🚀 go-pugleaf

   Dark City.  A city crawling with lowlifes, mobsters and other
denizens that thrive in the perpetual shadow of the tall imposing
skyscrapers and warehouses.  A city that has more mileage in alleyways
than the entire main road system combined.  The Grimy Knight's
personal urban renewal project.  A city that isn't even a nice place
to visit. Or, at least that's what most of the media thinks of the
city.  And for a good part of it, they're right.  But they neglect the
good people of the city. those that toil regardless of the odds, those
who try to make things better than they left it, or at least try to
survive against the shadows.  And there are others who try to bring
light to the shadows... one day at a time.....

                    Ghost in the Mecha Productions
                               presents
                  The second in an anthology series

                        R e f r a c t i o n s
                        #2 - "Truth And Dare"
                                  by
                  James Rinehart, Mechaman At Large
                          with assistance by
                          Eric Alfred Burns

   Justin peered out through the shade at the street.  It looked like
last night was a quiet night, after all.  A fire hydrant was spouting
into the air on the corner, and a car apparently was missing a
headlight. Not bad, considering the neighborhood.  He expected a few
broken windows at least. He turned away from the window, and limped
over to the table.  He sipped at his coffee absently as he thought
about his day ahead.  He smiled wryly.  One of the few positive
aspects about the newspaper strike.  No matter, there were other ways
of find out things than the media.  Still, there is nothing quite like
the old black and white.  Few other things are.  He finished his
coffee and grabbed his walking stick and coat before leaving.  As he
slowly stepped through the hall, he glanced at the smokestains over
the adjoining apartments.  He sighed, as yet another small project
came back to mind.  There were enough other projects to be done
though, more important.  He sighed.  Time to admit that he needed to
get help.

  "Yo, J. T.!"
  Justin smiled.  "Good morning to you as well, Julio," he commented
dryly.
  "Yah, right, whatever.  So, did you see the writing on the wall?"
The Hispanic teen motioned agitatedly toward the side of the apartment
building.
  "Not yet.  Do I need to break out the whitewash again?"  He smiled
as he hobbled slowly toward his Ford Escort.
  "Break out the bandages, more like, man.  The Sonz and the Water
Street Boyz are goin' to war, and we've become the battle corridor."
   Justin paused.  "And the Paint Crew's allowing this?"
   Julio shrugged, causing an errand black curl to bounce.  "Nah, but
then again the other two don't give a flyin', er,  flip.  Big Mac says
the head o' Sonz' kid brother killed the Water Street Boyz' righthand
gun.  The Sonz're claimin' it's a frame by the Boyz.  And to top this
little gangbang, there're rumors Trash Night's delayed this week."
   Justin swore under his breath, but started to continue limping.
"Trash Night could come early this week."
   Again, the Latino boy shrugged.  "Maybe, but even _he's_ only one
man.  And the blood's gonna run, a rio rojo."  Red river.  Justin
smiled grimly.  Leave it to a Paint Crew member to have a keen grasp
of graphic imagery.  "So, anyway I was 'posed to warn you that the
Crew can't help you tonight or anyone else out.  You may want a hotel
room, or keep away from the window for the next few.... Hell<tm>, one
way or another, it'll be over before the week's done."
   "And what are you going to be doing, Julio?"  Justin opened the
passenger door and sat down.
   The teen looked away.  "Makin' sure mi hermanos y mi mama are safe.
Most of the Crew with family are doin' that.  Mac thinks it's that
bad."
   "Give them my best, Julio... and thanks."  Justin closed the door,
and slid over to the driver side.  He stared ahead for a second,
letting his mind digest the conversation. "Hell.  Trademarked."

   Justin absently leaned on the wooden fame of the office door as he
fished for his key.  The door opened, and his secretary shook her head
in mock dismay.  "Boss, you know I'm here.  Why do you bother?  Tsk."
She grinned.  "Good morning."
   "Barely, Ginny."  Justin shook his head ruefully and then let his
own disarming grin slip through.  "Gin, I need you to call the Public
Defender's office and check on the gang-related homicide charges in
the past few days.  Also, this needs faxed to Boston."  He handed a
memo to the paralegal.  She scanned it quickly as she typed in the
number.  Her eyes widened as she read it again.  "Yes, Ginny.  You
read it right."
    "Any word if the precincts are mobilizing yet?"
    "If they've missed this one, they're higher on the take than I
thought.  But they're probably focusing on the Boyz and Sonz home
turf. So the gangs are going to steamroller neutral turf."
    "Author-onna-crutch."  Justin nodded, sadly.  "Right.  Prepping
"old faithful" to send right now.  Oh, there's also coffee brewing.
Mind pouring me a cup too?"
    "Sure.  After the fax goes, see if you can get me a hearing with
the PD office or the Defender they've assigned.  Hopefully, he'll let
me offer my services.  Meanwhile, I need to do some research."
   "Check, boss."

