The afternoon ground on, and by the time the subway dropped us off at Autumncrest, the sun had begun it's long slow fall into the west. Autumnvale was a wealthier, gentrified neighbourhood, where all the housing was crammed into art deco apartment buildings dating back to the 20s and even older brownstones, and the skyline immediately outside the station was dominated by a tall, three-tiered clock tower, standing tall over a high-end liquor store that was once a railway station in times gone by.
We slouched around the station until the crowd that followed us off the subway dispersed, before we stacked up on the wall beside the exit like a part of oddball secret agents masquerading as broke college kids. Rosalie peeked out down either end of the street before she took my hand and we exited onto the street, trying to look casual. We got two blocks before Rosalie realized she was still holding my hand, and released me with a murmured apology.
It was easy to stick to the neighbourhood streets. A series of overpasses made sure that the poors didn't have have to drive past the art galleries, trendy cafes and upscale clothing shops to get where they were going, but dressing down was popular enough with the locals that we didn't stick out all that much. This close to the downtown core, the subway stations were still reasonably close together, but we decided to swing wide, almost going as far west as Castle Hill before curving north. Château Colline, the fake castle that was one of the city's biggest tourist traps and gave that neighbourhood it's name, loomed on the horizon behind us as we cautiously closed in on my stomping grounds.
Once we got close to Claire, we both came on alert, keeping to side streets, alleys and walkways, keep an eye out for the grey man, or anyone who looked like they might be a Harvester. For all that their men-in-black-style outfits kept them anonymous, they would still stand out against the multitude of people dressed for a summer weekday with nice weather. That didn't mean the Harvesters couldn't go undercover themselves, but at the moment we didn't have any defense against someone in disguise other than to keep an eye out for anyone who seemed to be acting weird or examining us in particular. I wasn't practiced at that kind of thing, so I just followed Rosalie's lead, and if she had noticed anything she didn't tell me. Our newest nemesis didn't make an appearance, either. Either he was licking his wounds after tangling with Marlowe or we actually had lost him for the moment.
I led her to the back door of my building. The main entrance was out front, sandwiched between a Jug City and a Chinese take out place, but the back contained the world's noisiest freight elevator and the dumpsters we used for trash and cardboard. My landlord, a gnarled, middle aged Italian man named Ricky who only seemed to care about hockey and getting rent on time, hated when anyone used the elevator except to move in or out, but today I had bigger problems. Besides, I couldn't imagine that I was going to stick with my lease for much longer, given the trajectory my life had taken since waking.
As usual, someone had jammed a scrap of cardboard to keep the bolt on the door closing on the back entrance, and I tugged the door open with a grunt. The smell of the dumpsters hit me like a hammer, but the affect they had on Rosalie was even more dramatic. She stumbled a half step back and made an odd noise in the back of her throat, clapping her hands over her nose. I grinned at her apologetically. "Sorry, I know it's gross, but I didn't grab my keys and the front entrance is right on the street."
"It's fine, I was just caught by surprise," Rosalie murmured, lifting her hoodie up to cover her nose and mouth, then she led the way into the building while I held the door. Thankfully, the freight elevator was on the ground floor, the heavy gate immediately clanking open when I hit the call button. A moment later, we where chugging up to my floor, the elevator making periodic bangs and chugs of protest.
My apartment door was hanging open, but closed off with something that looked like police tape. Whoever set it up was lazy about it, however, and it was easy to just duck underneath and push into my tiny apartment. That might have been a trap, though, and I had to be sure. I laid one hand on the doorframe, and muttered "[INSPECT]." For a brief second, it was like I experienced by entire apartment all at once, every stick of furniture, every corner and cranny, from the contents of the fridge to the bugs living in the walls. The knowledge flowed through, leaving as quickly as it came, but I was left with the bit of information I desired.
"There's nobody inside, I think," I said, hesitantly, as I pushed the door open with my toe before ducking under the tape. Rosalie snorted before following me. "You have good instincts, you know, except for being too quick to trust people," she told me as she stepped through, "You should trust yourself more."
I shrugged, gestured at my living room. It wasn't a lot- a couple of love seats angled to face a hip-high mall-wart bookshelf and a modest flatscreen standing on a pair of milk crates that was hooked up to a battered PS3 lying on the floor. A combination of manga, comic books, DVDs and games filled the shelves. "Welcome to Chez Ozzy," I told her, as I carefully edged towards the street-facing windows and peered down suspiciously at the street below, "It doesn't look like they're following, but we should probably keep from the windows, just in case."
