Chapter Five
The limo's windows were adjusted to full tint like the van's were. From their perspective on the ledge, Deckard could make out at least six figures. One of them had to be Haining, so the other five were muscle. The muscle got out of the limo after it had stopped and deployed in a sloppy formation. Blaine and Kitka were not experts on formations, but it looked sloppy to them. Their feelings and thoughts were relayed to one another through vague sounds and gestures, silent and covert. At twelve on the dot, the team vaulted over the railing and walked over towards the car. The gunmen tensed and reached into their long coats. Deckard and Channelle quickened their pace. The man in front began to hold up his hand and started to speak. With a flip of his head, Deckard broke into a run and Channelle shrouded.
The gun came out and Deck pounced. With his augmented physique, he leapt from fifteen meters away and landed on the front man with both feet in a crouch, knocking the gun out of his hand. He heard a cry of agony from his left. Looking right, Deckard got an eyeful of gun barrel. With a flick of his wrist, he planted five darts in the second muscle's face, including his right eye. The man screamed, dropped his gun and fell to his knees, his hands clenched near his face. Another scream from the left. One to go. Deckard cleared the car from his crouch and landed in front of the last one. Blaine drove his right hand, hardened and pointed into the gunman's throat. A gasp for air, an attempt to vocalize, and he passed out. Channelle reappeared on the roof of the car, calm and quiet, licking blood from her paws.
Deckard glanced at her and bent down to retrieve the gun dropped by his last victim. It was poly-carbon piece that was stamped South Africa. South Africa had gone up in riotous flames about two decades before. They certainly hadn't been in any position to start making handguns.
"I really should keep up with current events." Deckard mumbled to himself. Dismissing this from his mind, he leapt upon top of the car, looking down on it.
"Mr. Haining," Blaine called out. "Come out now." He began jumping up and down, the metal fluctuating under his weight.
"Come out now, " he sang out. Kitka stared at him and then went to sit on the trunk, where it was more stable.
"Why do they think they're always safe in the car?" Deckard exclaimed aloud.
He got down and glanced at the bodyguards that Channelle had attacked. Their Achilles tendons were slashed, as were their faces, and other parts, blood steadily pumping out. The onslaught of pain had been too much for them. The man that had spikes in his face was also out. Everyone was now bleeding quietly. A quick examination of the car windows rang them out to be bullet proof. Deckard sighed. He knocked on the window.
"Haining, Come out or I'm coming in."
No answer. He gave a sidelong look at Channelle who was watching him. The two knew that bulletproof glass was more like bullet resistant. Kitka extended her "thumb" claw and drew it slowly across the glass twice, and jumped down. Blaine drew a bead on the scratches and pumped eight rounds at it with the purloined pistol. The blasts reduced the back window into a spider web of crystalline drops. Tossing the gun aside and climbing onto the trunk, He kicked the spider web in and peered into the limo. A man in an expensive, tailor made, dark business suit was gaping back at him.
"Hi." He said to Haining. Haining didn't move, breathe or blink.
"Now, are you going to reasonable and come out of there so we can talk, or do we come in there and make it even more uncomfortable?"
No movement.
Sighing again, he climbed in, followed by Kitka.
Kitka picked her way through the broken glass and sat on Haining's lap, her claws digging in. That resulted in a response.
"Ahhhhhhhh...." He cried out in a low voice.
"Now, we have a problem. I have something that you want and you have something that I want." Deckard stated, crossing his legs in front of him.
"First off, the footage of you and what's-her-name, you don't get that, so forget it. What you get is that I keep it and never show it to anyone else. What I want is an invite to that fancy midwinter ball." He crossed his legs the other way. "What do you say to that?"
Channelle began kneading her claws.
He cried out softly again.
"Look, Haining, make a response beside sounds of pain, it's getting on my nerves."
A few moments passed, and Haining tried to gather himself together.
