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  “Have to meet with a client across the street,” I say. “Just thought I’d stop and see old Gene on the way.”

  I polish off what’s in my glass, set it on the couch, and toss my business card next to it. “Keep in touch, buddy-boy.”

  I hear lips smacking and the metallic rip of his zipper on my way out the door.

  Good old Gene.

  Still an asshole.

  Two

  The next morning I’m in my office, a rented space in a cube building. Mine is one of twenty on this floor alone, a modest room dressed to my tastes: a desk of real oak, fake leather couch, freestanding coat rack, antique Bogart movie poster. I have a small desktop interface, not much compared to what I had at the Pyramid, but I prefer it that way.

  I like a modest operation.

  Libra Foundations eliminated my job and the whole in-house fraud department in the cutbacks of ’42.

  Best thing that ever happened to me. Freed me up to follow my own vision, even if I do miss the regular paycheck bit.

  And hell, I still get Libra money—they’re one of my best clients.

  Now that my suspect has been confirmed, I easily trace the money trail back to Gene.

  I could see before that resources had been redirected from various departments over to the BioFacture side of the Libra house. Digital dough stashed in secret hiding places or run down the back alleys of cyberspace. Now I can pick up at the final destination and work backwards, linking up to those tracks I’d lost before.

  I do have to give old Gene credit: he’s a smart guy. He managed to steal funds from fourteen different places, relatively small amounts that wouldn’t leave big gaping holes for the accounting boys to notice. At least not right away.

  But his homemade girlfriend cost the company a quarter-mill, and when the quarterly report hit the accounting chief’s desk, she saw the big picture.

  That’s when they called me.

  There’s a knock at my door.

  I hit a button and the whole front wall shifts from an opaque off-white to one-way transparent.

  Seph stands on the other side, clad in a red leather vest and matching mini-skirt, pink hair in spikes.

  I open the door, see no sign of Gene in the grid of hallway, then invite her inside.

  She slides between me and the door jamb, rubbing against me, her deep blue gaze driving through my dull browns.

  My eyes slip downward.

  Her vest is zipped low and she’s wearing nothing under it. The skirt is cut high, the cleft of her ass peeking out.

  “What is this?” I ask, sealing the door. “Is this Gene’s attempt at a bribe?”

  “He doesn’t know I’m here,” she says. Her voice has the same pitch as Vel’s but the tone is different, less confident.

  “I didn’t know you could talk,” I say. “You didn’t say a word yesterday.”

  “He doesn’t like me to talk.”

  “Not what he made you for, eh?”

  She shakes her head. Her eyes are naive but hungry.

  I take my fedora from the rack and set it on my head—an attempt to stay professional—then sit on the corner of my desk.

  “Well, if he didn’t send you, how did you find me?”

  “You left this for me.” In her hand is my business card. “‘Harold Celeste, investigations.’”

  “Harry,” I tell her.

  “Harry.”

  We stare for a moment in silence.

  Her eyes go to the floor. She inches up to me, rests her head on my shoulder, snuggles in close.

  I resist, arms at my sides, hands gripping tight on the desk edge.

  “I didn’t really leave that card for you,” I tell her ear. “It’s a business card. It’s what people do.”

  “What else do people do?” she asks. Her voice is innocent, the question child-like. It occurs to me that she really doesn’t know.

  My hands wrap around her slender shoulders and I kiss those full, ruby lips. It’s like kissing Gigi, young and inexperienced. But Seph catches on quickly.

  While we’re tongue wrestling, she works my pants open. Then she’s feeding.

  I can’t bring myself to stop her.

  When she’s done, I gently push her toward the couch.

  Getting her naked is easy; there are only two articles to free her from. But she looks a little confused.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  I realize that this is the point that Gene’s always done with her. He probably goes back to work or watching the game, sending her off to some corner to sit while he drinks a beer and pats himself on the back some more.

  “Showing you what else people do.”

  She helps me out of my clothes.

  It’s like teenager sex the first time, awkward and exploratory.

  The second is better.

  Three

  Afterward we rest on the couch together, her on top of me, a layer of sweat between us.

  Her breathing is soft, regular. I wonder if it’s her heartbeat I feel or my own. I’m not even sure if she has a heart, but she’s certainly more human than I imagined.

  “What are you?” I whisper.

  I feel her warm breath on my chest: “Persephone.”

  “Do you know the story of Persephone?” I ask, twisting out the spikes of her pink hair.

  “In the days of Greek mythology, when the gods were still as complex and relatable as people, there was this girl named Persephone. She was the daughter of Demeter, goddess of the harvest, which made her a lovely little thing.

  “And beautiful young girls always attract attention, especially from all the bitter old men who never had any when they were young and life was still good.

  “So lovely little Seph caught the smoldering, bloodshot eye of Hades, god of the Underworld. See, there wasn’t much in the gloom down there to look at, woman-wise. That’s how it is when you have a job nobody wants and live life in the back-alleys of Hell. So he took a fancy to her and set a trap.

