Aftertaste
Hugo Brooke pulled himself upright, feeling deep aches in his bones and a storm in his head. He gagged slightly as he sat up, overwhelmed by the metallic taste thick on his tongue. There was a slight ringing in his ears, and his eyes seemed to burn slightly whenever he opened them.
Fuck, was his first coherent thought.
As quickly and efficiently as he could without standing up or turning his head too quickly Hugo took stock of his surroundings. He suspected he was still somewhere in the vicinity of Sunny Pastures gauging from the chemical reek which hung heavy in the air. Hugo gingerly lifted his arm and smelled the sleeve of his now-filthy jacket. The smell had definitely settled.
Fuck, he thought again. He’d have to get rid of these clothes and spend a whole day in the bath, otherwise he’d wind up smelling like –
Zeke.
Hugo looked around him again. He was in a large, roughly square room with a low, cracked ceiling above him and a splintered hardwood floor beneath him. There were a few windows, but they were either boarded up or covered in patches of cloth so thick they all but blotted out the weak light struggling to get inside. He was sitting atop a mound of rags and his clothes all still seemed to be in the right place, though the fabric felt unusually rough against his skin. Nearby there was a large pile of what looked like sacks of cloth or garbage bags; there were several such piles scattered around the room, but as Hugo focused on them in the dim light he saw a few of them stirring slightly and thought he heard the sounds of hushed, ragged breaths.
The ceiling suddenly let out a low groan above him and the pile of cloth close to him stirred and let loose a string of curses before quickly falling silent again. Hugo froze when it began speaking and only began to move, his joints and muscles protesting, to his feet when it was still again. It was a slow and shaky process, but eventually he was upright and taking his first tentative steps toward the room’s ramshackle door. He only knew the door was there because of the light spilling in through its cracks and onto the ruined floors.
A part of him expected to find the door locked and himself trapped in wherever this was, but it swung open on squeaking hinges as he pushed against it. He was blind for a moment as he stood in the doorway, his eyes slowly adjusting to the sunlight. The sleeping figures within the house let out muffled protests as the light disturbed their slumber, so Hugo made his way outside as quickly as his rusted joints would carry him and looked back at the building. He realized it was Zeke’s house. He quickly looked around to the patch of scrub behind the house, but Zeke was nowhere in sight.
Without stopping to speak with anyone who called to him, Hugo made his way quickly out of Sunny Pastures. He was quite confident that he would never be coming back.
ⓍⓍⓍ
The hard, molded plastic of the chair curved Hugo’s spine into an odd angle as he slouched in the clinic’s lobby, waiting for his test results to come back.
He was sure he hadn’t caught midas. It was the first time he’d ever had any gold in his system, after all, and that was the sort of thing which had to build up over time. Look at Zeke, he’s been hooked on gold for months now and he still hasn’t caught it.
Yet.
Hugo did not want to think about Zeke right now. He felt like an idiot and he couldn’t even defend himself against his own internal barrage of insults. He deserved it; his idea of making an ally out of Zeke had been idiotic.
He had thought back on his time with Zeke during shaky walk home, and during his hour-long shower, and as he’d made his way here, to the clinic, and honestly wasn’t sure if there had ever been a time when his plans for Zeke might actually have worked. Even when they’d first met and Zeke hadn’t been hooked on gold Hugo had to admit he’d never had much of a chance at converting his friend to the sleuth lifestyle.
He thought back to the first time they’d met, blocking out the shuffling and quiet coughs of the other patients filling the waiting room and the slight chemical odor he could still smell on himself.
It had been his first big case (the one written about in the sole article hanging on his wall), only about six months after he’d officially moved out of his father’s house. He’d been hired by an aunt from his mom’s side of the family to retrieve a very expensive necklace that had been stolen during a robbery a few nights before. The beatcops who’d been assigned to her case hadn’t been able to track the thief down or, more likely in Hugo’s opinion, she hadn’t bribed them enough to make them seriously interested in finding her necklace in the first place. He never understood how news, particularly news of his then-recent career change, spread so quickly throughout the Shepherd side of his family (his mother’s side), but they seemed to always know what was going on with the Brookes even though Hugo’s mother had been dead nearly a decade now. So, really, he shouldn’t have been so surprised when Connie, his aunt, had come to his office that morning.