"Well, ah, that seems, if you don't mind me pointing this out, that you get what you want, leaving you free to blackmail me again." He hesitantly reached out with his hand to nudge Channelle away cautiously. She glared at him, and whipped her tail around and he withdrew his hand.
"Okay, I agree that that's how it would be if I were someone else, but you can trust me not to use it against you in the future."
"You're asking me to trust you, after this?"
"I realize the irony, but yes."
"You did all this to get invited to my wife's ball?"
"Yes."
"You followed me, filmed me, and crippled my men, to go to a party."
"I don't get out much."
Silence.
"Okay, I get the point. You're feeling shortchanged here, and I don't blame you." Deckard scratched his jaw. "You see all this?" He gestured around. "I nailed you dead to rights in that motel and you didn't even know I existed. I wiped out your guards in the blink of an eye and penetrated your rolling fortress here, right?"
A nod.
"Right. Well, You have to realize that I can get to you anywhere, anytime. There's nowhere that you can hide from me, ever."
A pause, a nod.
"Alright, how about if I owe you one?" Deckard stopped. He was not used to speaking in such clear phrases. In his communications with Boden and Murphy and Channelle, he used half phrases, hand and face gestures. Haining seemed to ignore his eye motions, flicks, and otherwise.
"You mean, you'll do this to someone else, if I want."
"Not exactly, but yes. But, no assassinations. I pick the job. That's it."
"Yes, then."
"Good. We expect our invitation shortly."
"We?"
"Yes, Channelle and I." Blaine opened the door and got out. Channelle hoped out. He turned to face Haining once again.
"I'd call the hospital if I were you, these guys are a mess." He shut the door and walked to the ledge. They passed the men trapped in the minivan, who were thrashing about furiously, trying to escape.
"I thought he took that well," Blaine commented as they hopped over the ledge.
.
The invitation was already in the e-box when they arrived back home. They had stopped at a seafood place for some shrimp and swordfish. Exercise always made them hungry. Channelle could go anywhere that Blaine went. It was a silent understanding around town that she was politely ignored by the purveyors of food. Deckard Blaine always tipped very well and seemed to have sway with the VIPs in the small city. The health inspectors could be bribed if they happened in at that moment. Unlikely, since the two usually stopped in after midnight.
The Midwinter Ball Invitation was written on a decaying program and once a hard copy was printed out, it crashed and then wiped itself out of the system. There was to be no admittance to the mid-winter ball without it. It was handsome work of minor art. From a distance, it appeared to be hand engraved. The words were so buried in curlicues that it almost impossible to read, but it did not matter; people who got one knew what it was. Blaine and Kitka bathed and then went back to sleep.
.
Long ago, before the war, before the changes, even before the government job, Deckard used to hang out at a place called the Cosmic Club. It was a large place, boasting a full bandstand stage. In its time it was a meet market for the upper middle class, but trends had taken that away from it. It lingered for a time, then began to show evidences of life again. The old owner had died, at last, and it went up for sale at a song. The place was literally falling down. Some minor renovations done some twenty years before had only severed to make it look wo
rse.
The man who bought it could see past all that. He had a lot of experience in construction and building. It might take him ten or fifteen years to restore it, but he had the time. A minor clean up and some support struts and it was open for business. At first, it only hosted local garage bands that played just for the practice space. There was no door charge, and beers were only a dollar and a quarter. Ray Gibson worked his jobs by day and then went to the Cosmic Club to oversee things, serve drinks, make minor repairs and serve as bouncer at night. He was a large man, blonde, six four, with shoulders the size a steer and hands the size of dinner plates. His expression was somehow always grim, as if he were about to do something violent. Because of the hours that he kept, he was called Night-and-day Ray.
His wife, Renee was strangely his contrast. She was dark haired and five two with a soft voice and a twinkle in her eye. Her small frame was striking and voluptuous. She always had a smile on her face, exposing her large white teeth. When she spoke with people, it was with an almost intimate manner. Guys felt that in another time and place, they might have been involved. Girls felt that she was their confidant, ready to sympathize and listen. Night-and-day Ray was the machine behind the Club, but Renee was the personality.
