“That he does.”
“But I don’t think he was carrying a weapon. The Crips frisked him earlier, and he was clean.”
“Well, then he must have borrowed one,” Squeaky says. “This bug was all over the place, you know. We were keeping an eye on him, because we were afraid he was going to piss Raven off. He kept going around looking for a vantage point.”
“He’s loaded with surveillance gear,” Hiro says. “The higher he gets, the better it works.”
“So he ended up here on this embankment. And apparently the perpetrator knew where he was.”
“The dust,” Hiro says. “Watch the lasers.”
Down below, Sushi K pirouettes spastically as a beer bottle caroms off his forehead. A bundle of lasers sweeps across the embankment, clearly visible in the fine dust being drawn out of it by the wind.
“This guy—this bug—was using lasers. As soon as he came up here—”
“They betrayed his position,” Squeaky says.
“And then Raven came after him.”
“Well, we’re not saying it’s him,” Squeaky says. “But I need to know if this character”—he nods at the corpse—“might have done anything that would have made Raven feel threatened.”
“What is this, group therapy? Who cares if Raven felt threatened?”
“I do,” Squeaky says with great finality.
“Lagos was just a gargoyle. A big hoover for intel. I don’t think he did wet operations—and if he did, he wouldn’t do it in that get-up.”
“So why do you think Raven was feeling so jumpy?”
“I guess he doesn’t like being under surveillance,” Hiro says.
“Yeah.” Squeaky says. “You should remember that.”
Then Squeaky puts one hand over his ear, the better to hear voices on his headset radio.
“Did Y.T. see this happen?” Hiro says.
“No,” Squeaky mumbles, a few seconds later. “But she saw him leaving the scene. She’s following him.”
“Why would she want to do that!?”
“I guess you told her to, or something.”
“I didn’t think she’d take off after him.”
“Well, she doesn’t know that he killed the guy,” Squeaky says. “She just phoned in a sighting—he’s riding his Harley into Chinatown.” And he begins running up the embankment. A couple of Enforcers’ cars are parked on the shoulder of the highway up there, waiting.
Hiro tags along. His legs are in incredible shape from sword fighting, and he manages to catch up to Squeaky by the time he reaches his car. When the driver undoes the electric door locks, Hiro scoots into the back seat as Squeaky is going into the front. Squeaky turns around and gives him a tired look.
“I’ll behave,” Hiro says.
“Just one thing—”
“I know. Don’t fuck around with Raven.”
“That’s right.”
Squeaky holds his glare for another second and then turns around, motions the driver to drive. He impatiently rips ten feet of hard copy out of the dashboard printer and begins sifting through it.
On this long strip of paper, Hiro glimpses multiple renditions of the important Crip, the guy with the goatee whom Raven was dealing with earlier. On the printout, he is labeled as “T-Bone Murphy.”
There’s also a picture of Raven. It’s an action shot, not a mug shot. It is terrible output. It has been caught through some kind of light-amplifying optics that wash out the color and make everything incredibly grainy and low contrast. It looks like some image processing has been done to make it sharper; this also makes it grainier. The license plate is just an oblate blur, overwhelmed by the glow of the taillight. It is heeled over sharply, the sidecar wheel several inches off the ground. But the rider doesn’t have any visible neck; his head, or rather the dark splotch that is there, just keeps getting wider until it merges into his shoulders. Definitely Raven.
“How come you have pictures of T-Bone Murphy in there?” Hiro says.
“He’s chasing him,” Squeaky says.
“Who’s chasing whom?”
“Well, your friend Y.T. ain’t no Edward R. Murrow. But as far as we can tell from her reports, they’ve been sighted in the same area, trying to kill each other,” Squeaky says. He’s speaking with the slow, distant tones of someone who is getting live updates over his headphones.
“They were doing some kind of a deal earlier,” Hiro says.
“Then I ain’t hardly surprised they’re trying to kill each other now.”
Once they get to a certain part of town, following the T-Bone and Raven show becomes a matter of connect-the-ambulances. Every couple of blocks there is a cluster of cops and medics, lights sparkling, radios coughing. All they have to do is go from one to the next.
At the first one, there is a dead Crip lying on the pavement. A six-foot-wide blood slick runs from his body, diagonally down the street to a storm drain. The ambulance people are standing around, smoking and drinking coffee from go cups, waiting for The Enforcers to get finished measuring and photographing so that they can haul the corpse to the morgue. There are no IV lines set up, no bits of medical trash strewn around the area, no open doc boxes; they didn’t even try.
They proceed around a couple of corners to the next constellation of flashing lights. Here, the ambulance drivers are inflating a cast around the leg of a MetaCop.
“Run over by the motorcycle,” Squeaky says, shaking his head with the traditional Enforcer’s disdain for their pathetic junior relations, the MetaCops.
Finally, he patches the radio feed into the dashboard so they can all hear it.
The motorcyclist’s trail is now cold, and it sounds like most of the local cops are dealing with aftermath problems. But a citizen has just called in to complain that a man on a motorcycle, and several other persons, are trashing a field of hops on her block.
“Three blocks from here,” Squeaky says to the driver.