#118
Later that night, around two a.m., the Brick took Jack with him to a seedier section of town that had neons everywhere and women on the streets dressed like hookers — which is what he cottoned on they were.
“Do we need this kind of realism?” Jack muttered, gazing at the mimed kinkiness through a triple-glazed window that helped soundproof the vehicle. “Isn’t Heropa supposed to symbolize a better place?”
The Brick nodded, just as he brutally shifted the gearstick. “Human nature prevails.”
“I thought Blandos weren’t human.”
“Never said no such thing.”
They were in the Brick’s V12-powered, two-seater 1938 Delahaye 165 Cabriolet, a burgundy-coloured, capsule-shaped French number with dashes along the bodywork that split up its exterior profile, and concealed engine bay vents and door handles. Chrome fixtures ran along the sills to wrap around the rear-end brake lights, making the vehicle look like it would’ve been more at home in the 1930s Flash Gordon flicks starring Buster Crabbe.
This car’s lean didn’t favour the right, the driver’s side, since the Brick had built up the suspension and added a four hundred kilogram counterweight under the passenger seat — meaning the crate hugged the road only an inch or so above terra firma.
Inside was all white leather upholstery; on the burgundy dashboard two large, round Jaeger gauges gave the speed as well as the tours per minute. Perhaps an afterthought, a couple of furry dice dangled from the rearview mirror, and up on the dash was a sun-faded dime novel displaying a cowboy in a mask. Feeling ill as he followed the cheap tome’s sliding path left and right while the Brick swerved this way and that through traffic, Jack finally deciphered a title (Rawhide, With Two Guns) above the author name Clay Harder.
“Good book?”
“Scintillatin’.”
“So why all the mystery, Brick? Where’re we going?”
“I got a call from an ex — ex-teammate, that is, before you crack foxy. Bloke’s a freelancer these days, has been since the Equalizers downsized.”
“Friend of yours?”
“Teammates and friends’re mostly chalk an’ cheese.”
“And I thought you cared.” Jack laughed. “What’s the scam?”
“Death of a mutual acquaintance.”
His passenger glanced sideways at him. “Another murder?”
“Mebbe. Here we are, Sunset and Camden.” The Equalizer slammed on the brakes and Jack had to stop himself from ploughing into the dashboard. The Brick’s parking was as neat as his exterior — one wheel up on the kerb and the car’s rear-end poking into oncoming traffic.
He slapped Jack’s shoulder far too hard with one of his earthenware fists. “Don’t worry, tiger. Anythin’ happens, it’ll be fixed by tomorrow.”
Jack wasn’t sure whether the man meant his shoulder, or the car.
After locking up, they walked beneath a huge collection of electrified, luminous tube lights that together formed a moving skipping girl, and turned down an alleyway marked La Montagne.
On one of the walls was some stencilled Cyrillic graffiti, the very first tagging Jack had seen in this city:
Улица Марата
The two men ascended a steel fire-escape behind a redbrick Victorian-style factory building and, after pushing through an open iron hatch and promenading a corridor lined with other, less substantial doors, stopped before number 1793.
The Brick politely knocked.
A few seconds on, a voice called out from within: “May I inquire who’s there?”
“You may, buster. Doesn’t mean I’ll soddin’ well answer.”
The door opened and a man in a long black robe — it reached the floor, very priestly — looked out at them. “Brick. Thank God. My prayers are answered.”
“Well, I received ’em loud an’ clear. Dunno if any dippy deity had a hand in that.”
“Oh, you and your ribald commentary. Come on in.”
As Jack passed by the possible padre, he took note of pale hair, cadaverous skin and white lips. The guy more resembled a ghost.
The Brick turned around in a large, dishevelled living room. There were five or six toy poodles yapping about their heels — Jack kept losing count — and a colossal painting of a weeping willow dominated one wall. On the plaster opposite was a framed movie poster for Marat/Sade, with the actors’ names — Patrick Magee, Ian Richardson and Glenda Jackson — in a shaky red font, resembling blood.
“Junior, this is Exegesis. I likes to call him Exy — easier to pronounce on the fly. Exy, yer lookin’ at our new recruit Southern Cross.”