Suicide, Inc

CHAPTER 9

It was Cruz’ turn to drive.

Whistling, his tongue pressed against his upper teeth, the big dark man leaned back in the driveseat of their landvan and guided it across the hazy midmorning desert with his real hand on the steering rod.

Smith, slouched in the seat next to him, was watching a well-groomed catman newscaster on the small dash-mounted vidscreen.

The catman was explaining the political situation and military skirmishing that was going on in the Canal Zone of Zegundo. “…Control of the Grand Canal has fallen into the hands of the Mizayen Commandos, according to their spokesman Ulu Vak. However, the Qatzir Militiamen dispute this, insisting they still are in possession of the key locks. Their interim leader, Nura Nal, issued a statement to that effect at a press conference held this morning at the Houd Istihmam Yacht Club just before it was blown up. Spokesmen for Tasmia Malor contest this, maintaining that Malor is still the spiritual leader of the militia and that the canal is controlled by his Qatfia Guards. More on that after this word from Grandma’s Candied Bugs…”

“I haven’t been in this part of the country for a spell,” said Cruz. “Sounds like we still have lots of unrest to contend with.”

“The capital, where we’re heading, has been quiet lately.”

“I have,” admitted Cruz, “a real disinclination to get knocked off as an innocent bystander in somebody else’s fracas.”

Smith grinned. “That’s not likely.”

“This lad we’re searching for, Oscar Ruiz. You really figure he’s hereabouts?”

“The Triplan security guy trailed him as far as the Canal Zone Capital. He worked for near a year as a Freefall Poker dealer at one of the canal-edge casinos. Then, about three weeks ago, he dropped from sight.”

“Gamblers are like that, footloose and restless.”

“This isn’t in Ruiz’ dossier, but he used to talk to me about wanting to visit a place called the Shrine,” said Smith. “It’s a religious setup and-”

“Thousands of dedicated pilgrims wend their way there every year.”

“Right, and the Shrine’s only twenty miles south of the capital, out in the Red Desert. Seems likely to me that Ruiz, once he had some money again, decided to make his pilgrimage at last.”

Cruz smoothed his moustache with his metal thumb. “Must be deeply satisfying to have faith in some…oops!”

The nukemotor made an odd noise.

Chunkachug!

Then a series of them.

Chugabank! Wamgonk! Kaplow!

Their landvan shimmied, hopped twice, ceased moving.

“Trouble.” Smith opened his door.

“Doesn’t sound too serious.” Cruz eased out onto the desert roadway.

The heat came swooping down on both men, prickly and steamy.

Smith popped the engine lid. “You’re supposed to be an expert on mechanics.”

Nodding, Cruz pushed a button on his wrist. His forefinger pinged open at the tip, releasing a small screwdriver blade. “It’s just the rimfire gudgeons that came loose. A little tightening is all we need.”

“Design that arm yourself?” Smith glanced up, watching the half-dozen crimson buzzards circling them high up.

“I had a bit of assistance. Once out on Peregrine I wooed a titian-tressed lady whose second husband…they wed them in pairs in that particular locale…her number two hubby was a veritable electronics whiz and ’twas he who-”

“New spot of trouble approaching over yonder,” Smith interrupted to point out.

A small cloud of reddish dust had appeared to the right of them, about a mile off and coming ever closer.

“Might be commandos, militiamen, guards, guerillas or mercenaries.” Cruz ceased laboring on the engine and pushed another spot on his metal wrist. A small telescope popped out of the end of his thumb. “None of the above.” He offered Smith a look.

There were five mounted men rapidly approaching them on groutback. Big, green snakemen clad in flowing saffron-and-gold robes. “Slavers,” recognized Smith.

“Same conclusion I reached.” Retracting the spyglass, he shut the engine lid. “We ought to be able to handle five.”

Nodding, Smith trotted around the landvan and opened the rear door. From within he took two stun-rifles. “Let’s try to palaver first.”

“I don’t need one of those. I’ll rely on my trusty arm.”

“Don’t kill anybody unless-”

“I know the Whistler Agency code of ethics, never fear. Fact is, it matches that of the Cruzes. For untold generations no Cruz has…” His voice trailed off as the slavers reined up some two hundred yards away.

