Author's note: This story will make a bit more sense if you've read my other story set in this same AU 'Death in Death City' first, although it's not essential.
1. Business as Usual
The trick to looking professional is to make what you do seem effortless. I'll give that piece of information for free – just about the only one I will, mind you – and if I were you I'd make the most of it. It's certainly something that has served me very well over the years.
Take a piano piece, for example. You might find yourself one day like me, sitting in front of a piano with about fifty to a hundred people watching you like a hawk to see if you mess up. Your left hand will be hovering over the low notes, your right hand on high, feet on the pedals and I can guarantee you that you'll feel the weight of every last pair of eyes. Even if you can't see them – as I can't, with the footlights in my eyes – you will know they are there. And if you're playing to the kind of crowd I was playing to that night, you will also know that behind every pair there is a booze-addled cloud of ill will that can't wait for you to fuck up so they can throw rotten fruit or, more likely, empty beer bottles.
So the trick, as I said, it to make it look effortless. I sometimes wonder if it's something evolutionary. When our ancestors were fleeing a pack of sabre-toothed tigers, they didn't have time to stop and have reasoned debates about what to do next. So if one guy who looked like he knows what he's talking about yells out to climb a tree to safety, they did. And ever since, we've been pre-programmed to give people who look like they're on top of things the benefit of the doubt. So no matter how badly things go, no matter how badly your mind is churning and debating what to do next, if you give off the air of someone who got it all sorted then you can usually just call any blunders 'improv' and get off scot free.
It's true of music, and it's true of other things as well. But more on those later.
Judging from the polite – borderline enthusiastic – applause I got after I'd finished, I'd say my particular audience that night hadn't noticed any of the one or two particularly egregious fuck-ups I'd blundered into. Then again, I was hardly playing to hardened jazz piano connoisseurs here. The Friday night crowd in the Crescent Moon, the seediest jazz bar in all of downtown Death City, was hardly the kind of place where the people who knew jazz hung out. No, an entirely different crowd frequented this place – which was, of course, exactly why I was performing there.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Soul Evans," said the manager as he strode on stage and shook my hand. I smiled at him and gave a small nod to the audience at large, most of who had already gone back to their drinks.
"Very nice show, Mr Evans," he said to me as we both walked off stage. Behind me, the piano was being wheeled to one side and a saxophonist was setting up his instrument. The manager was a small, round, balding man with tiny spectacles that seemed to be permanently slipping down his rather greasy nose. "I must say, you lived up to your reputation!"
My reputation? I thought, slightly bitterly. Friend, you don't know the half of it.
"I wonder if we might be seeing some more of you any time soon?"
The manager – still couldn't remember his name – was sounding a bit too hopeful for his own good as we entered the backstage area. Hardly surprising, really. The Crescent Moon could do with all the talent it could get.
"Maybe, maybe," I said, straightening my tie and checking my appearance in a nearby mirror. Black pinstripe suit, red shirt, black tie… the model of the professional businessman.
"Well, ah, our door's always open to you," he said, rooting around in his inside pocket and handing me my cheque for the evening's work. I studied it with a slightly critical air. It was enough to cover the night's expenses, I supposed, and tucked it into my wallet. "And you've got our number. Just give us a call if you feel like it!"
Actually, my wastepaper basket has your number, I wanted to say, but kept smiling. "I'll think about it," I lied and shook his hand. He had one of those handshakes that make you fight the urge to check you haven't just been handed a wet haddock. We parted ways after that, him to go and introduce the saxophonist I'd seen setting up a minute ago and me to make a beeline for the bar.
