Bard Constantine
New Haven Blues
DEDICATION
To my mother: Beverly Harris, for introducing me to the world of books at a young age, inadvertently opening the doors to the universe…
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are a myriad of online readers and tutors who have in one way or another aided me in accomplishing this task. There are too many to name, but I greatly appreciate you all. Special thanks goes to Mark Krajnak of Jersey Style Photography, who was kind enough to shoot his mug for the cover image, and to Stefan Prohaczka for his invaluable aid in designing an extraordinary cover and introducing me to the culture of dieselpunk. A tip of the fedora to you gents. Last but not least, a very special thanks to Selene Skye Deme, who contributed to this story through her mythology of wolves, Gutter Girls, and a certain tattooed leg that causes a lot of trouble in New Haven.
After the Cataclysm nearly wiped out humanity, the remnants of mankind survived in Havens: city-sized constructs built to reboot society and usher in a new age of mankind.
However the new age was not the type that the architects had envisioned. The same greed and lust for power that existed before the Cataclysm had resurfaced, and the Havens quickly became quagmires of political and economic conflict that threatened to destroy the future envisioned by the Haven’s founders.
This is the world of Mick Trubble, a man without a past. A man with nothing to lose. But when your luck is down and no one else can help you, he can. He takes the cases that no one else will touch. The type of trouble that no one else can handle.
Mick Trubble is…
The Troubleshooter.
Chapter 1: A Dame With Trubble
Whoever said that misery loves company was right on the money — and probably the loneliest soul on the planet. Because the problem is that company doesn’t love you back. Being miserable is actually a rather dismal and insular experience, something I can relate to from prolonged exposure.
Naturally the depression was complimented by the sound of rain pounding the pavement outside my grime-streaked windows. I didn’t complain, though. Most folks hate the rain 'cause they're thinking about their hair or their darb rags that are about to get soaked. Then you got those daisies that get all depressed and sit around crying and writing poetry and all.
But me?
Suited my mood just fine. The office air conditioner blew its circuits a while back, so I kinda liked it when the rain cooled things down. You know; washed some of the grime off the streets and into the gutters where it belonged. It never lasted. The cleanness, I mean. That's about the only thing you could bank on in New Haven.
Nothing ever stayed clean.
The office air tasted like menthol. Wisps lazily drifted from the ashtray and were scattered like cowardly ghosts by the ceiling fan. I reclined with my heels on the desk, enjoying the moment with a couple of friends: The Mean Ol' Broad and Jack.
It was a celebration of sorts. My life of memory blackouts, hard drinking, and skirt chasing had finally come to its anti-climatic conclusion. I figured it was only a matter of hours before the Russians broke down the door in a hail of hot lead and bad breath. I'd run out of places to hide, and the only reason I was in my office was because it was common knowledge that I hated to work.
Figured it would be last place they checked.
I had just poured another shot when my secretary buzzed over the intercom. “You… have a… cclient… Mr. Trrrubble.”
Pris was an older model android, and like me she had seen better days. I got a great deal on her once most folks upgraded to synoids. Synoids imitate humans much better than androids, but that’s a bit creepy to me. I always get the feeling that one day they’ll try to replace us and the whole world will be full of walking mannequins.
Besides, I couldn’t afford one. Pris’ audio chip dragged a bit, but I didn’t mind so much. Wasn’t like I needed her to sing soprano for the opera.
I figured if my guests were Nimrods, they would’ve scattered her circuits and kept coming. Even so, I reached under the desk and positioned the scattergun I had in place. It pays to be paranoid when there’s a price on your head. I told Pris to admit them, and placed my finger on the trigger as the door opened.
It wasn’t the Russians. I should have been relieved. I wasn’t.
Because the doll that entered was even worse. I could tell from the staccato of her stilettos as they tortured my floor. The way she entered like a queen coming down to whip some peasants into shape.
The dame was from money. I could see that in the burgundy velvet of her skirt, which discreetly covered her gams but hugged the ample hips. The black lacey blouse was suggestive yet elegant, complimented by matching gloves. Looked like genuine oyster fruit around her neck, too. Her hair was expertly flipped under her black beret.
Brunette, too, which made me focus past the Jack and concentrate. A true brunette can get over a man real quick if he’s not thinking straight. Her eyes were either gray or blue depending on how the light caught them. In either case, they took in the shambles that passed for my office in a blink.
The lug that shadowed her didn't look local. Best guess, I'd say originally from India. ‘Course seeing as the world has been displaced for quite some time, nationality don’t mean much anymore.
His long black flogger concealed a lot, but if he wasn't packing heat then I'm the mayor of New Haven. The aggressive way he shook off the umbrella along with the warning look in his dark eyes confirmed him as her hired bruno.
I caught that in about two seconds.
I hadn't moved other than to take my finger off the trigger and my heels off the desk. A man has to have some formalities. I gestured to the battered seats in front of me.
"Please. Have a seat, Ms…?
"Kilby. The name is Kilby.” She sat with natural grace, crossing one black stocking-clad leg over the other.
I slid a spare glass her way. "Giggle juice?"
"Not when I'm on business, thank you."
She opened a silver case and selected a smoke. I fumbled for my lighter, but the bruno was quicker, lighting her gasper so smoothly it felt choreographed.
"Thank you, Poddar.” She blew a thin stream of poison so elegantly that it almost irritated me. I was suddenly aware of the water stains in the ceiling; the cigarette burns in the ratty carpet. With the drunken stacks of wires and busted consoles scattered about, my entire office looked one step short of a complete meltdown.
"So, Miss Kilby. What can I do you for?"
"I hear you're a Troubleshooter. A good one."
"Really? Who tipped you on that score?"
She smiled and ignored the question.
Smart lady.
"I have a proposition for you, Mr. Trubble. One that will be quite… profitable if you accept it."
I shrugged casually. "I've never had a problem with profit, Ms. Kilby. What's the proposition?"
That was all the cue she needed. Her pose was perfect; one hand on her crossed leg, the other holding the gasper with a delicately bent wrist.
"I represent an individual of no certain shortage of wealth and power. This individual has a problem with another individual who is responsible for the removal of an object of great value. The individual that I represent would like that object returned undamaged, and is willing to pay a substantial amount to the person responsible for the deed. Since the nature of both property and individuals involved are of a sensitive nature, the individual I represent feels it prudent to take care of said situation outside the boundaries of the law. This is where you come in, Mr. Trubble."