CHAPTER 2: Hollywoodland
When I came to I felt a warm breeze across my face and the sound of traffic in the distance. It took a few moments for memory to kick in, and I remembered where I was and what had happened. I sat up and opened my eyes and looked around. What I saw made me blink a few times. Either that explosion had scarred my retinas, or somebody had messed with the Technicolor because all around me, the color of the buildings, the sky, the color of the environment in general was dull. It was like looking through a filter and having the vibrancy of the colors toned down.
I looked at my clothes and found I was not immune to the transformation. My orange, button-down shirt looked dingy, although not dirty, and my brown pants almost looked black. My first thought was that the system might have suffered some catastrophic event because of the explosion. I got to my feet and started walking. I wasn't sure where I was headed. I think I was in shock or something because my mind wasn't really registering the world around me. I thought I had seen everything, but not even the experience of time travel compared to what had happened to Mainframe. (And I was only seeing a piece of the whole disaster.)
I walked in a daze along a sidewalk, taking note of the landscape. Beverly Hills was Mainframe's "glamour" sector. It was home to the rich and famous and was the seat of the system's entertainment industry. The first thing I noticed, besides the grayscale, was the altered landscape. Beverly Hills had been completely transformed. It looked like a city unto itself with office buildings, boulevards, and off in the distance I saw a small range of mountains. On the side of this range was a familiar row of large white letters.
HOLLYWOODLAND.
I stood looking at the sign for a few minutes, trying to figure out what was going on. As Enzo might have said, everything had gone completely random. I started walking again, searching for anything I might have recognized.
There was a vintage feel to the place. There were ground cars moving along asphalt roads, which was odd because cars in Mainframe were capable of flying. They were all classic automobiles; I recognized two Lincoln Continentals, a couple of Coupe deVilles, several Mercuries, and a few other models that would make my Uncle Dale — he's a true car enthusiast — drool.
Somehow Beverly Hills, perhaps even the whole system, had been transformed into a version of my own reality's Hollywood, California in a time period between 1930 and the later 1940s. The only thing that could explain all this was the explosion. The game cube must have somehow altered the environmental parameters of the whole system. But I didn't know how. I couldn't think. Being in such an unreal situation was making me panic. I had to sit down somewhere and gather my wits. I had to slow my mind down and think.
I stopped paying attention to where I was going and I accidentally bumped into a binome.
"Watch it, buddy!" he said angrily, then he passed on by.
"Sorry," I said, but he didn't wait around for an apology. It took a few nanoseconds before a thought registered and the light in my brain finally clicked on. "Hey, wait a sec," I called to the binome and ran after him. He must have been ignoring me because he didn't stop. Only when I got close did he whirl around and eye me with an expression that would have made a normal person think twice before asking him the kinds of questions I was about to put to him.
"What do you want?" he said, obviously perturbed.
"I just need to know what happened," I said.
"What happened where?" he said.
"Here. The explosion. Didn't you see it?"
"I didn't see no explosion," the binome said. "What are you, drunk or sumthin'?"
"I'm talking about the game cube." He looked at me blankly. "Big purple thing, comes down from the sky. It landed in this sector a few microseconds ago."
The binome shook is head, dipped into his pocket, and handed me a crisp one dollar bill. "Here, get yourself somethin' to eat, then check yourself into a clinic or whatever. There's one on the corner of Santa Monica and East 7th. Now buzz off before I call the cops." He took one more look at me, then shook his head again and walked off.
I looked at the dollar in my hand, then back at the binome, then back at the dollar. What in the name of God was going on here? I spent the next few minutes asking other passersby about the game cube, as well as the condition of the rest of Mainframe, but their responses were just as befuddled as the first binome I'd talked to. It was as if everyone had lost their memory of Mainframe. Instead, as far as they were concerned, they were living in Los Angeles and always had.
Apparently I was raising some alarms because a few minutes later a police car pulled up next to the sidewalk. Two uniformed police officers stepped out and walked toward me. They were wearing the old-style tunics and military-style caps.
They were sprites, not binomes like most CPU patrolmen in Mainframe. One was older than the other. I could tell by the three blue chevrons on his sleeve he was a sergeant. I thought I could see white in his sideburns, but the color around me, or rather the lack thereof, made it hard to be certain. He must have been in his late forties or early fifties. His face was doughy with plenty of lines. His partner was younger and taller, probably in his twenties.
"Evenin'," said the sergeant. He had a distinct Irish brogue.
"Evening," I replied casually.
"Might I ask what you're doin' out here, sur?" he asked.