One of the snakemen left the group, urging his sturdy sixlegged mount toward the landvan.

“Hail, scum,” he called out in his raspy voice.

“He’s not getting off to a very cordial start.” Cruz rubbed his real fingers along his glistening metal arm.

Smith narrowed his eyes. “Is that you, Rudy?”

The snakeman chuckled. “Glorioski! It can’t be Smitty?” He came galloping right up to him, dropped free of his ornate saddle. “Talk about a small darn universe. I heard you’d gone to pieces…broken heart, was it?…and had become a pathetic stewbum off on some hick planet.” Hands on hips, he surveyed Smith. “But, heck, you don’t look all that terrible.”

“I’m on the road to recovery.” He lowered his rifle. “What happened to your miniature golf course in the capital?”

“Aw, I overextended myself, for one thing,” the robed slaver admitted. “When I added the Venusian-fried poutfish franchise, that was the shagarat that busted the snerg’s back. And the fact, which the son of a gun I bought the golf course from forgot to tell me, that the neighborhood gorilla men liked to stage their tribal dances on the fourteenth hole. You ever try to play through a couple dozen gorilla men giving out with the victory cry of the bull ape?”

“I had that experience once out on Murdstone,” put in Cruz. “’Twas while I was pursuing the blonde and marginally virginal youngest daughter of an archeology prof who specialized in defiling ancient tombs and-”

“Rudy, this is Cruz.”

The snakeman held out a green scaly hand. “Any friend of Smitty’s.”

“I’m here on business,” explained Smith while the two shook hands. “You and your cronies weren’t planning to attack us?”

“Heck, no,” said Rudy. “You can just go on your merry way. And, say, if you get anywhere near my old place, look up the new owner. Mention my name and he’ll fix the both of you up with poutfish dinners. But don’t go, a word to the wise, on any night there’s a double full moon. Gorilla nights.”

“Appreciate the thought.”

“Listen, it was darn nice seeing you again.” The big snakeman, bright robes flapping, swung back up onto his grout. “Pleasure meeting you, too, Cruz.” He turned his mount, waved at them and rode off to rejoin his associates.

“Fix the engine,” said Smith quietly, “fast.”

“Is Rudy likely to go back on his word?”

“Nope, but Rudy’s never been able to keep in charge of anything for very long.”

“I’ll hasten,” promised Cruz.

The catman’s crimson turban rose straight up off his furry orange head, unraveling in the process.

“Begone,” suggested Cruz, lowering his metal hand.

“Ah, effendi,” the catman attempted to explain as the unfurled turban settled back down, festooning his head and shoulders, “I merely brushed against you on this foul and crowded thoroughfare. I am not a dip nor a member of the lightfingered gentry. Nay, rather I-”

“Depart,” advised Cruz, “or I’ll use my built-in shockrod yet again, chum.”

“As you suggest.” Bowing, smoothing down his on-edge fur, the man went stumbling away through the afternoon crowd.

“Where were we in our lively conversation?” Cruz asked Smith.

“You were about to intrude in my private affairs.”

The street was paved with cobblestones of a faded gold color; it was narrow and twisting. Striped awnings hung out over many of the sandcolored buildings, and wrought iron balconies were much in evidence.

“In my earlier policy statements,” resumed Cruz, “I mentioned I wasn’t reluctant to talk about money or women.”

“So I noticed.” He dodged a peglegged lizardman who came lurching along.

“It occurs to me that the wife of our client may once have played a somewhat important part in your life.”

“She did.”

Cruz smoothed his moustache with real fingers. “Is that likely to affect this undertaking in any way?”

“Nope.”

“Keeping all your glum thoughts to yourself isn’t always the best-”

“Do you ever talk to yourself?”

“Rarely. I usually have no trouble rustling up an attentive audience.

“I do. Did anyway,” said Smith. “I talked to myself…seems like it was for months. I talked to myself about Jennifer and what happened until there isn’t anything more I feel like saying. Even to me.”

Cruz’ broad shoulders rose and fell. “Should the situation change.”

A few yards up ahead, a pair of swinging doors snapped suddenly wide open. Three apemen in checkered suits, a cocktail robot, a stuffed blue parrot and most of a full course fish dinner came flying out into the Street.

Nodding at the flapping doors, Smith said, “This is the place we want.”