The Man Who Crossed Worlds (Miles Franco #1)

Chapter Three

My apartment was both my home and my site of business. I had an office once, back when I thought being a freelancer was like being a private eye, where long-legged dames strolled in late at night and offered you a chance at danger and glory.

The office was the size of a linen closet, and it took two months of no work before they finally kicked me out. After that I just conducted all my business from the semi-comfort of my apartment, relying on a few discreet newspaper ads to bring in work. It was only in the last few months that my old Tunneler buddy, Desmond, convinced me to take one of his old cell phones and use that as well. I didn’t see much use for the thing myself. Next thing he’d be wanting me to buy a goddamn computer.

My apartment was predictably crappy, full of used furniture I’d found on the side of the street and hauled up the stairs with the help of anyone who owed me a favor. An actual wall separated my bedroom from the rest of the apartment, which I was pretty proud of. The carpet was a horrid shade of green, faded where the sun came through the dirt-streaked windows, and full of cigarette burns. That wasn’t my fault; I’d given up smoking back when I was still a teenager, after half a dozen attempts at looking cool and rebellious.

I tossed my keys down next to a filthy goldfish bowl. Munsey and Frank drifted up to the surface of the water, and I obliged them by shaking in a good helping of fish flakes. They were ugly sons of bitches, but they were hard. I liked that. They gobbled up the food while I made my way across the apartment.

The one good thing about my apartment was the view, if looking out at Bluegate didn’t depress you too much. Most buildings in the immediate neighborhood were only three or four stories, so I sometimes pulled my tattered old armchair up to the window and stared out. The window faced north, and on a dark night I could see the glow from the Bore lighting up the buildings on the opposite side of the river.

Now, looking out at Bluegate for what could be the last time in a long while, I felt strangely nostalgic about the city. Sure, the place was a wretched hive of scum and villainy, but it wasn’t without its redeeming features. Hell, I’d been raised on these streets, and I was pretty fond of myself.

I shook my head and stepped away from the window. I wasn’t leaving anything behind, not really. Besides, I’d probably get a chance to come back when the cops got bored trying to find me and learned how to deal with their problems themselves.

I pulled open the fridge door and found Tania had been telling the truth; she’d cleaned me out of Kemia. The silver fluid acted as a catalyst when making a Tunnel. I wouldn’t be going anywhere without it.

I checked my watch. Nearly 2 a.m. If I could get to Spencer Davies’ place before the cops started snooping around, I could convince him to sell me some more Kemia. He wouldn’t need much convincing. Davies was a Vei chemist, catering to the freelancers like myself who didn’t have the access to Kemia the government-sanctioned Tunnelers did. He wouldn’t turn down the chance to earn a few hundred bucks to slip into some stripper’s thong.

I grabbed a couple of extra shirts and underpants from a pile on the floor of my bedroom and shoved them into an old messenger bag I kept at the top of my wardrobe. No time for a shave, or a shower for that matter. Likely I stunk like a wet dog, but I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Heaven was generally pretty warm, and I wouldn’t need anything heavier than the worn suit jacket I was already wearing.

I was so busy hurrying around the place I kicked a black case on the floor and nearly went down on top of it. When I got my balance back I opened up the case and pulled out my trumpet.

It wasn’t much to look at. It was dented in a few places, and the metal had long since stopped shining, but it was a good instrument. Occasionally I played with a couple of other guys at bars around the city. We got beer bottles thrown at us more often than not, but it gave me something other than work to worry about. Sometimes the barkeeper would even take pity on us and shout us a hearty meal of fries and ketchup.