The Real Thing Read online

  The Real Thing

  Jacob Prytherch

  Copyright 2015 Jacob Prytherch

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  Text copyright © 2012-2013 Jacob Prytherch. All Rights Reserved. No copying or redistribution of this text may occur without the consent of the author. This is a work of fiction, all resemblance to actual people, names, places and events is coincidental.

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  The Real Thing

  Prologue

  The lights of the neon maze of Techosaka flared and dappled the surface of the cubed snow that surrounded him as he drifted downwards. Where it touched his skin its razor sharp edges opened a bloom of deep red.

  A life lived, a life loved, a life lost.

  Chapter 1

  Roman Rasnic – 'fixer' and felon – flipped open his pointlessly small phone, illuminating his face in a faint blue glow. No signal, despite the fact that he was standing on a skyscraper roof, dirty concrete and metal still hot from the day's sun in the summer twilight, two buildings away from the nearest comms hub. It would be her, the brainy bitch, blocking the signal with her proximity dampener. She was back, again. The police could never trace him, ParCorp could never trace him, so how did she always find him? I should have started carrying a gun after the last time, he thought bitterly as he looked over the edge of the building towards the glow of the recreation district, huge signs revolving and panning by as they advertised every pleasure imaginable. Entertainment... it could mean anything, and everything, as one person's pain was another's pleasure. Everyone wanted to be happy, it was all there was left to hope for. It was a saturated market, yet he'd found his niche through brains, hard work, agility and speed, and some definite luck. It wasn't for nothing that they called him the Black Cat, even though part of it was because of his thin, wiry body and mane of dark hair that he usually kept in immaculate condition, although today the pollution-tinged breeze was whipping it around his eyes in a tangle.

  He closed his phone and slipped it into his pocket, rubbing his hands together in thought. The skyline in front of him was a dappled map of neon on black. His slate grey suit jacket with green LED trim was flapping like yacht sails around his waist, and the sound of the wind that was whipping across the hotel served to muffle the footsteps behind him until it was too late. The snub nose of a small ceramic pistol was pushed into the back of his neck.

  "Turn around, slowly," said the voice, husky and heavy. He knew it wasn't an affectation to try and seduce him, that would come later... she was no doubt simply exhausted from the chase.

  "All right, finger off the trigger Sandrine," said Roman, turning slowly to be faced by the large fluorescent pink and black dreadlocks of Sandrine Martinez, all two hundred pounds of her squeezed into a purple PVC corset with a flaring tutu above fishnet stockings.

  "What are you wearing?" whispered Roman to himself incredulously, just loud enough for her to hear over the deep rumble of the traffic below.

  "You don't like it?" said Sandrine, her huge face creasing with distress, which was some feat considering the amount of make-up she had on. She looked like a cyber-goth clown running loose from a vampiric circus.

  "No, no," said Roman, easing into the easy smile that had made him many friends in the past. "Very attractive. You're glowing."

  "I don't care what you think," she said with a flash of anger. Her eyes betrayed her true feelings though, moistening at the edges and threatening to make her heavy purple mascara run.

  "Is it too late to apologise?" asked Roman, backing up a little even though he knew there was only the edge of the hotel roof behind him. Beyond it was a hundred and fifty foot drop.

  "You broke my heart!" The words were shouted rather than said, torn from the heart buried deep in her huge bosom. Roman flinched, knowing that self-control was not one of Sandrine's strong points.

  "I've explained it to you before, honey," he replied, raising his hands in supplication as the back heel of his patent leather shoes pushed against the edge of the building. "You never loved me, never have, never will. I gave you my cupid cocktail to get you to work with me on that fraud job but you were allergic to the retro dose. I couldn't have given it to you without killing you."

  "There’s no way your home-made brews would make me feel this way," hissed Sandrine, raising the gun to his eye level as she pushed him back. "I've known you for years, Roman. I stuck by you after everything, knowing the real you through all your aliases. You cheated on me with your 'wife'..."

  "Will you listen to yourself!" said Roman, exasperation getting the better of him. "If anything, I cheated on my wife with you. We never even had sex! I never do with those I’ve dosed. It’s not what it’s for."

  "I'm twice the woman she is," said Sandrine, her mouth twitching.

  "Three times, I'd say," said Roman, against his better judgement.

  "You bastard.” Her finger tensing over the trigger. "That's the last joke you'll make at my expense."

  "You talk a lot Sandrine, but you'll never go through with it. I bet that gun isn't even loaded.” He glanced at the drop behind him. Wet metal panels lined the walls leading down into the depths.

  "You think you're such a great judge of character, but you're not," said Sandrine, taking another step towards him. "You just never stay around long enough to see how wrong you are."

  "You're right there," said Roman, stepping off the edge of the building. He landed heavily on the square panelled air con unit ten feet below, the sound of the impact echoing around him. For a moment he felt his centre of gravity pulling him off the building as a stale gust of pollution slid across him, but he managed to arc his body backwards and fall into the wall. He glanced upwards to see Sandrine's huge head lean over the edge, dreads dangling around her features.

