Razor Burnby O. J. Anderson |
Table of Contents Chapter 7, part 1; part 2 Chapter 8 Chapter 10 appear in this issue. |
| Chapter 9 |
Chief Conrad holds up the Garden City Reader. The headline reads:
VOODOO SLAYING IN GARDEN CITY!
“Found another anomaly. Tim Bradley. Lived on the streets. Rice junky.”
“Not so much of an anomaly any more,” Razor says.
“Don’t get cute, Razor. Not today.”
“He’s right, Chief. It’s actually less anomalous now. And it’s going to happen again.”
“And just what the hell is happening, Doctor?”
The doctor goes clinical. “Basically, it’s a hyperactive form of septic shock. Pathogen enters the circulatory system, either by ingestion, through cuts in the skin, or mucous membranes, then it poisons the red blood cells by rapid replication. The cells are essentially suffocated. The circulatory system goes toxic. This septicemia causes high fever, chills, numbness, delirium, vomiting, convulsions, hot skin, et cetera. The body rots from the inside out.”
She takes a file from her bag. “The lab reports confirm that this is a mutated version of the Dalls-Crik virus. It is believed to have originated in Borneo caves inhabited by bats with a rare blood disorder. It was most likely contracted by humans from the guano. There were less than three dozen fatalities before it was successfully treated with antibiotics. That was almost fifty years ago. It’s been dormant ever since.”
“So it’s treatable?” Razor asks.
“No. This version has been modified to resist existing antivirals. It’s what we call a designer virus. It was meant to do harm. A bio-detection air unit should be entering Garden City airspace by late morning.”
To the Chief, Razor says, “I’ve got a surveillance team on Cyborg’s place right now. All I need is an entry team and a warrant.”
Chief Conrad picks up the phone. “Give me one hour.”
* * *
One of the Mayor’s aides leans forward and whispers into his ear. The Mayor nods, faces the reporters, smiles. “What I meant was, the facts of the case are not consistent with the commonly understood and accepted definition of a voodoo murder. I didn’t confirm any voodoo murder.
“Let me be clear, the facts of the situation are not inconsistent and familiar with the definition of murder. That is, they are consistent with the condition as described by the definition of murder.”
“Mr. Mayor...”
“What we’re currently doing, as of this moment, is investigating rigorously. We’re rigorously investigating those conditions described as being consistent to the definition of a voodoo-type murder. And as I said before, we’re being very rigorous. With a lot of rigor. The hows and the whys and the whens, those are all part of a very rigorous investigation into those commonalities common to both a suspected voodoo-type murder and an actual voodoo-type murder. To see if one is like the other...”
“Mr. Mayor...”
* * *
Razor, listening to the Mayor, doesn’t hear her ask:
“Hungry?” She reaches up and waves a hand in front of his face. “Hello?”
“What?”
“Let’s eat something.”
“No time.”
“Look, we have about an hour. Let’s just take thirty minutes and get something to eat. Okay? I’m starving. If I don’t eat soon you won’t want to know me.”
He takes her to a nearby restaurant: Lupio’s, home of the giant meatball. There are only three other people inside: a couple lawyers with big, chunky watches and a young woman with her hair pulled back into a low-drag coefficient bun trying hard to make it in this man’s world.
Razor and Dr. Jenkins sit at a red-and-white checkered table by the window.
The waitress asks, “What can I get you guys?”
While Dr. Jenkins is still scanning the menu, Razor orders two giant meatballs and a pitcher of water.
“Any pasta with those?”
“No thanks, I’m off complex starches this week.”
“I’ll have the Caesar salad and a glass of iced tea.”
After the waitress leaves, Razor says, “A salad? That’s it? All that talk about being so hungry and all you get is a salad?”
“What’s wrong with a salad?”
“You should’ve told me. I have an apricot and radicchio salad with a nice mustard vinaigrette in the truck.”