I fought my way through the usual collection of thugs and heavies that populate the Crescent Moon every Friday night. The Crescent Moon jazz bar really is the most astounding example of real life imitating art I have ever come across. What the clientele had clearly done was grow up on a diet of films, books and TV shows (actually, scratch books) that all portrayed gangsters as hanging out in seedy bars where the air was full of smoke, the walls were panelled in patently-fake wood, all the men wore double-breasted suits and inside every violin case was a Thompson automatic. And in all those bars they're always playing jazz, or blues, or soul, not that these meatheads would ever be able to tell the difference. "Three-four time" to most of them means how long the jail sentence they're looking at is. And so when they graduated into the real world of drugs and smuggling and 'hits', they naturally looked for such a place as they'd seen in all the movies. And the Crescent Moon was where they all ended up.
It certainly had the fake wooden panelling, although Nevada's anti-smoking laws meant that the air was merely full of the smell of cigarette smoke instead of the real deal. Very few people wore double-breasted suits, although it was nice to see that most of them had managed to outgrow torn jeans, sleeveless T-shirts and backwards baseball caps. The majority of the clothes being worn in that bar came under the heading of 'easy to conceal a gun under'.
"Mr Evans," said the bartender as I wormed my way through the last line of people and propped myself up on the bar's slightly sticky top. "What'll it be?" Fewer clichés would have been the unkind thing to say, so I stuck to "Double whiskey on the rocks, please." I scanned the bar as I waited for my drink to be poured, and came to the slightly unsettling realisation that I could take a good guess at the relative position of every single guy within his particular criminal organisation there based on his dress and act alone. Clearly I'd been in too many places like this one. Most of them looked fairly middle-management, the kind that act as a go-between separating the knuckle-dragging thugs from the guys who the big boss would actually deign to meet in person. The actual knuckle-draggers would be scattered around bars all over the city, whilst the bigwigs would be off in private clubs, or maybe one of the fabled backrooms of Chupa Cabra's where the champagne was hundreds of dollars a bottle and the girls were thrown in for free. The clientele of the Crescent Moon bar were the kind of folk who didn't really seem to know where else to go.
"There you go," the bartender said as she set my drink down in front of me. She had one of those accents that turned it into "thur ya gah".
"How much do I owe you?" I asked, reaching for my wallet.
"Oh, nothing. Gentleman over there's paying for your tab tonight, Mr Evans." She pointed and then was gone, off to serve someone else. I, meanwhile, was left looking in the direction she indicated, spotting a flash of white sat at a table on the other side of the room.
Bingo.
I worked my way across to the table, nearly getting my drink spilled twice in the process. Eventually I made it over, drew back a chair and sat down across from the man who had very kindly paid for my double whiskey – and who, with any luck, would be paying for a lot more drinks over the next few months.
I suppose now might be a good time to come clean about who I really am.
Oh sure, you already know some of it. Soul Evans, twenty seven years of age, pianist and well-dressed misanthrope, right? And clearly not that great at the piano if he has to play in places like the Crescent Moon.
Well, let me tell you right now that the Crescent Moon wasn't my normal place by a very long margin. I play professionally, I'll have you know (and suddenly I sound like my grandpa), to audiences who have paid for the privilege in places where the refreshments cost more than you can afford and come in crystal glasses. Now, I'd be the first to admit that I'm not as good as my brother Wes – currently a member of the LA philharmonic, or 'LA Phil' as he insists on calling it – but I can still hold my own against most musicians this town can offer. Although considering the state of Death City these days, that's not as impressive a boast as I might wish.
So yeah, that's the Soul Evans most people know if they've heard of him at all: decent piano player, specialises in improv pieces.
The Soul Evans they don't know works, at least part-time, as an information broker.
Like I said earlier, it's all about sounding like you know what you're doing. Now, I know what you're probably thinking: information broker probably means I hack government databases, right? I must be a computer genius, someone who knows their way around firewalls and passwords and the like. Well, here's one more piece of free advice: if your computer breaks, do yourself a favour and don't call me. Without the instruction manual, my knowledge of computers is pretty damn limited. I can't code, if that's what you mean. What I can do is, to all intents and purposes, social improv.
That's something else Hollywood has to answer for. The public thinks, after watching films where hackers spend time staring at cool-looking displays and babbling on about stuff that sounds vaguely technical, that every bit of information on a computer is guarded by all manner of security features and only the truly skilled can hack past it all to get at what they need.
