Slab City Blues - The Collected Stories: All Five Stories in One Volume by Anthony Ryan

attention, the rigid, sweaty tremble of his stance was out of place, as was the large dark stain on his combats and the puddle lapping at his boots.
    “Public urination’s a crime, Jed,” I advised, ambling up. I didn’t have an ID to show him but with his type I didn’t need one.
    “Nnnn..!” said Shave-head, not meeting my gaze, jaw tensing a little, drool staining his lips.
    I frowned, this wasn’t going how it should. Whatever he was on it was something new. I moved closer, shouting into his ear: “Go away, fuckhead!”
    “He’s not allowed.” It was an elderly Asian lady, clutching a broom in the shop doorway, eyes cautious. She didn’t need to see an ID either.
    “By who?” I asked.
    She flicked her gaze at the upper storey window then went back inside. I gave Shave-head a final curious glance then followed her, fishing the cheap smart from my pocket. “I’m looking for…”
    “I know. She’s expecting you. Take the stairs at the back.” The old woman put her broom aside and moved behind the counter. The shop had a rich aroma of mingled spices, not unpleasant but surely a shock to anyone with gene-enhanced olfactory senses.
    “How long’s she been here?” I asked.
    “Two months, give or take.”
    “Good tenant?”
    Her gaze became suspicious, defensive. “She’s a good person. Doesn’t deserve any trouble from you.”
    I could tell she knew who I was. The Heavenly Garden Shoot Out (or massacre, depending on who you ask) ensured an unwelcome celebrity these days. “Nice to know.”
    I moved to the back of the shop, finding the stairs. She opened the door before I could knock, same bright, open smile as before. “You came! I hoped you would.” She stood aside. “Come in, come in.”
    Her furnishings were elegant if sparse, a few objets d’art, mostly Asian ceramics, some tasteful twentieth century prints. No 2Ds or holo-stills, of her or anyone else. And books, a whole wall of books. Clearly Dr Janet was something of a traditionalist.
    “Get you anything?” she asked, closing the door. “Coffee, tea…”
    “Who killed Thomas DeMarco?” I said.
    She paused then laughed a little. “Straight to it. I should’ve expected that.” She went to her couch, low set and fake but still expensive leather, perching on the arm, long legs crossed. “I don’t know who killed him but I think I might know why.”
    “And the Downside musician kid?”
    “Him too.”
    “And Karnikhov?”
    “Yep.”
    I went to the window, looking down on Shave-head. “There’s a man outside standing in his own piss, too scared to move. Know anything about that too?”
    She shrugged, a little sheepish. “He was upsetting Mrs Yeung. Demanding money with menaces I believe it’s called.”
    “What did you do to him?”
    “I told him to stand there. Some people still have a superstitious view of my kind. Flash them some fang and they’ll convince themselves you’ve put a hoodoo on them.”
    I met her gaze, seeing only a small flicker of worry in her too perfect face. “When I leave, tell him he can go. Tell him I said not to come back here. That should be enough.”
    She pursed her lips and nodded. “Don’t you want to hear my theory?”
    “If you have information about the Karnikhov case you should take it to Chief Inspector Mordecai, LCPD Homicide Bureau.”
    “I’ve been messaging for days. When I finally got through to the case officer, Redwin or something, he told me not to waste his time and hung up.”
    “We get a lot of wierdo calls, cranks, fake psychics, wannabe amateur sleuths and the like. All convinced they’ve got the vital insight that’ll break the big case. What makes you any different?”
    She laughed again. “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. You can be the judge when you’ve heard what I’ve got to say.” She rose and went to an old writing bureau positioned so it faced her wall of books, lifting a live-text sheet from the desk and holding it out to me. “It’s all here, if you