I paid no heed to the agitated protests and grasped the handheld bug zapper I’d seen the waitress use a few nights earlier. Where are you, you little bastard?
Spectators went silent in their confusion, the manager, the busboys, all of them wondering what the fuck was wrong with me. My eyes caught on a black dot buzzing in zigs and zags. I powered up the zapper and swept the racquet-like end toward the dancing dot. Electricity popped in a blue flash. The racquet jumped from my grasp and a starburst of smoking, spiraling cinders drifted down.
I was back on the street, hoofing as fast as stiff legs would allow. The bridge wasn’t far. A car came around the corner. I ducked behind a stoop and peeked through a cluster of vine leaves. The car crept by: a panama hat rode in the passenger seat.
The car rolled toward the restaurant. Mota and Panama were going to check on my last-known location.
I gave it a few before coming out. I’d picked up a hitchhiker from the vines, felt it crawling and brushed the bug from my hair. My scalp screamed in protest, like I had a wicked sunburn under my hair, sun in the form of lase-fire and steamed water. A second burn stung my cheek, and my half-arm screamed too, ghost pain gripping me like a too real, invisible fist.
Fucking hell of a night.
Deluski and I were too slow. The image of Kripsen and Lumbela showed bright in my mind, the necktied bastards sticking their tongues out at me. I could see Wu’s little girls, innocent young things who would never again know joy or love.
Mota, Panama, and that psycho lizard-man. They’d all left their mark on me.
I’d brandish the scars like banners, lift them high as I carried them into battle. I was on a mission.
Numb legs carried me onto the bridge. I looked down at the river, streetlights illuminating an eddy, silent water spinning, meandering, wandering. Me, I was walking in a straight line.
“I didn’t quit!” I called to her.
She didn’t answer.
I wouldn’t be intimidated. This was still my turf. It was important to be seen. I strode right up the middle of the alley. My sore feet clomped with purpose, half expecting to be fried apart.
I trod past a group of hookers on a smoke break, all girl talk and garter belts. I looked over their heads, saw that Chicho’s office light was on. Good. I wouldn’t have to wake up that stiff. I was short on cash. And short on time. Mota and Panama would eventually come here looking for me.
I tried to take Chicho’s stairs quickly and almost fell, my tired legs having to be coaxed along. I stepped through the door, a shiver of relief rippling up my spine. I’d made it in alive.
I took a quick peek into the tiny barroom to see if Deluski was inside. The kid would know to meet me here after we’d been split up. But the barroom was empty. I told myself not to worry. He was probably upstairs somewhere.
A pair of young offworld johns with just-got-laid grins came from the back, a hooker on each elbow. They eyed me with concern, the missing hand, the damp clothes, their faces saying it all-don’t tell me you shop here too? Arrogant bastards were worried that they’d just dunked their toothbrushes into the same glasses I made a habit of rinsing in.
I gave them a wink before walking past and pushing my way through the curtain of monitor teeth. Chicho sat at his desk, tallying holo-receipts. Didn’t he know how late it was? In a big house brimming with big tits, big numbers were his only aphrodisiac.
“Tax time,” I said.
His eyes went straight to the part of me that was missing. “Where’s your hand?”
“Got it fixed so it doesn’t shake anymore.”
He studied my face, looking for a sign, any sign, I was joking. My gaze was pure steel. Stainless.
He shook his head, beady eyes incredulous. “You are one crazy-ass son of a bitch, you know that?”
I stood on the spot where Maria had given me a nutter. Seemed like a long time ago. Still felt bad about punching her. “Time to pay up,” I repeated.
“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”
“I saw your light was on. I have a busy day tomorrow. Figured I’d get a jump on things.”
He didn’t look ready to drop the missing-hand thing. His eyes had returned to the empty space hanging by my hip. He opened his mouth like he was going to ask a question, but a glance at my biz-only face talked him out of it. “How do you want it?”
“Cash.”
He whistled as if to say, tall order. “I don’t have that kind of scratch lying around. I can probably scrounge some up from tonight’s till. The rest will have to wait until I can hit the bank tomorrow.”
“Fine.” I didn’t want to bring up Mota, but I had to know if he and Panama had come around. My heart ticked up a notch as I tossed the question his way. “Heard from Mota?” I held on to my stone face while hanging on the answer.
“Nope.”
I acted like I’d expected that response, my voice cocksure. “See, I told you not to worry about him.”
Nodding, he said, “That you did, Juno. That you did.”
This was going better than expected. Mota hadn’t made his reappearance yet. He’d eventually try to reclaim his racket, no doubt about that, but the bastard probably had the good sense not to come to Chicho until after he’d snuffed me. Cleaner that way.
For the time being, Mota’s silence worked to my advantage. This little partnership between Chicho and me was still new. Fragile. If Mota started making waves, fears would have to be calmed, hurt feelings would have to be salved, and knowing Chicho, new rates would have to be negotiated.
But this was shaping up nicely. A sweet little collect-and-go.
Except Chicho was still sitting there, as in not hustling to get my dough. He kept nodding his head, eyes crinkled like he was thinking on something important. “Hey, did you know the cops who got axed?”
Shit. I kept my response minimal. “I knew them.”
“Two of them. Their heads cut off.” He scratched his chin. “I saw their pics on the news, thought I recognized one.”
So much for a quick collect-and-go.
“The one with the scar. Wasn’t he here for the blackout the other night? One of your boys, wasn’t he?”
I couldn’t deny it. He knew.
He moved up in his seat. “The other one. Was he one of your boys too?”
I nodded.
He slapped his desk. “Fucking hell. What kind of operation are you running?”
Never let your mark see weakness. I shrugged it off like it was no biggie. “So I lost a couple. What you getting all worked up about?” Two dead crew. Ho-fucking-hum.
“Mota do that shit?”
“Hell no. It had nothing to do with him.” And that was the truth. I kept the fact that he’d offed my other two dead crew to myself. If I was lucky, those bodies would stay underground for a good long while.
Chicho didn’t look convinced.
“Those were serial killings. They say that on the news?”
“They hinted that way but didn’t say for sure.”
“It wasn’t Mota.” My voice was chock-full of conviction. “I told you I took care of that pretty boy. You’ll never hear from him again.”
Chicho angled his head slightly so he could look at me sidewise with mistrustful eyes. “You on the level?”
I shouldn’t have to justify myself to this pimp. I let some anger seep into my voice, a little righteous indignation. “You’ve known me for how long?”
“Too long.”
“Try twenty years. Twenty long years. All that time, I’ve always been straight with you. So get the hell over whatever bullshit has you doubting me, and get me my damn money.”
“I put my neck out for you, Juno. I’ve got this whole alley singing your praises. Better protection at a cheaper price and all that. How’s it going to look if this shit gets out? You know what happens if people lose confidence in their protection? They’ll stop paying.”
“So don’t tell them Wu and Froelich were mine. Keep your trap shut, and you won’t have to worry about it.”
“They were here.” His voice rose as he stood. He took a step toward the window. “They were right outside that goddamned window. Any of the pimps or madams in this alley could’ve seen them, and I don’t have to tell you how recognizable that scar-headed motherfucker was.”