Prof dropped my hand after another handshake. He nodded.
"Let's get down to it. I'm going to reach inside my jacket for the envelope. Letting you know now so you don't put me on a t-shirt."
With that, he slowly went inside his jacket, retrieved an envelope and handed it to me. I counted it quickly, put the cash back into the envelope,shoving it into the bag containing my clothes.
"Good shit." Prof said casually.
"Now for my end of the deal. What do you know about the scene in SF? Just tryn to figure out what you know."
I shrugged. "All I know is the General is the west coast equivalent of Wilson Fisk, but other then that..nada."
A car rumbled past, forcing an unnatural break in the conversation
Prof shrugged. "Alright, let me educate you real quick."
"General's the top dog, but he's not as established as Fisk. He's not weak, but he's hurting. His deal with the Kingpin fell through, the AG is sniffing around his legal shit." He paused.
Hmm. Jessica Drew was probably responsible for that. She should be a PI in SF around now.
"He had some Yakuza shot up at a winery in Napa a few weeks back. Clean. Nobody saw anything, nothing proved." Prof paused. "Streets know it was him anyway. His shooters are too good. Hit that clean narrows the list."
He shrugged. "Yakuza were making moves, so he didn't have a choice. Take it and look soft, or handle business and give the AG's office something else to bite. He handled it." Another pause. "Man's in a corner and he knows it, but cornered animals...."
"Black Dragon is the second biggest set in the bay. They have some high class muscle."
He didn't elaborate.
"Praying Mantis is third. Smaller. No heavy muscle, but they're running energy rifles, all their soldiers. "
"Then Red Lotus." He shifted his weight. "Smallest of the Chinese sets, but their soldiers are trained. Know some people who got into it with three of them in Oakland. Baby" — a name, said like I was supposed to know it — "isn't soft. Red Lotus soldier broke his arm in three places in a scuffle. Baby had 6 inches and 50 pounds on the guy..."
He pulled a flask from his jacket, took a desultory sip and put it back.
"Water," he said, before I could ask. "Keep it in a flask."
"Yakuza and the Bianchis round out SF. Yakuza lost some leadership at that winery shit. Bianchis are Italian, North Beach stay out of most things."
"Oakland's got the West Side Players, some Red Lotus cross-bay presence they're not happy about, and the local Dogs of Hell chapter has their clubhouse out there."
Dogs of Hell? From what I had remembered, they had been a (relatively) minor Hell's Angels knockoff. Might as well get some clarification.
I interjected. "Who are the Dogs of Hell?"
He stopped. Seemed to be collecting his thoughts.
"Oakland is its own situation. West Side Players are the set that runs the town, been holding territory out there for a while now. Real organized for a street gang. Absorbed most of the competition in the late 70s."
He paused again. "Dogs of Hell are a biker club. National outfit, chapters all over. NorCal chapter's got their clubhouse in Oakland, runs the docks, moves product along the 101 corridor."
He shifted his weight, looking down the block for a moment before coming back.
"There was friction. Dogs were pushing on Players territory, nothing declared, just encroachment. Testing edges. Players weren't backing down." He stopped. "Then the Dogs of Hell firebombed a house. Made the Oakland Tribune, the Chronicle and the TV news. The General got pissed."
I waited.
"He called all the Players and Dogs brass into his penthouse. Laid it out. You start shit again, he'll handle it. Nobody wanted to find out what that meant." Prof's mouth quirked. "That's the freeze. Nobody moves, nobody starts anything, everybody waits for the General to shit or get off the pot."
A group came around the corner from Minna, loud, bar crowd, not paying attention to anything. We both went quiet until they passed.
"It's not just Oakland either. Same thing's holding in SF. Why Chinatown's been quiet lately, why the Tongs aren't pushing each other too hard, why the Bianchis can do their thing without anybody testing them yet."
He watched the bar crowd turn the corner and disappear.
He shrugged. "When the General bounces, all of that goes with him. Every organization in the bay's been sitting on their hands, just waiting for that to happen." He tucked the flask back inside his jacket and looked at me levelly. "That's the birds-eye view."
I nodded. "Glad to know."
It fit with my vague knowledge of things.