That may well be true, for all I know. What I do know is that plugged into every database in the nation is a tired, bored, harassed data entry clerk who just wants to go home to his family and who will give you just about any piece of information he has access to if you ask him nicely, sound like you go golfing with his boss and, perhaps most importantly, treat him like a decent human being.
Of course, it's a bit harder than that. But that's the gist of it, and that's what I do when I need to make ends meet.
The man across the table from me had hired me for just that reason.
He was an imposing man even when sat down, six-foot-six of hard muscle and calculated poise. He wore a pristine white suit that had somehow managed not to get stained despite the fact that he must have spent longer than ten minutes inside the Crescent Moon. His carefully groomed hair was almost as white as mine, and he had one of those smiles that make you think of sharks and cold, lonely oceans.
"White Star," I said, by way of greeting.
Death City's premier mob boss, head of the Star Clan gang, ruler of the city's underworld and perennial thorn in the side of the DCPD – not least that Captain Kidd who always seemed to be sniffing around my slightly more unethical clients – inclined his head slightly at my presence.
"Mr Evans," he said, in a voice like sleeping thunder. "I must say, I was most impressed with your piano piece. You have talent, Mr Evans… in one area, at least."
I favoured him with my best cocky grin. "Well, you know how it is. Manager heard I was going to turn up tonight, and when a man offers you ten minutes behind a piano you just can't refuse." That was a lie – I'd deliberately contacted the manager about a performance so I could stave off meeting this man for a little while longer. There was something about him that I didn't like. Maybe it was that I was best friends with his son but he was still treating me like a total stranger. Or maybe it was that he knew where I lived.
"Indeed. Well, I see you have availed yourself of the bar, Mr Evans, so unless you have any other pressing engagements I think we ought to get on with things."
In other words, shut the fuck up and give me what I've paid you for.
"Right. Yeah." I reached into my pocket and threw a flash drive down onto the table. "Everything's on there. Just as you asked."
"Excellent." White Star produced a small handheld computer from somewhere, plugged the drive in and began browsing through the contents. "Standard procedure," he said in response to my 'what, don't you trust me?' expression.
"But of course," I said, taking a sip of my whiskey.
"So, Mr Evans," he said, setting the handheld down on the table and powering it off. "What's your take on this man?"
I shrugged, not quite sure what game White Star was playing but willing to go along with it for a bit. "Name's Masamune Nakatsukasa. Born in Japan, moved to the USA when he was six with his father, mother and sister. Family settled down in LA. By all accounts this guy didn't have the best upbringing. Got involved with crime early on, several minor convictions: burglary, public disturbance, that kind of thing. Then, sometime between his eighteenth and twenty second birthdays, he signs on with Arachnophobia. Works in the distribution of crack cocaine for a while. Gets busted once or twice early on, but so does everyone in that trade. Rises up the ranks until he's pretty much running the drugs show in LA. Guy's clearly got a head for business. Then he comes to the attention of one of the second-in-command, guy called Giriko. Becomes only one step removed from Arachne herself in the process. Up until a few months ago, life was looking pretty sweet for Masamune Nakatsukasa."
I took another sip. White Star watched me with an unreadable expression, so I decided I was supposed to carry on.
"But like I say, a few months ago everything goes to hell for him. Giriko comes up with a plan to get Mosquito in jail and it all goes horribly wrong. Now Giriko himself is taking the heat and he needs somewhere to dump it, and fast. So he dumps it all over Masamune's head. Masamune takes off east, last seen heading right for Death City with about half of Arachnophobia's hired guns after him.
"There's an interesting addition to this story, as a matter of fact. You know how I said he had a sister? Well I did some extra digging, free of charge. Tsubaki, she was called. She was clearly made of better stuff than her brother. She left LA the moment she could, and got herself a nice little house here in Death City of all places." I smiled at White Star's raised eyebrow. He clearly hadn't expected me to be so thorough. "At the moment, she's working as a secretary for Southwest Construction Ltd." That was the front company managed by the man sat right in front of me. "For the CEO, no less."