  “One day, when Persephone was out for a long walk alone, she came across this beautiful black rose rising up out of the middle of the road. When she bent over to smell it—boom—the earth cracked open and belched fire and brimstone and out popped Hades in all his terrible glory, riding his dark chariot with black horses pounding the dirt and snorting fire. And he grabbed her and stole her off to the land of the dead to be his bride.”

  Persephone looks up with concern.

  I smile and continue.

  “So while her daughter was down there, missing from all the world, Demeter went frantic. She was looking high and low, never eating, never resting, wearing herself pretty thin.

  “And being as she’s the goddess of the harvest and vegetation and all, the earth got to be worn out too: greens turned brown, birds stopped singing, and the weather went cold.

  “Finally she went up to Olympus and begged Zeus, who could give a shit what happened as long as he had a fresh mortal girl every once in a while to screw in animal form.

  “I guess old Zeus was into bestiality or something.

  “But anyway, Big Z saw the whole thing from way up on Olympus and knew his brother Hades had Seph down lighting up his miserable life in the Underworld.

  “So Demeter headed south—I’m talking way south—and found Seph down there having a tea party trying to cheer up dead people and such, and finally convinced old Hades to let the girl go home.

  “But by then it was a little too late.

  “Persephone was down there a long time by now, and after she’d gotten over being afraid of everything and got a little more comfortable, she’d finally accepted her husband’s offer to have a snack. She ate just one pomegranate seed—being a skinny young thing she was always on a hunger strike so she’d look her best—but that one seed was enough.

  “Once you eat in the Underworld, you’re stuck to it.

  “She was allowed to go back to the surface with her mother, but every year, Seph had to return and spend time with her
husband, like it or not. And while she was gone the earth would wither and go cold, missing her so much.

  “And that’s how the Greeks said winter came on and later greened back into spring.”

  We lie here a minute more, quiet breathing and cooling in our sweat.

  Finally Seph says, “I don’t want to go back.”

  “You have to,” I tell her, then add: “For a few more days, anyway.”

  “Then what happens?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the spring will come.”

  Four

  Libra Foundations is like any other brotherhood of white-collar kingpins.

  First I tell the board that the thief is a level-eight employee.

  Then they have to decide, before I reveal who he is, if they’d really want to prosecute one of their elite corporate-officer-types. Gene’s no departmental president or even vice president, but he’s a protégé of one kind or another and they have to weigh out office politics.

  Libra tells me they’ll call next week for the offender’s name.

  A week’s worth of suspense might just raise my rates.

  Five

  It’s been five days since Persephone came to visit, and I find myself thinking of her.

  While the corporate fraternity is making up its mind on Gene, I’ve started on another case. Classic gumshoe work: Is my husband cheating on me?

  Generally boring stuff, but it pays the bills.

  And based on my half-hour meeting with Mrs. Richards, my guess would be: Yes, bitch, he is.

  I imagine living with that woman would drive any man to drink, so why not go home with the barmaid while you’re at it?

  I’m walking down Ernest Street, midday. Mr. Richards is a sales rep for Philosopher’s Stone Pharmaceuticals. He’s supposed to be at a convention in Denver.

  At least that’s what he told his wife.

  But he’s still here in town and walking just half a block ahead of me. And while the streets are busy today, his vat-grown red hairpiece is easy to keep track of.

  That word sticks in my mind: vat-grown.

  She’s not even real—Persephone, I mean.

  Just a dressed-up fallatio machine. Grown in some lab, stuffed with car parts, and tweaked to make her crave pre-baby goo instead of pureed baby food.

  That hurts.

  The pang of guilt is like a knot in my stomach, like swallowing gallstones.

  It isn’t her fault. And she isn’t like that, just a machine. She sure as hell feels human. Her eyes are sure human enough.

  Damn, listen to me.

  I’m supposed to be hard-boiled.

  Damn, have I lost Richards?

  No. There he is, waiting to cross the street.

  I pause, lean back against the wall of a dermal dye shop. The sign reads: “Deepest beauty starts with your skin!” and “Image is everything!”

  I try to apply that to Persephone: if she looks human maybe she is, or close enough.

  Then again, maybe it’s just a shallow damn slogan trying to sell skin dye.

  Looking around, my gaze passes over another set of eyes. A man stares at me for a long moment, then looks away.

  Not too slick.

  Not much neck, either. Tall, thickly built, wearing a sleeveless electric T-shirt of alternating colors. Looks familiar...

  The traffic light changes.

  Cars stop, Richards goes.

  So do I.

  So does my new friend behind me.

  Richards skips up a flight of stairs into a one-hour liposuction clinic. I wonder if he’s getting sucked out or sucked off?

  There’s a rat-stick cart on the same block and I haven’t had lunch yet. “One with mustard, please.”

  In the crowd of passersby, I see the radiating colors of the broad-chested T-shirt—green, yellow, red—glowing beneath a stern face. He’s stopped too, and staring at me. Hard eyes, goatee...

  Now I recognize him. It’s one of the dolls Gene was showing me, an Aegis Crown, bodyguard model. Looks like this one’s set on thug-mode.

  “Gene, you son of a bitch,” I mutter aloud.

  I toss the rat-stick and start walking. I can pick up this lead on Richards later; right now I’d like to lose this tail.

