“But he found the painting for us in his files,” Ooljee pointed out.
“That’s so.”
“Still, you are right. It will not hurt to run a check. What are you going to do while I am mollydiving?”
“Well, I’m sure as hell not gonna sit around and stare over your shoulder. Maybe I’ll take a stroll through town. I don’t want to impose on you and your missus’s privacy any more than I have to. And I’d like to see some more of the city.”
“Suit yourself.” Ooljee shrugged. “I will drop you off centrally downtown. If you get lost…”
“I remember your number. And the address. And I can always walk into the nearest station.”
“That’s right.” The sergeant was relieved. Moody was his responsibility.
“I’ve got a copy of the composite.” Moody tapped the spinner attached to his belt. “Maybe I’ll just flash a few street people, since I’m not familiar with your regular sources.”
“A good idea, since my ‘regular sources’ do not seem to be helping us any.”
Moody leaned back against the seat, relaxing against the high-acceleration padding. “Could be I’ll get lucky. It’s a dumb fisherman who sits in the same spot without catching fish and never moves on.”
“I wish you luck.” Ooljee negotiated a low river dune. “But it would be better if we knew what to use for bait.”
CHAPTER 9
Ooljee dropped him outside the downtown Intercontinental Hotel. Moody followed the police pickup until it was swallowed by the traffic. Then he turned a slow circle, alone for the first time in an alien environment.
He felt more at home than he’d expected. The stream of well-dressed tourists and white-collar workers flowing past him was little different from what he would have encountered in a cosmopolitan eastern city, except for the invigorating racial diversity. He rubbed the back of his neck. It didn’t itch as bad as it had on the day of his arrival. Maybe he was getting acclimated a little.
It was late and the holasers and neons and airborne electrophosphorescents were emerging from electronic hibernation, flaring to luminescent life in search of consumer prey. More of them would appear as twilight gave way to night, their messages insistent, visually and aurally demanding your attention.
Hands jammed in the pockets of his jacket, he chose a direction at random and began to walk, trying to recall what he could of blocks and street names but more or less just letting his legs and his curiosity carry him along.
Most of the shops were long and narrow, their limited frontage a sure indication of high rents. They sold jewelry, paintings, souvenirs classy and cheap, sculpture, electronic gadgets; designer clothing from China, Russia, Japan, Paris; high-quality furniture from Brazil and the South American Union; antiques, Oriental specialties, and fine pastries. Moody was especially careful to avoid the latter.
Amerindian artifacts he could not judge, but he suspected what he was seeing on the street was not the most authentic available. Ganado was a commercial, not a cultural, center. Ethnologists would find better hunting in Kayenta or Window Rock.
However, the materials, if not the designs, were the finest. One store displayed a magnificent watchband fashioned from platinum, turquoise, and blue sapphires. That these were not traditional materials would not deter wealthy businessmen from Hakana, Shanghai, or Frankfurt. The absence of tradition did not in any way detract from the fine craftsmanship or the beauty of the final product.
He had been doing his best to avoid the many tempting window displays of the various food emporiums, but now as he crossed the street he was attracted to an open establishment from which issued halfway listenable music and the robust aroma of exotic coffees. Stepping through the air curtain, he ordered a double cup of the best Arusha blend from the counter, along with a cleverly woven little Indian basket piled high with scones and an accompanying pot of clotted cream.
An empty table by the window allowed him to indulge in his high caloric purchase while observing the steady flow of pedestrian traffic outside. He remained thus, sipping the pungent dark brew and noshing, until the last vestige of sunlight was but a recent memory, and existing illumination was supplied solely by electrons which had been bent to the will of determined advertisers, much as toy poodles had been bred for the delight of elderly women suffering from emotional deficiencies.
With the lateness of the hour the composition of the crowd began to change, growing perceptibly younger as he watched. Businessfolk had retired to their homes and zenats and laptops. The people out and about now were dressed for excitement, for fun. Some were intent on specific destinations, while others simply wandered in hopes of encountering stimuli, or at the very least something to interrupt the monotony of their lives.
He downed the last of his coffee, the final chunk of scone, and debated ordering another cup, finally deciding that he was going to have enough trouble sleeping tonight. The air door whooshed softly as he exited.
Out on the boulevard he was surrounded by flashing lights and insistent whisperers proffering suggestions and invitations in a dozen different languages. The crowd pressed close around him as he headed down a side street, seeking enlightenment along with relief from the crush. He was tracing a whiff of Tandoori when something slim and shiny Hashed in an alcove on his right and a voice snapped, “De-mobilate right there, fatso.”
The voice he ignored, but the object gave him pause. As his eyes acclimated to shadow he made out three figures standing in the shuttered entrance of a shop. One aimed a device at his chest. It might have been a knife, it could have been a gun. The stocky figure standing next to the weapon-wielder beckoned. A cerebromassage red-and-yellow headband pulsed softly against his forehead like a somnolent snake.
“In here, bilagaanna. Quick, unless you want to die.” A glance showed Moody that he was alone on this side of the street. This bunch had been waiting for someone just like him, which was to say, stupid and preoccupied. Without justification, he’d allowed himself to relax. Just because this wasn’t Tampa.
Behind the speaker and the one with the weapon stood a last, larger mugger. He wasn’t quite Moody’s size and like his companions he was disappointingly youthful. At least none of them were wildeyes. Just a trio of anxious kids. Potentially murderous kids, but unscrammed. Good. It meant he might be able to reason with them.
Acutely aware of the gleaming metal lance focused on his sternum, he obediently edged into the shadows while keeping as close to the street as possible. The big kid nervously scanned the pavement while his companions inspected their quarry. Meanwhile Moody had time to identify the weapon, which was neither gun nor knife. He noted the supercooled lithium power cell on top and the crudely fashioned trigger on which the shooter kept a taut finger.
The homemade device could pass for an innocent-looking decorative baton or cane, until the cell was activated. Then the uninsulated tip would probably deliver enough of a charge to knock any one human being flat on his back. It was a convenient way of avoiding weapons regulations. Moody knew from experience that one thing bureaucrats never gave street punks sufficient credit for was inventiveness when it came to creating devices capable of inflicting severe bodily harm. In this instance it was the power cell that bestowed lethality, not the wand itself.
The speaker was gesturing anxiously. “C’mon, bilci-gaanna. You can start with the watch, then the wallet.”