The Dead Got It Good

I knew she was no good. 

            Sure I did.  It was written all over her body.  In bold italics, you might say.  You couldn’t miss it, not if you knew how to read.  No, but you could sure play dumb.   And that is just the way I played it.  Dumb as a stump.  Chose not to read the signs, I mean.  I had my reasons.  After all, I was fed up with the whole thing, the whole ubertext, this lousy script that had become my life.  I was at that point, you know?  That point where I was ready, willing, and able to play the patsy for some recelled blonde with a nip and tuck waist. 

            Boy was I at that point.

            So when she walked in with that “sign up here, patsy” look on her smile, I did.  Sign up that is.  What the hell.  I mean, what are patsies for anyway?

            In retrospect, I was falling down dumb even before I lunged at her with my eyes.  Before she even walked in the door.  I could hear her Steelettos tap-tap-tapping all the way down the hall outside.  That is one hell of a sound when you’re all lonely and whimpering into the earhole on a bottle of bourbon.  It sounded to me like some kind of erotic Morse code.  Could just imagine the pair of glutes that would be swaying over her feet to make that racket.  Glutes, you know?  Gluteus maximus…ass muscles to you.  Tap.  Tap.  Tap.  

            I’ll tell you straight off…it wasn’t just my cochlea that was perking up that evening.

            So by the time she got to the outer door of my office, I was ready to pop my eardrum.  She let herself in and put her hairy coat on the hook in the front room.  Neomink I figured, from the hang of it, which meant she was loaded.  They didn’t kill minks anymore, they just sucked out their chromosomes and sold them by the ounce.  As I watched her through the frosted glass on the inner door to my office, I thought for a second about neatening up the joint, then thought about wrecking it.  I did neither but just watched her silhouette enlarge as she walked closer, like fate coming.

            She stood in the outer room for an eternity, maybe waiting for an invitation.  But I was all out of invites.  You know how it goes.  One too many uninvited guests crashing my party, you see?  So I watched while she adjusted a skintight dress around the kind of body men drool on.  Through the opaque pane I could just make out her outline as she shimmied and slithered nice and slow.  So slow that Einstein would have revised relativity.   

            When she was done reforming herself she put her hand on the knob.  But she hesitated.   Maybe thinking twice about seeing me.  Maybe not.  Her shadow in the glass panel, all wet and soft, could have been drawn in sweat.   Mine.  The Renaissance hair, the Art Deco shoulders, the Egyptian waist…oh yeah, I studied art in college all right.  Only it didn’t culture me.

            And then there were the words typed across her body.  They were written on the door but the way she was standing, they looked like a sign on her chest.  Across the top they said Max Trouble.  Actually they read “xaM elbuorT” because they were backwards, written to read from the far side of the door.  But that didn’t matter.  I knew who I was.  And so did she.  Across the bottom, the sign painter had added the word Welcome.  It was against my wishes because no one was, but I guess you can’t have a detective business without it.  Still, I was going to call the guy back and have him take out the word until I realized just how apt it was.  Standing at the door waiting to come in and see me, just like she was right then, the words on my office door read Max Trouble Welcome.

            Perfect.

            And then, just like that, she was inside, standing there in all her glory.  And believe me, it was a glory I was glad to halleloo.  She had the face of an angel but the body was satanic.  Like they say, you could sell your soul for the sin therein.  The shapes were impossible, the curves fantastic.  And her dress was so tight I was having chest pains.  Of course, I knew that body was engineered, all bioware implants and explants.  Her airport scan must have looked like a stealth bomber.  But I didn’t care…I didn’t work at the airport.  It was all I could manage to roll off the couch and slug my breakfast every morning.

            As she sauntered towards my desk I wondered what kind of lubricant she was using.  I could have used it on my hinge.  And as usual, it squeaked like a mouse as the door closed behind her.  The heels clicked out a jazzy mambo as I tried to defibrillate.  And when she spoke, I could almost smell my dreams on her breath.  Dirty dreams.