I had to think fast. Trouble with the law was the last thing I needed. "Ah, well, I'm not from here, you see. I just flew into LAX a few hours ago from Washington D.C."
"Oh, did'ja now?" asked the sergeant amusedly. I was making it up, but it sounded believable. At least I thought it did. The sergeant continued talking. "Well, we've been getting' reports of a crazy walkin' up and down this street a' buggerin' people with all sorts a' gibberish."
I made it seem as if it was all just a misunderstanding. I put on my best victimized tourist routine, cleared up the problem with a made-up story about being mugged when I couldn't produce any identification, and hoped it sounded believable.
Apparently, I overdid it. They "asked' me to come with them down to the station where I could fill out a report. I figured it would look pretty suspicious if I didn't seem interested in getting my fictional wallet and money back, so I went with them. During the drive I saw a small sticky calendar on the dashboard. The date was May 1953. I looked out the window, noting the absence of detail from the environment. I had visited Los Angeles once before a few years earlier while attending a conference at the UCLA. I recognized some of the streets and local landmarks, but most of the city was featureless, as if the same buildings were being used over and over again.
That's when it hit me. Games had the same layout. It seemed my worst fears were confirmed. Mainframe had undergone some kind of metamorphosis where the whole system was running like a game cube.
I should have stayed home today, I thought wearily. Of course, at that time, I didn't know the true extent of the damage.
We pulled up to the Hollywood Stationhouse of the LAPD. It was a white brick building, six or seven stories high with a wide concrete staircase leading up to the front double doors. The two officers escorted me inside and took me past the reception desk into a room with metal desks lined head-to-head in rows of four. It was like being in a real police station. Against the east wall were wide, wooden framed windows with antique roll shades. The opposite wall was covered with bulletin boards tacked with sheets from crime reports, pictures, and other information. In the back was a row of offices, probably reserved for senior supervisors.
The two officers escorting me sat me down at a desk and the younger officer began writing down my statement. I had to make up a few more details, but he didn't question my story. It was obvious by now I wasn't a "crazy." When I finished he took the paper and left the desk, telling me to wait a few more minutes until he got back. I relaxed and tried to clear my head. Then I heard an all too familiar voice.
"So you think the Red Sox are cursed?" I turned to the source of the voice and almost fell out of my seat.
He had his suit jacket slung over his shoulder, using his index finger to hold onto it at the collar. He had a badge clipped to his belt, and in a shoulder holster I saw a .38 revolver. The overall tint of the environment made his blue skin a little less vibrant, and his silver hair seem less polished, but there was no mistaking the man in the charcoal gray suit. It was Bob, transformed by the game!
"They've lost the World Series every year since '20," said another sprite. The two were talking about baseball. "It's the Curse of the Bambino, I tell ya."
"Or they're just a lousy team," Bob replied.
"Watch it, Dash," warned the other sprite. "I grew up in Boston. You're treadin' on insult."
"Do yourself a favor," Bob said, "and be a Dodgers fan." Bob turned away, grinning, while the other officer frowned and muttered something under his breath.
Bob sat down at a desk across from the one I was sitting at. I couldn't believe my eyes. I wanted to feel happy and relieved that I'd finally found somebody I recognized. Unfortunately, I only felt marginally curious. For all I knew the Bob I knew was gone forever, replaced by this character named Dash something or other. Even if I spoke to him, he wouldn't recognize me. His memory was just as warped as everybody else's.
Still, I thought, maybe I could get some information. Maybe the damage is only limited to Beverly Hills. Maybe the rest of the system is okay.
My thoughts were interrupted by a tremor. The building began to shake as an earthquake rippled through the sector. Everyone in the room looked around as the overhead lights began to flicker. Anything not weighed or bolted down fell to the floor. Then the tremor stopped.
"It wasn't even a 4," said one cop. Everyone shrugged it off and resumed their work.
"That's Los Angeles for you," Bob said to me. "Every five minutes there's quake."
"Keeps you on your toes, though," I replied. Maybe if I played this right I could strike up a conversation.
"Yeah. You're right," he said, grinning. He looked at me squarely, then added, "Do I know you?"
For an instant I saw a glimmer of hope. Maybe there was some piece of the real Bob still there. In this case, though, I decided to play coy. I didn't need to mess this up. "I'm not sure," I said. "I know your face." I took a gamble here on the character's shortened name. "Dashiell something, right?"
That's when it hit me. I had no idea what Bob's real last name was.
"Yeah, Dashiell Chandler," Bob said, leaning toward me. "Who are you?"
