I exited the store and pulled out my phone. I dialed up D's number as I began walking down the street towards where I parked my hovercycle. Since I was walking down the street, and didn't necessarily want the entire neighborhood knowing what I was talking about, I decided not to start a holochat with her, but instead made it voice-only.
“What's up Trace?” she asked without any greeting.
“I have a major lead. I talked to this woman at a store in Jaime's neighborhood and got some valuable information.” I quickly ran down to D what I found out from Abby.
“That's good,” she said, with little emotion.
“Yeah, so now I have to make a stop. I'll be going over to Jackie's to have a chat.”
“Do be careful. Try not to get in trouble over there this time.”
“Hey, that incident wasn't my fault. Tequila just doesn't mix with some people.”
“Yeah, but that guy's coccyx will never be the same again.”
I said goodbye to D and hung up the phone. I got on my hovercycle and headed back to the bridge and Manhattan. The sun was setting, the sky turning a purple-blue as I made my way uptown to Harlem. I watched the scenery change very noticeably as I went along, from the corporate high-rises of midtown, to the expensive apartments around Central Park, to the more modern but smaller apartment buildings of the Harlem area that sprung up in the past twenty years. It felt like you could see the change of the city just by looking at the buildings.
I finally made it up to 129th Street and managed to find a parking space for my hovercycle across the street from my destination, “Jackie's.” It was a local bar and lounge that got a good amount of business, but I go there because of the bartender, and because I know the owner.
I walked in the front door and saw quite a few people in the place, probably grabbing some happy hour cocktails. There was a stage in one corner of the lounge area, and this evening a small band was playing back-up to a woman singing a slow ballad. She was wearing a black off-the-shoulder dress, the bottom of which came down to her knees. The dress was tight on her form- I could see the outline of her hips and thighs from where I was standing. She was wearing a pair of black heels on her feet. Her honey colored hair was pinned up with a red flower stuck in it. Her look was a very classic one, a throwback to an earlier time.
I made my way over to the bar, listening to the words floating out of the singer's lips. Her song was one of loss and betrayal, made all the more sadder by the emotion she put into each and every note. I sat on a stool and gestured for the bartender to come over. Montana smiled when she saw me, her whole face seeming to light up, and came over to my end of the bar. I smiled back, half because I was glad to see her, and half because of what she was wearing. Montana had on a black low cut blouse that displayed her ample cleavage, and black form-fitting pants. I made sure she saw me tilting my head to look at her ass when she walked over to me. She laughed and playfully hit my hand. Her light brown skin seemed to glisten underneath the light at the bar.
“What's up T, how you doin' tonight?”
“I'm alright, Montana. How's Harlem's best bartender doing?”
“It's still a little early, but it'll probably start getting busier soon. Can I get you anything?”
“Yeah, I'll take a shot of Jack Daniel's.” I watched Montana turn around and grab the bottle of whiskey to start pouring my drink. She gave her backside a little wiggle for my enjoyment. I smiled.
“Is Grant back there?” I asked when she set the drink in front of me.
“Yeah, he came in about an hour ago.”
“I'm gonna go see him for a minute.” I downed the shot of Jack and set the glass on the bar. I pulled out some bills and reached out to give them to Montana. She leaned forward, practically shoving her cleavage in my face, and flashed me a wicked grin. I gently placed in the money in her shirt and winked at her. Montana stood back up and went to continue her business.
“Can I tip you like that?” I heard another customer yell out from down the bar.
“No, honey. Trace gets special privileges,” she responded, turning back to wink at me.
I got up off the stool and walked towards the back of the lounge. I made my way down a well-lit hallway, passing a couple of doors on both sides of me. I knew that the door on the right was the storeroom, and the door on the left was an old closet space that was converted into a changing room for any performers that came through. At the end of the hallway was a heavy oak door. I knocked on it, and a few seconds later it was slowly pulled open. A dark, round face with a bald head peered out at me from the other side.
“What's up, Tony. I'm here to see Grant.”
Without saying anything, he closed the door. I heard muffled voices behind the door before it opened up again. Tony moved to the side, allowing me to enter. The office was not very big, but the lack of clutter made it feel spacious. The walls were wood paneled and pictures of various singers and celebrities were hung around in frames. Grant always tried to give a chance to up-and-coming singers, and many of them remembered him when they got a contract.
Grant was sitting at a medium-sized wooden desk. He was wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt and black pants. His dark hair was cut very close. On his cinnamon-colored right bicep was a tattoo of black sledgehammer. He gazed at me with those eyes that were always alert, and had gotten us out of trouble on more than one occasion.
Grant stood up and smiled when I came into the office. We embraced each other and laughed.
“What's going on, Trace? I didn't expect to see you here tonight.”
“I know, but I'm working on something and I could use your help,” I responded.
“Uh oh, another big case?”
“Yeah, you could say that.” I pulled out my holochip and proceeded to run down the case to Grant.
“I can see why you came to me, Duke,” he said, calling me by my old nickname. Grant took the holochip and made a copy of the Russian's image.
“Who better than Hunter himself to track someone down?” I responded.
Grant smiled at my use of his nickname. “Don't worry, buddy, I'll see what I can do.”
