DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 5: “Feeling’s Mutual”
“Moxley. I can’t say it’s a pleasure.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” said Mox.
Jacob Draeger, whose ID badge proclaimed him a subdirector of Government Inspection, pulled out the metal chair opposite Moxley’s and sat down at the steel table. There was a D-ring at both ends of the table, but Moxley was not shackled. The private detective sat with one elbow on the table, drawing puffs of flavored mist through a vapor tube, trying to decide if he was going to work his way through the pack. A sealed plastic bag of Moxley’s personal effects also sat on the table, as did an empty plastic coffee cup.
“Thank you for waiting,” said Draeger. He did not sound thankful. “You are, as I’m sure you’re aware, free to go.”
“Your goons didn’t unlock the door.”
“There was the matter of your discharge paperwork,” said Draeger. “I assume our Medical personnel knitted your shoulder to your satisfaction.”
“My golf game is shot forever,” said Moxley. “But I’ll find a way to get over it.”
Draeger gestured to the wall screen. It came to life. “Sound off,” he said. To Moxley, he said, “You’ll forgive me if we’re without a sense of humor when it comes to following up on random acts of violence in Hongkongtown. This just happened this morning.”
The news footage was choppy. Its point of focus kept changing. This would be a video feed from a camera drone. The drone was hovering above the wreck of a turbofan vehicle that had crashed across two ground lanes, taking out a few wheeled vehicles in the process. Thick, black smoke poured from a crater in the transparent canopy of the ‘fan car.
“Traffic jam?” asked Moxley, blowing vapor rings.
“Councilman Horace Theopolis,” said Draeger. “While you here doing your best to think up new insults for Inspector Shebeiskowski, Councilman Theopolis was being murdered by one of his own bodyguards. Apparently the killer pulled alongside in an escort vehicle and fired a rocket launcher from inside his own ‘fan car.”
“But that would—”
“It did,” said Draeger. “Thoroughly. The bodyguard was incinerated. Councilman Theopolis was not so lucky. We’re still sweeping the crash site, but we’ve found most of him.”
“Tough break,” said Moxley.
Draeger glared at him. “Don’t,” he said.
“Too soon?”
“Sometimes I forget that you’re human garbage, Moxley,” said Draeger. “That’s why your wife started sleeping with that politician, isn’t it? What’s his name?”
Now it was Moxley’s turn to glare. “I forget,” he said, his teeth grating
“I’m sure it will come to me,” said Draeger. “In the meantime, maybe you would like to explain why Inspector Shebeiskowski thinks you set up that hit.”
“Sheb?” Mox said, dropping his expended vapor tube on the table. He shook another from the pack, his fingers trembling slightly, and thumbed the ignitor in its tip. “Sheb’s thrown so many people under the bus he always carries a jack. The guy wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he actually had to solve a crime.”
“He thinks you dove out of that bar and left him to die. If he hadn’t taken cover behind the bar, the explosion might have killed him.”
Mox wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Close one,” he said. “I can’t tell you how relieved that makes me.”
“Shebeiskowski says that before the attack you were trying to lean on him. Something to do with your insurance case.”
“All of my cases are insurance cases,” said Mox. “That’s the private detective business. I investigate what I’m paid to investigate.”
“Even the death of Ray Neiring?” said Draeger.
“Yes,” said Moxley. “Even that. The storage facility where his body was found has a policy on it. My fee is activated when a crime takes place there. Dead bodies are bad for business. My job is to provide a site assessment that certifies the management was not at fault. This prevents their rates from going up.”
“So you’re not the least bit interested in justice for Ray Neiring.”
“Justice?” Mox bared his teeth through a cloud of vapor. “I don’t do justice, Draeger. I do money.”
“So they tell me at Flowers,” said Draeger. He had found the knife and put it in; now he was twisting it. “I’d be doing you a favor if I arrested you, Moxley. They can’t collect markers if you’re in the Promontory. That’s the law. We don’t have debtor’s prisons anymore.”
“I’m about out of favors,” said Mox. “Don’t do me any.”