They had gone to high school together and married right after. Renee and Blaine had gone out for a brief while in what was a passionate, but short-lived affair. They both began to eye other people at the same time and just kind of began going out with them. There was no animosity between them, with nothing more between them than a nudge, a grin, a sly look, a memory of passion and the greenery of devoted friendship. Renee always believed that Deckard was looking for something, but she didn't know what, and she suspected that he didn't either. She found what she was looking for, and it was good.
Nine months or so after the Cosmic Club opened up, Blaine showed up at one of the tables. Neither Renee nor Ray saw him come in. She just turned around. There he was.
"Deck!" She cried out. "You gave me a start!" She exclaimed pulling up a chair.
He had that expression on his face as usual. It looked blank, but with traces of faint smile, like he was going to break into laughter, but he never did. He blinked at her.
"I have that effect on people, I guess." The waitress, an eighteen year old on the prowl, sidled up and took their order, with a smile for Renee and a wink for Deckard.
"I didn't even know you were in town," She gazed at him. Memories flooded back. She remembered his embraces, his passionate kisses, his tenderness and his playful manner. She almost, but not quite, regretted the decisions that they had made.
"Yes, I've been back for some time. A vacation, you could call it."
"Where to?"
"Down to the Texican Region, mostly, a look around."
"You have a passport? Impressed." Passports were hard to get without money and pull.
"No, I wet-backed, and my mother is from Dallas, so once in, I was able to fake it quite well."
"You swam the gulf?"
"Part of the way. I used a rebreather and latched onto fishing boats for the rest."
"That sounds dangerous!" A wide-eyed look and a hand placed on his. His hand was cold.
"No, not if you keep your nerve."
"But why?"
"Curiosity." The drinks arrived, the waitress giving him the once over twice. "You know me, I have to know what's going on. Speaking of which..." He took a drink of beer. "Tell me all about this,"
He sat and listened to the buying, renovating, the big and little problems, and the overall running of what was becoming quite a success story in the small town.
"Who's playing tonight?" He asked when the story was told.
"Tom Taylor and the True Hearts." A deep voice sounded at his shoulder, a meaty paw was placed on it.
"Night-and-day Ray!" Deckard exclaimed as he turned.
Ray's face was split with an uncharacteristic smile. Deckard was sure that he knew of his and Renee's tryst and could not have cared less. Her devotion to him was both solid and evident. Deckard stood and they shook hands, then sat down.
The owner of the Cosmic Club wiped his brow with a red bandana. He wore his work clothes, overalls, T-shirt, and a tool belt.
"Man, I'm tired. Been working on the balcony all day. Almost done." He looked around just in time to see the waitress bringing his club soda and limejuice. He took it from her hand and took a large gulp.
"It might be ready next week."
The place was beginning to fill up; the band was setting up their equipment.
He took out a cigarette from his bib pocket and lit it from the candle that was in the center of the table. Deckard was somewhat taken a back. Smoking was prohibited from all but private residences and high society clubs. Even then, it was heavily regulated.
"You got a smoking permit?"
"Nah, ta hell with them. They wanna fine me, they can. People can smoke here if they want, and I'll pay the fine with the money from the cigarette machine." He angled a thumb towards the restrooms. Sure enough, under the pay phone was a cigarette machine, ancient and battered, but functional.
"I'd say you were taking a chance."
Night-and-day grinned and blew smoke at him. "I wouldn't."
.
Deckard turned out to be right. When he got back from the war, he returned to the Cosmic Club eventually to find it abandoned. He never found a trace of Renee or Ray Gibson. Even with his expertise and vast resources, there was no trail to follow. None of his old friends that would know were around. It was as if an entire part of his life had been sliced away. The old Deckard Blaine might have given the matter more concern, but the change that he had undergone had left him more detached.
