Jayne blinked. “Huh?” he said, fingers still supporting the back of his skull.
The guy called Earl staggered up to the table. “Well, I’ll be…! You’re right, Mitch. That is one ugly-ass chapeau.” To Jayne he said, “Don’t suppose you’d mind removing that abomination from your head, hoss? To avoid upsetting those of us with delicate stomachs.”
Jayne’s frozen grin rapidly melted away.
“I can’t decide whether that contraption makes me want to laugh or throw up,” said Large Forehead, a.k.a. Mitch.
Several people within earshot chortled merrily. “All this anti-hat talk gettin’ to you, huh?” said Zoë.
“Yup,” Jayne said.
“Stay cool. We’re not here for this. Low profile.”
Drunken louts at the surrounding tables rose awkwardly from their seats, pushing in closer to take a gander for themselves. Pointing at the hat which Jayne’s dear mother had made him with her own two hands, they roared with laughter.
This was becoming too much for Jayne. He let his arms drop to his sides, uncoiling like a snake.
“Take it easy, Jayne,” Zoë warned. “I mean it.”
Unfortunately, Mitch overheard the caution. “His name’s Jayne!” he hollered to the throng. “Can you believe it, this witless moron’s name is Jayne! And li’l Jaynie is wearing a baby hat!”
The crowd of maybe a dozen bar patrons pressed in even tighter, with more moving in behind them, filling in the vacated space.
“She’s probably wearing a baby diaper, too,” Mitch cried in delight. Flattening both hands on their table, he leaned forward and slurred into Jayne’s face, “Want us to change it for you, Li’l Jaynie?”
Jayne glowered at him. “No one mocks my mother,” he snarled, and began to rise.
Zoë rolled her eyes. Matters were about to get out of hand, and there was nothing she or anyone could do to prevent it.
4
The hairs on the back of Mal’s neck prickled as a man stepped from the shadows along the street outside Taggart’s, about ten feet from the swinging doors.
The newcomer had three others with him. One was a lanky, sallow-skinned type who looked several meals short of a decent diet and had jet-black hair with a pronounced widow’s peak. Another of them was tall and rangy, with a complexion as wrinkled and leathery as rawhide. The third had a droopy walrus-type mustache whose tips extended down past his jawline.
Now that the sun had gone down, just about the only light in the street came from the fritzing holographic bar window. Still, Mal could make out enough of the main man’s sleek, smug face to recognize him from the wave pic.
“Hunter Covington,” Mal said.
“None other,” the fellow confirmed. Covington was somewhat bulkier than he had appeared on the vid screen. It was likely he used a real-time appearance tweaking program — software beloved of the vain and the ugly throughout the ’verse — to make himself look thinner than he really was in waves. He was just as nattily dressed, however, right down to the feather-sprouting homburg on his head, the spats on his patent leather shoes and the rosewood cane in his hand. The cane seemed less a walking aid than a fashion accessory, since he did not lean on it as he stood. Its silver knob was carved in the shape of a cobra’s head.
As Covington and his cohorts approached, Covington himself made a straight course towards Mal, whereas the three underlings spread out in a way that Mal did not like, a way that made him more of a target, and them less. A couple of steps in either direction, and they’d be flanking him.
In response, Mal’s hand dropped to the butt of his holstered Moses Brothers Self-Defense Engine Frontier Model B pistol, known affectionately to him as his Liberty Hammer, and rested there all casual like. He was making what he hoped was a subtle but clear statement: Don’t even think about it.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance in person, Mr. Covington,” he said, “and that of your three very diverse pals. Mighty fine evening for a nice, professional, businesslike chat with no threat of violence whatsoever, wouldn’t you say?”
Covington half-smiled. “As we discussed, Captain Reynolds…” he said.
“Call me Mal. Bein’ as I’d like to keep this on a friendly basis.”
“Very well. Mal.” He spoke as smooth and slow as syrup. “As we discussed, Mal, I have an assignment for you. A small package to be delivered down Bellerophon way next time you happen to be in the vicinity. No rush at our end. There’s a research scientist there, Professor Yakima Barnes, who wants to buy what we’ve got to offer. Thing is, he’s under house arrest so there have to be a couple of middlemen involved in the transfer. You being ours, if you want the job.”
I can walk away right now, Mal told himself as he eyed the quartet. We already have the Badger assignment. We could make do with it in a pinch.
But he was greedy. He knew it; accepted it. The more cargo he could pack in the hold, the more profitable the trip. Besides, Kaylee needed expensive replacement parts for the engine, including a new cross-braced adaptor port for the oxidizer preburner. Plus there was fuel and such. The crew had to eat. And bribes had to be paid. It all added up. And there was nothing awry with this situation that Mal could put his finger on just yet. It was just a feeling he had. And his feelings had often been wrong. Like when he’d been sure that Command would send air support to Serenity Valley and the Browncoats would win the war.
“And what is it we might be deliverin’ for you, Hunter?” he asked. When Covington didn’t reply, he prodded, “Is it poisonous? Bigger than a breadbox? Have claws and big scary teeth?”
“It’s a rare type of metallic ore,” Covington told him. “A small rock, like so.” Tucking his cane under one arm, he estimated the size between his hands — about that of a cantaloupe melon. “Weighs around twenty, twenty-five pounds.”
Mal nodded slowly, not particularly reassured. Something being small didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous. Look at River Tam.
“Does this rock throw off toxic fumes?” he asked. “Radiation? Anything like that? I need to know for the safety of my ship and crew, and my other cargo.”
Growing up on the Reynolds family ranch on Shadow, Mal had learned about horses, cows, and alfalfa. In the war, it had been all strategy, tactics and field dressings. But in his new line of work, there were too many things to learn and he had to play it by ear much of the time. That meant asking a lot of questions, covering your bases as best you could, and reading the reactions of those trying to buy your services.
“Comes in a lead-lined container,” Covington replied, which was not exactly the answer Mal had been hoping for. “Perfectly safe,” he added. “If you want, Mal, you can examine it before you take the job. We’re keeping it just down the next alley.” He jerked his cane in that direction. “We got a place we’re staying at there.”
Dark alley.
Strangers.
Four-to-one odds.
Inside his head, Mal heard warning bells.
He said, “Know what? No offense, you seem like a great buncha guys an’ all, but I think I’m gonna pass.”
“Money’s good,” Covington insisted. “Plenty of platinum in it for you.”
“Yeah,” Mal said, with a show of regret that wasn’t entirely unfeigned. “Wouldn’t be surprised if I’m walkin’ away from the bargain of a lifetime, but still. Fine upstanding citizens like yourselves mightn’t understand this, but sometimes a man in my line of work’s just got to listen to his instincts, and mine are telling me it’s time to fold my tent and move on.”
“Captain Reynolds…” said Covington.