| From: | "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Mob War |
| Date: | Wed, 7 May 1997 23:43:35 +0100 |
since that way nobody can accuse me of holding out on them.
Anyone know more than what's here and feel like sharing, drop me a line.
+++++begin video
A quiet restaurant, a candlelit dinner, music just loud enough to mask
conversations at other tables, and an attractive woman sitting opposite
in a low-cut dress of dark-green silk that sets off her dark hair and
eyes.
"So, Marlowe, you want to talk, or are you going to sit there and drool
down my cleavage all night?"
"Drooling sounds good. In fact, I'd like to start with drooling and then
move on to-" A male voice, not a Seattle accent.
The woman shakes her head, looking amused. "Kryzdanovich, you are
nothing if not predictable. Keep that going and I'll arrest you for
harassment. Now, what have you got for me- and I speak only of the word
on the street here."
"I think we got a turf war brewing. Don't know with who, though."
The woman leans forward - Marlowe taking a brief opportunity to admire
the even better view of her decolletage thus provided. "Who, why, what
evidence?"
"Who, the Crimson Hawks. Why, they've got the money and the people and a
couple of nasty neighbours. Evidence, a lot of their people have dropped
out of sight in the last few days. Most of their heaviest hitters, their
armourer, their medics. They're going to the mattresses, and people on
the street are battening down for when this one blows up." Marlowe picks
up the bottle of wine, tops up both glasses.
"My morals get even tighter when I get drunk, Andrew, you won't get to
drool over anything that way." the policewoman says. "Give me more data,
before you give me more wine."
"Okay. Hiroshi's gunsmith isn't taking work. Three different enquiries,
three refusals. The guy can usually fit your job in, but right now he's
'unavailable'. Usually the Hawks can sell you a good near-new 227 or
Uzi, within a day and pretty cheap. They jacked their prices and you get
the weapon when they feel like it. Not usual for them."
Marlowe sips his wine. "Their other stuff... they seem to be backing off
the street. Don't do a lot of business there anyway, the Hawks mostly do
walk-in, the bars, shops... but they moved a couple of joytoys off the
street outside my office, set them up with an apartment and some
advertising. Like they were protecting their assets, getting them out of
immediate harm's way."
"Nothing concrete, then. But enough to convince you." The woman regards
Marlowe thoughtfully. "You're good at this. Davis said you were a useful
contact."
"Davis didn't tell me his replacement would be so pretty, Officer Hart."
"Any word on outside threats? Maybe they're going on the defensive. Clan
war?" Hart ignores the sally.
"Nope. No hint of any problems. No word on anyone planning to hurt them,
either. Just... hints."
Hart leans back. "Okay. Question is, what do we-"
A disturbance by the entrance turns into a crash of plates as the
doorman is flung aside, and a big, powerfully-built Ork runs in,
bringing an Enfield assault shotgun up from under his coat and opening
fire. Marlowe dives for the floor, Officer Hart already there and
rolling under the tablecloth: screams and shouts can vaguely be heard
over the shotgun's din. The Ork is firing long bursts, the noise
deafening in the small restaurant.
Marlowe and Hart lie under the table, hidden from the Ork by the floor-
length tablecloth. Hart is struggling with her skirt and you hear a seam
rip: Marlowe is twisting and wriggling, manages to get a hand inside his
jacket to draw his holstered Ultra-Power. Hart says, soft and sharp,
"Don't try it!", as she finally extracts a compact Walther from its
garter holster: quick-draws while lying under a table aren't very
practical. Hitting her wristphone, she softly says "Dispatch, this is
five-Romeo-forty-two, officer needs assistance at the Golden Madonna,
shots fired, wired attacker with an automatic weapon."
The fire pauses: a short burst, then another, then footsteps crunching
over broken tableware, and the door bangs. Marlowe and Hart are out from
under the table in seconds, running through the acrid cordite smoke -
Marlowe's foot skids on a spent twelve-gauge shell, of which dozens
litter the floor - following Hart as she reaches the main door, shouting
"Police! Halt-" before she twists back amidst a short burst of shotgun
fire, her arms slick with blood and face contorted with pain.
"Frag!" yells Marlowe, leaning out past her: the Ork is closing the door
of a Chrysler-Nissan 3220ZX as it picks up speed and the detective
raises his Ultra-Power in a classic Weaver stance, placing the red dot
of the Aimpoint on the accelerating car and firing with no visible
result. He gets off six aimed shots, before the 3220 takes a left and is
gone.
"You okay?" he asks the bleeding Hart.
"Hands. One of his shots got my hands. It hurts, Andy." She is shaking,
blood running down and dripping off her elbows. Sirens can be heard,
growing stronger. Marlowe fumbles out a medkit, gives Hart two
injections and she relaxes. "Better. Thanks." Her hads and forearms are
slick and red, half a dozen small round holes pulsing out blood with
every heartbeat.
