Bard Constantine
The Troubleshooter: Fears in the Rain
After the Cataclysm nearly wiped out humanity, the remnants of mankind survived in Havens: city-sized constructs built to reboot society and usher in a new age of mankind.
However, the new age was not the type that the architects had envisioned. The same greed and lust for power that existed before the Cataclysm had resurfaced, and the Havens quickly became quagmires of political and economic conflict that threatened to destroy the future envisioned by the Haven's founders.
This is the world of Mick Trubble, a man without a past. A man with nothing to lose. But when your luck is down, and no one else can help you, he can. He takes the cases that no one else will touch. The type of trouble that no one else can handle.
Chapter 1: Trouble-Free
The nonstop rain couldn't drown out the celebration.
Dark water streamed down the windows of the Gaiden nightclub, obscuring the views of jam-packed traffic and neon-lit superstructures. The city that never slept raged on outside the doors, but I didn't pay it any mind as I stepped into the Gaiden's main lounge, decked out in its Eastern-influenced glory.
The nightclub was all pagodas and paper lanterns, dragons and tigers in red and gold, polished teak furnishings, bamboo, and bonsai. The motif was Asian, the atmosphere anything but. It was in downtown New Haven, which meant a melting pot of slick hustlers, gentlemen gangsters, deadly dames, and smooth players, all gathered for a special occasion: the first anniversary of my co-ownership of the Gaiden. One year of laying down my guns and retiring from the game.
One year of being trouble-free.
Fats the Jazz Man jammed on the stage with his band, blowing gritty soul from his trumpet while a chocolate-toned songbird in a tuxedo and pompadour hairdo belted out a tune and slid across the stage as if skating on ice. The air was hazy with spicy gasper smoke, the lights low, the booths private enough for conversation both intimate and professional. A lot of backdoor deals were brokered in the Gaiden, unofficial neutral ground for the numerous factions of business, political, and criminal enterprises in the Haven. But that night, they weren't there for any last-minute transactions or brokered treaties.
They were there for me.
I tilted my Bogart just the way I liked it and waltzed down the stairs into the ballroom, acknowledging greetings and well-wishes with smiles, waves, and nods like I was some kind of war hero. For a guy that spent his life on the run and a step away from cement shoes, I had a lot of folks on hand to wish me well. A large table to my left hosted Moe Flacco, head of New Haven's largest Borgata organization. He nodded in my direction, eyes somber in his bulldog face. His family and closest associates sat there as welclass="underline" No-Nose Nate, decked out in loud greens and dark blues, grinning while he struck a match off of his gold-plated schnozzle. A handful of top Capos and wise guys lounged contentedly, smoking big cigars and drinking the best hard juice.
Electra rose from her chair next to No-Nose, sidling over to throw her arms around my neck. "Happy anniversary, Mick," she purred into my ear. Her eyes glinted with mischief as her fingernail traced a line across my neck like a knife slash. She wore fashionable black as usual, a sinewy skirt and lacey blouse that played peekaboo with her creamy skin. The dark ensemble seemed to be an excuse to dye her bobbed hair fiery red, a color that matched her pouty lips.
"I didn't think you'd make it this long," she said with a playful smile.
"One year as co-owner of the Gaiden? A walk in the park, sweetheart."
"No, not that. I didn't think you'd last a year without killing someone. More's the pity, I guess." Pulling my head downward, she planted her lips against my neck like a vampire. Instead of draining my blood, she left a lipstick tattoo of her kiss on my skin before sashaying back to her seat with a devious smile. I knew better than to wipe it away.
I strolled across the room, where the opposite side of the law had a place to themselves. Captain Flask sat there, straight-faced as usual with my ex-girlfriend Angel on his arm. I didn't hold it against them, though. Far as I knew, Flask was one of the few honest coppers in New Haven, and while I had a complicated relationship with the brass, he was all right with me. Ditto for Angel, who still smiled when she saw me. That's about all a man can ask for from an ex: a smile and a kind word to show she doesn't hate your guts.
Before I got to them, a hand on my arm stopped me. Commissioner Kennedy motioned for me to take the seat beside her. I obliged with a grin.
"Haven't heard much from you in a while, Commissioner. I thought you'd forgotten all about little ol' me."
"The man that established balance to the world's most dangerous Haven? Hardly, Mr. Trubble." Dark haired and stately, she gave me a mysterious smile. "You've proven yourself quite instrumental when left to your own devices. So that's what I did — backed away and let the chips fall as they would. Fortunately, that ended up being a wise decision."
I laughed. "You make it seem like I'm the Don of New Haven, Commissioner. I just got into a few scrapes and managed to haul my keister outta the fire. Don't know anything about 'establishing balance' or any of the other bunk that people attribute to my exaggerated reputation."
She sipped a martini with a raised eyebrow. "Taking out Mafia organizations, tearing the HSSC out by the roots, and saving the entire Haven from destruction—hmm. I'd say that reputation is earned and then some."
I opened my mouth, but my reply was cut off by a call from the stage. Fats the Jazz Man's teeth flashed in a megawatt grin from his place behind the large retro-styled microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for showing up for our first-year celebration of this joint venture. Most of you have known me a while: jazzing up slummy joints for years before playing at some of the swankiest clubs in town. I always dreamed of owning my own juke joint but never thought it would be possible. Not until I made a proposition to my man Mick Trubble. You all know who he is. Come on up and say a few words, Mick — come on!"
The patrons cheered and raised drinks as Fats coaxed me into joining him on the stage. I looked at the gathered crowd of friends, allies, frenemies, and folks just there for the drink specials and celebration. Fats patted me on the back, motioning to the mic. I stepped in front, blinking in the harsh gaze of the white lights with butterflies in my belly and a hesitant grin on my face.
"Feels kinda good, I gotta admit."
More cheers and applause. I warmed up, feeling the nervousness drain from my system.
"Listen, I'm not one for speeches. I never thought I'd be able to walk away from the Troubleshooter business. Didn't think I was cut out for anything else. But all credit goes to Fats for making the proposition. This place is a special kinda joint. I'm glad to have a part in continuing to make it what it is. I feel at home here. I feel at home with all of you who took the time to come out here and celebrate. So, let's drink our worries away, dance if you got the moves — or if you don't, who's to judge? And let's appreciate the moment, ladies and gents. They don't come too often and don't last forever. Thanks, from the bottom of my heart. I mean that."
I raised my arms to the thunder of applause. Fats clapped me on the shoulders, voice gravelly in my ears. "Ya done good, kid. Ya done real good."
After that, it was all music and celebration. Fats the Jazz Man put on a show, jamming with a full band until night gave way to early morning. The time blurred as I laughed and slapped backs, tossed back drink after drink, and cut a few rugs with lovely ladies on the dance floor, jitterbugging in inebriated fashion and too shameless to care. I chatted with friends old and new, accepted gifts, and overall had the best time of my life. In between trips to the bar and restroom, I stopped to chin it up with whatever familiar face passed my way. I didn't even think twice when the holoband on my wrist buzzed with an incoming call. I accepted it without even checking.