“Rent me a gun, Shin?” The boy smiled. “Two hour.” They stood together in the smell of fresh raw seafood at the rear of a Shiga sushi stall. “You come back, two hour.” “I need one now, man. Got anything right now?” Shin rummaged behind empty two-liter cans that had once been filled with powdered horseradish. He produced a slender package wrapped in gray plastic. “Taser. One hour, twenty New Yen. Thirty deposit.” “Shit. I don’t need that. I need a gun. Like I maybe wanna shoot somebody, understand?” The waiter shrugged, replacing the taser behind the horseradish cans. “Two hour.” He went into the shop without bothering to glance at the display of shuriken. He’d never thrown one in his life. He bought two packs of Yeheyuans with a Mitsubishi Bank chip that gave his name as Charles Derek May. It beat Truman Starr, the best he’d been able to do for a passport. The Japanese woman behind the terminal looked like she had a few years on old Deane, none of them with the benefit of science. He took his slender roll of New Yen out of his pocket and showed it to her. “I want to buy a weapon.” She gestured in the direction of a case filled with knives. “No,” he said, “I don’t like knives.” She brought an oblong box from beneath the counter. The lid was yellow cardboard, stamped with a crude image of a coiled cobra with a swollen hood. Inside were eight identical tissue-wrapped cylinders. He watched while mottled brown fingers stripped the paper from one. She held the thing up for him to examine, a dull steel tube with a leather thong at one end and a small bronze pyramid at the other. She gripped the tube with one hand, the pyramid between her other thumb and forefinger, and pulled. Three oiled, telescoping segments of tightly wound coil spring slid out and locked. “Cobra,” she said.
Beyond the neon shudder of Ninsei, the sky was that mean shade of gray. The air had gotten worse; it seemed to have teeth tonight, and half the crowd wore filtration masks. Case had spent ten minutes in a urinal, trying to discover a convenient way to conceal his cobra; finally he’d settled for tucking the handle into the waistband of his jeans, with the tube slanting across his stomach. The pyramidal striking tip rode between his ribcage and the lining of his windbreaker. The thing felt like it might clatter to the pavement with his next step, but it made him feel better. The Chat wasn’t really a dealing bar, but on weeknights it attracted a related clientele. Fridays and Saturdays were different. The regulars were still there, most of them, but they faded behind an influx of sailors and the specialists who preyed on diem. As Case pushed through the doors, he looked for Ratz, but the bartender wasn’t in sight. Lonny Zone, the bar’s resident pimp, was observing with glazed fatherly interest as one of his girls went to work on a young sailor. Zone was addicted to a brand of hypnotic the Japanese called Cloud Dancers. Catching the pimp’s eye, Case beckoned him to the bar. Zone came drifting through the crowd in slow motion, his long face slack and placid. “You seen Wage tonight, Lonny?” Zone regarded him with his usual calm. He shook his head. “You sure, man?” “Maybe in the Namban. Maybe two hours ago.” “Got some Joeboys with him? One of ’em thin, dark hair, maybe a black jacket?” “No,” Zone said at last, his smooth forehead creased to indicate the effort it cost him to recall so much pointless detail. “Big boys. Graftees.” Zone’s eyes showed very little white and less iris; under the drooping lids, his pupils were dilated and enormous. He stared into Case’s face for a long time, then lowered his gaze. He saw the bulge of the steel whip. “Cobra,” he said, and raised an eyebrow. “You wanna fuck somebody up?” “See you, Lonny.” Case left the bar.
