I think all cats are wild. They only act tame if there's a saucer of milk in it for them.
-Douglas Adams
We both knew that it was probably too late, but Bobak had the exits to the lobby watched anyway. It was pretty much a given that Gregson had already escaped.
"Hold up," I said as I followed Bobak, who had bolted out of his chair and was still talking into his collar.
"Can't," he said as he kept walking and talking. "Walk with me."
We threaded our way through tables and confused patrons until we reached a small non-descript door. All it said on it was Security in small letters.
"Unobtrusive." I commented as Bobak keyed in his pass code.
"We want the guests to feel safe. Believing that the security here is not a big deal is part of that."
We opened the door to a small room with a desk and a couple of chairs. Seated behind the desk was a bored looking security officer. His expression didn't change as he eyed me. "Hi," he said with no particular interest. "How can I help you today?"
Bobak smiled. "It's OK, Murphy. He's with me."
The change that came over the officer's face was instantaneous. He snapped to alert attention, and looking at Fred said, "Very good. Is there anything you need, sir?"
"No, thank you Murphy. As you were."
Murphy nodded, then rearranged his features back into the bored expression he wore we had entered. I was impressed. Nothing makes people feel safer than a security officer with no real work to do. It was all an act of course.
I looked over to Fred expectently, and he just smiled. He walked over to the storage locker door at the back of the office and then walked through. The chamber beyond was anything but unobtrusive or boring.
It held over a dozen desks, each with multiple monitors, officers in plain clothes sitting at all of them watching and making notes. Officers and staff moved from desk to desk picking up reports and talking with each other, creating a buzz that filled the air with the sounds of efficient activity. And that was just the first tier. The balcony overlooking the first floor had an additional six or eight systems, these apparently focused on the various gaming floors.
"Alright people," Bobak said without shouting. Suddenly everyone stopped, but those watching the monitors did not break away. Professional group, I thought to myself. He really did have a good team.
"The P.O.I. is Michael Gregson, male, approximately 5'10". Last photo we have is attached to the alert. Known to be dangerous, and possibly armed. Approach with caution, this is NOT an arrest. Got that? That means you Fernandes. No dancing with strange men this time."
The team in the security center laughed, and a voice came over the mobile. "Yes, Chief." then a moment later, the same voice spoke again. "Hey, Chief, can I get you a coffee?" More laughter.
"Word spreads quickly," I said.
"Like I said, a good team. Right," he said turning to me, "I am going to need an up to date description of Gregson and some details on the last time you saw him."
I looked at the photo that he had shared with the team. "That is the most recent photo I have seen of him. The last time I saw him in person was a few years before this. I haven't seen his face since." which was technically true. "I already explained that I was somewhat disconnected when we parted company, so I can't really tell you anything."
"You haven't seen Gregson in over ten years, and he is STILL trying to kill you? Damn, you Finders can hold a grudge."
"I have a question for you, though," I said. "One of the first things you told me was that Gregson was on the station. How did you know?"
"Sources." he replied.
"Fred, seriously? We are on the same team here."
"I am not so sure." He considered for a moment. "I had received some intel that Gregson was looking to hire a pair of gloves." To keep his hands from getting dirty. Interesting Station slang, I thought.
"So get the description from one of the gloves."
"I can't," he said, looking directly at me. "Said glove has only just recently been toasted, atomized and launched into orbit."
Singer. Damn that little rat was still proving to be trouble.
"Fine," I said. "I will keep looking out for Gregson. Oh, a couple of things before I go. He seems to be fond of disguises at the moment, so don't expect him to be in civis. Also, he has acquired some pretty good hand-to-hand fighting skills, so he is likely as dangerous unarmed as he is armed."
"That's good intel. Thanks." He picked up his mobile and started relaying my information.
I made my way back to the door and started to leave. I had had just about enough. I was tired of being locked up, beat up, hunted, strangled and shot at. Now this attempted poisoning was the final straw.