Deckard was easily distracted by other tasks, and needed many of them to alleviate his boredom with one or the other. Strangely, he thought about them now, even as he prepared for his meeting with LesPaul. The two seemed connected, but he couldn't follow the string from one to the other.
Going to his closet, he fetched out his eveningwear, next to his dress uniform. His tuxedo was fairly typical. Deckard had bought it for a similar event some time ago. He smiled at the memory. Black pleated pants with a silk strip down the legs, with a black jacket with black silk shawl lapels. A white shirt with wingtip collars and a black bowtie and vest. Blaine drew out the separate hanging pieces and placed them in the steamer.
Channelle went into the bathroom and began meowing loudly for some hot water. On his way to the bathroom, he thumbed on the radio to the local arts and news station, which was doing an early jazz retrospective. He liked to keep his MIL out of the bathroom for purely superstitious reasons. The tub filled up with steaming water. He soaped up while listening to the gravely voiced DJ expound on the virtues of hot jazz over modern.
"It just doesn't grab me, you dig? I'm saying that it's just flat, cat, and that's that!" A soft trumpet began as he slipped into the bathtub, Channelle already paddling about. Scrambling onto the wide ledge, she began to softly tap on Deckard's nose, as he lay in the tub, eyes closed.
"Yes, I'm paying attention," He told her.
The piece ended, as the two were supine.
"Now we cooking wit GASSSSS!" The DJ whispered.
.
They dressed and drove out to Haining's mansion. It was a large elegant stone built affair back in the exclusive suburbs. The grounds were around ten miles in diameter. It was surrounded by large brick walls, synthetically aged. They looked in scorn at his security system at the front gate. Resisting the urge to bypass it, Deckard activated the ID pad and fed his invitation into a slot below it. The pad blinked once and the gate slid back into it's housing.
The paved road wound around the estate to the mansion, which was in the center surrounded by tennis courts, pools, and stables. Blaine jerked his head slightly up and she faded from sight. He got out of his car and handed the key over to a teenager in a bellhop costume, who silently took it and handed him a plastic numbered card. A swift glance at the
parking area revealed the newest and most expensive rides, there were a few antique gasoline only autos as well.
The party was just getting in full swing. The doorway opened up into a long hallway that led into the main reception area. There was a broad staircase that went up to a huge set of double doors. On either side of the doors were two narrower staircases the led to the upper living quarters. On the upper level (Deckard knew from experience) were enough bedrooms to sleep a platoon, a small gym and a video entertainment den with the equipment in it to furnish a professional arcade. On the first floor were the kitchen, billiards room, a home office and the library.
Needless to say, the furniture, wall hangings, and so forth were all the highest quality antiques, hand-picked by Linda Haining in over a dozen countries. The wide double doors were open, revealing a huge ballroom overlooking a long marble white fountain surrounded by s-shaped hedges. In the fountain was a flock of black swans. Blaine, being shown to the ballroom, made his way around to the windows to look at the flock. He could feel Channelle standing on his feet. Deck turned to survey the scene. Well over two hundred people were present. Easily spotted were the mayor, the police commissioner, the dean of the local university, and even the Governor.
The men were attired in black tuxedos, same as his, although the cut varied slightly. The women were all in designer original frocks and gowns, with more or less skin showing. Some were quiet and elegant, others provocative and daring, others just plain silly.
Jack Haining was wearing a white dinner jacket with dark purple shawl lapels with matching tie and vest. Linda Haining was wearing a champagne pink Stroika Gown with a carefully groomed and coiffed Pekinese. That could be trouble, but the dog was most likely conditioned to behave properly in front of guests. Blaine could feel the weight of Kitka and she leapt up to his right shoulder and stood there with all four feet on the same spot.
He imagined Kitka was looking right at the door, carefully sniffing the air. To the right and left of the double doors were two wet bars, and next to them were buffet tables with white tablecloths laden with expensive and obscure delicacies. Above the double doors was a band perch, where a section of brass, wind and strings played over the ancient big band numbers as well as the newer ones.