            She said her name was Esmeralda in a voice like Turkish coffee in a china cup.  Not that I ever tasted it but I have plans.  Esmeralda!  Yeah right…and mine’s Diamond Jim Brady, I thought.  But I said nothing.  I didn’t believe it but I fell for it.  The whole caboodle, fake as sugar, all mixmashed up by some lust engineer.  It was something about the way she moved her lips when she said the name, like she was massaging my doubt with her mouth.  And believe me, my doubt hadn’t been rubbed like that in a long time.

            “Sit down,” I said, “and feel free to cross your legs.”

            She had killer legs, you know, the kind that killers kill for.  She followed my gesture over to the couch and sat down, then crossed her legs like a pro.  Then crossed them again just in case I missed it the first time.  I should have known then and there that I was in deep doodoo.  You know…double cross and all that crap.

            “I need your help,” she cooed and tossed her cleavage into the bargain. 

            “Zat so?” I said, trying to play it cool in spite of a sudden hot flash. 

            “Someone is trying to kill me.”

            “I hate it when that happens.”

            “Please, Mr. Trouble, I’m so frightened,” she tittered.

            She took a deep breath and pillowed her bosom by two bra sizes.  Probably those new pneumatic ones, but I’m no stickler for details.   Round is round, if you get my drift.

            “Okay,” I said, bobbing my head like a pigeon.  “Talk to me.  I’m listening.”

            “Someone is trying to kill me,” she cawed.

            “Who?” I hooted.

            “My husband,” she said, flapping.

            But I had had enough of these bird games.  I didn’t want to hear about her husband or the cage he put her in.  I didn’t want to know her problems.  All I wanted to do was jump her right then and there.  Take her in my arms and learn to juggle with my eyes closed.  I felt hard and cruel and high on hormones.  Even thought of smacking her into submission like I read in the old paperbacks.  But then she looked up at me all helpless and scared.  Her green eyes sparkled in the crummy light and I wondered what kind of creep would want to end a dream like her.

             “Oh come on,” I said.  “You gotta have it all wrong.  Why would anyone want to…”

            But suddenly she was filled up with tears and terror.  I could feel all the testosterone draining and now all I wanted to do was protect her, comfort her.  She took out a handkerchief and blew a fanfare to the coming drama.  

            “You didn’t know him, Mr. Trouble!  Alonso was a very powerful man!”

            “Alonso?”  I repeated. 

            But she only honked into the hanky like a goose.  A cooked one.

            “You mean Alonso as in Alonso Montenegro?”

            It was a good guess and her wince told me that I was right.  There were not many Alonso’s left and this one was famous.  He was a ruthless tycoon who had made a fortune in nanotech.   Teensy tiny robots that could get under your skin and give you a damn good itch.  I hated robots and therefore Alonso too.

            “You’d better have a drink,” I said and shoved a shot glass her way, but she veered left and went for the bottle on my desk instead.  She choked as she took it too fast and all I could think of was some nice slow mouth-to-mouth.  

            “You’ve got to help me,” she said.  “I’ll be dead in 24 hours if you don’t!”

            “Sure, I’ll help you,” I said.  “Maybe.   What’s the dope?”

            “Alonso was no dope.  He always knew exactly what he was doing.”

            “Why do you say was all the time?  Is he…was?”

            As she put the bottle down on the floor, her hand started to shake like a superstring.  They’re the vibrations that run the world, you might know.  But in this case, they were stopping her in her tracks.  It took her a long time to settle down and spit out the news.

            “My husband is dead, Mr. Trouble!”

            “Run that by me again?”

            “Alonso Montenegro died yesterday.”

            “I didn’t hear about it.  From what?”

            “Same as everybody.  From being born.”

            “Can you be more specific?”

            “His wife.”

            “I thought you were his wife.”

            “I am.  I mean…was.”

            “You killed him?”

            “I guess so,” she said but there was not a trace of rage in her answer.  “I suppose I made his life unbearable.  He knew I was seeing other men.  You see he was quite a bit older than me and I…”

            “I get the picture.”

            “Do you?  Have you ever been hurt by love, Mr. Trouble?”

            “Honey, hurt’s my middle name,” I offered.  But she wasn’t taking.  Instead she took another swig from the bottle and wiped her lips with sad hands.

            “I think it was too much for him eventually.   He died of a heart attack.”

            “No one dies of that anymore.”