  “Roman,” she called. “I see you!”

  She pulled the gun towards him but he managed to slide off the edge of the unit just in time as the bullet smashed into the metal. He let the grimy remains of the day's rain help him slide down the connecting tube which ran down and across the building, picking up speed as he went. He managed to grab the edge of a fire escape with one hand moments before slipping into the void. The action pulled his shoulder painfully but he managed to swing his other hand up and grab the railing, pulling himself up over the edge and onto the corrugated metal floor. He allowed himself a second to rest before getting up and scrambling towards the stairs. The fire escape led all the way up to the roof, so Sandrine would be able to follow him down as soon as she realised that fact, but he hoped he'd be able outrun her at least long enough to lose himself in a ramen bar.

  He finally reached the slick pavement below, landing with casual grace. He tugged off the LED jacket and threw it mournfully in an overflowing dumpster. For now, he needed to remain inconspicuous. He could bring his peacock image back out at a later date.

  The ramen were the best in town, at least that was what the sign above the door claimed in faded green writing. They were certainly better than he had expected, given the di
nginess of the area outside. After he had handed over a few hundred yen and warmed his hands and stomach with the large bowl of soup and noodles, he began to mull over recent events.

  It was the first time that Sandrine had found him since he'd dragged his wife Idalia out of Tokyo under the pretence of work commitments almost six months ago. He hoped that Sandrine hadn't actually found their address but rather had seen him out and about dispensing his services, although he knew from experience that she wouldn't harm Idalia anyway. Her only quarrel was with him, but what a quarrel it was. He checked his phone again, this time finding a signal. At least he had lost her, for now.

  She had fired this time, actually fired the gun. The last time he'd seen her the worst she had done was take a swing with a cheap baseball bat grabbed off a nearby souvenir stall, before the reaction of the people in the crowded market had forced her to run. He never thought she'd go this far. There was no doubt that the money from the heist was welcome and Sandrine's knowledge had been invaluable in getting his ghost inside the bank's mainframe, but it was no good if he was dead. Had it really been four years? Every few months she turned up again, hounding him until he moved on. Maybe another fixer would have killed her just to be rid of the inconvenience but that wasn’t his way. If only he'd known about the allergy before he’d begun.

  It wasn't an allergy in the normal sense of the word but more of an incompatibility. Her brain had been rewired by his first dose of Q/PHid – or “Cupid” as he liked to refer to it – a unique concoction that would land him in jail for life if the government could verify its existence. She'd been putty in his hands, gleefully breaking all of her own moral codes along with several international laws just to see him smile. When he'd tried to send her back to her usual acerbic, non-affectionate self though, the shock of the mild antidote had almost given her a stroke. The initial dose had obviously been too high and caused irreversible scarring that could not be removed without surgery, and there was no way he could persuade her that she needed it, despite his efforts. In her mind a world of the purest love had been opened and in trying to deny it existed all he did was break her heart more.

  He poured a few drops of soy sauce in the soup and swirled them with his chopsticks, before picking out a bit of wilted shiitake mushroom and popping it in his mouth. It had all gone on too long but he still had no idea how to get out of the situation. If he wasn't having such a good time in the other areas of his life, the thought of Sandrine still raging might have got him down.

  He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket and pulled it out, smiling wryly as he saw the name and number. Time to get to work.

  Thirty minutes later, after a quick stop at a twenty four hour shopping centre to pick up a change of clothes, Roman walked through the doors of Crash/Burn and into a bath of UV light that made the pinstripes on his new suit shine. He gave a nod to Kenji – the huge tattooed bouncer whose shirt always seemed in danger of tearing itself free of his arms – and walked out across the main dance floor. The lights made his head swim, reminding him that it'd been over twenty four hours since he'd last slept. Reds, yellows and blues ran across the sweating scantily clothed bodies. Male, female and those somewhere in between mixed in anonymous gyration. The music was some atrocious bass heavy dirge that made his late thirties mind start to fall into mush, but he picked himself up a little when he saw the glances of girls that he knew for a fact would be more than interested if he had the time to talk to them. Maybe later. For now he had a business deal to conclude that had taken a long time to come about and needed that special touch that only he could give.

  He found his usual seat in the corner – a curved bench surrounding a polished round metal table – which was being diligently guarded by Luis Martinez-Leon, an early forties man in poor condition but whose body language and demeanour hinted at a brutal past. Roman couldn't decide if army veteran or bloody mercenary fitted his profile the best. Whichever it was he knew not to mess with the man. The week before an overzealous salaryman had tried to get a look up one of the barmaid's skirts, so Luis had introduced him face first into a mirrored wall.

  “Music doesn't get any better,” said Roman, cupping his hand over his mouth to be heard.

