Part 28 (2/2)
They walked down a hallway and entered a linoleum-floored room. An unshaven man sat in a chair, legs extended and arms dangling tiredly. A few more chairs stood against the walls, and an empty desk at the corner shone under a hooded light. The cop gestured toward one of the open chairs.
”Take a seat. Looks like there's not much action tonight. I'll go get Burt.”
Valentine sat down opposite the rag-doll figure. The bedraggled man wore a jumpsuit, new and s.h.i.+ny, made out of what looked to Valentine like nylon. He had long, unkempt black hair and a mustache. A prisoner-like pallor made his skin seem anemic against his dark beard. A pair of comfortable-looking black sports shoes with new soles covered his feet. Obviously a favored Quisling, if a tired and dirty-looking one. The jumpsuit had a high collar, almost a turtle-neck, and Valentine had to look twice at the insigne in silver st.i.tching just under the man's chin: a reversed swastika. The Twisted Cross? Valentine thought.
The man, noticing Valentine's stare, yawned and looked across the room at him.
”Howdy, pal,” the man in black said. ”Burt's kinda slow tonight. He's probably in one of the bars on Clark drinking. I've been waiting almost an hour.” He had a drawling accent which Valentine identified as more western than southern.
Valentine looked at the pattern on the linoleum floor. It resembled a cross section of sedimentary rock strata. ”I'm in no hurry. Got a three-day pa.s.s, and it's my first night.”
”You in the Service?”
”Yes. In the patrols. Madison Triumvirate. How about you?”
”I get around. I'm on the General's Staff.”
Valentine hazarded finesse. ”You're Twisted Cross, right? You guys work pretty tight with the Reapers. Where are you operating now?”
”Some people up here call us that. Can't discuss it, though. You know, security.”
”Oh, I hear you. Looks like they work you pretty hard.”
The man smiled. ”Depends on your definition of work. But it is exhausting, in its own way.”
Valentine nodded. ”You look kind of sick or something.”
”This is nothing. You should have seen me when I first got out of the tank. I'd been connected for six days. Couldn't even stand up until they got some orange juice in me.”
Valentine nodded. ”Sounds like tough duty. I'm sure it's more interesting than driving around in an old car, though, making sure n.o.body's hiding milk cows in the hills.”
”Funny, I've never been to Wisconsin, but d.a.m.n if you don't look familiar,” the man mused.
” You been up in the north woods?”
”No.”
Valentine fought the urge to lower his face, but he looked the man square in the eye. ”Then I don't know where else you might've seen me. I've never been south of Indianapolis.”
The man shrugged. ”I dunno. I never forget a face, and-”
A heavy tread echoed from the hallway, and the cop returned, escorting a shuffling man with the bulky build of a power lifter. He had a battered face that looked like he drove railroad spikes with it. ”Burt, this guy wants to do some business with you,” the patroller said.
”Sure, sure. Be with you in a minute, kid. Hey, Jimmy King, you look tuckered. You need the usual?” ”A nice juicy one, Burt.”
There was a look of raw l.u.s.t in the man's eyes like nothing Valentine had ever seen. It sickened him, but he was glad of it; the mystery of Valentine's face was plainly the last thing on Jimmy King's mind at the moment.
Burt grinned. ”Then follow. Pickings are a little slim this time of year, but I know you ain't particular. Some of your friends have been through, and I have a lot of empty cells.”
As Burt and Jimmy King left the room, Valentine toked the cop yet again. ”Thanks again,”
he said.
”Have fun, kid. Pleasure doing business with you.”
As soon as the cop had pa.s.sed out the metal door to the yard, Valentine hardened his ears.
Burt and the Twisted Cross man seemed to be going down some stairs.
”Got the old thirst, huh?” Burt asked.
”You know it,” King said, his rubber-soled feet squeaking a little against the stone stairs.
”Your bro recovered from that shotgun blast yet?”
”Yeah, sure. He won't win any dance contests, but he gets around well enough. For a while there, I was limping even when I wasn't in the tank.”
”How long were you hooked up this time?”
”Almost a week. f.u.c.ker fed three times. Made me want it so bad I almost bit the guy pulling me out. But the general was happy with what we did; gave the whole team two weeks off. We wiped out a whole nest of rebs in the Smokies.”
Valentine heard keys rattling and the sound of a door being opened somewhere below.
”General shouldn't make you pull such long s.h.i.+fts. I heard some of your guys went nuts after...”
The clang of the door shutting echoed loudly enough for Valentine to hear with soft ears.
The voices were gone.
He waited fifteen minutes before the bas.e.m.e.nt door opened again, and Burt's ponderous step ascended the stairs, key ring jangling. Burt returned to the linoleum-floored room, and Valentine rose to meet him.
”My name's Pillow, sir. First visit to the Zoo.”
”Burt Walker. Chief of One-Way Exhibits.”
”One-Way?”
”Now and then we get troublemakers the management wants to make an example of. Don't matter how they die, as long as it's ugly. Whatcha lookin' for, Pillow? Something the girls out there can't handle?”
”You might say that. It's something I don't like talking about.”
”Hey, kid, I heard it all, believe me,” Burt said, in a rich, world-weary tone. ”But I respect people's privacy. You just gotta let me know one thing... Will she still be alive when you're done? ”Cause if you kill her, I gotta charge you big-time.”
”She'll live, Mr. Walker. That's a promise.”
”Okay, then, but remember what I said and don't get carried away. I gotta see the cash, though.”
<script>