"Kevin Sawyer," I said.
My mind shouted, It worked! Bob's name came from two authors I adored as a kid: Dashiell Hamnet and Raymond Chandler, two icons of detective fiction. My sprit was beginning to lift a little.
"Kevin Sawyer," Bob repeated, trying to remember if he knew me. "I can't remember where I know you from."
I had to think fast. "We were at the Academy together." It was another gamble. Bob had been educated at the Guardian Academy in the Supercomputer. I was hoping the game reality had only changed the surface of things. Again, I got lucky.
"You were at the Point?" he asked.
"West Point, yeah," I said. "I was a plebe when you were an upperclassman. Class of '42."
"No foolin'? I figured I'd seen you before."
I was on a roll, and I was in familiar territory. The Air Force Academy and West Point were bitter football rivals. I remembered going with my family to watch the Falcons take on the Black Knights for the Commander-in-Chief's trophy back when my father was still an instructor at the Air Force Academy.
Bob and I rose and shook hands like old friends. The young street cop who took my statement returned and handed me a copy of the report. He said they would call me if they found my wallet.
"Got into some trouble?" asked Bob.
"Yeah. Creep stole my wallet."
"Aw, man, that's awful. Y'know we do our best, but there's only so many of us."
"Don't sweat it," I said. "I'll survive."
"So what brings you here?"
"I'm in town for a conference at the UCLA," I said. "I'm a scientist."
"Regular Einstein, huh?" Bob asked with a smile.
"Something like that," I replied jovially.
"Look, I get off duty in a few minutes. How about I buy you a meal? We can talk over a burger."
"Sounds good. I wouldn't want to impose."
He raised a hand. "Forget it. Us Army brats gotta stick together. Gimme a minute."
I waited in the lobby until Bob came out. We left the stationhouse and walked to a parking lot where his 262 convertible had transformed into a blue 1953 Corvette Roadster. It was a beautiful car, and unlike its counterpart, it actually ran.
We ate at a small diner on Fairfax Avenue. Bob had a hamburger steak while I had a cheeseburger and fries. The game reality had changed a lot of things, even the food. There were no energy shakes or data chips here. It was like eating at a restaurant on Earth.
Bob and I talked about our days at the Point. My father was a history instructor at the Air Force Academy when I was growing up. I sort of knew how military academy life went, so I managed to muddle my way through the conversation without having to go into specifics. When I did, I managed to make up a story that seemed to make sense.
"So what did you end up doing during the war?" Bob asked.
He meant World War II. At this point my curiosity started getting the better of me. I wanted to see how far the game reality had altered Mainframe. I had pretty accurate knowledge of that period, but most of it revolved around the Army Air Corps. Being home schooled as a kid, and my father being a military history professor, he made sure I was educated in the area of war.
"First it was flight training in Pensacola," I replied. "Then I got a sweet little Curtis P40 named Wilma and flew her in the Pacific Theater. I flew escort for Enola Gay when they dropped the bomb."
"I'll bet that was something else," Bob said. "I was in France for most of the war, artillery brigade. After the Marines took Normandy I was attached to a civil engineering outfit and sent to Berlin until the war ended."
It was an interesting conversation. I didn't know how the game environment could be so detailed. There had to be an extra element at work in the background I wasn't aware of. Maybe it was just coincidence. There was information in the Mainframe archives that perhaps the new reality had used in some way to weave a whole history parallel to my own.
When we were finished eating, we walked back outside. The sun was setting over the horizon, the sky a fiery orange. I had never seen a sunset in Mainframe because the system didn't have a sun. I wondered if night would bring out the familiar stars of home.
"It's been real, Sawyer," Bob said. "Can I give you a lift to your hotel?"
I didn't have a hotel. At this point I was completely at my wit's end. I needed to stay with Bob a bit longer. I had hoped to convince him of what was happening and where we really were, but I had no evidence, nothing with which I could sway him to believe his life right now was a fabrication. Still, I had to try something.
"I'd appreciate a ride," I said. "I'm staying at the Holiday Inn on Mulholland."
"All right," he said as we moved to his car. "I need to pick someone up first, but after that I can drive you there."
I thanked him, wondering in the back of my mind who we were going to pick up.
Bob and I arrived at a small house in Echo Park. Bob got out and walked up to the door. He knocked and was greeted by a young woman with auburn hair. He seemed to be calling on someone. The woman retreated back inside the house, calling for someone. Then I got my next big surprise. I saw Dot walk outside. She was wearing a mid-length pink skirt, white blouse, and a pink jacket. She had a thin white scarf around her neck, tucked into the jacket. This Dot was a classy dame.