The first Lone Star cruiser rounds the corner at speed, screeches to a
halt: one patrolman out right away, carrying a HK227 and looking for
targets. Marlowe turns, hands raised and empty.
"Shooter's gone, he's a big Ork in a long coat with a drum-fed Enfield.
Vehicle's a dark 3220, licence obscured, probably got some forty-cal
holes in the tailgate. This lady's a cop, she's hurt and needs a medic."
Marlowe advises the cop, who nods.
"Paramedics are right behind us. You?" The patrolman keeps the 227
ready, not quite aimed at Marlowe.
"Andrew Kryzdanovich. Private investigator." Marlowe shows his PI
licence and firearm permit. "I was meeting Julianne here. The Ork was
shooting for a group inside, area hit. Splatter job."
The patrolman inspects the ID, nods, raises the Lexan visor of his
helmet as another car pulls up followed by an ambulance. He moves into
the restaurant, as Marlowe helps Hart to her feet and guides her to the
paramedics: a quick exchange and a flash from his medkit tell them what
he's already administered to her.
"Okay, it must hurt like hell, but you're going to be fine. Looks like
maybe number-four shot. No exits. Officer Hart, can you flex your
fingers?" the paramedic asks, spraying Hart's forearms and hands with an
antiseptic cleaner that washes the blood away. The wounds look
relatively minor, but extremely painful, as the woman manages to half-
clench her fists.
"Good. Doesn't look like you lost any tendons. We'll get you to hospital
and you'll be fine, Officer Hart."
"Julianne." Marlowe clarifies. "Her name's Julianne."
The paramedic - a slim Orkish woman - nods. "Well, sir, Julianne should
be fine. She'll need surgery to get the shot out and maybe some bone
work if there are fractures, but she's in good shape."
"Outstanding. Shame we can't say the same for the people inside."
"Bad?" asks the paramedic.
"Same weapon, closer range, multiple hits."
"Messy. Well, I guess I got to make an effort." the paramedic says,
shrugging. As they walk back to the Golden Madonna - another medic
spraying foam bandages over Hart's wounds - Marlowe's foot hits
something that clatters. Picking up her dropped PB-120, he steps back
inside the small Chinese restaurant.
Standing where the gunman had been, the carnage is incredible. Six
people had been seated around the corner table: all now lie sprawled on
the carpeted floor amidst an incredible amount of blood. Their table is
overturned and riddled with fist-sized holes: the bodies are likewise
torn and ripped by point-blank buckshot hitting in solid clusters.
Two police officers are recording the scene, stepping back from the
corpses to let the paramedic pass. She goes through the motions with all
six, checking for a pulse, for respiration, for any sign of life, before
standing and stepping back.
"Nope. Call a coroner, nothing I can do for these guys. Anyone else need
me?"
"Doorman's hurt, broken leg." The Ork moves off to attend to him,
leaving Marlowe looking at the corpses.
Two look like joygirls: augmented figures, artificially desirable faces,
short skirts and halter tops. It seems they were killed late, one is a
pace from the table and shot in the side as though while running.
Two are bodyguards, torsos relatively intact where their armour saved
them; but one is missing most of her head and the other had been shot in
the throat and had a hand blown clean off. The hand lies nearby clenched
around an unfired Guardian automatic. By their wounds, they were shot
first.
The last pair look like the main targets. One is a blandly handsome man,
clad in a once-white linen suit, his chest a soaking mass of blood and
torn flesh. The other is a woman, her face mostly gone. Each of that
pair took more rounds than the other four put together, at least a dozen
each delivered at point-blank range.
"Someone wanted to make really sure of those two. Recognise any of
them?" asks a voice by his elbow.
"Don't know the guards or the woman. The guy's Antonio Vega, he's a capo
for the Luna family. Their military mind, losing him's gonna hurt. The
joygirl with the fishnets called herself Honeysuckle, real name was
Luanne Drobrows, age about sixteen, nice girl. Other chica worked the
streets round here, don't know her name, she worked out of Two-Tone's
stable." Marlowe replies, still studying the bodies.
"I oughta bust your ass for contaminating a crime scene, Marlowe." the
detective beside him says conversationally. "But you did help Officer
Hart out, even though I can't think why she'd be having dinner with
you."
"Yeah. This is hers, by the way, she dropped it when she got shot."
Marlowe unloads the PB-120 and hands it to the detective.
"I'll see she gets it back. You got an interest to declare here, Andy?"
Marlowe nods. "Yeah. I like Julianne. It pisses me off when pretty women
I like get hurt. Plus I knew Honeysuckle, she was a dumb kid but she
didn't deserve that. Always friendly, always polite, even offered me a
discount."
"What, you took her up? Don't answer, I don't wanna know. Stay out of
the way. Keep a low profile. Keep me informed. And maybe I'll keep you
out of jail." The detective nods at Marlowe, moves off: Marlowe turns
and leaves to begin the round of statements that will keep him busy for
the next few hours.
+++++end trideo]<<<<<
-- Marlowe <23:43:52/07-05-58>