She’d explained to him her frustration with the beatcops’ lack of progress and implored him to do what he could to get her jewelry back to her. The necklace hadn’t been the only thing stolen, of course; the robber had actually made off with quite a haul: three imitation-fur coats had been taken, along with several fistfuls of lesser jewelry, some wirelesses and other electronics and some loose cash his aunt had been foolish enough to leave somewhere as unsecured as a safe. She’d been outraged by the very idea of someone breaking into her home and she was more than prepared to weep for each and every pilfered bit of property if the situation called for it, but the only loss she truly mourned was that of the necklace. It was a family heirloom after all, or so the Shepherds claimed, and much too precious to give up without a fight.
“Oh, Hugo, my darling,” she’d wailed, her ample bottom nearly filling the small sofa in his office. “It’s just dreadful! Your great-grandmother Truby’s jewelry, out on the streets being worn by some thief’s woman!”
“You never know, Aunt Connie; the person wearing it may very well have been the thief.” He’d meant this to ease some of the tension he felt at seeing his aunt so distressed, but she’d only glared at him momentarily before wailing with even more gusto than before.
Eventually he had been able to keep her calm and coherent long enough for her to produce photographs of the necklace (and the names of several shady characters she’d recently hired to do some landscaping). Hugo had studied the pictures of the necklace very carefully; he’d seen it before, mostly during big family parties when he was a child, but he’d never seen it up close and he’d never paid much attention to it from afar. Its chain was a thick braid of gems of varying sizes and colors strung along thin strands of silver and from the chain hung a large, deep-blue gem with a distinctive star-shape cut.
Hugo had been very excited about his first case and had tried to formulate a perfect plan before going forward; he’d immediately set up interviews with all of the shady characters his aunt had mentioned, but nothing came of those leads so he’d then moved on to checking various local pawnshops and jewelers. He hadn’t expected to find the necklace in one piece, but he’d thought that if he could track down one of the stones from the chain or even the big blue bastard itself he would at least have had a trail to follow.
After a few days had passed and a few hundred calls from his aunt had been waiting for him in his wireless, Hugo had started feeling a little hopeless and more than a little self-conscious. This was his first case and, in his mind at least, his first big test as a noir. If he couldn’t even track down one stolen piece of jewelry, how the hell was he supposed to put himself in the same category as the greats like Spade and Marlowe? The problem, he had eventually decided, was that he was trying to do too much by himself. The greats always had networks of informants and people keeping eyes out for them, while Hugo was attempting to locate one necklace in a City this size all on his own.
This is where Zeke came into the story. Hugo had started hanging around near the stacks and other undesirable yet seemingly necessary areas of the City, smoking under streetlamps and leaning against buildings as all good noirs should do from time to time. It had taken a while and quite a few bummed smokes, but finally a few of the vagrants living nearby had begun to speak with him. Zeke had been one of those vagrants, though when Hugo had first met him beneath that streetlight his cheekbones had not jutted out so cruelly and his eyes had not seemed so hollow.
Zeke had proved invaluable. He’d known of a low-level dealer who had suddenly come into a shit-ton of money (as Zeke had put it) and was bragging about some great heist she had pulled off. Together Hugo and Zeke had tracked the dealer down and (thanks to Zeke’s skill with a lock pick) found some of his aunt’s stolen property in her apartment. Most of the necklace had not been there, but after she’d been arrested the dealer had confessed to pawning it and its various pieces were eventually located and reassembled. His aunt had been thrilled and his picture had been in the paper, so Hugo had considered the case a thrilling success.
Zeke had been so enthusiastic back then, so eager to help Hugo and tag along on his cases. They’d only worked on a total of three cases together after recovering the necklace (one missing person and two cheating spouses), but Hugo had felt good about their partnership. He’d begun to really trust Zeke.
