His face expressionless as a dead crab’s, Delphia waited for two heartbeats before saying, “Triple.”
Erika paused. Bluff or a deal-breaker? She waited a full clock minute before answering, “Agreed.” Letting him know no more was coming. The ceiling had been hit.
But then he added, “Plus, we need some immaterial assistance.”
A mage? “Shouldn’t you supply such special support yourselves?”
Delphia reached away from the screen, then brought a cup of soykaf into view and took a sip. “The word’s already out that Two Bears got cacked,” said Delphia, after taking a sip. “And now . . .” He spread his hands in explanation.
Erika understood completely. The streets were exactly like a board-room meeting. If the word had already spread that the run had gone bad almost from the start, they were going to have frag’s own time trying to hire anyone smart enough to do the team any good. The similarities of their worlds were often amazing. “Perhaps I can help you there.”
“Got a singer on tap, sir?” There was only a momentary shifting of vocal tenor at the last word, and Erika wondered if this was his way of saying he knew it wasn’t a norm male he was addressing.
With this rationalization, her heart beat faster, the decision made. “Yes,” she told the screen, scratching herself on the jawline as an unshaven male would. What details she missed, the VR program of the com would cover. “Likes Cat. You savvy?”
“Not a virgin?” asked the screen.
A short laugh, and Erika’s VR image stroked a nonexistent moustache. She thought of how Delphia’s would feel on her skin. “Oh, no, she’s done many . . . errands ... for me and my associates before.” Associates, let him chew on that word.
“Mage got a name?” the picture of Delphia asked gruffly. “Or do we just call her cat?”
What a caustic man. Erika Johnson was liking him more and more. And the powerful width of his shoulders offered pleasures of a more personal nature. She mimed lighting a cigar for the benefit of the others watching. The light for her double-date winked off. Too bad, so sad. But this was biz.
* * *
The arrangements for obtaining the shaman had been so slick, that Silver exploded into pleased laughter as the telecom screen faded to black. She yanked the datajack from her temple.
“The Johnson agreed to pay triple!” Two Bears cried out, also beaming with pleasure. “Triple! With a fragging bonus! We’re riding the gravy train with biscuit wheels!”
“Yes, the pay is quite satisfactory at this point,” said Delphia, stepping out of the canvas tent. He turned toward the dwarf, who was sitting in a corner by himself safely away from the telecom pickup. “You were correct, my friend. The Johnson probably responded more favorably to a suit than to, say, Thumbs’ more highly functional urban clothing.”
“Suits like suits,” agreed Two Bears with a knowing smile. “The only thing that bothers me is how easily he agreed to pay more. I think there’s something important he’s not telling us, which could mean we run into major complications down the line. Plus, when the nuyen flows like that, it’s got corp written all over it.”
Delphia nodded agreement, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. “The Johnson will surely check the Matrix to confirm the death of Two Bears, but Silver assures us the upload to the city morgue files will be accepted as a legitimate coroner’s report. That should remove any possible retribution from the policlubbers, making the job much easier and vastly increasing our remuneration.”
“And don’t forget the bonus!” crowed Thumbs.
Two Bears checked his watch. “Sundown in less than an hour. Rocking. Let’s blow this dump, snatch the singer, and bust open IronHell.”
“How?” asked Thumbs succinctly.
“I got an idea,” responded Two Bears. Removing the ammo clip from the Crusader, he checked the load and slammed the clip back in. “I know a gal who might be able to help us.”
And what a lovely gal, she was, thought Two Bears, remembering her beautiful eyes. He’d only seen her once, but now they’d meet again. And so much sooner than he’d
thought.
The screaming had stopped over an hour ago, and Wesley finally let his curiosity get the better of him and he started creeping up the stairs of the old apartment house. A zillion years ago it had been some rich toff’s summer home. Nobody remembered who he was, or cared. The place had a solid roof, and that was enough.
The side door was too old to close properly, and Wesley eased inside with no sweat. It was on the steps that he halted, frozen in his tracks as he watched the tiny rivulet of red blood drip-drip-drip down the bare wood, coming straight for him from the top landing three full floors away.