            “Hearts still break, Mr. Trouble, in spite of cardiogenics.”

            “Well then I’d say you’re pretty much home free, murderwise.”

            But she looked up at me like someone expecting a bomb rather than a prize.

            “You didn’t know my husband.”

            “True, but…”

            “He would never, ever let death get in the way of his plans.”

    

            It was dusk by the time we got down to serious business.  One of those crazy dusks that settle on you like too much brandy on a hot day.  As the boys down at the bar always say, the only cure is mixing metaphors with a total stranger.  So I was playing her keyboard and petting her pride when she suddenly stiffened up.

            “Please, you’re going too fast,” she said, as I moved in for the clinch.

            “Sure, sure,” I said. 

            I was used to being played with like a yo-yo.  Story of my life.

            “Look, why don’t you tell me what this is all about?” I said backing off.

            “Yes, Mr. Trouble.  I’ll tell you everything.  Everything.”

            She was breathless as she reeled me back in and planted one.  She kissed like someone who had studied thermodynamics and knew how to pump up the heat.

            “Jesus lady, you sure blow hot and cold.” I said, trying somehow to warm down and cool off at the same time.

            “I’m so confused, so desperate!” she gasped.  “You see Alonso’s goon is following me.  He’s a biogen and a murderer.”

            So that was it. 

            Now it all made sense.  The dead husband had progged a biogen assassin to do her in.  That was bad because biogens had no conscience.  They were high-tech zombies programmed to follow instructions.  There was no way to stop them once they were given directions.  The mob used them all the time, the army was in love with them, and naturally they were all over the government.

            “That’s why I have to be so careful,” she said.  “One false move and…”

            Perfect, I thought.  Because if there was ever one false move…I was it.  I poured us another sociable.

            “So Alonso set up his goon to do you in after he died.  Is that the gambit?”

            “That’s right!” she cried.  “It’s horrible, Mr. Trouble.  So horrible.”

            “And what’d you do to earn this kind of devotion?”

            “Nothing!” she said  “I did nothing.”

            She was half sitting on my desk, her legs out in front and her hands resting at either side on the desktop.  Her skirt fell like a waterfall over perfect rocks.  And I noticed for the first time the heart shaped gold locket she wore around her neck that pointed to her cleavage like a road sign.  A curl of her auburn hair had slipped over her left eye.  Her lips were still moist.  She looked about as innocent as a personal injury lawyer.  I laughed.

            “What’s so funny about personal injury,” she pouted.

            “You read my mind,” I said.  “Okay, so you’re innocent.  Just like every bum I ever nailed.  So what do you want me to do?  Guard your body?”

            “No, Mr. Trouble.  I want you to kill him first!”

            By the time I stopped choking on the booze, the burning had ripped a hole in my windpipe.  I looked at her for a sign of satire but got back a steely stare instead.

            “Come again?”

            “I want you to kill him before he kills me.”

            She welled up again and I handed her my handkerchief to mop the flood.

            “Nice idea,” I said, “except for one problem.  I don’t do murders.”

            “But you must, Mr. Trouble!”

            “Sorry, honey, I’m allergic to murder.  Gives me hives.”

            “But he’s only a biogen!”

            “Even hybrids have rights in this crazy world.  Life, liberty, that other stuff.”

            After all, biogens were not robots.  They were real people with a few stubborn microchips in the right places.  They were relentless, mindless, soulless.  But flesh and bone nonetheless.  Like a lot of folks I knew.  They ate, slept, watched bad sitcoms.  But when the signal came through, they dropped everything and borged their way to the end.  No, there was no way to tell a biogen from an ordinary citizen, until after they plugged you.

            She pulled back for a second and I thought she might call it quits.  I wasn’t even sure how I felt about that.  But it was only a windup and she threw herself at me like a lepton.

            “Please, Mr. Trouble!  You’re a detective.  You must have a gun.”

            “Right here, babe,” I said, tapping my armpit.  “But I don’t kill people with it.”

            I was holding her around the hips to stop her from collapsing, but the firmness of her body was confusing my sense of duty.

            “You must help me, Mr. Trouble.  Alonso found out that I was having an affair.  He knew he was dying, so he wrote into his will as his final wish that I be killed for my indiscretion.  Believe me, his goon will carry out his wish!”