  I dodge down an alley, pop back up on another block. Cross the street.

  The doll is still on me. Must be tweaked to be part bloodhound. And he’s closing the gap, getting closer with each step.

  I duck through a glass door, my brain registering the name as I go in: Thursdays on Mother Earth.

  Inside is a foyer where shoes and flip-flops have been kicked to the side. Beyond a yellow bead curtain is a New Bohemian coffee shop. The lights are low and the air is thick, smelling of reefer and incense, coffee and body stink.

  It’s almost enough to choke on.

  There are booths around the walls, a few patrons here and there, a coffee counter to my right, and a small center stage. A guy with braided whiskers plays a bluesy clarinet while a skinny blonde dances like an Egyptian snake. She’s naked except for the blue and green serpents painted up and down her body. Her dirty hair is bundled into dreadlocks down to her ass and an inverted pyramid has been painted between her hips where there should be a triangle of hair.

  My tail comes in when I’m barely through the beads.

  His shirt is flashing from yellow to red, the colors reflected in his hard eyes. I came in here stupidly assuming that the doll has tact, that he won’t jump me in a crowded afternoon coffee shop.

  I’m wrong.

  His fist sets my jaw crooked and sends me reeling. I stumble backward and knock over a six-armed Hindu goddess smoking incense sticks.

  The statue shatters on the floor, lending sound effects to the next fist against my face.

  I fall into the musician, swipe the clarinet from his hand and crack it upside the doll’s head.

  A few of the broken keys cling to his face, then fall off.

  Aegis looks pissed.

  I duck and the musician takes a hit for me, giving me time to roll around and come up with the spacer in hand.

  He isn’t impressed, doesn’t even blink.

  So I pull the trigger.

  A swarm of tiny darts burst from the wide-mouthed barrel and imbed themselves in the doll’s face. Little blue arcs of electricity dance randomly across the net. He blinks…

  Then shakes it off.

  Damn thing has a synthetic nervous system. The stun gun doesn’t work.

  His fist crushes my nose.

  He hits me in the guts, doubling me over. Knee to my chin, a hard shove. I’m thrown onto my back, onto the stage.

  Through the stars in my vision, I see the naked dancer, her legs chopping frantically, not sure what to do.

  “Well don’t just stand there, bitch,” I grumble aloud, grabbing an ankle and yanking it out from under her.

  She falls right on top of the doll and latches on, screaming. I hope she can hold him for a more than a second.

  I spit blood, slide to my feet, and quickly hobble over to the coffee counter. The tattooed java-slinger is more than happy to get out of my way and it takes me only a blink to find a potential weapon: an old-fashioned, metal coffee pot. I toss the lid, unplug it, and grab it by both handles.

  The caffeinated hippies groan as the dancer hits the floor.

  The tattooed girl yelps and dives over the far side of the counter.

  I spin to find Aegis tearing toward me, his face all wadded up and swollen, full of scratch marks and taser darts.

  I add hot coffee to the mess.

  His electric T-shirt shorts out, sparks to a neutral plastic grey. His mouth gapes in a silent scream.

  Then I slam his jaw shut with the broadside of the percolator.

  He’s still standing, so I hit him again, and then with the backswing.

  His ear has come loose and hangs from his head by thin strands.

  The rabble of shop patrons get to their feet now, one by one, each made braver by the last. Their f
ilthy mouths bear teeth and cheer, their bloodshot eyes glisten.

  I flip the coffee pot over, draw back with both hands, and drive it onto the doll’s head. It jams halfway so I force it, shearing off his other ear.

  The fleshy disk drops on the floor.

  No blood, I notice.

  An instant later, pinpricks of sky blue foam rise to the surface.

  “She’d bleed,” I tell him.

  Persephone would bleed. I’m sure of it.

  I give the now blind, kettle-headed robot a shove into the throng of worked-up, stoned-out caffeine hippies who tear into him like the starving masses on Arena Day.

  Six

  Remote hacking the key codes to Gene’s apartment is easy. I wait for night to fall, then go visiting. The doorman is an occasional informant of mine and lets me in with a nod.

  Twenty-second floor.

  Polished chrome walls, reproductions of old paintings in the hallway.

  No point to listening at the door, these places are all soundproofed for maximum privacy; no matter what loud, sick shit these ritzy fat cats are into, they keep it to themselves.

  I have the spacer in my pocket and a real gun in hand, a classic snubnosed .38 revolver. Fits my style and, if your aim is good, it’s as effective on dolls as people.

  I patter in the key code and go in quiet.

  The living room is huge, big bay windows set to opaque, circular couch bigger than my office, chrome liquor cabinet in the corner, lights low. One entire wall is a vidscreen on mute with some low-budget porno running. No bodyguard dolls in sight.

  Gene probably figures the first one took care of me.

  Sealed door on my right, hallway to the left.

  Grunting to the left.

  I feel my skin tingle, some green flash of jealousy I’m ashamed to admit is there. My hands are even sweating.

  I give the revolver a reassuring squeeze.

  The hall is dark. Purple light shines from a far room, the source of the sex noise. I creep down with my gun at the ready, then spin into the doorway.