I turned to Fred. "Right, I am going to take care of this," I informed him.
"The hell you are!" he replied, handing a notepad back to an aid. "Allow me to remind you, old friend, that this is my station, and the security here is my responsibility. As a guest here, I can offer you all of the conveniences of the place, but I am sure as hell not going to let another vendetta loose in the halls of the hotel."
I glared at him. This tough cop routine was doing nothing for my resolve. I would be damned if I was going sit around and wait for another attempt on my life. I smiled a plastic smile at him, knowing full well that he would get the meaning behind it. Screw you, Fred, it said, I am going anyway.
"And don't get anyone to tail me, I will just lose them." I finished out loud. "So wish me luck."
"Go to hell, Josh," he replied. "Make a nuisance of yourself, and I will lock you up."
"It wouldn't my first stint in jail for this job."
"Why am I not surprised," he said more quietly.
Then he walked up to me and took my arm gently. "I am serious, Josh. These people seem to be very determined. We didn't train for this kind of violence at the school. Please be careful out there. This station looks nice, but it is dirty just under the surface. I know you are going to do what you feel is right, but please take my advice. Let this one go."
"I can't. There is too much at stake now."
"I know," he said, "that is what was always so strong about you. But your talent won't stop a bullet. Besides, we never finished that drink."
"Fred, I have to go."
He stood there silently as I walked away. Over the noise of the officers and coms I heard a quiet, "Good luck, old friend."
The door closed behind me. I stepped out of the ante-chamber and then into the lobby. Darwin was waiting impatiently for me at the restaurant just outside.
An unlikely looking drunk at a nearby table raised his head a little from the table.
"Your cat?" he said in a slurred voice that made the 't' sound like it was followed by a slow leak.
"You could say that," I replied absently, scanning the room.
"Then you had better keep a closer eye on him," he returned in a perfectly clear voice, his head still a fraction above the table. "We wouldn't want to send him to quarantine. On your way."
I turned to look at him, and he winked from his prone position, his eyes clear and bright. He then spoke to no one in particular. "Fernandes. Subject has collected the package and is on the floor. Passing the ball."
So I was being watched after all. That in itself was not surprising. I could not accuse the local authorities of harassment, but interference was standard in many cases. I hoped that Bobak could sense how important this mission was not to start throwing stumbling blocks in front of me.
I had to decide what to do next. Much as it pained me to admit it, my best lead to finding Leena lay with Gregson, so I had to find him.
Bobak's tip about hiring 'gloves' sounded very much like gambling talk to me, so I thought I would try there.
"Hey buddy," I said walking over to the not-drunk.
Again to no one in particular. "Belay that," he said with a resigned sigh. "I still have the ball." Then to me, "If you blow my cover, I will have your neck," he said quietly.
"Relax." I said quietly. "Where can a fella go to make some money fast?"
"What's it worth to you?" slurred the suddenly drunk not-drunk.
"What's your poison? Coffee?" Fair is fair, after all.
"Very funny," he said quietly. "I'll have another one of those," a little more loudly waving in the general direction of an empty bottle.
I waved over a waitress. "My friend here will have another glass of whatever that stuff is," I instructed, pointing to the bottle lying on it side in front of our drunk.
"Bottle," came the slurred correction from the table.
"Bottle?" I sighed, "You problem will be the death of you my friend. Get him a bottle." I waved my left hand over the scanner built into the waitress' tray, my eyes widening at the price of the bottle.
After she had left, I turned back to him. "This had better be worth it. You are apparently NOT a cheap drunk."
He chuckled silently. "Keeps the locals from getting too curious. If just anyone could afford me, I would be up to my armpits in bottles. This keeps the casual passerby from indulging in a game of 'make the drunk throw up.'"
"The information?" I prodded.
"The bottle," he reminded. "I have appearances to keep up, you know."