I downed my drink and gave White Star my best grin. "I could probably tell you a fair bit about that CEO, for the right price."
Looking back, that may have been a mistake. White Star gave me a glower that could upset a mountain and threw a brown envelope down on the table.
"I wouldn't, if I were you," he said quite levelly, got up and left, cutting through the crowd like an icebreaker.
I pocketed the envelope, sat back in my chair and sighed. I'd kind of expected a thinly-veiled threat from the man, possibly involving a corny line such as "your health insurance couldn't cover it." But he'd been surprisingly classy. If he made threats, he let your imagination do all the work for him. Hard to believe Black Star was his son, when you thought of it that way.
My phone buzzed and vibrated in my pocket. Checking the screen, I saw one new message from a very familiar number.
Alley round back, 5 mins – M
I swore quietly and got to my feet, hurrying for the exit and, with any luck, a second customer.
The alley round the back of the Crescent Moon was exactly the kind of alley you'd expect to be round the back of a second-rate bar frequented by the lackeys of the Death City underworld. Lit only by the faint glow from the bar's windows, it was filled with garbage and smelled terrible. Dustbins leaned drunkenly against one another, vomiting trash into the gutter.
Clearly, it was the perfect place for a rendezvous.
"I thought you said five minutes," I said as familiar footsteps approached, putting down a newspaper I'd fished out of one of the bins in boredom. The news wasn't great, but when was it ever? Continued economic downturn, jobs being slashed left right and centre all over the city. The heatwave which had been sat over the whole region for a fortnight was set to continue until the end of the month. Gang wars in the western suburbs, being contained by an almost permanent SWAT presence. Some new drug called black blood (who comes up with drug names? I wondered idly) appearing on the streets and wreaking havoc. And, to cap it all, a damn serial killer loose in the city – the three-eye killer as they were calling him this week, clubbing his victims over the head in dark alleys and tearing open their bellies, painting the dusty brickwork with ropes of gore and his signature sign: three vertical eyes glaring down on the carnage he left behind.
Dark alleys like the one you're in right now, some bastard part of my brain decided to remind me, and for a moment I was wondering whether those footfalls weren't the herald of something much, much worse than I'd expected.
But then she rounded the corner and I forgot all about the economy and the weather, the civil unrest and drugs and serial killers. Maka Albarn, as far as I was concerned, was more than enough reason to think that God hadn't abandoned us just yet.
Detective Albarn of the Death City Police Department, to give her professional title, had decided to show up in this slimy alley wearing a smart-casual white blouse under a cream jacket that, I had to say, did go rather well with her ash-blonde hair. Her ability to colour-coordinate quickly became a sideshow, however, as I noticed that she had also decided to wear a red and black plaid miniskirt that was just short enough to bring the word 'dangerous' to mind.
"Sorry, Soul. I got a bit held up," she said apologetically.
"Ah, it's fine," I replied, trying very hard to un-notice the miniskirt. "Nice to see you again, Maka."
"You too. Your piano playing was great."
I raised both eyebrows at that. "You were in there earlier?" Dressed like that?
She grinned at me. "Left just before you got off the stage."
By now I wasn't grinning at all. "And did you see the guy in the white suit? Did he ring any bells? Jesus, Maka, what if he'd seen you? You know he's probably got the faces of the entire central-west precinct staff memorised, right? I know most of the guys in there aren't the brightest, but White Star…"
"I can take care of myself," she said, in that don't you dare suggest I can't tone of hers. "And besides, what could he have done?"
I decided not to answer that question. "You're right. Ok, so, what's the business this time?"
"Who said this was business?" she asked with a small smile.