I paused. "So. I'm glad to know more about the lay of the land, but I'm not planning anything major. Mainly need to get my hands on some gear. You know anybody who can facilitate that?"
Prof shrugged. "Depends on what you're looking for, man. Care to give me some specifics?"
"I'm looking for a Stark International neural calibration unit."
Prof was still. "Sounds specialized to me. I'll shake some trees, get back to you in..."
He paused.
"You got a pen?"
"Nah."
Prof quickly recited a number at which I could contact him. I nodded,committed it to memory, picked up my bag of street clothes and walked off into the night.
After changing back into my street clothes and making my way back to the van, I drove home, walked inside, changed and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
The next two days passed in a blur, with one exception. I read and exercised, but there wasn't much more to tweak with the HUD. I also counted out around $6,000 in cash from the safe in my basement. It would empty it out until I made time to refill it, but better to have and not need.
The notable event was an interesting article in the Chronicle on the second day speculating on the nature of a new industrial campus going up on the outskirts of Silicon Valley. The builders had been cloaked in a shroud of mystery, and I was pretty sure it was Tony Stark's new venture. The new Stark Enterprises SV campus should be under construction about now. I had been inside all day anyway, a drive to poke around couldn't hurt anything. Fresh air at the very least.
I walked out into the driveway, cracked my back, basking in the early afternoon sunlight and hopped into my trusty van.
After a thirty minute drive from Willow Glen, I finally found the construction site. Taking the nearest exit, I turned again, down an access road and stopping 30 feet away from a chainlink fence.
Stark had decided to build it further out from the valley proper, but not far away enough to be inconvenient. I vaguely recalled there was an airfield on the campus, and that was probably why he'd had to build it this far out.
Much like the former Stark international LI facility, this facility bore a resemblance to the comics. The tall block of offices, the infrastructure utre surrounding the airfield were all on panel and duplicated here. The crews were moving quickly, with the distinct clamor of construction providing a background ambiance.
The chainlink was plastered with the usual notices. I walked closer and peered at the construction card zip-tied to the fence. General contractor: Bay Construction Group. Owner of record: Bay Aerospace LLC. That told me nothing, which told me something. If Bay Aerospace LLC wasn't one of Stark's shell corporations, I'd eat my shoes.
Looking at the scale of the construction, I couldn't think of a single other startup,investment group, cult of ninja/necromancers or paramilitary organization that would build something like this in this location.
Stark was clearly using a shell company to avoid scrutiny at this point, but if I could (with the advantage of meta-knowledge, to be fair) puzzle this out, his enemies could as well.
Having seen enough, I hopped in the van and started the engine, getting ready to head back home. Before I could pull out into the access road however,a red Ferrari 328 flashed by, the driver giving me a languid wave.
I didn't get a good look at the man, but I'd bet half the contents of my swiss account that it was Stark.
On Wednesday morning I drove into downtown San Jose and found a payphone on South First, a standalone booth outside a savings and loan that hadn't opened yet. The glass was finger-smudged at eye level and someone had scratched a phone number into the metal housing below the handset. I pulled the gauze from my jacket pocket and packed my nostril before picking up the receiver. The booth smelled of cigarettes and something older. Probably stale urine.
Prof picked up on the third ring. "Yo."
"Morning. It's Slate. Calling about those components."
"Got a sourcing lead. Meet me in Chinatown, corner of Grant and California. Ten PM." A pause. "Bring cash. Around five k."
"Understood."
I hung up, pushed out of the booth into the morning air, and pulled the gauze out of my nose.
Time to prep.
That evening I found parking on Sacramento Street and walked the remaining two blocks. The sports bag was over one shoulder, five thousand in an envelope at the bottom under the change of clothes. The Dragon Gate was visible a block south, the painted arch catching the streetlights. Grant Avenue ran north from it, the shop fronts mostly closed at this hour, a few restaurants still lit. The smell of the neighborhood was particular — cooking oil and something herbal underneath, the particular density of a place that had been the same kind of place for a long time.
My costume caught some glances but the few pedestrians at this hour didn't comment. I assumed they'd seen stranger things in San Francisco then a suited man in a plague doctor's mask.
Prof was already at the corner, hands in his jacket pockets, watching the street. He was far tenser then he had been in our first meeting.