"Classy dame?" asked Vivian. "Who are you, Humphrey Bogart?"
"Well, it was a Bogey kind of environment," Kevin said.
"You were really enjoying yourself, weren't you?"
"I might have had a little fun while it lasted. After this, everything started going to the dogs."
Dot and Bob shared a long, intimate kiss before she took his arm and he led her over to the car. I got out, offering her the front seat.
"Gail," Bob said, "this is Kevin Sawyer. He and I were at West Point together."
"How do you do, Mr. Sawyer," said Dot. I shook her hand gently, noticing the diamond engagement ring on her third finger.
"I'm very well, thank you," I replied.
"Gail, Kevin here is a scientist. He had a run-in with a vandal today, and lost his wallet. I told him we'd take him back to his hotel."
"Oh, why, that's horrible," Dot said.
"It happens," I said. "I really appreciate everything Dash has done. I don't want to hold you folks up any more, though. Shall we?" I opened Dot's door for her and helped her in. I hopped into the backseat.
We drove out of Echo Park and got onto Santa Monica Boulevard. The sun had set, and indeed, the stars were out, but I also noticed they weren't twinkling, and they didn't form any of the recognizable constellations. They were like everything else in this environment: Purely esthetic.
"I think we've got a tail," Bob said.
"Dash?" Dot asked.
"The black coupe. It's been following us since we got on Santa Monica."
I looked back behind us and saw the car. I could make out two figures inside, but their features were hidden by their headlights. We got off Santa Monica, and turned onto Slater Street. We drove through the city. I knew what Bob was doing. He was testing our followers to see if they were indeed tailing us. They were, and I felt my heart start to race as Bob drove us into Downtown L.A.
"Sawyer, you good with a piece?" asked Bob.
"You think they mean to cause that kind of trouble?" I asked.
"I mean to cause that kind of trouble," Bob said. "Bullock thinks he can hassle me? I don't think so. Gail, give Sawyer the spare."
Dot opened the glove compartment and pulled out a Colt .45 and handed it to me. Again, I owed it to my father for my knowledge of guns as well. It was a Government Model 1911. It held seven shots in the magazine plus one in the chamber. It had been the official sidearm of the U.S. military until the early eighties. My father had taught me to shoot with one just like it.
"It's my old service pistol," Bob said. "It's always nice to have a backup."
I checked the magazine. It was fully loaded. The parts were well lubricated and cleaned. It was ready to use, but I repressed the urge to prime the chamber. Bob reached into his jacket and pulled out his revolver and laid it in his lap.
"Gail, honey, I'm gonna need you to duck down when we stop. Things might get ugly."
And they did. The coupe rammed us from behind, knocking us forward violently.
"So they wanna play rough. I'll give 'em rough." Bob floored the gas, accelerating us forward. We put a good fifty yards between us and our pursuers when Bob let off the pedal and spun us around, tires screeching. We were now facing down the street we had just come. The coupe was stopped, its occupants waiting. Bob roared the engine. Dot buckled her seatbelt.
"That's probably a good idea," Bob said.
I sat back and buckled my own. "What are you planning to do?" I asked.
"Plan?" Dot asked. "He doesn't plan anything. This is just him improvising."
"I was afraid you were going to say that," I said.
I looked back to Bob, who was grinning evilly. He threw the car into gear and we were racing toward the black coupe. The coupe's driver got scared, and threw his car into reverse, backing away as fast as it would go. Bob got bumper to bumper with the coupe and aimed his .38 with his left hand, keeping his right on the wheel. He fired two shots at the front passenger tire. The first shot missed, but the second blew out the tire. The rim sparked as it met the road. The man in the passenger seat leaned out the window and aimed his own weapon. Bob saw this, and rammed the coupe. The goon was thrown off balance, and Bob fired another shot, nailing the attacker in the arm.
Bob floored the gas again and we pushed the coupe down the street. He managed to guide the coupe into a telephone pole, veering away just as the back of the car crashed into the wooden post. The telephone pole cracked and splintered, toppling over and coming down upon the cab, folding it like a taco down the middle. We were stopped, thirty feet away on the other side of the street. Bob got out, shaking the spent shells out of his revolver's chamber and replacing them with fresh cartridges. I got out as well, the .45 clutched in my hand. It was an unfamiliar weight, but I felt my hand rack the slide. The chamber was loaded. I felt slightly better.
I heard a piece of glass shatter. Someone inside the coupe was trying to break through the ruined windshield. A shot rang out and ricocheted off the hood of the Corvette.
