“Good. We will take a roundabout. There is plenty of town you have not seen.”
They ended up in one of those neighborhoods common to every large city; a place where cheap residential housing, manufacturing, commercial offices, and lowlife entertainment facilities came together. Not surprisingly, the focus of all this activity was a major university.
“Actual campus is up Keet Seel Street about a mile.” Ooljee pointed out his window. “Lot of rich kids up there, plenty of poor ones hanging around the fringes looking to activate some action. Real interesting mix.”
Ooljee was overstating. There was much here that was kin to similar parts of Tampa and St. Pete, though the ethnic soup was far more exotic. Moody recognized the same youth hangouts, noted the same furtive whisperings as ideas, concepts, goods, drugs, and information were exchanged. Much of the Hispanic insignia and posturing was familiar to him. The Amerind and Asian influences he found utterly foreign.
For example, you would not see in Tampa someone wearing a headband and fringed blue jacket decorated with rainbow figures called Na’a-tse-elit (according to Ooljee). The characters dripped blood, a most untraditional representation. The jacket was belted with silver and turquoise above cream-colored pantaloons tucked into water-buffalo-hide boots inscribed with indecipherable Asian symbols.
What struck Moody strongest was the realization that the locals—be they Navaho, Hopi, Zuni, Hualapai, or Apache—blended in better with the Asians than they did with the Anglos or Hispanics.
Ooljee slowed the truck as they cruised past a nondescript building. Twin doors fashioned of black composite gleamed in a small setback below street level. Glowing rainbow symbols, red and blue split by a thin strip of yellow, guarded both sides of the entrance as well as the lintel above the doorway. At each upper comer of the portal were a pair of heavily stylized neon birds.
“Golden eagle and black hawk,” Ooljee informed his companion. “Guardian symbols borrowed from sandpaint-ing, just like the rainbows. You do not usually see eagles and hawks used as guardians. That is what happens when people try to adapt old traditions to modem uses. Also, in a sandpainting you do not see eagles copulating.”
The neon over the entrance writhed in confirmation of Ooljee’s observation.
“Shima Club. A shima is any woman old enough to be your mother. There are worse hangouts around. This is the kind of place where upscale locals and kids from out of town can meet the children of underclass assembly workers and janitorial staff. Usually a couple of fights a night, but it rarely gets serious unless pharmacuties are involved. I had to break up an altercation right out here on the street a few months ago. It was over a really fine woman. My partner and I, we lingered just to look at her for a while. As she was thanking us for our help and saying goodbye, a half-pound packet of self-injecting frisson ampules fell out of her dress. They had been clipped to her bra. That sizzle is from the Ivory Coast and it will fry your brain. So she was not so fine after all.
“I thought you worked in Homicide.”
“I do, but our department requires that everyone do time on the street once a month. To keep us in touch, the regulations say. I don’t mind.” He rolled up his window, shutting out the blast of weirding music which emanated from the club when one of the twin doors parted to allow a clutch of customers egress. Musicians inside hammered out notes like a bevy of blacksmiths forging knives.
“I am grateful your people sent someone with experience. I was afraid they’d send some young hotshot anxious to make a name for himself who I would have to wet nurse if things got awkward.”
Moody remembered the young detective he’d spoken with at Kettrick’s house. The one he’d tried to have sent here in his place. Nickerson.
“No, this assignment was mine all the way.”
“I never doubted it for a moment,” was Ooljee’s cryptic reply.
CHAPTER 7
It was slow at the station, whose entrance, Moody noticed immediately, faced the proper direction. A steady but wieldy stream of drunks, addicts, burglars, and assorted ripoff artists flowed through the front office, though most had been safely tucked away for the night. It was slow time, the night shift winding its work down, the morning crew having not yet arrived.
The people Ooljee exchanged greetings with were variously tired, relieved, or uncommunicative, depending on how their night had gone. There had been times when Moo-dy’d considered requesting a late-night shift himself. The pace was slower, the atmosphere less frenetic than during the day, the heat not as oppressive. From three until five a.m. the action inside the station varied from lethargic to moribund, because most nocturnal lawbreakers had concluded their activities, and those who worked during the day usually slept late.
But he liked the sunlight.
The building and what facilities he could identify were far more up-to-date than those he was used to. That was understandable, since Ganado was a young boom town and Tampa an elderly eastern city. With interest he noted that although this was an NDPS office, not all the personnel were Amerind. There were Anglos and Blacks, and a few Hispanics. Still, the feel was far different from any station he’d ever been inside before.
Ooljee led him to one of many cubicles and secured a privaflex screen behind them. The little office was neat and clean. Holos of his wife and boys were everywhere. Moody’s practiced eye automatically scanned his surroundings, storing information. It was good to know everything about a man you were working with, he knew, especially if there was any chance of being shot at while in his company.
In addition to the family pictures, there were some mounted awards, a few small athletic trophies, and some expanded holos of spectacular canyon scenery. On the desk were several piles of papers, a notepad, the usual office paraphernalia, and a slick Fordmatsu office spinner. A pair of tall cacti gave the office some color. Only on closer inspection did he realize they were clever fakes. The small pink pincushion of a plant on the desk was real. A couple of chairs were well padded and of recent manufacture, not like standard office issue back in Tampa. The ubiquitous Zenat monitor hung on the wall behind the desk, a compact three-by-two model.
“Now we’ll see if anything new has come in.” Ooljee sat down behind the desk and activated the spinner board. The zenat sprang to life, displaying a fixed geometric ready pattern. Moody settled into the empty chair.
He watched without comment as Ooljee called out the Kettrick file and began weaving around inside. It was easy to pick out information the Tampa bureau had forwarded.
Ten minutes passed before Ooljee remembered the dispenser located above the single storage cabinet. No words passed between them, but Moody understood what his fellow officer wanted. He did have to inquire if the sergeant wanted his black or with cream and sugar.
“Nucane, one packet.” Ooljee spoke without looking up from his work.
Moody added the artificial sweetener to the cup he’d siphoned for his colleague. “Howcum the faux? You’re not overweight. That’s my department.”
“Some hypertension. Runs in the family. Sometimes just hyper without the tension.”
“I could’ve guessed that from watching your kids.” Moody returned his attention to the monitor as he sipped his own coffee. It was wonderfully aromatic and fresh. In Tampa you had to leave your desk and make do with whatever the central dispenser offered. This business of having one in your own office was something he could bring up at the next Union meeting. Moody enjoyed his perks as much as the next guy.
When the cup was half drained, Ooljee put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “Same old shit. Not that I expected otherwise.”