No one was dancing even though the Asian dance music was pounding; a skeletal dancer in a silvery latex bikini and a prominent caesarian scar gyrated listlessly and unwatched in a corner.
Turnbull knew where he was going, to the office at the back. Biker bouncer’s twin stood outside, glaring. He kept glaring as Turnbull and Junior ignored him and went through the door into Ricky’s office.
Ricky sat behind his desk, which was piled high with papers and an old IBM PC. He wore a bad tan suit with a yellow tie. He seemed sweaty even though there was an A/C unit in the high window; the place had its own generator to power it.
There were a couple wooden chairs in front of the desk, and Ricky motioned for them to sit even as biker bouncer’s brother pushed the door closed behind them. The terrible music was mercifully baffled.
“I’m seeing a lot of you lately, friend,” Ricky said. He motioned to Junior. “Who’s he?”
“He’s okay. You know what I need, right?”
“Don’t say LA.”
“LA.”
“I told you not to say ‘LA.’ I can’t do it. Not for you. Not now.”
“You can’t get me just under 300 miles on a straight shot southwest?”
“No, I can’t. Not for a while. Maybe a week.”
“I don’t have a week. I need to go tonight.”
“Can’t do it. 15 is sealed tight. You’d have four, five checkpoints, and you look like the guy they’re looking for.”
Junior looked over at Turnbull, who did not break his lock on Ricky’s eyes.
“They looking for someone?”
“At least one. The alert just went out tonight. Somebody capped some guys on the border. The PBI thinks we might have infiltrators. Of course, you’re from Oregon.”
“Portland all the way. Do they have a picture?”
“No, but you sure looked like someone the TV was saying smoked some cops in LA last week, you know, three days after I got you transported there. Probably just a coincidence, right?”
“Totally. We need to get to LA, Ricky. Fast.”
“Yeah, well, fast kinda stopped when the damn country fell apart and they started making laws about driving and making you get movement authorizations and all. So it’s not like you can just jump in your car and drive from here to there anymore.”
“Maybe we could catch a plane,” Junior said, annoyed.
“Yeah, sure. You a movie star? Politician? Rich guy? You think I can get you the carbon credits to fly?”
“There’s gotta be a way,” said Turnbull.
Ricky sighed. “Maybe. You want to go the long way?”
“How long?”
“By bus, up to Reno, over the mountains, then down south to LA. I haven’t heard anything about any new checkpoints going up that way. Might take a day or two.”
“Can you hook us up?”
“I can get you travel passes in a couple hours. I’ll say you’re visiting your sick mom.”
“Yeah, she hasn’t been feeling her best. So, what’s with the cops? I just saw four blues get run off by a crowd out front.”
“People are pissed, man. They cut the food rats again, not that the stores have anything anyway. If you aren’t working, you’re standing in line.”
“You seem to be doing okay.”
“Hey, they don’t ration booze or dope, at least not yet. You want to see a freaking revolution, tell people they can’t drink or smoke.”
“Where’s all the food gone?” asked Junior.
“Hey, do I look like a farmer? Ricky said, looking at Turnbull and smiling. “The TV says it’s the USA doing it, it’s their fault. Not sure how that works. How is it over there?” “He wouldn’t know,” Turnbull answered. “He’s from Portland too.”
“All I know is that if you got money and know the right people you can buy what you want and you don’t need a ration card. I remember before the Split there was plenty, maybe too much. And now there isn’t any.”
“Here are the names for the travel docs,” Turnbull said, passing over their People’s Republic IDs. “We’re staying at that People’s Shelter in the old church a klick or so from here.”
“Jeff?” said Ricky, looking at Turnbull’s. “You don’t look like a Jeff. And Privilege Level 7. Nice. You got some sweet reparations going? They cost me enough, until I got myself a grandmother from Ecuador put on my records. That cut my reparations tax in half.”
“How long?”
“Three hours,” Ricky said. “I have wheels. I’ll drop them off to you at the bus station. Buses go out all night. Just be there when I roll up – I don’t like that class of people.”
“You can pull travel docs after hours with no problem?”
Ricky seemed annoyed. “I can do anything…Jeff. Just need the cash. Fifty grand.”
“Done. Half now, half on delivery.”
“See you at midnight.”
As they stood, the music went off and the door flew open; one of the biker bouncers poked his head in.
“Boss, they’re sweeping the streets. A whole bunch of cops.”
“Crap. Okay, you two out the back. Don’t be late.”
“You got this?” asked Turnbull.
“Yeah, I got this. Go.”
They slipped through the empty kitchen – the club didn’t serve food anymore – and out the back into the hot air of the alley. Over the top of the building, they could hear some sort of commotion – shouts, the occasional siren, and bullhorns demanding people disperse. This last demand cranked up the obscenities.
Whatever was happening, they wanted no part of it. They headed the other way and worked their way back to the former church. A few people lounged out front or inside on their beds, smoking and drinking. The pair attracted more attention this time, as if the observers were watching them to see what they would do next. Turnbull stepped up the pace, crossing the desanctified sanctuary and taking the stairs up to the second floor.
“Fuck me,” he said. Junior saw why. The padlock that secured their room was still there, but the entire mechanism had been jimmied off the door. It stood slightly ajar, the room inside dark.
Turnbull put his finger to his lips and drew the silenced .22 and a small flashlight. Junior covered his back down the stairs with his Glock. Slowly, Turnbull approached the door, then kicked it open and turned on the flashlight, which he held parallel to the pistol.
Nothing.
He cleared the room and the closet in a matter of seconds and came out.
“They got our shit.”
“Who?”
“Some of these damn lowlifes. Now we need to figure out who they are and where they went before they start digging through it.” Turnbull put away the gun and walked across the hall to the manager’s room. He pounded on it.
“Fuck off,” replied the occupant.
There was a peephole; a bit of light flickered in it.
“Fucking open it or I’m coming in. You have three seconds. Two….”
There was a click and a clatter and the door opened a half-inch, secured by a chain. Turnbull threw his weight on it and it smashed the manger in the face, the chain anchor that had been ripped out of the jamb swinging wildly. The manager stumbled back, grasping at his bleeding nose, hitting the rickety table by his cot that held his bong. It fell over on the floor, the noxious bong water spreading across the wood floor.
“Damn it!” he moaned. Turnbull and Junior moved inside. Junior shut the door behind them while Turnbull grabbed the collar of the manager’s scruffy “HUMAN SERVICES” t-shirt. Scrunched up, in Turnbull’s fist, it read “HUM VICES.”