"Gail, get down!" shouted Bob as he dove right.
I hit the deck and rolled as a barrage of hot lead tore up the asphalt in front of me. I laid on my stomach and aimed at the coupe. I saw a shape moving in the passenger side. I fired twice at the crushed window. I must have got lucky and hit something because I heard a loud curse and the gunfire stopped. I leapt up but kept low and stuck to the shadows. I circled around until I got close enough to see inside the car. I couldn't see the driver, but there was a guy trapped against the front passenger door, the one who'd taken a few potshots at me and Bob.
In the back I could make out two other shapes moving around, trying to get free. They pounded on the rear left door fiercely, trying to make the metal give. They would've had better luck kicking open the door to a bank vault. The door was bent and folded to the point where it couldn't even swing on its hinges. That's when they finally noticed the rear window was totally crushed. They abandoned the door and crawled out the opening. That's when I saw what I'd mistaken for two people was actually one gigantic person that made Andre the Giant look like one of the seven dwarves. He was massive, close to ten feet tall, and built like Goliath.
He had a face like a cinder block, square, flat and featureless. Even the nose was so stubby, I wondered if it even had any cartilage in it at all. He was dressed all in black, and he looked angry. He went to the passenger door and tore it off, the metal barely protesting his superhuman strength. I looked at the Colt in my hand and wondered if it was really as puny as it seemed or if I was just imagining it.
I saw Bob leap out of the bushes on the other side of the road, gun ready and shouting at the cinder block. He abandoned his attempt at rescuing his pinned accomplice and concentrated on Bob. He made his way out into the street. He almost looked like he was stalking Bob without any fear of being shot. That's when I left my own hiding place and took the Weaver stance with my sights lined up on the block's melon-sized cranium. Even with the kick of a .45 to consider, it was impossible for me to miss.
"Sawyer, where'd you come from?" asked Bob.
"What, did you think I'd cut tail and run out on you? Us Army guys gotta stick together."
"Touching," croaked the block. "Which one of you wants to die first?"
"Buddy," I said, "I don't know if you've noticed, but you've got two guns pointed at you. Unless you're made of Kevlar, I'd suggest you seriously reconsider your situation."
Before I knew what hit me, I felt the blunt end of something cold and metallic crack my head open like a hard boiled egg. Stars burst in front of my eyes and I went down. The next thing I knew I was kissing pavement with a size twenty-something shoe pressing against my skull. I think I knew what it felt like to be a grapefruit just before the big squeeze. I wanted to tell Quasimodo to take it easy with the bell-ringing because it wasn't helping the throbbing organ between my ears.
A few minutes must have passed because after that I felt Bob shaking me.
"Sawyer. C'mon, Sawyer, I need you up."
I opened my eyes and moaned. I felt like every muscle in my body had disconnected from every other muscle in my body.
"You're alive!" said Bob. "Thank God."
He helped me sit up slowly. I reached around and touched the tender area behind my head. I was bleeding. Bob handed me a folded handkerchief, and I pressed it to the wound. The soft cotton felt like a hot iron and stars blurred my vision again.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Frankenstein's monster was stalling," Bob said. "The guy in the passenger seat wormed his way out of the car after he tore the door off. He clocked you on the back of the head with a tire iron."
"Guess I'm lucky he didn't shoot me," I said. "Help me up."
If I'd been asked to take a sobriety test just then I'd have failed miserably. I couldn't control my legs and the rest of my body wanted to sag to the ground like a bag of potatoes. Bob led me over to his car where he put me in the backseat.
"I'll get you to a doctor," Bob said as he got behind the wheel. I felt rather than heard the engine roar to live and we lurched into motion. It was then I realized we were missing someone.
"Bob, where's Dot?" I asked.
"Where's who?" Bob asked.
"Dot. Did we leave her?"
I didn't realize what I was saying. Bob must have thought I'd had the sense knocked out of me, but he understood what I meant.
"They took Gail," he said. "That sonofabitch Bullock took her as leverage. I swear by the Virgin if he so much as lays a hand on her I'll send him to see St. Peter myself."
"Then we're going to need a bigger gun," I said. "Like an elephant gun, because that gargoyle looks like he can take a cannon."
"It's not your problem, Sawyer. I appreciate everything you did back there, but this isn't your fight. These bozos are playing for keeps, see? Hell, I've seen them do things that would make the Red Army blush. You've gotta get away, man. Get away and stay away. They don't know you, so you should be safe."