“I think I’ve made a mistake,” said Draeger. “Anyone as pathetic as you couldn’t possibly have thought to set up a hit. You’re never a step ahead, Mox. You’re the guy at the filthy end of the stick.”
Draeger didn’t believe it even as he said it. He was suspicious and he was going to stay that way. Moxley could read that much. Draeger, for his part, probably knew that Moxley understood this, but they really did have nothing on him. This little dog and pony show was just to reinforce to Mox that the Goops and Draeger’s minions held the power. It was a message: Stay out of the way or we’ll make more trouble for you.
“Let me try again,” said Draeger. He swept one arm toward the wall screen. “You may lack all human decency, Moxley, but maybe you can relate to what we’re facing down here. Do you have any idea how many prominent Hongkongtown politicians have been murdered in the last six months?”
“Not enough?” said Mox.
Waves began to crash on the beach of Draeger’s forehead. He looked like he’d just smelled something rank. “We’ve got an Og infestation. Sleeper assaults are skyrocketing. Labor complaints are up. There’s talk of implementing economic regulation, Moxley. The city is tearing itself apart.”
“Hongkongtown,” said Mox.
Draeger shook his head. “I feel like a fool for asking this,” he said, “because there are so many plausible answers. Why is someone trying to kill you?”
“I don’t know that they are,” said Moxley. “A guy loses his grenade and I find it. Could be an honest mistake on his part. Slippery things, grenades.”
“And the headless corpse with the nailer?” Draeger gestured to the screen again. A picture of the dead man, including the face he’d owned before Moxley put an explosive bullet through it, appeared with the a text crawl bearing the man’s criminal record. “You’re lucky he was in the DNA database,” said Draeger. “Shooting him in the head with that cannon of yours did him no favors. Who put this hit man on you, Mox?”
“That was no hit man. That was Arman Jones,” said Moxley. “He’s nobody. A punk who sells diluted Sleep to suckers in the park. Whoever sent him after me, whoever gave him a nail gun and a grenade, had to know they were setting him up to die. Hell, the nailer itself is worth more than Jones makes in a week, even at street prices. That punk has never had more than fifty chits in his pocket in his life. He spends it as fast as it comes in. Likes the ponies.”
“What?”
Moxley sighed. He took the vapor tube from his mouth and, with great deliberation, said, “Arman Jones is a small-time drug dealer and a gambling addict.”
“I don’t need to ask you how you would know that,” said Draeger. A vicious little smile flickered across his face.
Moxley said nothing to that.
Draeger took a breath, started to speak, and stopped. Finally, he said, “Make your point.”
“My point,” said Moxley, “is that Arman Jones could not afford a nailer that somebody didn’t give him. He had to have been put up to this attack. Probably with the promise of a lot more money to come once he got his target.”
“So?” Draeger said. “That just brings us back to the fact that somebody is trying to kill you.”
“I don’t know that they are,” said Moxley again.
Draeger snorted. “Leave,” he said. “Get out of my sight. And stay out of the way of my people. You’re walking a minefield, Moxley. Nobody’s going to shed a tear when you blow your leg off.”
“If I didn’t know any better,” said Moxley, standing, “I’d think you served.”
“I did.”
“On the border?” Moxley asked. “Or in the reserve?”
“Reserves,” said Draeger. “As a junior officer. Don’t hand me a lot of tough talk, Moxley. I’ve read your file. You were a supply Sergeant, not an infantryman. The war ended thirty years ago.”
“Yeah,” said Moxley. “That’s true.”
The words hung in the air between them. Moxley unzipped the bag of his personal effects and began distributing his belongings in his pants and coat pockets. He looked up at Draeger and held out the empty clip-on holster for his revolver.
“That was checked into our property vault,” said Dreager. “You’ll have to sign for it on the way out. We’ve confiscated your ammunition.”
“That stuff’s expensive.”
“Then you had better take out another illegal loan, hadn’t you?” said Draeger. “We’re done here, Moxley. I told you I’d seen your service records. Be grateful I don’t treat you as you deserve.”
Mox felt his jaw twitch. Slowly, he put on his hat, taking the time to smooth the short brim. “You have a real nice day,” he said. “Always great to catch up with a fellow vet.”
“Get out,” said Draeger.