Free Nightside CIty by Lawrence Watt-Evans

a charge that wasn’t worth the trouble of
extradition—some sort of minor assault charge. He was on the edge
from then on, for three years—and then he disappeared from the
records, went completely invisible to the public com, for about a
year and a half, until a few weeks ago, when he turned up as a
vice-president in Westwall Redevelopment.
    “And that’s the damnedest part, he really was
a vice-president. No doubt about it, everything in order up and
down the line, this little piece of organic grit was third in
command at Westwall Redevelopment.” She shrugged. “Can you explain
that?”
    “No,” I said. “Can you? Did you look into it
any further?”
    “Hell, no!” she said, sitting up straight.
Her hair caught a beam of brilliant green light. “It wasn’t my business; I gave him the deed and waved goodbye and then
put on file that I had a personality clash with Westwall
Redevelopment and didn’t want to handle them if they came back. I
mean, it’s pretty clear to me that there’s a bug in the program
somewhere, but it’s not my program, and I’m no detective
anyway.”
    “But I am, right?” I smiled, and shook my
head. “Sorry, Mariko, but I don’t know any more about Westwall than
you do—at least, not yet. I’ve just started on this.” I leaned
back. “This is a big help, though, and I appreciate it—it gives me
a place to start. If you like, I can keep you posted on what I find
out.” I gulped liquor, and then thought of something.
    “The payment was okay?” I asked. “The money
came through, and the transfer fees got paid?”
    “Of course,” Cheng said, obviously surprised
I could even think of questioning that. So much for the idea that
somebody had a way of faking title transfers. I’d narrowed my
original four possibilities down to one; somebody really was buying
property in the West End.
    I’d originally thought that anybody doing
that had to be pretty badly glitched somewhere, and I still didn’t
see any other explanation. I just couldn’t see what was worth
buying in the West End.
    I wondered if the mystery buyer was this
Orchid character. That bit about not wanting to come by the office
sounded like something needed debugging.
    “Did you ever ask him what the problem was
with having a human pick up the deed?” I asked.
    “Oh, yeah, certainly,” Cheng said. “And he
said something about how the management software thought it was
inefficient. Then he made a pass at me.” She grimaced.
    I made a sympathetic coo.
    I could see why she hadn’t wanted to tell me
this over the com; it was gossip, really, and saying unkind
things about a customer isn’t good for one’s career in banking. The
useful parts, for me, were eliminating the possibility of faked
transfers, and having a name, a real name, that I could work
from.
    I was eager to get back to my office, where I
could get back into my com nets, but I didn’t want to just walk
right out; after all, I was supposed to be the hostess of this
little get-together. I could plead a remembered appointment or the
press of business, but the proper etiquette then would be to tab
another drink or two on my card for Cheng, maybe a meal or her cab
fare as well, and I couldn’t afford that. So I sat back and watched
the show for a minute.
    Cheng watched with me.
    The couple was face to face now, doing a slow
spin, speed changing with each thrust as the center of mass
shifted. Little globes of sweat were drifting away on a thousand
tangents and vanishing as they reached the edges of the cylinder of
light.
    There was a certain fascination to it, I had
to admit.
    I watched, and Cheng watched, and after a
moment Cheng pushed back her chair. “I think I better go,” she
said. “Thanks for the drink.” Her voice was a little unsteady.
    I nodded. “Thank you ,” I said. I
watched her go.
    I had hoped for that reaction. I knew she had
a man at home, and watching people screw does tend to make people
horny, particularly after a drink or