   Dark City Memorial Penitentiary and Holding Facility probably had
the oddest distinction for the most spotless record of any
correctional facility in the nation.  Not in escape attempts, even
though THAT was pretty low in itself, but literally the cleanliness of
the building and grounds.  The custodians will be the first to tell
you.  They take PRIDE in their work.  Which makes the inmates -that-
much more nervous, to the puzzlement of the social behavior psyches. A
cleaner, more healthy environment, a cleaner and more healthy mind.
They don't know the area too well, do they? Especially in a city where
cold justice comes at the end of a trashlid.
   Justin shook his head out of that train of thought as two guards
came in flanking a young kid in prison blue.  The reprobate couldn't
be more than fourteen, at the most.  And reprobate was the term for
him.  Justin had looked over his "rap sheet" before coming to the
prison.    Petty theft, robbery, vandalism, an attempt or two at
selling drugs.  Nothing on the taking end, he noted grimly.  Survival
didn't leave much margin for that sort of error.  However, cold
blooded murder wasn't in the cards, from that sheet.  In the heat of a
fight, yes.  But walk in and shoot, as described?  Justin frowned.  He
had his doubts, even with the dead look in the youth's eyes.
   The first words out of his mouth didn't do much to help this view.
"What do you want?"
   Not too unexpected, though, Justin reflected.  "My name is Justin
Truth, and I'm here to represent your case, if you allow."
   "Cripe. You're the Crew's pet lawyer?  You don't look chicano."
   Justin frowned, but held his first response at bay.  "And I suppose
if I was _Hispanic_," Justin stated calmly, stressing the final word
slightly, "it would disqualify me from representing you?  And no, I'm
not Hispanic, Michael.  Nor am I the 'pet lawyer.'  But I'm willing to
to help you.... if you help me."
   That last statement loosened a lot of the tension in young
cellmate. It was, after all, the unwritten law of the street.
Everything has its price.  There ain't no such thing as a free lunch.
An eye for an eye. Perhaps that last was too well known, he mused.
   "Alright, Monte.  What's the price?"  The youth squared his
shoulders.  "How much?"
   "Just the truth, Michael.  Where were you when Jazz died?"
   The gang member stayed quiet, the look on his face less expressive
than granite carvings.
   Justin nodded curtly.  "Fine, then.  I'm sorry to have wasted your
time and mine."
   "No, man, wait."  Justin stopped.  Any plaintive tone in Mick's
voice left again.  "You're bound by, I dunno, client priveledge,
right?"
   "Of course.  You have my word that nothing said here will change my
offer."  He let his tone stay steady, but it dipped a bit at the
thought of his word being questioned.  Street views aside.
   The facade chipped a little.  "...... breaking into Giuseppe's on
Fourth."
   Justin had to suppress a sigh, but plowed on.  "Alone?"  The youth
paused and then shook his head slowly.  "And they left you to end up
here?"  Justin let his disbelief show.  Survival instincts aside, one
does not let a leader's brother get picked up by the police.  At least
not if one wants any chance of advancement.
   "No way.  My brothers backed me up, but they had 'witnesses' too.
Picked me straight out.  I never saw those people before in my life."
he nearly spat the last comment.
   Justin nodded.  Old hat, really.  "Odd, that.  But we'll try to
make sure you don't go to jail on this one if you're innocent."  He
stood and held out his hand.  Mick looked at the hand dumbly for a
moment, and then grabbed it, squeezing hard.  The guards moved back
in.  They knew the interview was done.
   Justin waited a few more seconds before leaving, simply opening
and closing his hand.  The grim look that clouded his features spoke
volumes, but said little.

