Sugar -- A Tale of the Runoffs(3)

I know the city. I know my route. I had learned my lesson at the strip mall. When a mouse ducks into a tunnel, he had best reach the other end before the fox finds it.
         A sidewalk is just a small road. I turn us onto a walkway along an open canal, and Camo Joe pulls up sharp at the bollard. I lean ahead and rip the throttle all the way back. As the front wheel drops, I turn us slantwise down the sloping wall of the canal. We shoot into the aqueduct and I hastily find the switch for my LED driving lamps.
         Fox-wise, the mouse's view is much improved. I let off of the throttle. This tunnel is outside of my route, even the perimeter. I have little idea where we'll be at the other end. I resolve myself to keep an eye out for smooth stones. And maybe something that'll make up into a decent sling.
         I set us trundling along the floor of the tunnel, probing for a way to the north and east.

As soon as I find the Icon, I know roughly where we are.
         The walls of the tunnels support an irregular life cycle of graphics. On the first level down, just off of the main street crossings, simple black letter taggers mix it up with the spraybombers who create elaborate free-form murals, carry their cans in cheap shopping bags and chuck the bags when they think they see a police cruiser. One day, the underground in this city may breed a Basquiat, or a Keith Haring. But I'm off of soup in cans until that happens.
         The Icons of the Loser's Zodiac are unique. Nobody agrees just how, but they all do one haunting little trick of the eye. Wherever you stand, the gaze of an Icon will lock onto your own.
         This Icon is titled "Edges". Five tanto blades form a star.. Each blade is nitrided in black, with a sparking bright edge as thin as pain. As I come upon the image, the edge facing me seems for a moment to turn as I pass. I glance over my shoulder and catch a red spark in the corner of my eye. but the Icon cannot have turned completely around to menace me. That's not possible. I press on behind my headlamps.
         It is said that there are either twelve or thirteen genuine Icons, and many imitations. I haven't found them all by half, give or take. This one, if it's real, is new to me, but I don't have time to linger. I will pass this way again, I believe.
         I almost miss it, coming onto my home tunnel from the unfamiliar angle. But the AztAb is now to my left, and Purdah is two levels down. I pat my passenger's knee. "Almost there, girl. Hang in, hang in there." The ramp is about half as far as the AztAb, the other way.

"And so?" The boss lowers his brows behind his yellow lenses.
         Renny hesitates, takes the plunge. "He ducked us. 'Cut around some traffic bollards, blew past us the other way and dropped into a ditch. Those goddam cement-filled pipes are fuckin' everywhere."
         "I trust you will adapt."
         "Well, we can buy a coupla bikes --"
         "I trust."
         Renny cringes slightly. Reichmann's slaps upside the head don't hurt, but he hates himself every time. Some things ... a man shouldn't just take it.
         "What of our ally, our friend Lincoln?"
         ""Bein' a jerk. He's all, 'that little cunt', and 'smartass bitch'. He wants to beat her down, beat her down hard."
         "After you gave him the money?"
         "Well, it's pride, Herr Reichmann. 'Pimps any different in West Africa?"
         "So, Renfroid, you have acquired a modicum of German?"
         "Uh, no --"
         Reichmann's knuckles glance off of his scalp, send his booney hat spinning to the wall. "Your pretensions remain unwelcome. Address me with the customary respect instilled by your culture. The honorific is 'Mister'."
         "Yes, Mr. Reichmann --" Renny scurries after his hat.
         "And in answer to your impudent inquiry," Reichmann continues as though Renny has not spoken, "petty criminals even in the shitholes of the world do not set terms on their benefactors."
         "'Got it, Mr. Reichmann. Fuck the girl, and fuck Lincoln."
         "No, Mr. Renfroid. We have time invested in Lincoln. I do not regard time as dispensable. You spoke as though you might yet reacquire the girl."
         "Yeah, um, this guy Meric, everybody knows him. He has a hustle in the Runoffs like a ... kind of a mailman."
         "The 'Runoffs'? What is this 'Runoffs'?"
         "Well, it's a 'locals' thing, just a bad pun. A few years back, this little teevee chick goes into the tunnels and tries to report on the homeless down there. I guess she needed a title. It's pretty stupid, but what else you gonna call 'em?"
         "'Unfortunates', perhaps? Perhaps 'dispossessed'? I despise the inequities of this economy, however much my outlook sets me at liberty in my enterprises."
         "Uh, right, Mr. Reichman. So, I'm gonna get back to work, all right. Okay?"
         "Yes, Mr. Renfroid, I trust that all will be 'okay'."
         The safest thing is just to nod. And to jog away, much as he wants to run.

Strictly speaking, I don't know just how to get to Purdah, the women's place in the underground. No man enters Purdah.
         I don't bother with the ramp if I can hike the day's drop down the access tube to the knocker. A couple of hundred yards from the base of the ramp, someone has welded a crude hammer to a chain and fixed the assembly to a loop of rebar with some of that five-sided Public Works hardware. Above the loop, a stub of four-inch pipe pokes out of the bulkhead. I strike the pipe a single sharp tap. Manners are important in dealing with the women.
         Anne Q has good manners. She shows up in four minutes, climbing out of an access tube. She knows I won't wait more than ten.
         The sight of my passenger loses her some of her religion. "What, Meric? The roofies kicked in before you could find a quiet place?"
         Manners are important in Purdah's neck of the tunnels because of Anne Q. If she's just an inch taller than I am, she's six-one in her kicks. She is not bulky. The muscle shows in ropes under her tangerine skin. Anne is a ginger, but nobody compares her with any carrot-haired prop magicians -- not twice.
         I know better than to let her push me. "Tell it to Daddy Warbucks. The girl's in shock."
         Anne slides past me. She rests the back of her hand on the girl's forehead, her neck, between her breasts. "Christ! You gotta get her to the CHER. Like, an hour ago!"
         "I was working on it. Somebody came at me, tried to blow us off the road."
         "Her pimp?"
         "'You know a pimp who drives a camouflaged Suburban?"
         "No, hell no!" Slowly, she adds, "Not a pimp. If you want to get her out of those stretchcords, I'll need your help to get her down the pipe."
         It gets tedious. Once done, I guess that Anne has her hands full. I can make up the drop next time. I turn back to my bike.
         "Meric, what the fuck?! Get your ass down here!"
         I am about to learn just how to get to Purdah. I lock up my bike and shoulder my bag.

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