CHAPTER 12
IRIDIUM
As with legitimate businesses, criminals have their hierarchy. But when legitimate businesspeople get fired, there usually isn’t as high a body count.
Lynda Kidder, “Flight of the Blackbird,” New Chicago Tribune, July 2, 2112
Iridium didn’t panic when an unmarked groundcar pulled up next to her, and a fat cop with a shaved head leaned out the driver’s door. He said, “There’s my favorite supervillain.”
She shifted the case of chips to her other hand. “Detective Ostraczynski. Handing out parking tickets for fun?”
“Need to talk to you,” he said, and jerked his head. “Get in.”
“You can give me a ride,” Iridium said. “What’s the problem?”
Ostraczynski’s motor-pool car smelled like day-old fast food and was littered with empty cigarette packs and energy-drink cans. The detective himself was mussed, discordant, and worn-out, just like the precinct he patrolled.
“You know Momo the Shark got hit last week,” Oz said.
Iridium nodded. “Retaliation from the yakuza in Little Shinjuku. My sources confirmed it.”
“Well, I don’t know what kind of half-assed operation Momo was running, but his replacement is some crazy f*ckstick named Deke O’Connor, and the kid is bad news.”
Iridium watched the housing blocks roll past while she considered how to answer. The mobs were part of Wreck City, like rats were part of a garbage dump. She stayed out of the gang leaders’ businesses, and they knew the rules—no open warfare, no rapes, no attacks on honest, taxpaying citizens. Gambling, loan-sharking, and prostitution. Let them have their money, and they’ll let you have peace, Lester always said.
It was when the gang leaders got it into their heads to challenge her—and one did, every so often—that Iridium started to get a headache.
“He beat up one of my girls real bad,” said Oz. Oz was a crooked cop, as if you could find any other kind in Wreck City, but he was also fair and actually prevented crime rather than wallowing in it like the former lead detective, Marcia Sloan.
Sloan should be getting out of the burn unit any day now, Iridium recalled. She’d send flowers.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Iridium said. They passed the Moscow Grand, the hotel that Yuri Pritkoff and his Russians ran numbers out of, squatting next to the Blarney Stone, Momo’s former tavern. It was juxtaposition that made Wreck City, gave it a soul—cops and criminals, rabids and gangsters. The only thing pretty much everyone agreed on was a distinct distaste for the Everyman Society. Totalitarianism went over poorly when your flock was broke, hungry, and scrabbling to survive.
“He won’t see reason,” said Oz, meaning that O’Connor wouldn’t pay him his 10 percent for the New Chicago PD’s blind eye. “I need your help before he starts screwing up the neighborhood.”
Iridium sighed. “Let me out at the corner. I’ll talk to him.”
Oz pulled his car over with a wheeze and Iridium got out. “Thanks, Iridium,” he said. “There were a few more like you, I might actually get behind the Squadron.”
“Trust me, Oz … there’s nothing to get behind.” Hefting the case again, she pushed open the door of the Blarney Stone.
Deke O’Connor wasn’t hard to spot. He was the loudest, the biggest, the most tattooed, and the most obnoxiously Irish. Black hair and blue eyes, like her, the Snow White complexion that would scorch under five minutes of sun, and Celtic symbols inked on every inch of his arms.
“Top of the morning,” Iridium said.
O’Connor looked up at her balefully. “If it isn’t Wreck City’s own little mascot.”
Iridium bit back a snort. He may have looked like he hailed from the Emerald Isle, but his accent was pure South Side.
“I hear from Brian Ostraczynski that you’ve been messing with his streetwalkers,” Iridium said. “Since Brian doesn’t lie, I’m here to tell you it stops now.”
O’Connor shoved back from his table, his chair toppling over. Momo’s crew watched, but they didn’t make a move. Momo and Iridium had an understanding, a peace agreement, and nobody wanted to get a strobe in the face if their idiot boss didn’t order it.
“You’ve got a set of brass ones,” Deke O’Connor declared. “Coming into my place of business like this.”
“Thanks,” Iridium said. “Goes with the outfit.”
“I know Momo was afraid of you. I’m not. You’re just a skinny bitch who can do a magic trick.”
“Listen,” Iridium said. “I’m not putting a suggestion in your box, Deke. I’m telling you. No women get hurt on my patch. No one gets in Oz’s way, and you can be damned sure that if you do, I will roll over you like a transport hover through a flock of pigeons.”
O’Connor went white around the lips and reached into his waistband. Iridium rolled her eyes, lifted the case, and slammed it into the side of his head. There’s a time for diplomacy, and a time to beat a bastard senseless. You’ll know which is which, with a bit of practice.
Deke lay on the floor, bloody from the nose and the temple, a bruise already distorting his face. Iridium stepped forward and put her boot lightly on his neck, just enough to make it hard to get air.
“This is my city,” she said. “If you don’t like it, I suggest you get the hell out.”