Quiet Piggy Part 3

James told me that the last gig Quiet Piggy had played was at a joint called Bar Zero. The place was known to me from days in the Militsiya, it was across the river in Barrio Viejo, the old town. I asked her if she felt the disappearance of the guitar had anything to do with local politics and Quiet Piggy's outspoken stance on certain issues. She reckoned it was unlikely, sure the Politicals had watched one or two of their gigs but as nothing violent had occured she didn't think they were involved. And if they were why would they stoop to something so petty as nicking a guitar?

Fair point. If the Politicals wanted to silence Quiet Piggy they'd just toss em in the Donjon and let them rot for a month or so. Then they'd black list them at all venues forcing them to go underground if they wished to continue. Given that none of these things had happened it seemed to me that the Politicals felt Quiet Piggy was small beer in the grand scheme of things. Which when you had gangs like Red Front, Red Skorpions and Red Flag openly disrupting events, university campuses and public order, an outspoken grrl band would be the least of your worries.

I thanked James for all her info and told her to keep in touch. She walked out of my office and blew me a kiss, I poured myself another dram of Highland Mist to get over it. So could it be a fan? Or something else entirely? Five years working in the Black Market section of the 9th Division gained me a network of informants who were happy to continue working with me in my transition to the private sector. It would be these I would touch base with tomorrow ASAP.

Next morning I woke bright and early. Got breakfast to go then made my down Gagarin towards a taxi stand. Jumped in the front passenger seat and told the driver to take me to Bar Zero in Barrio Viejo. The driver just nodded then steered the taxi out into traffic and we were on our way. He decided on a direct route, heading down Gagarin then turned onto Armstrong and headed towards the river. Traffic was picking up as we drove, workers heading off to work, parents dropping their kids off at school. We hit Borodin Boluevard which ran along the river bank without any hassle. We cross over the river via the Nadia Shevchenko Span, a bridge named in the honour of the woman who was insturmental in designing the engine that propelled the SACV Novo MIr across the interstellar deeps.

Across the bridge we went. As we did you could see in the waters below shadows moving. Possibly russalka or vodyanoi, the local native wildlife that had voracious appetites. Strangely for peoples pets, not people. And naturally they ate the various fish breeds local to the waters as well as grazed on mosses and lichens. Eventually we made it into the warrens of the Warehouse district which stretched away south and also bled into the Barrio Viejo. By now I'd finished my Ultra Blast burger and fries, though I hadn't touched my coffee. I've a knack for eating while being driven somewhere, but have not mastered the art of coffee drinking while being driven.

The taxi pulled up outside a rather disreputable building, the windows were shuttered, the front entrance had a roll down door that was firmly locked. The neon sign proclaiming "Bar Zero" was turned off. Here and there one could see late night stragglers, moaning and groaning with colossal hangovers as they made their way back home or to a squat. There were a few vagrants here and there sleeping either a bender off or just trying to escape their crushing reality. Strangely as I exited the taxi a tumble weed rolled past and their was the sound in the distance of a can clattering along the ground. I paid the driver and he thanked me then took off as if his backside was on fire.

I glanced at the front entrance of the club.

I'd have to eventually ask questions here at some point. But for the moment I needed to talk to someone else, someone who had the finger on the pulse. And that meant I had to buy a newspaper...