The dance floor was clearly laid out in polished hardwood, and the men and women of high society were clearly trying to outdo one another. Around the dance floor were small round tables. Here, the old boys club conferenced and the great dames commented. Deck sat at an empty one and folded his hands on the table. A waiter in tails came by with a tray in one hand.
"I'd like a cosmopolitan and a glass of," He caught sight of Linda Haining. "Pink Champagne."
The waiter bowed slightly and went off.
Channelle got on the table and unshrouded sitting motionlessly. She began washing her face as Blaine stared at Haining. Haining was smoking a large cigar and talking with the two men that he had overheard talking about the party in the convention center bathroom. Suddenly, as if his name had been shouted, he looked up, right at the two. Channelle stopped washing her face to return the glare.
Haining broke away from them with brief leave-taking and headed over.
"Well, I see that you two made it." He said, nervously. "Do you mind?" He gestured at a chair.
Deck raised his eyebrows, and Haining sat.
"I've done some checking on you."
A head tilt.
"Came up with nothing, except a small article on gene splicing." The drinks arrived. The waiter, hesitantly looked at Channelle, and set the Champagne in front of her, and the stemmed frosty glass in front of Deckard.
"Nothing specific, of course." He puffed on his cigar. Haining, naturally, would have the money and the pull to get an license for tobacco.
"Well, then you know what we are."
"Not really, but I've got an idea."
"How are your men?" A sip. "All healed up?"
"Yes, pretty much, most of them quit, except for those in the van." He sighed.
"Sorry about that, but if you'd just come alone, everything would've been fine."
"Uh-huh, if that's the case, why didn't you just ask for an invitation?"
"Well, I guess I..."
"Exactly. But, this is how things are done, so I suppose we'd better be cooperative."
" How do you want to play this?"
"Well, refrain from killing any guests, for one thing," Haining smiled slightly. "Most of them, anyway." He puffed again and looked thoughtful. "LesPaul hasn't arrived yet, but you'll know when he gets here, it's tradition that the guest of honor receive a standing ovation when they arrive. He should be here," A glance at his watch. "In about half an hour." The waiter showed up with an Old Fashioned for Haining. He took a sip and sat back.
Curious. A room full of guests and Haining sits with one who blackmailed him and threatened his life. Deckard sat with his hands on the table, watching. Haining puffed on his cigar again, carefully extended his hand towards Channelle, who sniffed it and then rubbed the side of her face down it.
"Now, she's marked you." Blaine said with a sardonic smile.
Haining lightly scratched her under the chin, as she lifted it.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure," Candid.
"Why are you sitting with us, I mean, after all that we did?"
Silence full of thought. "I was pretty shaken when that happened, you know, I thought that all this," He gestured about. "Was all gone. But, you said I could trust you not release the, ah, incident, and oddly enough, I did." He took a drink. "I realized then that everyone that I knew would love to do the same thing to me, but they'd want more than you wanted. I am a powerful man, cynical and untrustworthy. I had to be to get where I am. You took everything I had away, then gave it all back in a single sentence." A pause. "It was then that I knew that you were the only one that I could really trust. You were honest with me, really honest. Nobody is honest with me anymore. I'm surrounded by liars, cheats, and yes men. Everybody wants what I've got, or wants me to fail, even if they get screwed over by my failure, it's enough that I fail." Another drink. "So I'm sitting here with my only "enemy" in the whole room, the one man who told me to my face that I'm vulnerable. I was shrunk down to size and I found that my pants fit again. I felt plain, ordinary. That's pretty comfortable, you know, plain and ordinary."
The three of them watched the parade of wealth and fashions collide in age-old ritualistic exchange. The band ended their number suddenly. The bandleader stood up and announced with a slight Cuban accent that Jeordi and Linda LesPaul had arrived. The room rose in unison and applauded. Jeordi LesPaul was attired in a gold lame tuxedo jacket with black pants with gold paisley tie and cummerbund. Linda LesPaul was adorned in a ball-gown of similar color, but with much more sequins. It looked as if she would need a special stool if she were planning to sit down at all. They beamed out at the crowd, bowing and curtseying, waving to their particular friends. The applause died down and the band struck up again.
