Their room was silent, the temperfoam smooth as some beach after a retreating tide. Her bag was gone. He looked for a note. There was nothing. Several seconds passed before the scene beyond the window registered through his tension and unhappiness. He looked up and saw a view of Desiderata, expensive shops: Gucci, Tsuyako, Hermes, Liberty. He stared, then shook his head and crossed to a panel he hadn’t bothered examining. He turned the hologram off and was rewarded with the condos that terraced the far slope. He picked up the phone and carried it out to the cool balcony. “Get me a number for the Marcus Garvey,” he told the desk. “It’s a tug, registered out of Zion cluster.” The chip voice recited a ten-digit number. “Sir,” it added “the registration in question is Panamanian.” Maelcum answered on the fifth tone. “Yo?” “Case. You got a modem, Maelcum?” “Yo. On th’ navigation comp, ya know.” “Can you get it off for me, man? Put it on my Hosaka. Then turn my deck on. It’s the stud with the ridges on it.” “How you doin’ in there, mon?” “Well, I need some help.” “Movin’, mon. I get th’ modem.” Case listened to faint static while Maelcum attached the simple phone link. “Ice this,” he told the Hosaka, when he heard it beep. “You are speaking from a heavily monitored location,” the computer advised primly. “Fuck it,” he said. “Forget the ice. No ice. Access the construct. Dixie?” “Hey, Case.” The Flatline spoke through the Hosaka’s voice chip, the carefully engineered accent lost entirely. “Dix, you’re about to punch your way in here and get something for me. You can be as blunt as you want. Molly’s in here somewhere and I wanna know where. I’m in 335W, the Intercontinental. She was registered here too, but I don’t know what name she was using. Ride in on this phone and do their records for me.” “No sooner said,” the Flatline said. Case heard the white sound of the invasion. He smiled. “Done. Rose Kolodny. Checked out. Take me a few minutes to screw their security net deep enough to get a fix.” “Go.” The phone whined and clicked with the construct’s efforts. Case carried it back into the room and put the receiver face up on the temperfoam. He went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. As he was stepping back out, the monitor on the room’s Braun audiovisual complex lit up. A Japanese pop star reclining against metallic cushions. An unseen interviewer asked a question in German. Case stared. The screen jumped with jags of blue interference. “Case, baby, you lose your mind, man?” The voice was slow, familiar. The glass wall of the balcony clicked in with its view of Desiderata, but the street scene blurred, twisted, became the interior of the Jarre de The, Chiba, empty, red neon replicated to scratched infinity in the mirrored walls.
Lonny Zone stepped forward, tall and cadaverous, moving with the slow undersea grace of his addiction. He stood alone among the square tables, his hands in the pockets of his gray sharkskin slacks. “Really, man, you’re lookin’ very scattered.” The voice came from the Braun’s speakers. “Wintermute,” Case said. The pimp shrugged languidly and smiled. “Where’s Molly?” “Never you mind. You’re screwing up tonight, Case. The Flatline’s ringing bells all over Freeside. I didn’t think you’d do that, man. It’s outside the profile.” “So tell me where she is and I’ll call him off.” Zone shook his head. “You can’t keep too good track of your women, can you Case. Keep losin’ ’em, one way or another.” “I’ll bring this thing down around your ears,” Case said. “No. You aren’t that kind, man. I know that. You know something, Case? I figure you’ve got it figured out that it was me told Deane to off that little cunt of yours in Chiba.” “Don’t,” Case said, taking an involuntary step toward the window. “But I didn’t. What’s it matter, though? How much does it really matter to Mr. Case? Quit kidding yourself. I know your Linda, man. I know all the Lindas. Lindas are a generic product in my line of work. Know why she decided to rip you off? Love. So you’d give a shit. Love? Wanna talk love? She loved you. I know that. For the little she was worth, she loved you. You couldn’t handle it. She’s dead.” Case’s fist glanced off the glass. “Don’t fuck up the hands, man. Soon you punch deck.” Zone vanished, replaced by Freeside night and the lights of the condos. The Braun shut off. From the bed, the phone bleated steadily. “Case?” The Flatline was waiting. “Where you been? I got it. but it isn’t much.” The construct rattled off an address. “Place had some weird ice around it for a nightclub. That’s all I could get without leaving a calling card.” “Okay,” Case said. “Tell the Hosaka to tell Maelcum to disconnect the modem. Thanks, Dix.” “A pleasure.” He sat on the bed for a long time, savoring the new thing, the treasure. Rage.