The bottle of the somewhat pricy amber liquid was finally delivered and placed on the table. Fernandes sat up, sort of, and struggled to uncork it, knocking the other to the floor in the process. I noticed that it didn't break, but bounced a little instead. So did several other patrons. Their look wasn't of surprise, but of disgust. Fernandes was good.
I offered to help, but he waved me away, finally getting the cap off. He sniffed the contents, sighed contentedly, then put the bottle directly to his mouth. I looked briefly for a glass, but apparently that was not part of his 'method.'
He had drunk a full quarter of the bottle before pausing to take a breath. Then he belched loudly, driving the occupants of several of the closer tables to find dining spots elsewhere in the restaurant.
"That's much better!" he sighed loudly. I wasn't sure if he meant the drink or the fact that we were now virtually alone. "Sit my old friend, an' have a drink." he said, or at least I think that is what he said, for the slurring had become more pronounced.
I took a chair across from him and could smell the reek of body odor and alcohol emanating in waves from him. I reached for the bottle, but he grabbed it back jealously. "Get your own bottle." he said.
I signaled the waitress again, who was clearly as disgusted with me for feeding this poor man's addiction as she was with his presence in her section.
"Coff... actually, I think I will have a tea. Black." I ordered, "I think I may quit coffee."
"I hear it's bad for your health." quipped the drunk.
"Don't you think that one has just about run its course? I asked.
"Not until I start hearing groans of protest." then he paused. "What? Yes, sir. No more coffee jokes. Right, sir."
"I can never have any fun," he complained to me, winking and taking another long swig from his bottle.
My tea arrived and I passed the cup down to Darwin. He sniffed it and looked at me. Not poisoned. Good. He was still staring at me and made a swipe for the cup. Uh oh, I thought to myself. I was being a little selfish.
"Excuse me," I called out as the waitress was leaving. "Could I also trouble you for a bowl of milk and a platter whatever raw fish you have on hand. It is for my friend here."
Compared to the bottle, these were very expensive requests indeed. The waitress looked at me, then seemed to see Darwin for the first time. He had assumed the sphinx position he was so fond of, and was placidly returning her stare.
"He's beautiful," she said in an awed voice. I could see her hand reach towards him unconsciously, fingers curling as if she was already touching his black fur. I reached down to scratch his head, and he leaned into my hand, never breaking his eye contact with her.
She was the first to break the mutual admiration love-in, and then turned her look to me. She raised a single eyebrow in contemplation, then walked slowly away to get Darwin's dinner.
I am almost sure that he is aware of precisely what effect he has on people and uses it at will. I didn't want too much attention drawn to my conversation with the drunk, and he had just insured that all she would remember of our table was the cat. At least, that is what I think he was doing.
Fernandes was slumped onto the table again, the half empty bottle tilting precariously in one hand. I reached to straighten it and he snatched it back against him again. "Get your own bottle," he repeated.
"The information, before you're too drunk to remember."
He smiled a little, "Alcohol neutralizing pills. Couldn't get drunk if I wanted to."
"Cute," I said.
The waitress brought the fish and milk and set them down of the floor.
She looked up at me, "May I?"
"Ask him," I told her.
She reached out her hand tentatively. Darwin sniffed it briefly, then tilted his head towards her outstretched hand. She scratched his head and ears for a moment, then sighed.
She did spare me a single look, the eyebrow still arched. "Back to work," she said lightly, then floated off on a cloud of feline joy.
"Well," I said, turning back to Fernandes.
"You want to go to the Utopia, a gambling hall attached to this hotel. You are looking for St. Peter. They will take you into the high stakes room, strictly against Station regulations. We allow it in order to keep all the riffraff in one place."
"Why there?"
"Because, my old friend, that is where Bornam Singer used to spend his cash after fencing all of his ill-gotten gains. Was that worth the bottle?"
I nodded. Worth the bottle, the fish and the milk. Darwin was already finished the fish and had drunk as much of the milk as he was inclined to.
I grabbed my bag, and with Darwin at my side, headed once more to the center of the station.