   "Portabello Pam's" is not in Dark City's tourist guide.  Not even
in the quite lengthy "Places to Avoid" section.  ( Some people
speculate that advertising agency commissioned for the latest version
realized no one else would touch the project, and therefore could be
quite candid about Dark City.  Apparently, they were right. )  The
reason for this is very simple.  If you've made it to Pam's, you're
either 1) Damn Lucky, 2) In the Family Business, 3) Certified with a
number of firearms and martial arts, or 4) an EMT or coroner.
   "Little" Antionio Nuevara qualified for two out of the four.  The
man exited the establishment after a little companionable drinking, a
little shop talk, and one or two friendly "chats".  Life wasn't good,
but it wasn't bad.  Which may explain the small grappling rope that
hooked his belt and hoisted him to the roof of the building.  Murphy
hates the middle of the line.
   "Tony, Tony, Tony.  How -many- times have I said watch your back?"
The rough, gravelly voice sent shivers down Little Tony's back as his
eyes vainly focused around him.  He knew that voice.  Last time he'd
heard it, he ended up in the hospital trying to relearn digestive
functions.  He whipped about, still seeing nothing in the haze of weak
neon and darkness.
   "Oh, man... show y'self.  C'mon."  Antonio tried to screw up his
courage enough that his voice wasn't quaking.  And not having much
luck with it.
   The voice gave a harsh chuckle.  "Oh, no.  I want to keep this
little chat nice and friendly.  If I show you where I am, one of us
would get hurt."  The voice gave no doubt who it meant.
   "What do y' want?"  The thug looked about nervously.  Just because
the guy said he didn't want to fight....
   "Information."
   "Y' won't get any."  Antonio mopped his brow.
   The voice chuckled again.  "By hook or by crook, I will.  And I
have both at the moment."  Any humor that the voice contained dropped
right out.  "Your sister was on the list of those who pointed to Mick
of the Sonz.  Very interesting, indeed, since you know she'll do
anything for her little brother."
   "Mebbe she was doin', y'know, her civil duty?"  Antonio wiped his
brow more.
   "'Mebbe'.  Except for the fact that there are three other relations
to the Family, two known perjurers and one man so far off the bend
that he should have been committed on the spot.  I don't like set-ups,
Tony. Especially when they aren't even meant to stick.  Who ordered
the hit, Tony?"
   "Yer shadow boxing," Tony sneered.  "Ain't a thing y' can do about
it eidder."
   "No, Tony, I'm just warming up.  You want to step into the ring?
Then don't pass this little tidbit to your boss.  Either I get the
gunman, or else you get trouble."
   "Yeah, right.  Ev'rybuddy knows the Trashman don't make deals...
HEY!"  Antonio yelped as the forgotten hook moved him back over the
streetside.  As he plunged toward the garbage bin, one last rasping
laugh came from above and Tony was sure he saw someone garbed in total
black.
   "Tony, Tony, Tony, you -never- learn, do you?"  The voice echoed.
"I'm not the Trashman."

   Justin sighed as he slipped in, rubbing at his bleary eyes.  His
secretary and paralegal clucked in sympathy.  "Another late nighter,
boss?"  He nodded wearily.  "Pity you don't have my constitution, eh?"
   "If I had your constitution, Ginny, I'd probably move for a Bill of
Rights.  I've -seen- what you call breakfast."  He set himself slowly
at his desk, which still had the same map he'd stared at for a good
part of the preceding day.
   Ginny grinned.  "Hey, 100% Colombian java and Pop Tarts do have
_some_ nutritional value.  'Sides, I eat a bit better later."
   "Hrm."  Justin yawned.
   "Right, well at least you need the caffeine too.  Here, this'll
have to do until the next pot."  She handed him a mug.
   "Thanks."  He sipped a bit as he looked over the map yet again.
   "Any luck last night, or was it just you staring at the ceiling
panels?"  She asked offhand, as she sipped at her own mug.
   "Little of both, actually.  Not much to find out.  Still boils down
to the same thing.  On the one side here ...", he motioned toward a
map section, " we have Water Street turf.   This area here....", a
another section of grid-patterned streets., "is the Sonz' domain."
   "And the Crew's right here.  But if it -is- a set-up, why?  Even
for this town, most of those are low-rent."
   "Mm.  Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"  He looked over the map again.
"Nothing territorial, anyway.  Gangland turf generally has very little
too lucrative for the protection racket.  Same goes for gambling, and
a gang war would eliminate a lot of the potential customers for a red
light district."
   "So it's a wasteland... er, sorry boss."  Ginny winced.
   Justin smiled dryly.  "It's all right, Gin.  From the Family's
viewpoint, you're right."
   "Then maybe it's something else?  Something that'll only be around
for a few days?"
   "Mmm.. that may have some merit if there was any sort of exhibit or
something... but this isn't even close to the galleries or other
tourist areas."  Like that means much, since most valuable exhibits
knew better than to trust security in the City.  "Right, so what's the
only thing of value that's in the section?"
   "Not a damn thing that they couldn't find elsewhere....."  Justin
blinked.  "Ginny, you're beautiful.  That's the thing about this
entire bit.  It's NOT anything here.  It's who will HAVE to be here.
If SWAT is concentrating in the gang zones, and the war breaks out
HERE...."
   Ginny blinked.  "Then the police'll have to send in black and
whites till the riot p- er, cops get there.  Sorry, bad habit."
   Justin ignored the slip as he looked over the map.  "And that means
that all the cops will be busy from neighboring precincts...."  He
pulled out a pen and started drawing a border further out.  "Nothing
there, or there.... oh, no."
   "Hmm?"
   "I know where they're going."