"Take it outside, guys. Move it," I ordered in my best ex-cop voice. I sounded tough, but the truth was, their sudden violence scared me.
"No," Michael said in a commanding voice, still holding Morningstar's collar. "This ends here."
Morningstar loosened himself from Michael's grip with some effort. "Oh yeah, tough guy. You think you can take me on alone?"
"I will and I can," Michael insisted.
"But is it what the family wants?" Morningstar said, and Michael's resolve seemed to waiver. After making a grand production of shaking out his expensive suit, he squared his shoulders. "It makes you nervous doesn't it? Not knowing the plan. Let me give you a clue you'll never know what They have in store for you until it's over. You're their puppet body and soul ... but wait, that's not right, is it? 'Body and soul'?"
With a quick glance around the room, I caught at least three cops with that faraway look that meant they were on the LINK. No doubt, they'd transmitted all the gory details to precinct headquarters by now. I was curious about this family squabble, but not enough to get arrested over it. I whispered to Michael, "I've got to get out of here, a squad's probably on its way."
"I'll come with you." Without removing his eyes from Morningstar, he added. "This is not the place or time for this kind of discussion, Morningstar."
"What, no reaction?" Morningstar smiled coldly. "It doesn't bother you? The difference between us and them?"
Suddenly, the red flash of my retina being scanned by three or more lasers blinded me. "Like any of you don't know who I am," I said, rubbing at my eye. "Come on, Mike, let's get a move on!"
Michael's eyes stayed locked on the gangster. Despite my insistence, he didn't budge. "They made their choice," Michael said grimly.
"Now that you're here in the Big Apple, what are you going to do? Maybe you've already bitten off more than you can chew."
Michael's eyes grew wide, and then he shook his head. "Lies."
I tugged his sleeve. "If you're coming, let's go..."
Morningstar raised an eyebrow and gave a little laugh. "That's your best? 'Liar.' Whoa, big insult. I'm hurting. Hey, look, I don't care what you do. Just stay away from me, capisne?"
"Deus volent." Michael looked like he wanted to say more, so I tugged him on the arm. With that, he let me lead him toward the door.
"My car's this way..." I pulled him in the direction of the car park. As the walkway's hustle and bustle surrounded us, I felt my shoulders relax. In a second we were at the car. "Get in."
The instant he closed the door, I started up the car. The engine sprang to life and I maneuvered us out of the car park and headed for the tollway. I glanced over at where Michael sat sullenly in his seat. He plucked at the peeling duct tape that held the glove compartment shut. Noticing my look, he said, "You followed me."
Just then, some Gorgon on a scooter cut across the traffic tube levels without so much as a "coming through" from Traffic Control, which was supposed to monitor all vehicles in the tubes. I leaned on the horn, and shouted after the punk.
"Stay in your own lanes!" I shook my head, and muttered, "Those Gorgons are going to give me gray hair of my own. What was he doing here anyway? It's not like there aren't traffic tubes expressly for bikes and boards."
"Hmmmm," Michael muttered, uninterested in my patter. His gaze tracked the scooter as it dodged around cars in the lower tube. "I know you followed me."
Before I could put on my "What, who, me?" face, he held up a hand.
"Don't bother making up an excuse," he said. "This thing is a relic, and anyway, you were the only car on the lower level."
I smiled, but wondered how he knew the Chevy was mine. Suddenly, I remembered: if he was a cop, then he had the LINK. "Yeah, I ought to get something built in this decade, I know. But, hey," I joked, "in another year this baby qualifies as a classic."
"Technically, sure." Returning my humor, he ran his hand along the scarred dash. "I doubt
anyone'd mistake this for cherry."
The car in question hummed into the third level. I remembered gas-guzzlers from before the war. I'd been young, far too young to drive, but I had a strange nostalgia for them. Despite what it did to the classic status, I had it converted to electric years ago. It had cost me a month's salary to get a battery big enough to haul the Chevy's frame for more than a couple of kilometers, and to fit it to draw energy from the tunnel currents. I could've bought a newfangled, lightweight car for the same price, but I was a purist. I wanted a car to look like a car instead of the ugly, modern, supposedly aerodynamic things that passed for vehicles these days.
Following the entrance tube, we joined the line of cars that crowded on the seventh level. With one foot on the brake, I settled into the strangely comforting stop-start motions of a traffic jam.
"So ..." Michael's voice was hopeful. "Does this mean you're considering the barter?"
"I'd like more information first."
"Of course," he said. "What can I tell you?"