            “Sorry, lady,” I said, pushing her back.  “I may be a patsy, but I’m no fallguy.  If I were to kill this goon of yours, the cops would nail me for sure.  Not to mention the ASPCB.”

            “Cruelty to Biogens?  How can you think of that when my life is at stake?”

            “Seems like everyone’s life is at stake.  So if you don’t mind, I’ll take mine first.”

            “But the will would protect you.  It would prove that he tried to kill me first.”

            “Call me a cynical paranoid psycho but I’ll bet a man like Alonso covered that particular track.”

            “Very well!” she said, suddenly straightening up.  “You leave me no choice.”

            I thought she had gotten hold of herself but no dice.  What she had gotten hold of was my ceragun and she was pointing the barrel right at my ticker.  She had managed to slip it out of my shoulder holster while I was too stuck on her curves to notice.  I laughed again but more at myself than at her.  And I wondered just how much it would cost to add the word Patsy to the door.  Then I raised my arms in the victim’s salute.

            “You’re nuts!” I said, trying to distract her.  “Crackers, bananas.”

            It was way past dinnertime but she wasn’t hungry enough to take the hint.

            “I may seem insane to you, Mr. Trouble,” she said, her voice all trembly,  “but I assure you that I am perfectly aware of what I am doing.”

            “And what is that?  What are you going to do, shoot me?”

            “Not at all, Mr. Trouble.  I’m going to let my lover do that.”

            “Nice sense of drama you got.”

            “In here!” she shouted.

            Only then did I realize that what I thought was a coat in the outside room was actually a man.  He had been standing there the whole time, waiting for her to beckon him in.  Once inside, I could see that he was a nice-looking kid with a sorrowful face, same face I’d seen on a million wannabees.  He had a gun too, but on him it was a decoration not a weapon.  I could see right off from the way he looked at her that he was stuck on the dame.  Couldn’t blame him, of course.  I was too. 

            Until now.

            “Max Trouble meet Max Trouble.”

            “What the hell…”

            “I’m afraid I must confess that I lied to you before, Mr. Trouble,” she said to me, cold as a fish and still wriggling the gun.  My gun.

            “No kidding.  And here I thought you were licking me through your teeth not lying through them.”

            “Shut up!” the kid said.  He was twitchy from too much sin that he couldn’t handle.  Or maybe just from having the same name as me.  That was making me twitch too.

            “So which part was the lie?” I asked.  “All of it?”

            “No, just the made-up parts.  Alonso Montenegro was my husband and he did croak yesterday.  He also found out about my affair.”

            “With him?” I said, nodding towards the kid.  “That’s not romance, that’s kidnapping.”

            “I ain’t napping now, pal?” he said, raising the gun.

            “It’s all right, honey,” she said to calm him.  “This will all be over soon.”

            “Go on,” I said stalling for time, “you were finally telling me the truth.”

            “Don’t put that word in italics with me,” she spit, stern as a stickler.  “You have no idea what I’m dealing with here.”

            “Why don’t you give me all the sordid details,” I suggested, stalling.

            “The will is very clear,” she said.  “It states that unless Max Trouble is killed within a week, I am cut out of the estate.  I get nothing.  After all I put up with living with that fat pig.  His disgusting hands all over me…”

            “In other words, this biogen kills your lover and you get the money.”

            “Yes.  That was Alonso’s final revenge.”

            “Cute.  But not exactly legal.”

            “Alonso was above the law, Mr. Trouble.  You of all people should know that.  And above his own death too.  He has plenty of people who will see to it that his wishes are carried out.”

            “Let’s cut the chatter and get on with it,” the kid said.

            I could see from his stammer that he was getting scared, which was good for me, so I stalled for more time.

            “If this runt and me got the same name, how do you know which of us the biogen would nail?”

            “We don’t, Mr. Trouble.  That’s the whole problem.  The biogen has been following me, waiting for me to lead him to a Mr. Max Trouble.  Now both of you are here.   It’s only a matter of time…”

            “Then what?”

            “He comes here, he finds a dead Trouble,” the kid said, trying to sound old.  “ID’s the corpse, goes home happy.”