He nodded when he saw me, and noticed my stare.
"Bit edgy. Don't like being on another gang's turf, but the guy meets here."
I nodded back, and followed him down the street.
"Any reason we aren't doing this in Oakland?" I kept my voice low. "Seems like an odd place to do business."
Prof glanced at me sideways. "He's particular about location."
"Particular how?"
Prof was quiet for half a block. "He's with the Bianchis. Does his own thing on the side, stuff the family doesn't need to know about." He paused. "Has an office up here."
"And he does his side deals out of it because it puts distance between the transaction and the family."
"Exactly." Prof didn't sound entirely approving. "Black Dragon's got eyes on most of Chinatown but they don't know about this specific spot. Or haven't moved on it yet." He paused. "He's been doing it long enough that he thinks it's clean."
I cleared my throat.
"How'd you meet him?"
Prof smirked.
"Ways and means, my man. Ways and means."
We eventually made our way south toward the Bush Street end of the neighborhood,. The fog coming off the bay had thickened enough to put halos around each streetlamp. The moon was up somewhere above it, diffused to a pale smear. It gave the whole street an odd flat quality.
The buildings ran three and four stories, brick, the kind that had been rebuilt fast after the quake and not much touched since. Ground floor shuttered. The upper windows mostly dark at this hour. The smell of the neighborhood had changed slightly from further up Grant — less food, more salt air coming through from the west.
Prof turned off the main street into a narrower cut between buildings. Not quite an alley, wide enough for one car if the car was optimistic. He stopped at a door set back slightly from the building face, plain wood, a buzzer panel with two buttons, neither of them labeled.
He knocked twice.
Nothing happened at first. Then there was the muffled sound of someone making their way downstairs.
The door opened, revealing a taller blond white guy. I estimated he was around 6'3. This was a biker if I had ever seen one. His leather jacket had two patches on the front, one with BRAINEATERS and a second patch, diamond shaped with a 1% in it. He looked slightly bored.
He gestured. "Boss is waiting upstairs."
With that, he turned around, leading us into the cramped interior of the building. The first floor was relatively unused. Bare concrete, a few cardboard boxes stacked against the far wall,accompanied by an empty folding table. The smell of old wood and something damp underneath, the building settling into itself. The only light was a single bulb on a cord above the stairwell.
On our way up the stairs, I noticed his back patch properly for the first time. Three piece. Top rocker read BRAINEATERS in heavy block lettering. The center logo was an animal skull (I couldn't quite make out what animal in the dimly lit staircase) with a circular chain surrounding it. The bottom rocker read NORCAL.
There was something about the Braineaters.. I distinctly recalled them having a gimmick in the comic, unlike the Dogs of Hell who were a Great Value brand Hell's Angels substitute. I vaguely regretted not paying more attention to Ghost Rider villains.
Oh well. Hopefully it wouldn't be relevant tonight.
At the top of the stairs, there was a small hallway with two doors. The biker knocked at the first door on the left and opened it.
"They're here."
He gestured us into the room,and filed in after us, standing next to the door.
The room was small and smelled aggressively of cologne, which I figured was covering the smell of smoke. An ashtray on the desk had two dead cigarettes in it already.
The desk was the room's main furniture. Dark wood, nothing on it except the ashtray and a shapeless kit bag. There was one window, the fog-dimmed street below peeking through the blinds.
Two men. Both white, nothing else in common.
The man behind the desk wore a well-cut suit and had dark hair going gray at the temples. Mid-forties, comfortable with stillness. He was rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers like he was deciding something.
The man by the window was a younger redhead, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, sleeveless biker vest showing off two tattoos. His vest had similar patches to the blond's.
"Take a seat. Don't mind my hired help. They only hurt who I tell them to hurt."
On that less than reassuring note, I sat down.
The man put down his cigarette, a slight sigh escaping his lips. "To business. I sourced one of the neural calibrators. That took some doing, let me tell you." He paused, letting that sit. "Five thousand. Cash."
I reached into the sports bag and pulled out the envelope. Set it on the desk.
He picked it up, counted it with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done it many times, and set it back down. Then he reached beside the desk and lifted the pelican case, setting it between us. He unlatched it and turned it to face me.