"I'd be willing to bet that they're tracking your phone," Rosalie said, pointing to where the smooth black rectangle with the cracked screen was sitting on the bookshelf next to my brown leather wallet and keys, hooked up to a charger. "Probably just waiting for you to make a call or see if it moves. I wouldn't trust that that's their only way of keeping an eye on the place, though, so it couldn't hurt to be careful of the windows, in case they will be making periodic check-ins."
I nodded. That made as much sense as anything. "Well, we may as well take the time to rest and recuperate a little," I said, crouch-walking along the wall until I could grab my wallet. I flipped it open and was about to take out my bank card when I hesitated, and instead flipped open the billfold and fished out a couple shiny, plastic twenties and a five. "I'll head downstairs and grab us a bite to eat and a couple drinks. I wouldn't trust the leftovers in the fridge." I was usually pretty good about eating all my food before it turned, but who knows what the Harvesters could have put in there while I was gone?
Rosalie seemed to look uncomfortable for a moment, then relaxed herself with visible effort, shaking her head. "Uh, can you get me at least as much as you get yourself?" she asked uneasily, "I'm, uh, I'm a big eater. For a girl." I gave her a nod, but she didn't stop there. "Just be careful," she said eventually, as she put down her guitar and flopped onto one of the couches, "Just because they don't seem to be watching, doesn't mean that they're not watching."
I tried to think of something clever to shoot back, something snappy to impress the woman who had repeatedly saved my bacon earlier today, and reassure her that I'd be okay, but all I could come up with was a "Yeah, sure." I hesitated at the door, stifled my anxiety, readying myself before I was prepared to head outside. At least the latch was still catching, even if there was a huge chuck of doorframe missing where the deadbolt was kicked in. I ducked out into the hall, and made for the front entrance.
As far as I could tell, there was nobody watching the building out front. All the parked cars seemed empty, and nobody in any of the storefronts across the street looked to be paying particular attention to my side of the street. As quickly as I could, I slipped out the front door and casually walked the few steps down to the Chinese kitchen. The restaurant, as usual, was a couple degrees hotter than the street outside, regardless of the front door being held open with half a brick.
The same tall, skinny, shaggy haired guy who was there every afternoon and evening since I moved in was slouched behind the counter, watching The Magnificent Seven on the restaurant's only TV. He recognized me, as I had been down here for enough easy meals since I moved to the city, although we weren't friends. "Hey man," he said, giving me a friendly tilt of the chin, "What'll it be?"
I puffed by cheeks out thoughtfully, eyeing the menu. Rosalie would have probably mentioned any dietary restrictions, but beyond that I didn't have any idea what she'd like. "Could I get two dozen steamed dumplings, two green teas and two colas?" I asked, glancing out the door while I gave my order. A full two dozen dumplings might be overkill but I was pretty hungry and hadn't eaten anything else since that hot dog Rosalie bought for me. When I turned back I could see the shaggy haired guy's eyes flickering between me and the front window.
"Don't worry, my guy, the cops cleared out a couple hours ago," he said, giving a shrug, "They asked about you, but I'm no snitch. What filling you want?" I gave it some more thought, and ordered a mix of beef and pork. "You got it, bro," he said, "Take it easy, I'll be back in five."
I turned my attention to the TV while shaggy-hair headed to the kitchen. Denzel Washington was asking the sheriff of Rose Creek if he was sure he didn't want to take Denzel's gun. I took a deep breath, and tried to relax. I distracted myself by thinking about some of what Aya had said. The guy running the shop had done me, an almost complete stranger, a real solid by not talking to whoever came to question him. Was that because he was a nice guy who looked out for his regulars, because he hated cops... or was it because he worked in a building that might be part of my demesne? I gave up trying to puzzle it out around the same time Denzel and his crew finished shooting. From my perspective, it didn't matter, I was grateful all the same.
When he emerged from the kitchen, the floof on his head tucked conscientiously into a hairnet, and started packing up my order, I looked back to him. "Hey, what's your name?" I asked, putting my bills on the counter. The order would only come to twenty-something but I already decided I was giving him the whole forty-five regardless.
"Mingze," he replied, "But if that's a little hard for you, Mingzy is fine." He paused in his work offer me a hand. I took it, giving him a brief shake. "Ozzy," I replied, and he gave me a nod. "You like westerns?" he asked, giving another chin gesture towards the TV as he finished up, balancing the two boxes of dumplings on top of the carefully stacked bottles.