* * *
The powerful motor of the big black Toyota Elite was working quietly and efficiently, venting its toxic exhaust fumes into the twilight air, just as a hundred thousand other vehicles were doing this evening in beautiful downtown Miami. It was what made the sunsets so amazingly colorful, and pigeons drop from the sky like broken water balloons.
Delphia was at the wheel, handling the vehicle like he was rigged into the controls. Riding in the front passenger seat, Two Bears shifted the Crusader in his lap and wondered where the gunsel had gotten the posh vehicle on such short notice. There were no rental tags. No tags at all, actually. And as with so many things about the mysterious gunsel, Delphia didn’t want to say. Jacked it, likely. Or was it his? Who knew?
Two Bears considered the Sphinx garrulous compared to the fancy-dressing norm. He wasn’t inclined to ask for details, as it wasn’t his prerogative. And it didn’t really matter. The power plant under the hood was solid, the windows tinted, the AC icy, and the tank full. A stocked bar would have been nice, but Two Bears hadn’t expected miracles. As long as Lone Star SWAT teams didn’t come skydiving down to get it back, he couldn’t care less who the car’s owner was X hours ago.
“Coral and Brickel,” said Delphia, slowing the Elite to a stop at a corner.
“Redhead at two o’clock,” said Thumbs from the back.
“I see her.” Silver threw open the back door on the driver’s side.
In climbed a slim norm, her hair a riot of blazing red with lots of highlights. She wore skin-tight denim cutoffs and tied-off T, exposing a lot of valuable assets and looking more like a bouncy beachbundle than a hotdrek shaman.
As she closed and locked the door behind her, Two Bears changed his opinion. The norm had an elaborate tiger-stripe tat running up one arm and across her back. Very costly work. She also wore bracelets, rings, and necklaces. Fetishes? he wondered. Cosmetics made her eyes slant like an Oriental, or a cat. Her nails were very long, sharply pointed and every color in the spectrum, with a few more besides. In strange contrast was the bandolier cross her chest.
Pulling away from the curb and merging with the uptown traffic, Delphia looked a question at Two Bears, who shrugged in response. What was there to say? All mages were crazy. It went with the job. Who knew how it twisted their minds trying to access and wield the magical energies as only they could?
Glancing about the interior of the Elite, the shaman gasped as she saw Two Bears. “You!”
He returned her attention. “Yeah? Me, what?”
“I heard you were dead!”
“The rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated,” Two Bears quoted.
“Apparently,” the shaman growled deep in her throat.
“How did you recognize him in that disguise?” aske
d Silver. “He’s bald and that stomach padding adds years to him.”
“I see all,” purred the shaman, making a mysterious gesture in the air. “My name is Moonfeather and I sing for Cat.”
Introductions were accomplished with a minimum of fuss.
“Upload me,” Moonfeather said, kicking off her sandals and curling her dainty feet up underneath her.
“First things first,” said Delphia, looking at her through the rearview mirror. “Scan the car, please.”
“My pleasure.” Moonfeather smiled warmly, the tip of her pink tongue running lightly over dark red lips.
“No armor?” snapped Silver, staring. The mage was obviously wearing nothing under her tee. “That’s not smart.”
“Got my spells,” said Moonfeather, smiling like the cat who’d swallowed the canary. “And my Beretta.” Closing her eyes for a few ticks, she hummed softly to herself, then opened them wide. “The car is clear.”
Delphia glanced at her in the mirror again, but said nothing.
“Now, let’s get down to biz,” said Thumbs. “We need ya to change the dwarf into an ork.”
“Are cameras or scanners involved?”
“Shouldn’t be,” grumbled Two Bears. “Not in Dorsey Park, where we’re going. The whole turf shoulda been zapped to the ground years ago, but then the cockroaches wouldn’t have anyplace to go for a honeymoon.”