The calibrator sat in foam cutouts, matte grey, about the size and heft of an oscilloscope. I looked at it for a moment. Everything seemed to be in order. I closed the case and latched it.
The suited man leaned back in his chair, finally lighting the cigarette he'd been rolling. He took a drag and looked at Prof with something approaching warmth.
"Your quiet masked friend," he said, "is very professional. I appreciate that." He exhaled. "Most masked types...." He trailed off again, taking a pull from his cigarette.
Prof shrugged. "Wouldn't know. Don't deal with many costumed sorts."
There was a crack from downstairs. Sharp, loud, the particular sound of a door coming in hard.
The biker by the door was already moving.
I stood up, along with the suited man and the biker by the window.
The suited man said something under his breath in Italian. I didn't speak any Italian, but directionally, it was clear enough.
From below, voices. Two, maybe three, the particular flat tone of people stating terms rather than asking questions. Then a third voice, shorter, and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor.
Then it stopped being a conversation, and was replaced with screams, thumping,and something I'd swear was a snarl.
He was already moving toward the door, unhurried in the particular way of someone executing a plan they'd made before tonight. He picked up the bag from the desk without breaking stride.
"Gentlemen. There's a fire escape in the next room."
The four of us moved into the hallway. The second door opened into a smaller room, empty except for cardboard boxes, a single bare bulb. The biker crossed to the window and shoved it up, the fog-cold air coming in immediately, the ironwork of the fire escape visible beyond. Downstairs the sounds had settled into something rhythmic and purposeful that I didn't want to think too hard about.
The red headed biker went through first, the ironwork groaning slightly under his weight. The suited man followed, moving with more ease than his suit suggested he should.
I grabbed the pelican case and looked at Prof.
"After you," I said.
I jogged down the fire escape, hot on Prof's heels. I hoped I wouldn't have to use my pistol tonight.
The redhead and the suited man were already at the corner by the time we made our way to the front of the building,and kept running into the fog.
I was halfway to the corner when something very furry in a leather jacket cannoned out of the door frame, destroying the door, and smashed into a lamppost.
The lamppost flickered and bent, darkening our portion of the street.
I paused, shocked.
A shadow blurred through the door frame after the (transformed) biker. Small and female — I'd have said five feet tall at the outside. I got a glimpse of her foot connecting with the werewolf's head in the dying lamplight, a flying kick delivered at the exact moment it was pushing itself upright. The crack of impact carried down the street to me.
The werewolf's head snapped sideways.
He shook it off in less than a second.
The werewolf slipped her first follow up strike,and ate the next two to get inside her range and attempt a grab. She flowed out of it in a blur, ending up somewhere else entirely, already striking. It looked like what I'd read about Jeet Kune Do, but I wasn't qualified to say for certain, and my skill download hadn't included anything about it.
I knew she was hitting hard because the fog said so. Each strike sent a ripple through it, sharp and directional. If she was displacing that much air, she was hitting like a cement mixer.
The almost unreal way she moved reminded me of Edwin, the only other chi user I had seen in action. She was well ahead of him in terms of skill. Edwin's movement had been faster than baseline, but just. The mystery chi user was something different. The werewolf was tracking her, and he was plenty fast, but she was still leaving him half a beat behind.
Despite that, she wasn't winning, and it wasn't just the size. Every time she angled toward the street the werewolf did something — a grab attempt, a lunge, nothing that landed but enough to push her back and reset. He was playing for time.
Our mystery chi user noticed that, and decided to shake things up.
She disengaged fast enough that even the werewolf took a half-step of surprise — backwards, up the wall in two running steps, using the momentum to spin into a downward axe kick. At baseline speeds that would have never worked.
Prof shook my shoulder. "Man,we need to GO."
He was right. I picked up the pelican case and made myself move.
I wanted to see if it landed. My rational sense of self preservation had been overridden by the sheer novelty of-
CRACK.
From the sound, it seemed like the kick had hit the sidewalk, but not entirely, as the werewolf yelped behind me. Fighting the urge to turn around, I continued walking away, nodding politely at a denizen of the neighborhood who had opened their window due to the commotion.
"Pleasant night, isn't it."