            “Okay,” I summed.  “I was wrong, I admit it.  It’s not just you, sweetheart.  You’re all nuts.  Alonso, you, this kid…the whole bunch of you.  Why don’t you let me dial up a good virtual shrink.”

            “I’m sick of all your cracks,” the kid said.  “And I ain’t no kid neither.”

            He raised his arm and aimed the barrel of his gun, putting me one barb away from oblivion.

            “Let’s all just take it easy,” I said, lowering my arms.  I wasn’t getting brave, just tired.  “This whole thing is out of some crap short story.”

            “Shorter than you think,” the kid said and I smiled.  He was a baby hood with bad skin, but at least he was finally picking up the wordplay.

            “I don’t get it,” I said.  “How did I come to figure in all this?”

            “It had to be you,” Esmeralda said.

            “Catchy tune, but why me?”

            “Alonso didn’t know who my lover was, Mr. Trouble.  Or what he looked like.  He just knew the name.  So the will simply says that Max Trouble must die.”

            “You people are obsessed with names.  Ever hear of DNA, biotraces, face recognition?”

            “Alonso started all this, Mr. Trouble.  We were very careful and never left any traces.  But he managed to find out the name.  No other information.  All he had was a name.”

            “And that’s why you picked me?”

            “The databank coughed you up.  Right there under T.  Seems you are the only other Max Trouble in town.”

            I was about to say that I’m usually under P for patsy but I began to think I was overplaying that gag.  Besides, the chill in her stare suddenly sent a shiver up my spine.  Some inner nanotech had turned her colors all chilly.  It was the first moment that I actually thought the ending would not be as ironic as I imagined.

            “We kill you,” she said flatly, “and when the biogen shows up he finds a dead body.  He ID’s you and finds out that Max Trouble is dead.  His mission is over.  Once Alonso’s people are satisfied, I’m home free.  I’ll claim that you were my lover and I can collect my money.  You see?”

            “Bye bye bigmouth,” the kid said.

            “I’m sorry for all this…well…all this trouble, Max.  I know it’s not right.  But face it, we’re all nothing but bytes in the same Net.   Real people don’t matter anymore, just data.  The fact is that any Max Trouble will do!”

            I had a real good laugh over that one.  They must have thought that I flipped my wig.  Some scene…both of them standing there holding me at gunpoints, ready to cancel my ticket, and me laughing like a fool.  But it really was funny.

            “Nice plan, Esmeralda,” I said, “but there’s one slight problem.”

            “What’s that?” the kid asked, daring me to find a loophole.

            I gave him a crater. 

            “I’m not Max Trouble.”

            “What??”

            “I’m not Max Trouble.  So killing me won’t accomplish anything.  Biogen shows up, finds me dead, snorks out my identity, then still goes and hunts down babyface.”

            “Don’t give me that,” the kid said.  “He’s bluffing, stalling for time.  Let me do him and get this over with.”

            Luckily the dame had more sense than her boy.

            “What are you saying?” Esmeralda shrilled. 

            Her eyes glowed with rage and I had to admit that she was quite exquisite when she was deranged.

            “Max Trouble,” I said.  “That’s not my real name.  It’s only the name I use for this business.  Sounds good.  Some nice letters on a door.”

            “What the hell are you talking about?”

            “Go back and check the databank.  You didn’t dig into it, just saw what you wanted to see.”

            I made a move over to the console on my desk but the kid got rigid and so I backed off.

            “Max Trouble?  Real name…Maxmillian Troubleski.  I cut it down because I paid by the letter,” I cracked, nodding at the signage.

            “That’s impossible.”

            “Check it out.  Troubleski.  It’s of Ukrainian/Polish/Hungarian origin.  My grandfather was a count, my father a no-count, and I could barely count.  That’s evolution in action.”

            “That’s baloney,” the kid sputtered.  “I saw his name in the databank.”

            “You saw my moniker, you monkey.”

            “Who you calling a moniker?”

            “Shut up both of you!” Esmeralda shouted.  “I need time to think.”

            “Look,” I said, “I can prove it to you.  Just access the databank from there.  But try to read beyond the first two words.  If you can.”