Deckard looked over at Haining to discover he had gone. A glance back at the LesPauls revealed Haining had slipped off to meet with them. The man might have had a life revelation, but he knew how to make his move. Blaine shook his head and grinned at the situation. Channelle washed her face with her right paw. Linda and Tracey had paired off to make the rounds, as Jack and Jeordi did the same.
Deckard got up and Channelle cloaked. They met back over by the bar on the right side, after he had gotten a plate at the buffet. She uncloaked and began picking through the various items on the plate, as Deckard kept an eye on the crowd. He leaned against the bar and made small talk with the bartender, a guy about his own age, with a ponytail, who looked as if he played racket ball. His MIL was projecting a basketball game below the bar. Sean, the bartender, commented the pay was good at these sorts of gigs, but the hours were long and towards the end, some rich old bag would always hit on him.
LesPaul and Haining were half way around the room, when Hai
ning gestured at Deckard in a "there's someone I'd like you to meet" sort of way. Channelle cloaked and Deck rose from leaning on the bar.
"Here he is, Joe, Deckard Blaine, he's been doing some security evaluations for me."
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Blaine." They shook hands.
Up close, he seemed to be a little nervous. His hands were shaking slightly and he was sweating slightly. A bland face, glasses, with graying hair and a pair of steely blue eyes.
"Let's sit down, Gentlemen, and get some fresh drinks, eh?" Haining ushered them to a nearby table, and then, with a nod at Blaine, went to the bar.
"Security evaluations, huh?" LesPaul searched his jacket and fetched out a pocket humidor and opened it. "I could use your particular talents."
"By the way where is your partner, the cat?" He trimmed the end of a cigar off with a stainless cutter. "I can't seem to remember her name,"
Blaine blinked slowly. Busted.
Channelle leapt up on the table, uncloaked, as Deckard glared at LesPaul with dangerous intent. Picking up her cues from Deckard, Kitka's ears flattened out, and she turned on LesPaul, who realized that he had made a mistake.
"Now, don't overreact. I didn't mean to alarm you. I have no agenda here." His voice was calm and even. His hands had frozen in the midst of lighting his stogie.
Moments passed, as Channelle and Deckard slowly eased off. Deckard could feel the blood pulsing in his face and arms. His stripes felt hot and black as pitch.
"I am sorry, Mr. Deckard and Miss, ah, Kitka, I remember now," He slowly lit his cigar. "But you have to know that as the most successful merge of the Ultra teams, you were quite the celebrity in the Section, both of you were." He took a puff. "You must realize that although you got out on occasions to perform, the rest of the staff was quite under lock and key for the duration."
It made sense, of course. If he expected that LesPaul had information on Mallos and Goramund, he would certainly know of Ultra One-Seven. Although it was gratifying to have his suspicions confirmed, Deckard had never expected to be recognized. He took a sip of his drink and Channelle sat down and carefully sniffed the ashtray that LesPaul was using.
LesPaul went on. "We had no other diversion than our and other's work. We followed it daily, talked about it all the time." He paused and mulled things over. "Do you remember the remote operational modulation/demodulation eye phones you used to patch into the Jenset computer in Prague?"
Deckard lifted an eyebrow.
"They were black goggles, padded..."
He did remember. He had downloaded enough info to cripple Jenset. Their security was formidable, but had a weak spot. He had done it hanging from an antennae array some sixty floors up. It was raining too.
"Yes,"
"I designed those." He folded his arms and sat back, proud, confident.
Blaine nodded. He had planned to approached him slowly, get him talking about work, then the army, then the Section, then about Mallos and Goramund. Now...
"Tell me about Ultra Team 5." He blurted out.
"Team 5, Hmmmm," LesPaul seemed to almost expect the question.
"The Russian and the snake." Blaine prompted.