“You have a way with things out like this. That's why we're friends.”
“I thought we were friends because I saved your ass overseas.”
“You saved my ass?” I asked with mock incredulity. “The way I remember it, that guy was aiming at you with that big-ass rocket.”
Grant laughed. “Only because he was aiming at you first, but I shot at him and distracted him.”
“Yeah, and you missed. I'm the one that actually got him.”
“But he would have blown your ass to heaven if it wasn't for me.”
I shook my head. “Alright, just get back to me as soon as you find anything out about this guy.” I took the holochip back and pocketed it.
“No problem, Duke.”
“Don't worry, Tony, I can escort myself out,” I said with exaggerated flair. Tony just looked at me without responding, the same robotic look on his face as usual.
I walked out the office and made my way back to the front. I leaned against the bar and waited while Montana finished making someone a martini. I waved her over when she was done.
“What time you getting off tonight?”
“Midnight.”
“I'll come back and drive you home.”
Montana smiled mischievously at me. “Oh, you gonna be a gentleman tonight?”
“Ain't I always?” I asked, winking at her.
She leaned forward and gave me a quick kiss. “Alright, I'll see you later.”
I walked out the bar and back to my hovercycle. By this time I was hungry and needed to get something to eat. I decided to go to one of my favorite spots, Mama T's Kitchen. It's a soul food restaurant that was started fifteen years ago by a woman I knew and was now run by her twin daughters Samantha and Alli. A few years ago I had done a favor for one of the twins, who was in a relationship with an abusive boyfriend. After a brief hospital stay, the boyfriend left her alone and I was always welcome at the restaurant. I tried not to take advantage of the discount they always gave me, but sometimes I couldn't help myself.
There was a parking facility a couple of blocks away from the restaurant, so I left my bike there and walked to Mama T's. I was met at the door by their robot greeter, who they named Robby. I told him that I wanted some food for takeout and walked over to the order area. I knew exactly what I wanted, the meatloaf with mashed potatoes, gravy, butter beans, and southern sweet tea. This was the kind of food that, if you ate all day every day, would give you a heart attack, but you would have a smile on your face from the heavenly food.
While waiting for my order, I put in a holocall to the office. D answered on the first ring.
“What were you doing, waiting for me to call?” I asked playfully.
“Yeah, because I have nothing better to do than sit by the phone and wait to hear your voice,” she responded, her voice flat.
“Anything new happen?”
“A guy called and made an appointment to come in tomorrow. He has a case for us. Other than that, nothing.”
“Alright, well I'm getting something to eat, and then I'll probably just relax for the rest of the night. I'll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Okay, see you tomorrow, Trace,” she said before disconnecting.
By this time my food was ready. I paid for it and left the restaurant, saying goodbye to Robby on my way out the door.
I drove downtown to my Murray Hill neighborhood and parked in the three-story garage near my brownstone. The weather was pleasant, so I was able to walk at a leisurely pace. I arrived home, hung up my coat in the closet, put the holsters in their proper place, and settled down in front of the TV with my dinner. The food was still hot as I proceeded to dig into the meal, wolfing down the soft moist meatloaf and buttery mashed potatoes.
On the television, I settled on a game show where teams of two had to answer questions for money. The gimmick to this show was that the contestants had to answer questions about their partner that could reveal potentially embarrassing information. It was supposed to be an update of an old show called “The Newlywed Game,” and I thought that it must have made for some awkward trips back home for some of the people on the show.
I spent the night watching TV until it was time for me to go pick up Montana. I grabbed my gear and my jacket and headed out the door. I decided this time to take my car, a hovercar that had strong, straight lines, a longer hood section, and a tail fin on the back. Ever since they started making hovercars, apparently a lot of the American companies figured that since gas mileage wasn't an issue, they could start making cars again that paid homage to the older muscle cars of the previous century. Mine was a Ford Talon that was painted black with dual white stripes painted down the middle of the car from front to back. Even though it used a fuel cell engine instead of the old combustion engine, I still felt a since of power when driving the car.
I made it back uptown with fifteen minutes to go until Montana ended her shift. I decided to wait in the car listening to the news radio. There was the usual stuff about local crime and politics, and it seemed to me that sometimes you couldn't distinguish between the two. I only gave the radio half my attention, with my mind still working on the case and trying to figure out what, if anything, the Russian from the video could have done to Jamie.
Montana walked out the door a few minutes after midnight and saw my car. I got out and walked over to the passenger side to open her door.
“You're always such a gentleman,” she said, kissing me on the cheek.
“It's one of my many charms,” I responded before closing the door. I got back in the car and started driving to Montana's apartment. She lived on the west side, along Riverside Drive near Columbia University. She said she preferred working where she did instead of at a bar closer to home because she didn't like dealing with all the college kids.
I arrived at her building and managed to find a parking space right at the corner.
“Oh, you're parking the car? I guess that means you're coming upstairs?” she asked, a grin on her face.
I returned her gaze. “Is there any reason why I shouldn't? Is your husband up there?”
“Why, Mr. Trace,” Montana said with an exaggerated southern accent, “I am not that kind of woman.”
We got out of the car and I wrapped my arm around Montana's waist as we walked into her building.
