Spares by Michael Marshall Smith

Author:Michael Marshall Smith
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
ISBN: 9780307573988
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 1997-01-14T10:00:00+00:00

I tried to use my fake pass to get up to 104, though Vinaldi had offered to just ride me in as a guest. The man on the gate was a little more eagle-eyed than most, and tossed my pass, so I ended up relying on Vinaldi anyway. The key thing about pride is that it ends up making you look more of an idiot than you would have in the first place. By that stage I didn’t really care. We’d already been to 66 and I was hyper with fury and fear. Nearly’s door was locked, but there was no response when I pounded on it. The lock had been shorted, and was quietly singing a very old song about rainbows. Vinaldi used the key he’d acquired through nefarious means from the contractor who’d redeveloped the floor, and I ran in to find the apartment empty. Small signs of a struggle—furniture overturned, a broken coffee cup-but no suggestion of fatalities. Mildly reassuring, but not very. My record on tracking down Yhandim and the people he collected was not exactly great so far. I also thought it would probably have taken more than one person to hold both Suej and Nearly if they were squirming, and I was mortally sure that Nearly would have squirmed like a pig in a can. So Ghuaji wasn’t Yhandim’s only accomplice.

Vinaldi’s spies had no reports of sightings. I wasn’t surprised. Now that Yhandim had everything he wanted, I reckoned the only time we’d see him again would be in the two seconds or so before we died. Maybe he wasn’t even planning to bother with me anymore, now that he had Suej. But I was planning to bother with him. As I stood in Nearly’s apartment and noticed the bags from Suej’s shopping trip lying crumpled in the corner, I imagined just how badly I was going to bother him.

But first we had to find him.

“Why the fuck are we dealing with this guy?” Vinaldi asked, as he followed me up the stairs to Golson’s apartment. I didn’t answer, but simply banged on the door loud enough to wake the decomposed. It was only nine o’clock by then, and I didn’t make Golson as an early riser.

After a few minutes the door opened and Golson appeared sleepy-eyed and vague in a dressing gown. I forbore formalities as usual and pushed my way into the apartment, Vinaldi close behind.

“Hey, dude, what’s the problem?” Golson squeaked, scurrying behind us. In the living room we discovered that someone was in his bed, a midrange redhead with big brown eyes.

“Hi, Johnny,” she said, simpering like this was an audition or something.

I turned to him. “You two know each other?”

Johnny shrugged.

“Sure,” the girl piped up, running a hand through her hair, tucking the sheets around her and generally primping for Vinaldi’s benefit, “I go to Club Bastard all the time.”

“Get dressed and get out of here,” I told her. “You don’t want to be Johnny’s lay. They’re suffering from short life expectancy at the moment.

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