Nohar made his way down the center of the old asphalt strip. He passed canines, felines, a knot of rodents in leather vests and denim briefs—he avoided the slight scent of familiar perfume—an unfamiliar ursine, a loud lepus shouting at a rapt vulpine congregation. The people around him only made the briefest im-FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
57
press ion. A few shouted greetings. Nohar waved without quite noticing who they had been.
His destination, Watership Down, was one of the few bars on the Coventry strip that was actually owned and operated by a morey proprietor-—Gerard Lopez, a lepus. The reason Nohar chose to frequent this particular bar, out of the two dozen on the strip, was the high ceiling. This was one of the few places he could get fully toasted and not end up bashing his head into a ceiling fan or a light fixture.
Nohar entered the bar, shook some of the rain out of his coat, and took his regular seat, a booth in the back that had the seats moved back for people his size. The table was directly underneath a garish framed picture someone had once told him was an original Warner Brothers* animation cell. It was a hand drawn cartoon of a gray bipedal rabbit in the process of blowing up a bald, round-headed, human. Lopez had mounted a little brass plaque under the picture. It said, "1946—Off the Pink." Even if it was a joke, Nohar was glad that most humans didn't come down to Coventry.
Manny was waiting at the bar. He bore down on Nohar's booth carrying two pitchers of beer. Alert black eyes glanced over Nohar as the quick little mongoose put the pitcher on the table. "Nohar, you look like hell."
Nohar's mind had drifted off the case and on to Maria. He was at once irritated and defensive. Manny was the only real family Nohar had. The mongoose had come to America with Nohar's parents, and had been there when Nohar's mother had died. When he was younger, Nohar had resented him. It was still hard for Nohar to accept Manny's concern with good grace.
It had taken finding his real father to allow Nohar to appreciate Manny.
"Maria dumped me." Nohar poured himself a beer and downed it.
Manny slid into the opposite side of the booth and
58 S. ANDREW SWANN
chit tared a little in sympathy. "That's hard to believe. After the last time I saw you two together, it looked like you finally found the right one,"
"I thought so myself. Always do."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"I want to talk to an M.E., not a psychiatrist."
Manny gave his head a shake and poured himself a beer. "Are you sure you want to talk business right now?"
Nohar glared down at Manny. "I didn't ask you to meet me for a counseling session." Nohar reined in the outburst. "Sorry. Been a tough day. Did you bring the database?''
Unlike Nohar, Manny couldn't form a smile, but between them a nose-twitch on Manny's part served the same purpose. Manny took a notebook-sized case and put it on the table and flipped up the cover. There was a pause as it wanned up. "What happened to your wallet computer?"
Manny gave a brief shrug. His voice held a tone of resignation. "The Jap chip blew. It was a prewar model, so the county couldn't replace it. So, I got this new bug-ridden Tunja 1200. Soon we're going to be back to manual typewriters and paper records ... "
Manny's head shook, accompanied by a high-pitched sigh. In a few seconds, the screen began to glow faintly and the keypad became visible. "I updated it from the mainframe after you called. Do you have a name for the stiff you're looking for?"
Nohar poured himself another beer. "Yes, but this isn't a normal case—"
"But you want records for a stiff, right?"
"The name's Daryl Johnson."
Manny's whole upper body undulated with a momentary shrug. "Off hand, I don't remember that name. What species?"
"Human."
Manny froze; the sudden absence of motion was eerie on the mongoose. "What?" FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
59
"I need the complete forensic record on the murder of a man named Daryl Johnson."
"What the hell?"
Nohar could see him tense up. He could almost see the vibration in Manny's small frame. Nohar could smell Manny's nervousness even over the smell of the beer. "You can access those records?"
"Nohar, you said human, you said murder."
"I said it wasn't a normal case."
Manny was silent. His black eyes darted from Nohar to his little portable computer and back. Nohar was a little surprised at his reaction. They'd worked together and had shared information ever since Nohar had gotten his license. But then, until now, it had simply consisted of Nohar making sure the moreys he'd been hired to find hadn't ended up in the morgue.
After nearly a full minute of silence, Manny finally spoke. "Nohar, I've known you all your life. You don't ask for trouble anymore. You've never interfered with a police investigation. You've never messed with pink business."
"You slipped, you said the 'p' word." Nohar regretted it the instant he said it. Manny had to work with humans. He was one of perhaps a half-dozen mo-reaus in the city with medical training, and they would only let him cut up corpses. Only morey corpses at that. Manny was always open to the accusation of selling out, being pink under his fur. Nohar just rubbed Manny's nose in it.
"Forgive me if I don't want to see you mixed up in something that might hurt you."
"Sorry. It's just a case. An important one. I'm trying to find out who killed him."
Manny closed his eyes. His voice picked up speed. "You are trying to find out who murdered a human? You know what'd happen if word got on the street? You know what happens to moreys that get too close to humans—"
60
S. ANDREW SWANN "I still need your help."
Manny made an effort to slow down. "I'm not going to change your mind, am I? I'll call up the file, but first—" One of Manny's too-long hands clasped No-har's wrist. "Remember, my place is as far from Moreytown as you can get." Nohar nodded.
Manny held Nohar's gaze for a brief moment. Then Manny looked down at his computer and started rapid-fire tapping on the screen. For a terminal with no audio, Manny handled it very efficiently. His hands were engineered for surgery, and their gracefulness permeated every gesture.
He did, however, have to hit the thing a few times to get it to work right. Manny's nose twitched. "I don't believe it. The file's inactive. It's barely a week old."
"The police are under pressure to drop the investigation."
Manny looked like he was about to say something, but apparently thought better of it. "Fine, well, we have the autopsy report, list of the forensic evidence, abstract of the scene of the crime, a few preliminary statements from the neighbors, as well as the witness who found the body, etcetera. Pretty complete record. Compared to most IVe seen."
One of Manny's lithe hands dove into a breast pocket and pulled out a ramcard and slid it into the side of the computer. Nohar briefly saw the rainbow sheen of the card reflected in a small puddle of beer on the table. "I'm running off a copy. Do me a favor and make a backup. Occasionally they do monitor access to the database."
Nohar nodded when Manny handed him the card. Nohar slipped it into his wallet, next to the as yet unexamined card from his camera, the pictures from Johnson's funeral. "Could you tell me how Johnson died?"
"It's all on the card I gave you. He was shot in the FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
61
head. Through his picture window. Splattered his brains all over his comm—oh, that's interesting ..."
"What?"
There was the hint of what might have been admiration in Manny's voice. "Are you familiar with Israeli weaponry? Thought not. The forensics team found the remains of two bullets, from a Levitt Mark II, fifty-caliber." A slight whistle of air came from between Manny's front teeth.
"So?"
"Came out of Mossad during the Third Gulf War. It was designed for a single sniper, and, like most designs they came up with, it's made to keep the sniper alive. The bullets are propelled by compressed carbon dioxide. It can't be heard firing by anyone farther away than fifteen meters or so. The ammunition is made from an impact-sensitive plastic explosive impregnated with shrapnel. It's intended as an antipersonnel weapon. I haven't seen an impact wound from one of these since the war. The Afghanis favored them for night raids—Nohar, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?"