Goldblatt paled. "You're Jewish?"
Ortiz nodded.
"Captain Ortiz?" an officer yelled behind him.
"Excuse me," Ortiz said to the Goldblatts and went to the car. "What is it, Mendoza?" he asked the officer in Spanish.
"They've located Sergeant Shaw," Mendoza replied. "They've got him on the phone at the station."
"Tell them to keep him on the line," Ortiz said. "I'm on my way."
# # # # # #
Achmed Sabib, his arms folded under his chest, stared into Jessica Mordente's empty eyes. She stood, naked, just an inch away from him, her gaze trained on some distant dimension outside of Nebbins' wood-paneled study.
"She's gone," Sabib marveled, waving his hand in front of her expressionless face. She had been washed, her skin moisturized, her hair shampooed, and her teeth brushed.
"Oh, she's still here." Nebbins petted her shiny, fluffy hair and looked at Sabib over her tan shoulder. "Just enough of her, anyway, to pleasure us and our buyers. Think of her as a warm, giving robot."
Sabib slapped his palm between her legs. Mordente didn't react. "I could stuff a hot poker in her and she'd never notice."
Nebbins' lips stretched into a malefic grin. "That's the idea, isn't it?"
"Nobody wants an empty bag of flesh, Nebbins."
"Don't worry, Achmed." Nebbins walked around Mordente and clapped Sabib reassuringly on the shoulder. "She's still a fetus."
Nebbins stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. "My perfect program of deprivation, malnutrition, isolation, and drugs will make her unusually receptive to suggestion and manipulation without damaging her capacity for hard labor or sexual functioning." He strode to an overstuffed leather chair across the room and sat down, draping a leg over one of the armrests. "That's what makes my product the Mercedes of the mass-market slave trade."
"How are the others coming?"
"Three proved unmalleable and had to be killed," Nebbins said. "The others are developing nicely. We may be slightly overstocked with men, though."
"So we trim our inventory if necessary." Sabib pinched Mordente's lips.
Nebbins shrugged. "Some of them I'll allocate as specimens for research and development. I hate to be wasteful. This one, though, looks like she'll reap us many rewards."
Sabib studied her face and passionlessly fondled her breasts, examining them for workmanship. "So when can I begin reaping?"
"Patience, Achmed, patience." Nebbins grinned. "You can christen her on Sunday."
# # # # # #
Brett Macklin tumbled weightlessly through time and space, through the wispy clouds of memories real and memories imagined. The rhythmic, electronic bleeps of his electrocardiograph echoed from the furthest edges of his consciousness and scored his tormenting descent . . .
. . . he was in Mayor Jed Stocker's office. Shaw was there, too.
The mayor sat at his desk. "I told you about the problem in Chinatown because I want Mr. Jury to take care of it."
"Fuck off, Stocker," Macklin said. "I'm not doing anything for you."
"You will. You're still angry. You want to keep fighting."
Macklin glanced at Shaw. The black detective's eyes reflected an eerie, sad anger. Macklin turned, strode to the office door, and flung it open.
He was in a MexAir plane. Everything looked murky, thick, as if submerged in water. He jerked his head over his shoulder and looked through the doorway. Stocker's office was gone. All he saw was the Puerto Vallarta airport terminal behind him.
"May I have your boarding pass, please?" the stewardess beside him asked. She spoke like a record played far too slow. Macklin looked down the long, endless aisle. Brooke and Cory sat in every seat. They sat, he knew, in judgment. A ghastly image of himself stood in the aisle laughing, his pasty lips twisted in unrestrained disgust around swollen, bleeding gums and silver-capped teeth.
"May I have your boarding pass, please?" the stewardess repeated in that heavy half speed of dreams.
Macklin grinned cockily at his alter image and, in that same, drowsy
Ortiz nodded.
"Captain Ortiz?" an officer yelled behind him.
"Excuse me," Ortiz said to the Goldblatts and went to the car. "What is it, Mendoza?" he asked the officer in Spanish.
"They've located Sergeant Shaw," Mendoza replied. "They've got him on the phone at the station."
"Tell them to keep him on the line," Ortiz said. "I'm on my way."
# # # # # #
Achmed Sabib, his arms folded under his chest, stared into Jessica Mordente's empty eyes. She stood, naked, just an inch away from him, her gaze trained on some distant dimension outside of Nebbins' wood-paneled study.
"She's gone," Sabib marveled, waving his hand in front of her expressionless face. She had been washed, her skin moisturized, her hair shampooed, and her teeth brushed.
"Oh, she's still here." Nebbins petted her shiny, fluffy hair and looked at Sabib over her tan shoulder. "Just enough of her, anyway, to pleasure us and our buyers. Think of her as a warm, giving robot."
Sabib slapped his palm between her legs. Mordente didn't react. "I could stuff a hot poker in her and she'd never notice."
Nebbins' lips stretched into a malefic grin. "That's the idea, isn't it?"
"Nobody wants an empty bag of flesh, Nebbins."
"Don't worry, Achmed." Nebbins walked around Mordente and clapped Sabib reassuringly on the shoulder. "She's still a fetus."
Nebbins stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. "My perfect program of deprivation, malnutrition, isolation, and drugs will make her unusually receptive to suggestion and manipulation without damaging her capacity for hard labor or sexual functioning." He strode to an overstuffed leather chair across the room and sat down, draping a leg over one of the armrests. "That's what makes my product the Mercedes of the mass-market slave trade."
"How are the others coming?"
"Three proved unmalleable and had to be killed," Nebbins said. "The others are developing nicely. We may be slightly overstocked with men, though."
"So we trim our inventory if necessary." Sabib pinched Mordente's lips.
Nebbins shrugged. "Some of them I'll allocate as specimens for research and development. I hate to be wasteful. This one, though, looks like she'll reap us many rewards."
Sabib studied her face and passionlessly fondled her breasts, examining them for workmanship. "So when can I begin reaping?"
"Patience, Achmed, patience." Nebbins grinned. "You can christen her on Sunday."
# # # # # #
Brett Macklin tumbled weightlessly through time and space, through the wispy clouds of memories real and memories imagined. The rhythmic, electronic bleeps of his electrocardiograph echoed from the furthest edges of his consciousness and scored his tormenting descent . . .
. . . he was in Mayor Jed Stocker's office. Shaw was there, too.
The mayor sat at his desk. "I told you about the problem in Chinatown because I want Mr. Jury to take care of it."
"Fuck off, Stocker," Macklin said. "I'm not doing anything for you."
"You will. You're still angry. You want to keep fighting."
Macklin glanced at Shaw. The black detective's eyes reflected an eerie, sad anger. Macklin turned, strode to the office door, and flung it open.
He was in a MexAir plane. Everything looked murky, thick, as if submerged in water. He jerked his head over his shoulder and looked through the doorway. Stocker's office was gone. All he saw was the Puerto Vallarta airport terminal behind him.
"May I have your boarding pass, please?" the stewardess beside him asked. She spoke like a record played far too slow. Macklin looked down the long, endless aisle. Brooke and Cory sat in every seat. They sat, he knew, in judgment. A ghastly image of himself stood in the aisle laughing, his pasty lips twisted in unrestrained disgust around swollen, bleeding gums and silver-capped teeth.
"May I have your boarding pass, please?" the stewardess repeated in that heavy half speed of dreams.
Macklin grinned cockily at his alter image and, in that same, drowsy
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