"They know me now," I said. "The cinder block had his shoe pressed to my face for all of ten minutes by my reckoning. That makes me just as much a target as you. And from the looks of things, you can use all the help you can get."
"I can't ask you to do that, Sawyer," Bob said.
"You don't have to. It's what friends are for."
About an hour later I was getting looked at by a police doctor. He gave me a few aspirin tablets and told me I had a concussion, but there was no fracture and no sign of intracranial bleeding. I was going to live to fight another day. He bandaged me up and sent me on my merry.
Bob drove us to a gas station on the Interstate where I bought some new clothes to replace my bloody garments. I looked more period than I had before. When I came out, I saw Bob in the telephone booth, having what looked like a heated conversation. He slammed the receiver down and stepped out.
"What was that about?" I asked.
"That was a contact," Bob said. "He works for the newspaper but moonlights as a private dick. We need to meet with him. In the meantime, I'll fill you in on what's going on."
We got on the Interstate and headed back toward the city.
"Ever heard of Gerhard Bullock?" asked Bob.
"Should I have?"
"He's a mob boss from the East Coast, supposedly connected to the Bertelli family in Jersey. He started out as a low level operator for the family's shop in L.A., then he decided to go independent. He took over all the Bertelli family's assets on the West Coast in one massive coup and single-handedly became L.A.'s biggest kingpin almost overnight. Only problem is, he's a ghost. Nobody's ever seen him. They call him the Grim Reaper because the only time anybody gets a glimpse of his face is just before he nixes them."
"Doesn't he have hit men for things like that?" I asked.
"Bullock's old school. He likes to get his hands dirty every once in a while to put the fear of the Almighty in his cronies."
"To keep anyone from trying to nix him like he nixed the Bertellis."
"Exactly. His operation is massive; insurance fraud, extortion, blackmail, drugs, guns, gambling, prostitution. Any and everything that's conducive to big money and short living."
"And he's in control of all the crime on the West Coast?" I asked.
"That's what I've been trying to find out. About a year ago one of my snitches tells me a bunch of the small-timers are getting bought out by a high-roller from Trenton. Sounds like Bullock. I open a case and start poking my nose in some sensitive areas. The next week the case gets shelved, and I get investigated by Internal Affairs. I get the message and lay off, but I hand everything over to this reporter at the Times. We start working on the investigation together, and we uncover some major dirt. Bullock's in deep, and I mean balls deep. He owns every member of the city council, a few circuit court judges; he's even got the District Attorney and the Commissioner under his thumb."
"So what were you planning to do? If he owns the DA, how would you prosecute him?"
"Easy. Give the hangman enough rope, he'll hang himself. I get my reporter friend to put Bullock's number two under the microscope, the big lug whose shoe you had the pleasure of getting up close and personal with this evening. Seems like he wasn't careful enough because Bullock would never send him after me unless he was desperate. He let me go, you see, back there tonight. Bullock wants the evidence I've collected on him and his whole gang. He took Gail as a bargaining chip."
"Sounds like you've got him backed into a corner," I said. "What kind of evidence did you get on him?"
"We connected him with just about every dirty deed that's gone down between San Diego and Sacramento for the past two years, but the nail in the coffin came when the reporter caught a picture of him and the lummox breaking the knees of a city alderman and finally putting a cap between his eyes."
"Ouch. Incriminating. Okay, so what do we do?"
"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not much of a plan man. Got any ideas?"
I pulled out the Colt and weighed it in my hand. I ejected the clip. I'd spent two rounds. I opened the glove box and found some spare shells. I pushed two into the magazine and slammed it home.
"I say we go shoot some bad guys," I said.
"Y'know, Sawyer. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
Bob parked the car across the street from a dark alleyway between a Laundromat and an advertising agency. We walked into the darkness of the alley and stopped when we reached the dead end.
"Now we wait," Bob said.
We didn't have to wait long. A lone figure entered the mouth of the alley and approached us. Only when he crossed a thin strip of light from an upper window did I recognize him.
"Mike?" I asked without thinking. He was wearing a fedora and trench coat.
He looked at me, then at Bob. "Who's the Poindexter?"
"Poindexter?" I asked. "How did you..."
"It's his thing," Bob said. "He likes to channel Sherlock Holmes through his magnifying glass."
"Let's cut the chatter," Mike said. "What's the deal, Dash?"
"It's Gail. Bullock took her."
"Damn," muttered Mike. "Was it the shipyard that tipped him off?"
"It musta been, 'cause I didn't go anywhere near that alderman," Bob said.
"What's he want?"
"Whadda ya think? He wants the evidence."