Face reddens. Eyes flare. Flash rage. “I don’t want a ridiculous mustard salad in the damn truck! I want to stop for two seconds, sit down, and have a salad at a table if you don’t mind.”
Wow, Razor thinks, this one needs to get her blood sugar under control. “Fine, have the salad.”
When the waitress returns with their drinks, Razor takes his right from the pitcher. Dr. Jenkins, still set on edge about the whole salad issue, squints at him and asks rather maliciously, “So, what do you do, listen to music and make salads and muffins all the time?”
Razor lifts an eyebrow and gives her a serious stink eye. Watch it, lady. But she’s new in town. She isn’t hard. He decides to give her an escape route. “You mean during my off time?”
“Yeah, whenever.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t listen to music anymore.”
“Anymore? What do you mean? At all?”
“That’s right.”
“Why? If you don’t mind my asking.”
A long drink, draining a quarter of the pitcher. Then: “It’s hard to explain. But, my musical awareness has been heightened to a register far beyond that of current musical technology. What I mean is, I’ve advanced past actually listening to music.”
“What? You can’t hear music anymore?”
“Of course I can. I didn’t say I was deaf. It’s like this: you don’t still read children’s books or ride a child’s bike with training wheels, do you?” Razor waits for Dr. Jenkins to confirm that she does not do these things anymore. “That’s what I mean.”
“Huh.” She bites her lip, carefully avoiding the boundary set by the salad debacle.
* * *
Mayor Manila swaggers down the hallway toward his office. Two of his top aides, Shawn and Jeffery, follow him closely slinging electronic organizers and cell phones like business-class samurai on a one way flight to Shangri-La.
“How was I?” the Mayor asks.
Shawn: “You were awesome, sir. You dominated.”
Jeffery: “Nobody handles the press like you, sir.”
Shawn: “It was like a clinic out there, sir.”
Jeffery: “Masterful, sir. Masterful.”
The Mayor snaps his fingers rapidly. “I was so on. What a rush.”
* * *
When Razor’s giant meatballs arrive it looks like the table has received a breast augmentation. They eat for a few minutes in silence until, out of the blue, Dr. Jenkins says to him, “You can call me Kate.”
“Okay,” Razor says, perhaps without the verve that Kate was hoping for.
“So how are the meatballs?” The woman is either attempting to be affable, or is being a deliberate pain in the ass for reasons known only to those producing estrogen.
Razor, trying to glean which one it is, says, “Hearty. A tour de force of meat.”
“Yeah?” Kate says. “Can I try a bite?”
He motions for her to go ahead.
She forks off a good sized chunk and tries it. “Mmm, you’re right. That is hearty.” She goes back for more. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Help yourself.”
“It’s delicious. Want some of my salad?”
No thanks, he tells her. He notices that her hand is svelte and smooth. Nice contours. Good skin tone. Very nice. Well-manicured nails; not too long, not too short; just right. Her sleeve rides up over her wrist as she extends her hand across the table for more of that giant meatball. The gold bracelet hangs loosely off her bony wrist...
“...do you like to make at home? What are you good at?”
Razor realizes that the distant sound he had been hearing for the past minute or so was Kate talking to him. He fakes a cough and re-creates the part he missed, working backwards. He says, “Proteins mostly.”
Kate almost chokes on a chunk of meatball and quickly covers her mouth with her napkin. “Proteins?”
“Beef, chicken, pork, lots of eggs, fish...”
“Yes, I know where proteins are found, thank you.” She tries hard not to laugh, but it’s hopeless. Her eyes begin to water. “Proteins...” Turning away from him, she almost regains her composure, but it doesn’t last long. She can’t help herself. “Do you have people over for proteins? A protein party?”
“Very good,” he says. “Clever.”
Wiping tears from her eyes, she says, mockingly, “Would you like some carbohydrates with your proteins? How about some unsaturated fats?” Laughing harder now. “Pass the sodium...”
Razor’s cell phone rings. It’s the Chief.
“Green light.”
Copyright © 2006 by O. J. Anderson
