“Then take me there,” she said.
“Now, I’m not the sort who does anything as a favor,” said Yellow Duster. “I think you’ve had enough out of me for free. How’s about a little cash reward for my services?”
She gave him a look. “How’s about I don’t blow a hole in you?”
He pursed his lips speculatively. “Seems fair.”
They stared at each other for a couple of seconds. Then Zoë waved the Mare’s Leg meaningfully. “Flophouse. Let’s go.”
“Ladies first,” Yellow Duster said with a mock-courteous ushering gesture.
“Couldn’t agree more,” Zoë said, stepping behind him and prodding him forward with the gun.
“But you’re a… Ohhh, I get it,” the man said. “Very funny.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Ain’t I just a barrel of laughs?”
7
“You carrying?” Zoë said as they walked
“Now she asks,” said Yellow Duster. “Yep. Six-gun. Shoulder holster.”
“Maybe you should give it to me.”
“You don’t trust me?” he said, making out as if his feelings were hurt.
“Don’t take it personally. I don’t trust anyone.”
The man reached under his coat for his weapon.
“Nice and slow,” Zoë warned. “Use your fingertips and keep them well away from the trigger.”
He passed the six-gun to her as instructed — a snub-nosed.38 caliber Baird and Chu Special. Zoë slotted it barrel first into her belt.
“You got a name?” she inquired.
“Call me Harlow. It’s not actually my name, but I answer to it,” he said. “What should I call you?”
“Hopalong.”
“Really? On account of the leg, I suppose. Bet that ain’t actually your name either.”
“Depends.”
“What do your friends call you?”
“They call me Hopalong.”
“I see,” said Harlow. “This relationship of ours, y’know, it’s seeming kinda one-sided to me.”
“That’s just how I like it.”
They wended their way down back streets, passing under lines of washing that had been hung out to dry but were probably just getting dirtier in this polluted air. A mangy, one-eyed cat yowled at them from a doorway, then turned tail and fled. The route they were following was so labyrinthine, Zoë was having trouble mapping it in her head and wasn’t certain she would be able to retrace her steps unaided. Her leg continued to voice its complaint. It wanted nothing more than for her to sit down and rest it. She wished she could but knew she couldn’t.
All the while, she kept an ear out for Book or Jayne buzzing in, or possibly the captain himself. From now on, to avoid another gŏu cào de communications mess like this one, she was going to make sure they double- and triple-checked their comm links beforehand.
“Down here,” Harlow said.
The alley he was indicating was no more than an arm-span wide. The roofs of the two-story buildings that bracketed it were perfect for a no-survivors ambush. To make matters worse, there wasn’t a single streetlight in the vicinity, only the faint backwash gleam from a couple of nearby windows.
“Got a flashlight,” Harlow said. “Okay if I take it out? Don’t want you getting all itchy-fingered on me.”
“Go ahead, but do it slow, like with your gun,” Zoë said, firming her hold on the sawn-off pistol grip of her holstered weapon. “Shine it in my eyes to try and blind me, and you are a dead man.”
Harlow took out the flashlight. He aimed it down the alley and flicked it on, creating a bright corona of illumination directly ahead of them.
Maintaining a comfortable distance behind Harlow, Zoë kept a lookout on the edges of the rooflines and the upper-story windows. There was no sign of movement from above, and none in the alley ahead.
They continued on without speaking. The alley wound back and forth, taking a hard dogleg to the right, then the left. Between the roars of takeoffs and landings at Eavesdown Docks, Zoë could hear distant sounds of celebrations. Strings of fireworks or automatic gunfire. Yelling and cheering. The Alliance Day revels were still ongoing but it all sounded far away, as though they were taking place on another world.
After approximately three minutes at a steady pace, the buildings on the right gave way to a high wall topped with concertina wire. The wall was broken by a closed, heavy wooden gate ten feet high and wide enough for a land speeder to pass through. It and the walls on either side were decorated with a sprawl of colorful graffiti tags. Most were crude and obscene, but some were kind of arty. One was an interpretation of the Blue Sun logo, tweaked so that it read “Blue Scum,” while on the gate itself was spray-painted DEATH TO ALL TRAITORS in tall, cringingly bright lettering. She thought back to the hatred the drunks in Taggart’s had shown for the Browncoats. Usually the worst that she heard was contempt for the losing side of the war. Folks around here sure had strong feelings on the matter.
Closer to, she saw that the DEATH TO ALL TRAITORS graffiti was fresher than any of the others.
“Any idea who these ‘traitors’ might be?” she asked Harlow, running a finger beneath the word as though underlining it.
“Beats me,” Harlow replied indifferently. “Could describe any number of folks, I guess. But being as it’s Alliance Day, and that looks to have been added sometime in the past week… Well, you do the math.”
“Browncoats.”
“Not just a pretty face.”
“And when Covington mentioned betrayal in connection with Mal, do you think that’s what he meant? That, rather than not paying money?”
“Lady, I try not to think too much about anything except keeping my head on my shoulders and platinum in my pocket.” Harlow reached through a hole in the gate, pulled something to unlatch it, then swung it open a crack. It squealed, possibly alerting any confederates that he had arrived. He stood aside and gestured for Zoë to go first. She just stared at him, so he shrugged and did the honors.
The gate opened onto an even shabbier-looking street lit by Harlow’s flashlight. Brick buildings gave way to teetering, derelict tenements made of wood and plaster. This older part of the city was deserted but for squatters who didn’t mind the missing roofs and windows, the lack of power and running water, and the profusion of vermin. The street was empty. Even squatters were out celebrating the glorious anniversary.
Zoë closed the gate and followed Harlow across the road and up a creaking stoop to a scarred door whose knob and lock had been broken off. As he shoved it open and crossed the threshold, Zoë peered past him. His flashlight revealed a floor of planks and walls garlanded with cobwebs. There were footprints in the dust, lots of them, overlapping. Holes had been opened in the interior walls to access ducts and electric wiring which had then been looted. There were no furnishings. No signs of a struggle. No Mal. No evidence that he’d been there, no hint where he’d gone.
Disappointing, to say the least. Unnerving, to say something else.
“Nobody’s home, looks like,” Harlow said, sweeping the flashlight beam around the room.
He couldn’t see it, but she was giving him the stink eye. This whole thing felt wrong.
“When you got paid, was my friend here?”
“Nope. Just the scarface guy.”
“And how long did you stay?”
“Long enough to get the second half of my fee. No longer. Why hang around? Might have been more work waiting for me at Taggart’s.”