"Do you realize what's at stake here?" asked Mike. "We have a real chance to bring down the Grim Reaper. This is worth more than your girlfriend."
"I dare you to say that again, Chuck," Bob said darkly.
"For once try to think of the bigger picture, Dash," said Mike. "What's one life compared to bringing down Gerhard Bullock?"
"This isn't just any life, it's Gail. My Gail."
Mike looked like he was getting seriously angry, which was strange to me because I'd never known him to be the enraged type.
"Don't make the mistake of thinking you're the only one who's lost someone to Bullock," he said. "We've all gotta make sacrifices." He didn't sound like he really meant it.
"That's real heroic of you, Chuck," Bob said. "You shoulda been a cop."
Mike narrowed his eyes, two black arrowheads floating inside his square TV head. "I'll give you the photos of the murder. Without that we don't have near as big a case against him." He handed Bob a manila folder. "Here. Maybe it'll be enough."
"I could use your help, Chuck," Bob said.
Mike shook his head. "He still doesn't know I'm the one working the case with you. I need to maintain my anonymity or else he'll send Dorian to break me in two."
"I get it," Bob said. "Thanks for this."
"Don't mention it. Ever."
Bob parked the roadster behind a club called The Lounge. It was an ostentatious place that looked like it belonged in Vegas. Red, blue, and green neon lights framed a marquis hanging over a red carpet facade with brass poles, velvet chords, and a doorman dressed in a sharkskin suit.
"I think I'm a little overdressed," I said sarcastically.
"We're not going in the front door." He pointed at the fire escape zigzagging up the side of the building.
We climbed up to the roof where I saw a few skylights that opened up into different parts of the club. Bob brought along a rope from the trunk of his car and tied one end to a metal pipe sticking up out of the roof. We slid down the rope through one of the skylights and ended up behind a stage. I could hear the sound of chatter and activity behind the closed curtain, so I assumed we were in the ballroom. The floor seemed to be set up for a jazz band.
"Where do we need to go?" I asked.
"Follow me," Bob said.
We made our way down a small flight of stairs and into a hallway that ran the length of the building. I could see doors on either side of the corridor which led off into dressing rooms. At the very back were a set of double door that led into a kitchen. He went through the doors and found a rack of white uniforms for busboys and waiters and such. We quickly ducked into the men's room and changed into the white uniforms.
In the ballroom I saw that the place was just beginning to fill up with patrons.
"What am I supposed to do?" I asked.
"Stick to the walls and the corners. Try and look busy. Keep an eye out for Dorian, the gargoyle. He's got a special table over there." He nodded to the front of the ballroom to the table closest to the stage.
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"I'm going to check in the back. Bullock's got an office somewhere in this club. Be careful."
"Ditto."
For the next twenty minutes I did exactly as Bob said. I grabbed a drink tray and pretended I was serving the guests. They didn't really pay much attention to me, and I thought it might be because I wasn't affected like the others trapped in this "game grid." I couldn't reboot in a game, and according to Matrix, game characters usually ignored people who didn't reboot because they technically weren't part of the game environment. Unless I directly interacted with a character or characters I could pass through this world as inconspicuously as a ghost. As long as I didn't bump into anyone or make a public spectacle of myself, I'd be just fine.
That's when the lights dimmed and the curtain opened. A man in a tux stepped out carrying a microphone on a stand.
"Welcome to The Lounge, ladies and gents. We've got a special treat for you tonight. A new talent for your pleasure. The prettiest wallflower from the Mayor's Office. Miss Gail Wynand."
The curtain parted further and the announcer left the stage. The lights on stage rose and I saw Dot standing in front of the microphone in a white silk dress with a magnolia blossom in her hair. The dress hugged her body like a second skin and seemed to accentuate every curve possible. Exotic wasn't the right word to fit. Graceful, maybe. Gorgeous like Marylyn Monroe. Bob was a lucky guy.
A trumpet started playing in the background, and she started singing.
"The look... of love... is in... your eyes... A look... your smile... can't disguise..."
I never knew Dot could sing. Maybe it was something her game character could do, and it had nothing to do with Dot. I didn't have time to think about it because I saw the cinder block march in from a dark corner and take his seat in front of the stage. I could see Dot's face; she was scared, but somehow her voice never broke, never wavered. On the surface she was as cool as a piece of milled steel, and I suddenly thought I might be looking at the real Dot, the one who was a vulnerable woman somewhere deep down but hid it behind a shield of intelligence and willpower. I felt sorry for the fool who ever decided to cross her.