            I pointed to my desk but the kid got nervous again.  His hand was shaking as he stared me down.  Mine wasn’t shaking at all because I knew they couldn’t take the next step without me.

            “He knows we can’t access from here.  The console has touch ID.”

            “Then you do it,” Esmeralda said, looking at me.  “Slowly.”

            “Could be a trick,” the kid suggested.

            But she was too busy figuring out what to do next to bother with him and she motioned for me to continue.  I tapped the console and a mistscreen appeared above it like a haze.  A few quick moves and I was into my file.  The kid must have needed to read with his finger like first grade because he walked up close and poked the words.  His hand was shaking like an autumn leaf, which made the screen waver, but when he was done it was winter in his soul.

            “He’s right,” the kid said.  “It says Maxmillian Troubleski.”

            Even from her side of the desk she could see the databank entry floating in space in reverse.  My mug, my data, my name.  The kid was all gaga but she did not seem surprised, which did not surprise me.  She was one of those women who are used to sudden changes in the rules.  A real player.  So by the time the plan unraveled, she had already thought through her next move.  And the one after that.  Slowly, like a poet reaching a sad conclusion, she slid the gun away from me and towards the kid.

            “What are you doing dollbaby?” he gasped.

            “Sorry honey, he may not be Max Trouble.  But you still are.”

            “Me??  But we’re partners!  I was going to kill him for you!  And then we were going to split the money and…and…”

            “There is no money without a dead man named Max Trouble.”

            “Then let’s find another one.”

            “It seems like you’re the only one left in town.”

            “There must be another way!”

            “There isn’t.”

            “This is nuts.  You can’t kill me.  I love you.”

            “I know you do, sweetie.  And I’ll always feel good about that.  But I have a date with five billion dollars.  I’m sure you can understand…”

            As I watched them go back and forth, I slowly edged my way towards the middle of the desk.  I had a second pistol stashed there.  It was not a ceragun, just an old revolver, but it still had bullets that shot.  Plus there was another bottle of booze.  I figured I could either shoot my way out of the mess or drink a toast to the end of it.  But I didn’t get that far.  Something had already clicked inside junior’s head, something dark and tragic, and it didn’t spell Esmeralda. 

            The room went dark as I dove, trouble first, behind the desk.  I had my revolver in one hand and the booze in the other by the time the flurry of shots ended.  When I peeked out they were both lying on the floor of the office in a bad mangle.  The kid’s wound sparked and spizzled, I guessed from a cybernetic ticker.  They were real good at that now but even a bionic heart could get you killed. 

            And from Esmeralda’s wound a deep green oil spilled like an arctic tanker on a reef.  Figures, I thought.  She was a monroe, a pleasure anthroid.  Sexy as they could make them.  But just as dead in the end.

            As I sat there waiting for some neckless goon to wander in, find his dead Max Trouble, and be on his way, two separate pools of liquid – one red, one green – formed around their bodies, then spread out until they joined in the middle like hands touching.

            Very touching.

            It seemed like I’d have some explaining to do downtown but nothing I couldn’t handle.  The cops would give me the standard third-degree, the secretary the familiar wink, and the captain the usual runaround about the company I keep.  Slap on the wrist, watch your back, so long sailor.  But as I stared at the bodies, what I could not grasp was how anyone could be so dumb.  How they could want something so much that they would risk everything to get it.  And lose it all in the end.

            Then I thought…that’s why the dead got it good. 

            They can’t risk their lives for something they cannot have.

            Sweet.

            I took another shot of whiskey and toasted the luck of the dear departed.  Then I tapped the console and the mistscreen vanished like a bad clue, my picture and name like dust in the wind.  So it turned out to be an ironic ending, just like I expected.   After all, this was the pinpoint world, dataworld, the universe of tracking and tracing.  Biotrace measures, retinal scans, DNA sampling, face recog…everyone everywhere listed, accessed, known, located.  Yet somehow it had all come down to that crazy name I inherited.  Just a name…flimsiest of all traces.  Maxmillian Troubleski.  Even I thought it sounded like a chatty drunk in a skeezy bar. 

            But what the hell, it saved my life this time.  And what is a name anyway besides some letters on a door.  You never really know who anyone is.

            Maybe least of all yourself.