His tail was back. He was sure of it. He felt a stab of elation the octagons and adrenaline mingling with something else. You’re enjoying this, he thought; you’re crazy. Because, in some weird and very approximate way, it was like a run in the matrix. Get just wasted enough, find yourself in some desperate but strangely arbitrary kind of trouble, and it was possible to see Ninsei as a field of data, the way the matrix had once reminded him of proteins linking to distinguish cell specialties. Then you could throw yourself into a high-speed drift and skid, totally engaged but set apart from it all, and all around you the dance of biz, information interacting, data made flesh in the mazes of the black market…. Go it, Case, he told himself. Suck ’em in. Last thing they’ll expect. He was half a block from the games arcade where he’d first met Linda Lee. He bolted across Ninsei, scattering a pack of strolling sailors. One of them screamed after him in Spanish. Then he was through the entrance, the sound crashing over him like surf, subsonics throbbing in the pit of his stomach. Someone scored a ten-megaton hit on Tank War Europa, a simulated air burst drowning the arcade in white sound as a lurid hologram fireball mushroomed overhead. He cut to the right and loped up a flight of unpainted chip board stairs. He’d come here once with Wage, to discuss a deal in proscribed hormonal triggers with a man called Matsuga. He remembered the hallway, its stained matting, the row of identical doors leading to tiny office cubicles. One door was open now. A Japanese girl in a sleeveless black t-shirt glanced up from a white terminal, behind her head a travel poster of Greece, Aegian blue splashed with streamlined ideograms. “Get your security up here,” Case told her. Then he sprinted down the corridor, out of her sight. The last two doors were closed and, he assumed, locked. He spun and slammed the sole of his nylon running shoe into the blue-lacquered composition door at the far end. It popped, cheap hardware falling from the splintered frame. Darkness there, the white curve of a terminal housing. Then he was on the door to its right, both hands around the transparent plastic knob, leaning in with everything he had. Something snapped, and he was inside. This was where he and Wage had met with Matsuga, but whatever front company Matsuga had operated was long gone. No terminal, nothing. Light from the alley behind the arcade, filtering in through soot blown plastic. He made out a snake like loop of fiber optics protruding from a wall socket, a pile of discarded food containers, and the blade less nacelle of an electric fan. The window was a single pane of cheap plastic. He shrugged out of his jacket, bundled it around his right hand, and punched. It split, requiring two more blows to free it from the frame. Over the muted chaos of the games, an alarm began to cycle, triggered either by the broken window or by the girl at the head of the corridor. Case turned, pulled his jacket on, and flicked the cobra to full extension. With the door closed, he was counting on his tail to assume he’d gone through the one he’d kicked half off its hinges. The cobra’s bronze pyramid began to bob gently, the spring-steel shaft amplifying his pulse. Nothing happened. There was only the surging of the alarm, the crashing of the games, his heart hammering. When the fear came, it was like some half-forgotten friend. Not the cold rapid mechanism of the dex-paranoia, but simple animal fear. He’d lived for so long on a constant edge of anxiety that he’d almost forgotten what real fear was. This cubicle was the sort of place where people died. He might die here. They might have guns…. A crash, from the far end of the corridor. A man’s voice, shouting something in Japanese. A scream, shrill terror. Another crash. And footsteps, unhurried, coming closer. Passing his closed door. Pausing for the space of three rapid beats of his heart. And returning. One, two, three. A bootheel scraped the matting. The last of his octagon-induced bravado collapsed. He snapped the cobra into its handle and scrambled for the window, blind with fear, his nerves screaming. He was up, out, and falling, all before he was conscious of what he’d done. The impact with pavement drove dull rods of pain through his shins. A narrow wedge of light from a half-open service hatch framed a heap of discarded fiber optics and the chassis of a junked console. He’d fallen face forward on a slab of soggy chip board, he rolled over, into the shadow of the console. The cubicle’s window was a square of faint light. The alarm still oscillated, louder here, the rear wall dulling the roar of the games. A head appeared, framed in the window, back lit by the fluorescents in the corridor, then vanished. It returned, but he still couldn’t read the features. Glint of silver across the eyes. “Shit,” someone said, a woman, in the accent of the northern Sprawl. The head was gone. Case lay under the console for a long count of twenty, then stood up. The steel cobra was still in his hand, and it took him a few seconds to remember what it was. He limped away down the alley, nursing his left ankle.