When her song was over, Dot disappeared behind the curtain with an uproar of applause. Dorian got up and left the ballroom through a door next to the stage. I followed him, patting the Colt in my pant's pocket for reassurance.
I saw him go up the stairs to the side stage entrance and followed him after watching him go through. I remembered when I was a little kid, my father teaching my brother and me how to play kick-the-can, hide-and-seek, and capture-the-flag in the dark. I was too young to realize it at the time, but it was really Survival Evasion Resistance and Escape training. All fighter pilots had to go through it in case they ever ended up behind enemy lines after being shot down. He was grooming us to follow in his footsteps one day. Now was one of the few times in recent memory when I was glad of my father's unique version of child rearing.
I stuck to the shadows, careful to move on the balls of my feet to minimize the sound of my footfalls. Dorian had joined two other nondescript goons, one holding Dot, the other holding Bob at gunpoint. I saw a dark figure step out of the shadows. He was a red-skinned sprite with dark hair made into dreadlocks that ended as steel knife blades at the tips. He wore a pair of wireframe glasses with square lenses. His suit was immaculate; white dinner jacket and pants, black shirt and white tie. He wore a pair of white dinner gloves. He looked distinctly sinister.
"Detective Chandler, you have caused me a great deal of displeasure," he said in a singsong voice.
"Let the girl go, Bullock," Bob said. "She's got nothing to do with this."
Dorian slammed his sledgehammer fist into Bob's solar plexus. I winced, clutching my own stomach. He doubled over in pain and sagged to his knees. The goon put the gun to his temple.
"Nobody speaks to Mr. Bullock unless spoken to, cop," said Dorian. His voice was like a hoarse whisper being forced through a narrow tube.
"Now, I want all the information you've gathered on me and my people, including the photos your sidekick took of that arrogant alderman's demise at the docks."
"I've got the pictures," Bob said. "In my jacket."
Dorian found the envelope and pulled out the photos. He nodded.
"Are these the only copies?" asked Bullock.
"Yes," Bob said.
"I don't believe you," the crime boss said. "And anyway, I want the rest of your evidence. Everything."
"I don't have it."
"That's unfortunate. I don't usually like beating women; it's unbecoming of a gentleman. That's why I have Dorian." He nodded at Dot, and the gargoyle grasped her by the throat. "Tell me who you're working with, and I'll spare her life... for a little while anyway."
At this point, I had to do something. I looked around for anything that might give me an edge. I saw Dorian and the goons were standing under a series of heavy sandbags held aloft by a rope and pulley system. I was standing right next to the hooks they were tied to. One thing about game mechanics I'd learned from AndrAIa was that only certain objects in the environment could be used to accomplish an objective while the rest was just for show. I pulled every hook out of the wall. The only three that came down were the ones right above Dorian and the goons. They all hit the ground with a heavy thud. Bob sprang up and knocked the gun out of Bullock's hand as he tried to draw it. I came out of my hiding place, the Colt in my hand. I pistol whipped the Grim Reaper across the temple, and he went down like the rest of his posse.
"Cutting it kinda close, arench'ya, pal?" Bob asked.
"It worked, didn't it?" I said. "Are you alright, Dot... uh, I mean Gail?"
"I'm fine," she said. "Nice job with the sandbags."
"It was a lucky thing where they were standing," I said. "Somebody up there must really like us."
"Let's not push our luck," she said, grabbing both guns from the two fallen goons. She held one in each hand. "We need to get underground fast."
"Wait, I thought it was over," I said. "We've got the photos back. Let's just take Bullock to the police, and give them all the evidence."
"There isn't a prosecutor in the state that'll take on Bullock," said Dot. "If we're going to fight back, we'll need to go federal, all the way to J. Edgar himself."
"She's right, Sawyer," Bob said. "We need to stick this out just a little bit longer. In the meantime, he'll be sending every trigger man on his payroll after us."
"In that case, let's quit standing around and get moving," I said.
I saw a shadow rise up in front of me. I turned around and saw the thing named Dorian towering over me. Up close and personal, he looked like a brick wall more than just a cinder block. He knew who got the drop on him.
"That... hurt."
"You kinda had it coming."
He picked me up like a child and threw me across the room. I watched as Bob and Dot emptied all their rounds into his body, and still he didn't go down. I got back up, ignoring the pain in my bones. I raised my Colt and emptied my clip into him. He finally got tired and fell down.
"He must have really been made out of Kevlar," I said.
We got out of there. Bob drove us out of the city. Within an hour we hit the desert and kept heading east, leaving the sparkling city behind us. Little did I know that we had jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.