Oh don't give me that shit, I wanted to say. Maka and I have known each other since we met in our first year at the University of Nevada, her studying law and me bumbling through a course in music that I would soon drop out of. During the course of those nine years, it's become common knowledge between us that while I wouldn't mind going to bed with her, she rather would mind such a thing, thank you very much. If there is any love between us, it's Platonic. End of. Any suggestions otherwise from me will result in me getting hit with a dictionary or a law textbook (and those things hurt) in short order.
Of course, that still leaves her complete freedom to make suggestive comments here and there. And to be honest, I'm largely fine with that. After all, she has to deal with me, and I suppose I can get pretty difficult when I want to. So a bit of teasing is, I suppose, getting off lightly.
"With that miniskirt, what else could it be?" I asked sweetly, and received a brief glare for my troubles.
"I need you to find out everything you can about someone for me," she said, all business and professionalism now.
"Shouldn't be a problem. Who?"
"A man called Masamune Nakatsukasa."
Well now there was a surprise. Suddenly, Masamune seemed to be a very popular man. "What's this for?" I asked, a little warily. I have a rule about not getting involved but something was clearly going on here, and I'll admit I was more than a little curious.
Maka hesitated. She clearly wasn't supposed to tell me anything. "I'm saying this as your friend," she said at last, an old phrase between us that meant if I find out you've sold someone this I'll rip your testicles off. "We'd been hearing rumours about Nakatsukasa for a while now. Something big is happening, and he was right in the middle of it."
Interesting use of the past tense there, Maka.
"But we found him dead last night. Now the chief wants all the info we can get on him. He doesn't even care where it comes from, as long as it's reliable." That surprised me. Captain Kidd was aggressively by-the-book, or at least as by-the-book as you could get in a place like Death City.
"And so you came to me," I said, my mind working furiously. Why was White Star collecting info on a dead man? Did he even know Masamune was dead? And, perhaps the most important question from my point of view, should I tell Maka? Technically, my dealings with White Star were over and I could do as I pleased now. Realistically, I didn't think I should piss off the king of Death City's underworld and the father of one of my best friends.
"Yeah." Maka blushed slightly and looked awkward. "Look, I know you're probably busy, but could you bump this one to the top of the list? Please, Soul? For me?"
And there it was, the famous Maka Albarn shy smile, enough to melt the heart of even the coldest of men. Or this man, anyway. From where I stood it didn't make much of a difference.
Fuck it, I thought. White Star can shove it.
"No need," I said. "What I was talking to White Star about? Same thing. He wanted everything I could dig up on this Masamune Nakatsukasa guy, just like you do. Listen, Maka, I don't know what's going on here but it's enough to get the chief of Star Clan sniffing around in person."
Maka's eyes went wide. "White Star…"
"Yeah. I can make a copy of the stuff I gave him, have it on your desk tomorrow morning. I can even do a bit of extra digging, see if there's anything I've missed."
She grinned and for a brief moment I thought I was going to get a hug. "God, Soul," she laughed, "you're a lifesaver. Thank you so much. I… I definitely owe you one."
Now it was my turn to smile awkwardly. "Don't mention it," I said.
"I need to get back to the precinct," she said, already turning and starting to hurry off. "But I'll be in touch!" she called over her shoulder, and then she was gone.
I was left standing alone in a dark alley round the back of a seedy bar, ankle-deep in rubbish and with a couple of days hard work stretching ahead of me. Depending on how things turned out, I might yet have just pissed off a mob boss and got myself caught up in something that had got even the unflappable Captain Kidd clutching at straws.
Most people would consider that a pretty bad state to be in.
But the trick, as I have long since learned, is to make it look as if you know exactly what you are doing.
Author's note: One of the things I've noticed whilst writing fanfiction is that I seem to have terrible trouble sticking to stories that have plots. I start off eager and full of ideas and by the time chapter eight or nine rolls around it's becoming a bit of a chore and all my ideas seem to have gone away. So this is my attempt to deal with that problem: a collection of short stories, each one self-contained and having little bearing on the others. We'll see how it turns out. Thank you for reading this and if you're willing to review I'd appreciate it no end.