Patterns by Pat Cadigan

Author:Pat Cadigan [Cadigan, Pat]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9780575120228
Publisher: Orion Publishing Group
Published: 2011-11-14T05:00:00+00:00

She took us to a warehouse just on the other side of the river, one of several in an industrial cluster. Some seemed to be abandoned, some not. It wasn’t quite evening yet but the place was shadowy. Still, I was willing to make a run for it as soon as we stopped and fuck whatever was in the shadows, I’d take my chances that I’d be able to get away, maybe come back with the cops. After I’d given them a blink test. But she had some arrangement; no stops. While the Dead kept on trucking, she drove us right up a ramp to a garage door, which automatically rumbled upward. We drove onto a platform that had chicken wire fencing on either side. Two bright lamps hanging on the chicken wire went on. After a moment, there was a jerk and the platform began to lift slowly. Really some arrangement.

“Such a bad area,” she said. “You take your life in your hands if you get out of the car.”

Yeah, I thought, I just bet you did.

After a long minute, the elevator thumped to a stop and the doors in front of us slid open. We were looking into a huge, elegantly furnished living room. House and Garden conquers the universe.

“This is it,” she said gaily, killing the engine and the Dead. “Everybody out. Careful when you open the door, don’t scratch the paint. Such a pain getting it touched up.”

I waited for her to release the locks and then I banged my door loudly against the chicken wire. What the hell, I figured; I’d had it anyway. Only a cocky snotnosed college know-it-all would think like that.

But she didn’t say anything to me about it, or even give me a look. She led the way into the living room and gestured at the long beige sofa facing the elevator doors, which slid closed just as Farmer and the kid staggered across the threshold.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” she said. “Plenty of refreshments on the table.”

“Oh, man,” said Farmer, plumping down on the couch. “Can we play some more music, maybe some more Dead?”

“Patience, Farmer,” she said as she took off her coat and laid it on one of the stools in front of a large mahogany wet bar. It had a mirror behind it and, above that, an old-fashioned picture of a plump woman in bloomers and a corset lounging on her side eating chocolates from a box. It was like a stage set. She watched me staring at it.

“Drink?” she said. “I didn’t think people your age partook in that very much nowadays but we have a complete stock for those who can appreciate vats and vintages and whatnot.”

“I’ll take a shot of twenty-year-old scotch right after you show me where Joe is.”

The woman chuckled indulgently. “Wouldn’t you prefer a nice cognac?”

“Whatever you think is best,” I said.

“I’ll be right back.” She didn’t move her hips much when she walked but in that cream-colored cashmere dress, she didn’t have to.

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