  “Fucking square,” said Luis, grinning to show teeth inset with rubies, or at the very least red glass. No one ever dared ask. Luis reached for a button and two Perspex doors slid out of the walls and around the booth, blocking out all sound except the insistent bass that vibrated the black leather seats. As Roman sat down he reached up and rubbed some of the tension from his neck, hearing it crack as he moved. Luis made a gesture with his hand. “Drink?”

  “Please. Black coffee,” said Roman, stifling a yawn.

  “This is a club man, not a café,” snarled Luis, picking his tooth with a fingernail.

  “Come on, I know Hiromi keeps a kettle boiled at all times. Ask her nicely,” said Roman, hoping that the manageress wouldn't mind the impertinence. Luis grunted and pressed a button on the service intercom behind him.

  “Get some of Hiromi's coffee for the Black Cat. Yeah, I know. Fucking childish name.”

  “Hey,” said Roman, pulling out a packet of minute nicotine patches and peeling one off the paper inside, “I worked hard to get that name.”

  “Maybe you were a big shot in Tokyo, but here you're just another Yakuza-botherer,” said Luis. He grabbed the pack out of Roman's hand, peeled off three patches and placed them on his neck. They had long ago replaced cigarettes as the tool of choice to get a nicotine buzz.

  “I'm carving out a niche,” said Roman, slipping his own patch discreetly on his wrist before pulling his shirt back over to cover it.

  “You're digging a grave,” said Luis. He looked out at the writhing bodies outside, adjusting his trousers with a scarred hand.

  “Then why did you follow me?” Roman slipped the question in with what he hoped was a nonchalant air, but he had wondered about Luis' reasons ever since the man had agreed to accompany him on the trip. Luis had made quite a name for himself in Roppongi, and after he had left a wave of crime had run through the district as others had tried to fill the void. None of the pretenders had his skill with numbers though. Luis could make Yen fall out of the air.

  “I followed you because of the product, that's all. Someone's gotta take over distribution when you end up swimming at the bottom of Techosaka harbour. You'd better keep good on your promise to give me the formula one day soon. I'd hate for you to die and not leave me anything,” said Luis. He spoke of Roman’s death in such a matter-of-fact way that Roman had to believe him. It was a good thing he kept his formulas in his head. If Luis ever got his hands on a recipe it might be lights out for the Black Cat.

  The doors slid back to make way for a barman, one that Roman didn't recognise. He wore a tightly buttoned shirt over his spindly frame and his long hair was tied back and up in a samurai topknot.

  “Your coffee sir, compliments of the manageress,” he said in a thick Osaka accent. Roman took it gratefully, cradling the warm cup in his hands for a few moments to savour the aroma before taking a tentative sip. Hiromi always got the good stuff, her favourite being a full bodied Sumatran. He'd been overjoyed to discover her fascination with the drink and it had helped to form a connection that had eased their earlier business deals.

  “Here comes the mark, get your game face on,” said Luis, smiling towards a long haired woman that was making her way purposefully towards them through the club. “What alias have you gone for this time?”

  “Ivan Kovac. Close to home,” replied Roman, giving his hair a last check to make sure it was as he wanted it.

  “Good man. Have fun...”

  Luis slid the doors wide to allow her to enter. She slipped in on a wave of the incessantly driving music. Roman didn't let it faze him though, flashing her a smile that he hoped successfully trod the line between charming and vaguely sleazy. From the way their conversations had gone on the net it seemed as if she liked her men to have a dangerous edge.
r />   She was a tall, poised Asian woman with smooth statuesque features that put him in mind of polished garnet. Her clean cut pant suit gave her the appearance of still being at work, which technically she was, he supposed. Aarati Mahto, senior research fellow at ParCorp, the huge transnational corporation that had spread into the heart of governments around the world to such an extent that it could start or end wars in a heartbeat. Hers was the kind of job that didn't stop when she clocked out, and that was why he had chosen her.

  “Ivan, nice to finally meet you face to face. Who's this?” She was talking to Roman but was staring straight at Luis, which was hard to do when he had such a grim countenance. “I thought we'd be alone.”

  “I was just leaving,” said Luis, flashing her a forced smile as he pushed himself out of the seat and onto the dance floor, moving deftly for a man of his age. He waded through the sea of twisting people and headed towards the bar. Roman leaned over and pressed the switch to close the doors again, before pressing a second button which activated the liquid crystal sandwiched between the Perspex, blocking them off with a series of dark squares. They were finally alone.

  It had been a bit of a struggle to find such a powerful woman who fitted the profile – single, of a sufficient authority to be able to get a hold of the required components, and also willing to meet a stranger in such a dangerous part of town. She was brave, he had to give her that. It had also been hard work going through all the IPs and aliases to find out if her dating profile was genuine and not simply someone else taking her picture as a little bit of leverage. It would have worked too. She had the looks of a model but carried an air of determination to be something more, using her mind as the centre of her career rather than her body. He had thought that would make it harder to get close to her but somehow it had made it easier. She had almost seemed to chase him, as if she were insatiable for companionship. Perhaps she was. It could be lonely at the top.