I’m not interested in the cable schedule,” grated Deckard. “Just tell me what you want from me.”
“You’ve got it all wrong, pal. It’s what you want from me. I spent a great deal of time and effort tracking you down, just so I could offer you my help.”
Deckard didn’t return the man’s smile. “I don’t need it.”
“Oh, I think you might,” said Marley. “You’ve got a big job ahead of you.”
“What do you know about that?”
The other man shrugged. “Bits and pieces. Or maybe the whole thing. You’re trying to put together some travel plans, aren’t you? For you and the little girl here. And someone else. Or should I say some thing? I guess it depends on how you regard that briefcase you’ve been toting around. Is it human enough for you to think of it as a person?”
“Hey!” Batty’s voice sounded from beneath the table. “Fuck you, pal!”
Deckard gave the briefcase a kick. “Shut up. Let me handle this.”
“You tell him,” said Marley. “That old bastard’s out of the loop now. He’s luggage. Too bad you can’t just wrap him up, stick the postage on, and mail him out to the far colonies.”
“Who says that’s where we’re going?” Deckard wondered just how much the man sitting across from him was clued in on. “I could be taking him and the little girl anywhere. Maybe back to Earth, for all you know.”
“But you’re not.” Marley’s smile broadened. “And I do know. I know all about the job you’ve undertaken. I know that’s what you’re racking your brains over, trying to figure out how you’re going to get off-planet with that thing, how you’re going to deliver it to the replicant insurgents . . . the whole bit.”
Deckard coldly regarded the other man. “You know an awful lot.”
“More than you do. I know what’s really in that briefcase.” The smile faded, the man’s face turning hard and serious. “And I know who the little girl really is.”
“Somebody who knows things like that . . . or somebody who even claims to Deckard looked straight back into the other man’s eyes. “Chances are good it means that person’s a cop. So who are you working for? U.N. security? LAPD?”
“I’m not with anybody like that.” Marley glanced up at the video screen. “You should think of me as your friend. Like I said, I’m here to help you.”
“And like I said, I don’t want—”
“Hey, just hold on a bit.” Marley held up his hand, palm outward. “We can talk some more in a little while. But this—” He pointed at the video screen a couple of yards away. “This is going to be a good program. I really want you to take a look at it. I think it’s something you’ll get a bang out of.”
Beside him, the Rachael child had sat forward, trying to get a better viewing angle. Deckard looked over at the screen. The sports event, whatever it’d been, had apparently ended; the cable monopoly’s logo, all swirling colors and state-of—the-art abstract graphics, danced and shivered its pixels. He knew it wasn’t going to be a news show; there weren’t any. The cable’s feeds were all entertainment, or what passed for it in this captive market.
“You know,” said Deckard, “I’m not really interested in whatever soap opera you might be addicted to. Maybe you should watch this on your own time. I’ve got more important business to take care of right now.”
“Not any more important than this. Trust me.” Marley gave a nod toward the screen. “This is just about the most important thing in the universe for you.
Just sit back and watch, all right?”
The cable logo faded out and was replaced by another one, a stark black-and-white graphic of a stylized skull with wings. Deckard recognized it even before the words SPEED DEATH PRODUCTIONS pulsed into view; the skull image and the video company name had been on the advance check he’d received from that sweating, pudgy director he’d walked out on back at the Outer Hollywood station. It took a moment longer to remember the guy’s name. Urben ton—the recall prompted a slow nod from Deckard. That was it.
In the bar’s muffled quiet, the sound of a cheaply synthesized sound track, all throbbing bass and disembodied string choirs, oozed out of the video monitors’ tiny speakers. Deckard found himself watching intently, leaning forward across the table, despite his earlier scorn. On the screen, a black night vista was suddenly broken by a leaping gout of fire.