With a shrug and a certain amount of chagrin, Zoë handed over her Mare’s Leg. Then she unsheathed the eight-inch hunting knife that balanced out her holster rig.
The guard gathered the weapons like a haul from under the Christmas tree.
“Borosky!” he called through the door over his shoulder.
The door opened a crack and a second man stuck out his head. His doughy, pale face was blotched with red. To Zoë, it looked like an allergic reaction, maybe mild radiation poisoning.
“Tell Badger that Zoë… Washbasin, is it?”
“Washburne.”
“Zoë Washburne is here to see him.”
“And it’s urgent,” Zoë reminded him.
“And it’s urgent,” the guard relayed in a sarcastic drawl.
Borosky nodded and closed the door. Presently he returned, signaling for Zoë to follow him.
They strode through a dingy, poorly lit foyer cluttered by packing crates and metal drums. Borosky pushed open the Moroccan print curtains that passed for office doors. Badger’s office was gritty, with obnoxious royal-blue walls, and decorated with rug-market odds and ends. The man himself sat in a shabby, overstuffed brown leather office chair, behind a desk covered in miscellaneous papers, soiled plates, unidentifiable gizmos, and an overloaded wire mesh in-and-out box. Badger looked her up and down, dark eyes glittering.
“Wotcher, Miss Washburne,” he said.
“Mrs.,” said Zoë crisply.
“Yep, sorry. Mrs. Washburne. It’s just, you never seem like a married woman.”
“And how should a married woman seem?”
“I dunno. A bit more… wifely?”
“Well, what a pity I don’t live up to that high standard.”
Badger shrugged, as if in agreement. “Can’t ’elp notice you’re looking a little lame in the leg there. Tsk, tsk. ’Urt ourselves, ’ave we?” Before she could answer, he picked up an apple and crunched into it appreciatively. “What I find most interesting about you and your mates,” he went on, “is how predictable you are. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Dare I say, bar fight?”
Zoë canted her head to the side, the most reluctant of admissions that he was correct.
“And you’ve come to see me why?”
“First of all, where’s Harlow?” she asked, scanning the room.
“You got business with ’im?” he asked, very interested. “Of what sort, may I ask?”
“That’s none of your concern,” she said. “He walked in here, but he didn’t walk back out.” She lifted her chin and raised her voice. “Harlow, if you’re in the building—”
“’E’s not,” Badger said. “And shouting isn’t going to bring the bloke back. ’E left by that door.” He gestured with his head towards the back of the room. “You might be able to catch up with ’im if you break into a run.” His wry smile told her that he didn’t think that was too likely.
The two of them regarded each other, a momentary standoff. Badger could be lying about Harlow being gone, Zoë thought, but what did he have to gain from that? A more important question was, since Harlow and Badger seemed to be connected, could Badger be behind Mal’s disappearance? Was he the one who had orchestrated the whole scheme? He could have hired Covington to abduct Mal, and Harlow had just now reported back to say “mission accomplished.”
On its face that scenario seemed unlikely. Taking Mal out of the equation would impede delivery of the important cargo, and possibly stop the transfer of related bags of coin into Badger’s coffers. Still, Zoë knew the shabby criminal thought himself capable of playing more than one level of simultaneous chess — despite all evidence to the contrary. Was that what he was doing?
“Harlow wasn’t here long,” Zoë observed, breaking the brief interlude of silence between them. “Couldn’t have been but two minutes since he came in.”
“I work fast,” Badger said. “Time is money.”
“What was he here for?”
“Well now, that’s interesting. Dunno if it’s coincidence or not, but ’e ’ad some info for me. About a certain woman who was looking for a certain missing friend who may or may not’ve been nabbed by someone — Hunter Covington, no less.”
“You know Covington?”
“Can’t work in Eavesdown and not know Hunter Covington.”
“Harlow said he didn’t.”
“Harlow’s a daft wanker. Anyway, apparently my name came up in the conversation, and Harlow thought I oughter know. Thought I might slip him a coin or two in return for telling me. You can imagine my views on that.”
“Less than positive, I’d have said.”
“Too right! Too bloody right! Sent ’im packing, with a flea in ’is ear. Not sure why anyone would reckon I care about being talked about behind my back. I mean, I’m a local celebrity. Goes with the territory. But that’s the trouble with geezers like Harlow— bottom-feeding grifters who’ve somehow got it into their heads they’re entrepreneurs. If there’s even a chance they can turn a profit from something…”
Badger’s expression, sly by default, turned slyer still.
“Funnily enough, it just so happens the woman he spoke about sounded an awful lot like you, Mrs. Washburne. ‘Balls of brass,’ he said, ‘with a side order of gorgeous.’ Which leads me to wonder whether I might be well acquainted with your friend what’s gone missing.”
Zoë decided she had no option but to come clean. There was a chance, however remote, that telling Badger the truth might help her. It might at least prompt Badger into initiating a search for Mal, because Badger had a dog in this fight. Without Mal, his cargo might not make it to its destination.
“I’m looking for Mal Reynolds,” she said.
“Oh-ho!” Badger chortled, clapping his palms together. He leaned back in his chair, planted his boot heels on his desk top, and laced his fingers behind his neck. “That’s it, is it? Captain Malcolm Reynolds has taken a sudden, unexpected leave of absence. What a surprising development.”
“I take it you didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“I’m shocked!” Badger declared, hand on heart. “Truly, deeply shocked. And not a little offended. Answer me this, Mrs. Washburne: Why the bleeding ’eck would I kidnap him? Captain who’s transporting goods for me? That would run counter to my own immediate interests, wouldn’t it? My suggestion is, since it’s Alliance Day, you should inquire at the local lockup. Maybe Reynolds got loaded and a bit lairy. Wouldn’t put it past ’im. The authorities don’t hold much with drunk-and-disorderlies around here. They expect everyone to comport themselves in a genteel fashion, like what I do. Mind you, if Reynolds had got himself thrown in the detox tank, he’d surely have used his right to a single wave and contacted you or your ship. Assuming, of course, that the arresting officers had granted him that privilege on what would have to be one of their busiest nights of the year.”
“Mal wasn’t drunk this evening and never got the chance to be disorderly,” Zoë said. “Something else has happened.”
Badger took another big bite of apple and, eyes narrowed, methodically crushed it to mush between his back teeth. “Well now, ain’t this a pretty predicament? Especially with my crates of HTX-20 in your hold.”
“We’re taking care of them.”
“Time is of the essence,” he said. “The very essential essence.” He fished an apple seed out of his mouth. “In fact, all things considered, I find it a touch perturbing that you’re still planetside.”
“We’ll be leaving shortly,” Zoë bit off.
“That’s good. And I’m sure once Captain Reynolds wakes up from his drunken stupor he’ll give you a wave to tell you everything’s hunky-dory.”
She maintained her silence.
“Tick-tock-tick-tock,” Badger sang out. “Clock’s running.”