Hugo snorted quietly to himself and shifted in the waiting room’s hard chair.
The change had come over Zeke gradually; it seemed he’d been less and less eager to leave Sunny Pastures, always saying he’d had more pressing engagements to attend to. Hugo had commented on the track marks as they had sprouted up Zeke’s arm, each day growing closer to his wrists, but Zeke had assured him he was only dabbling in helix. Hugo smoked just like everyone else in the City, Zeke had been eager to point out, so couldn’t he understand needing to relax and have a good time? He had understood and even if he hadn’t he wouldn’t have told Zeke how to live his life. How could he, of all people, tell someone else how they should conduct their own business? Hugo had begrudgingly accepted many of his own flaws, but he couldn’t bear the thought of himself as a hypocrite.
Hugo thought back to that time, only a few months ago, and fondly recalled what it was like when helix was the drug du jour and gold hadn’t yet fastened its jaws so tightly on the City’s throat. It never stopped at helix, though, and Zeke was no exception. Shortly after the track marks began appearing Zeke started losing weight so rapidly that he’d had to start wearing a belt. His clothes had billowed around his wiry frame, the bones of his wrists jutting out toward Hugo like pale mountains. The mood swings came next, and Hugo had felt in his gut that Zeke had progressed to smack.
Hugo was grateful for the Archive. It had given humanity their history back and taught them what the world had once been and could be again. Not to mention it was through the Archive that Hugo had first been introduced to Spade and Marlowe and the rest; all of his heroes had come from within the Archive’s files. But it was also through the Archive that humanity remembered how to make meth and smack and a hundred other vices to stack atop the newer ones born before the Resurgence. As he sat in Sunny Pastures and watched Zeke’s mood swing from absolute joy to Earth-shaking rage he had wondered if the greatness the Archive had given back to humanity had been worth the cost they’d paid for it.
Again, Hugo had commented on Zeke’s usage and again he had been reassured. Zeke had seemed conscious at least on some level that he was headed down a very dark road and he had made promises to Hugo of a decline in consumption. Hugo wasn’t sure, even now sitting in the clinic’s waiting room, if he’d ever believed Zeke would stop before he killed himself. He’d still been willing to involve his friend in his cases, but Zeke’s enthusiasm for being Hugo’s sidekick waned and he had not left Sunny Pastures for almost a month at this point. Hugo had continued to visit him regularly, smoking or talking about whatever case he was working on at the time. Hugo did not make friends easily, but he liked to keep the ones he had if he could.
It was only when Zeke’s teeth began to fall out that Hugo realized his friend had already built up tolerances for helix and smack and all the lesser demons and had moved onto gold. Hugo had put his foot down at this, and this is what had led to their last big fight. Zeke had accused Hugo of trying to run his life; Hugo had accused Zeke of being suicidal or, worse, trying to intentionally catch midas. Voices had been raised and insults had been shared, and Hugo had left Sunny Pastures feeling like a fool.
How many times do you have to make an ass of yourself before you learn your lesson? he asked himself, scowling down at his dark shoes as they stood out starkly against the clinic’s white-tiled floor.
It occurred to Hugo that he had never really gotten to know Zeke. He’d known Zeke on smoke and Zeke on helix and Zeke on anything else he could get his hands on, but he’d never known Zeke. He certainly hadn’t known Zeke was capable of something like spiking him the way he had. On his way to the clinic Hugo had figured out that he’d been out for almost an entire day after Zeke had slipped the gold into their blunt. He’d also figured out that his wallet had been emptied of its meager contents, but he was far more upset at being spiked than being robbed. He still couldn’t figure out how or when Zeke had slipped him the gold; Hugo had watched him roll the blunt!
It struck him that it was odd Zeke had needed to roll a blunt in the first place. He always kept at least one on him in case of emergencies… He remembered Zeke’s little magic trick, slapping his hands together and making the blunt appear between his fingers.