“Make him an African, or a Swede,” said Delphia. He swerved around a slow-moving truck and found himself staring at the aft end of a Lone Star cruiser. The steel hotel in the back seat was empty and the two norms in the front were vigorously polishing their riot guns, obviously in the mood for a little Overtown head-bashing. Increasing the tint in the windows, Delphia slowed by tiny increments until the natural flow of traffic separated them from the street patrol.
“Just make him different,” said Silver, both hands tight on the strap of her shoulder bag.
“We’re going to pay a little call on an ork,” said Thumbs, the SMG bouncing as the Elite hit a pothole. “If he’s not feeling too talkative, the sight of another ork face might loosen him up some.”
“Good enough.” Closing her eyes, Moonfeather rested her hands on her knees, palms up, fingers forming circles. She began to hum softly as she placed one hand around a single bead of amber she wore on a knotted leather cord around her neck.
Inhaling sharply, she smiled in satisfaction and removed the necklace. Reaching forward over the divider, she placed it around the dwarf’s neck, rubbing a soft breast against Delphia’s shoulder in the process.
Two Bears fingered it curiously.
“Done,” she said with a smirk, retaking her seat.
The dwarf looked in the rearview mirror, and saw no change in his appearance. But when he turned about so the others could see him, they gasped and recoiled.
“It worked?” he asked.
“Of course it worked,” said Moonfeather, resting a shapely arm on top of the front seat, a single finger touching the back of Delphia’s muscular neck. “Tell him what you see.”
Thumbs grimaced. “The most motherfragging ugly ork in the world is what I see!”
“That’s hard data,” ventured Silver. “You’re black as coal with the hideous orange hair of a junkpunker on a week-long bebop bender.” She bent closer. “Your face is a hodge-podge of acid scars, there’s a mottled eye, some missing yellow teeth, a lot of very badly done prison tats, your left ear has been chewed to the gristle, and you’ve got acne.” Silver looked down. “Both hands are discolored from some kind of skin disease, maybe cured, maybe not, every nail is broken, with dirt permanently embedded in the quick.”
“You twisting my willie?” demanded Two Bears suspiciously.
“Good job,” said Delphia, taking his eyes off the road to give the dwarf a quick glance. “He’s almost ugly enough to be a Lone Star cop.”
“An insect shaman’s joyboy,” corrected Thumbs with a tusky grin. “Devil rats would run from you,
omae
.” Roaring with laughter, Thumbs whacked the shaman on the back, making her whole bracelets jingle. “Out-fragging-standing!”
“Sir, never travel to Kingston like that,” commented Delphia dryly, shifting about in his seat. “The zombies would worship you as a god.”
“Or a male centerfold,” added Silver, pulling the deck from her bag.
“Ha!”
“Should last till you want me to stop it,” said Moonfeather, not joining the jocularity. “Then I can do it again, but this will be tiring to keep up for long periods.”
“Shouldn’t need it for more than a couple of hours, max,” drawled Two Bears in a gravelly tone.
“Talk lower,” instructed Thumbs. “And curse more.”
“Frag you, pud-licker.”
Thumbs grinned. “Good. How ’bout Psycho Pete?”
“Huh? Oh, a name. Gimme something more macho,” the dwarf said.
“Cannon?” tried Silver.
“Nitro?”
“Mackie?”
“Do I look fragging Scottish?” asked Two Bears demanded.
Thumbs said no. “But we can say a Mack truck hit you, and you won. Well, sort of.”
Everybody burst out laughing.
“You are magnificently hideous,” agreed Delphia, brushing at the back of his neck. “Nobody will be able to recognize you.”
“Hell, they may not even talk to you in Dorsey!”
“Good. Mackie it is, then.”
“So, we’re going to Dorsey Park,” said Moonfeather, glancing out the window. The Elite was passing under the elevated neon people-mover that circled downtown Miami. Chilled fountains and colored sand augmented the usual forest of healthy, crab-free palm trees. “I don’t know that part of town much.”
“Yar, Dorsey Park,” said Two Bears, experimentally making faces at himself in the mirror. Still him. “Near the boneyard.”