And he wasn’t a killer, either. Which wasn’t to say he hadn’t killed. He had, but not for fun, not for a long time and only in the line of business. Sure, some of his donors had died, but only the stupid ones who didn’t bother to read his instructions when they awoke. After they’d donated, Sanchez used to pack their limp bodies in ice and leave them in a bath with printed instructions to call 0800 HELP-HELP-HELP and ask for surgical emergency when they awoke.
He had a good deal going with the hospital too: including a sliding scale of kickbacks that depended on the size of the donor’s insurance policy. And if the donor went flatline, then the hospital lifted the cornea and anything else in demand, and Sanchez skimmed ten percent of the sale price off the top.
It had been a good living, until even the not-so-rich started growing their own spares in advance, just in case. Which was enough to kick the bottom out of any market.
Sanchez sucked at his teeth and kicked his way into La Piscina before the toughened door had time to swing open. The hinges hissed, or it could just have been hydraulics adjusting pressure.
La Piscina had been a swimming pool before it was a club, until concrete rot had drained it of water and patrons. Now steps cut and welded from steel grating led down into what had once been the shallow end. At the deep end was a small bar for those partying. Chill-outs drank at long bars up on the sides if they could hack climbing the ladders. The place was almost deserted, but that was usual. Nothing real in Day Effé started before midnight.
Sanchez chose the small bar.
‘Dos Equis, cold.’ Without waiting, he headed towards a table in the corner of the pool. It was empty as always. Slumping into a metal chair, Sanchez pulled out the Colt and rested it on the table’s chrome surface. When the barboy arrived, Sanchez looked between the Colt and the boy, waiting.
‘Nice gun, senor…’ The boy put the cold beer carefully on the table, then placed a frosted tumbler beside it. Finally, he put down a saucer of freshly salted almonds.
Sanchez nodded. ‘You know how much this gun is worth?’
The boy shook his head. He didn’t even dare guess. Not when the patron obviously wanted to tell the boy himself.
‘Any idea?’
The boy shook his head mutely.
‘More than you are.’
The boy’s polite smile revealed the teeth of the poor, the kind Sanchez once had. Worth more than him? Neither of them doubted it. Pietro was one of the empty ones. Condemned to hollowness by il papa, by John Paul II’s pronouncement way back in 1997 that clones had no souls.
‘Get me another beer,’ Sanchez demanded, watching as the boy carefully didn’t look at the full bottle already on the table. The kid was learning, too slowly and helped by very public kicks and slaps, but he was finally getting it right. Which was just as well. Sanchez had leased him from Zampango, from the same orphanage as the whores he’d left out on the freeway. And he’d told the manager he wanted a bright one this time: one bright enough not to get himself killed. The girls Sanchez just wanted pretty-and young.
‘Hey,’ Sanchez said suddenly, grinning as the kid froze in his tracks. ‘You been messing with my girls?’
Over by the steel steps someone laughed. Spanish Phillipe probably. Built like an ox and with brains to match, he was what you got if you bred cousins with each other often enough. A Neanderthal brain in a Cro-Magnon body.
‘Well?’ Sanchez asked. He was smiling at the small crowd round the bar. Counting off men he’d known since childhood, men who looked up to him, one or two even sliding Don in front of his name like he was some hidalgo. Sanchez kept smiling until he saw how quiet the boy had gone, how the kid’s shoulders had tensed up.
‘Turn round,’ Sanchez demanded, ‘look at me…’
The boy did and Sanchez saw the guilt etched in Pietro’s large blue eyes. Etched there as surely as any retinal pattern, along with slow-burning anger. The hatred of a calf for the butcher.
‘Which one?’ The pimp demanded, lifting the Colt hiPower from the table in one lazy move and flicking off the safety catch. He pointed the muzzle at the boy who stared back, wide-eyed. A tiny red dot stood out on the boy’s white apron, just over his heart. The boy couldn’t see it, but he knew it was there right enough.
‘Well,’ Sanchez demanded. ‘Which was it?’ He moved the tiny red dot up to the boy’s face, centring it between his eyes.
‘Maria,’ the boy said softly.
‘Maria?’ The man’s voice was contemptuous. ‘How the fuck do I know which one’s Maria… What does this little slit look like?’
‘She’s not a slit’
Sanchez looked at the boy in disbelief. And then stood up so slowly that the whole club was silent by the time he made it to his feet. Each step he took across the concrete floor echoed off the white-tiled walls. No one even shuffled in their seat.
It didn’t take much to club Pietro to the floor. About as much effort as it took to slam a heavy door.
‘Which one?’ Sanchez demanded, dragging the kneeling boy to his feet.
The boy said nothing so Sanchez clubbed him again.
‘Which one?’
Even if his lip hadn’t been split Pietro would have found it hard to speak with the barrel of a Colt pushed into the underside of his jaw, but he tried anyway.
‘Small, long dark hair. We were…friends back at Zampango was what he wanted to say. Only saying that was one sure way to get hit again. Sanchez’s arrangement with the orphanage might be beneficial to both manager and pimp, but talking about it was off limits. Sanchez didn’t want everybody getting the same idea.
‘Have you any idea what I do to people who steal from me?’
The pimp looked into the boy’s frightened face and liked what he saw. Plus everybody else in the club was watching him. That was good.
Pietro shook his head.
‘She’s mine,’ said Sanchez. ‘You want a piece of her ass, you deal with me.’ He said it like he was explaining the obvious to someone too stupid to recognise it. Hell,’ the man looked round the club and grinned. ‘I’ll even give you discount. After you’ve reimbursed me for what you’ve already taken.’
Spanish Phillipe laughed.
‘Well, can you pay?’ Sanchez asked.
Of course he couldn’t. The boy just stood there, blood trickling slowly down his chin to Rorschach-blot in slow drops onto the front of his white apron. Sanchez would probably charge him for that too.
‘Say five dollars a time?’ The pimp’s voice was still amused but it carried an edge now, jagged like glass. There were two ways the next thirty seconds could go-joke or tragedy-and even Sanchez himself didn’t know which way events would stack. Pietro decided it for him.
‘No.’ The boy shook his head, but he wasn’t answering the question he’d been asked, because the words still ricocheting round his skull were a response to something Sanchez had said earlier. ‘She’s not yours. You don’t own Maria. No one owns anyone.’ He said it with all the conviction of the very young. As if it that might make it true, even when it obviously wasn’t.
‘We’ve been ‘mancipated…’ He tripped over the word, but still everyone in the club knew what he was talking about. Nine months earlier, Pope Joan had issued a papal bull making it a sin to own clones of anyone except yourself. And sat in his villa on the coast near Cancun, his excellency Cardinal Santo Ducque had approved her edict, even though he was a known enemy of the liberal schism.
‘Of course I don’t own her, you dumb fuck,’ the pimp said heavily. ‘I lease her ass from the orphanage at seventy-five bucks a month. And believe me, it’s fucking robbery.’