That’s when he did it, Hugo thought to himself, scowling deeper. When I blinked he switched the one he rolled in front of me with a laced one he’d been saving for later.
He leaned back into the hard plastic chair and stared at the ceiling instead of his shoes.
Fucking idiot.
“1164?” A female voice rang out through the waiting room.
Hugo looked down at the ticket the nurse had given him when he’d signed in under an alias. The number stamped at the top of the thin strip of paper read 11–6–4. He stood, his head still throbbing and the ringing still in his ears, and made his way toward the desk where the nurse stood and tapped notes into her wireless. She was taller than he was, her skin deep brown and her hair dyed a dozen different colors, and Hugo thought she was rather beautiful.
She’s not beautiful, she’s a knockout dame, Hugo checked himself. Proper use of terminology was an important part of being a noir.
“Ah, Mr. Evans,” the nurse said to him after she’d finally taken her chocolate-brown eyes off her wireless and inspected his ticket. She leaned toward him and lowered her voice so as to not be overheard by the other people filling the waiting room. Hugo thought that was polite, but the nurse’s simple act of kindness did nothing to ease the storm raging in his head. “If you’ll excuse me, your results should be printing out right now.”
She headed toward a backroom, her eyes back on her wireless, and left Hugo standing at the counter. He told himself his eyes did not roam over her figure as she retreated from the desk. After she’d left him alone his mind began to drift again, heedless of his desire to focus on his results and get the hell out of this place.
You’re really no good on your own, a voice that was somewhere between his own and his father’s informed him. When you have someone to work with, bounce ideas off of and all that jazz, then maybe you’ve got a chance. But by yourself? Come on…
He hated the voice and he hated his own subconscious for dreaming it up, but he couldn’t deny its truth. He did work better with others than by himself, he always had. His mind ran best on synergy, and the only person he had left to brainstorm with now was Trevor.
Not that it really matters, the voice droned on. If you don’t get another case soon, and a case that pays well at that, you won’t be able to pay your lease or your rent.
He firmly reminded the voice that he was not in this for the money.
But how are you gonna get anything done when you’re flat broke? The voice countered. Anything other than blowing what little cash you have left on furniture.
Hugo defended his recent purchase of his office chair. That thing was an antique! It belonged with someone who could appreciate its old-world charm.
And the desk? The voice asked.
Hugo did not have a good answer to that. Even he knew he’d spent too much money on that thing.
You’re gonna end up as poor as Zeke, and then what’ll you do? You’ll crawl back to Daddy like the little –
“Here we are,” the nurse strode back into his line of sight and slid some papers, still hot from the printer, across the desk toward him. “We’re supposed to let you read the results for yourself; but just so you know, everything’s fine, Mr. Evans.”
Hugo felt genuine relief spread through him as an invisible fist unclenched in his stomach. He’d never really thought he could have caught midas after a few hits of a spiked blunt, but it felt good to hear the nurse’s news nonetheless. The nurse began a matronly lecture about gold and Hugo allowed her a few minutes before assuring her he never intended to cross paths with the drug again. She seemed pleased by this and they wished each other a good day as he headed toward the exit. She was calling number 11–6–5 to the counter as Hugo pushed through the clinic’s doors and found himself back on the City’s streets. The wind had died down, but the ever-present clouds above him were dark and threatened rain. Hugo shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants (he’d have to get a new jacket to replace the one ruined in Sunny Pastures).
As his hands entered his pockets, one of his fingers brushed up against his wireless. He pulled it out and flicked it on; he’d been in such a rush to get tested he hadn’t even thought to check if it, along with the contents of his wallet, was missing. Its small screen came to life in an eruption of color that made Hugo’s eyes hurt and quickly alerted Hugo that he had missed a call while he’d been indisposed.
He didn’t recognize the number that had called and the person hadn’t left a message. He considered ignoring the call in favor of immediately returning home and going to bed, but decided against it.
You never know, he thought to himself as he instructed the wireless to return the call. It might be a case.