| From: | Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk |
|---|---|
| Subject: | The Preliminaries (Vegas #1) |
| Date: | Sat, 13 Feb 1999 13:38:15 +0000 |
>>>>>[Excuse my intrusion, but Snake Woman isn't answering his mail
these last few weeks, and you really, _really_ need to see this.
We have things to discuss, by the way. Payment, among other things.
Anyway, those diary files Snake Woman had me watching are suddenly
_extremely_ interesting.
This is Thursday evening's comment...
+++++begin diary
Vegas. Tough town. Tough, but screwed up.
Customs control is draconian: I always sweat a little about the 20-gauge
in my forearm, but the Agency implants are good and the scanner misses
my 'ware. But forget about bringing in any firearm that isn't shielded
seven ways from Sunday: this vacation paradise doesn't want its
customers packing heat or wearing armour.
My third visit, and still no problems. As far as anyone in Vegas can
find out, I'm Bernie Reid, a licenced bodyguard from the CAS sector of
Denver, and the ID's firm and tight as far as their computers can tell.
By the time they dig deep enough to break Bernie, that stick will be in
the trash and I'll be someone else and long out of Dodge. Or I'll be
dead.
Why is the town screwed up? Because, true to form in a Mob town, if you
got the money, you can get any damn thing you want. I'm only just out of
the shower in my hotel room when there's a knock at the door: a visitor,
smartly suited, with a nice synthleather briefcase. He's got a message
from the Slotback, he says, and leaves the case.
Now, I have a machine pistol, a stack of magazines and an Uncle Mike's
shoulder rig to carry it in: and a Drizabone duster that's rated at
Threat Level IIIA. Put the 'winter insert' in and it's Level IV, and yet
the heavy waxed fabric doesn't show the reinforcement.
Easy explained why the town works the way it does, and it's actually
pretty simple. The tourists don't pack. Period. Thus, anyone with a
firearm is either police, Mob, Gambling Commission or a well-connected
(or overconfident) independent. In all those cases, not someone to
casually fuck with. If you've the money and contacts to carry a piece in
Vegas, you're assumed to be smart enough to know what to do not do with
it, nobody will say Jack Shit. If you're dumb enough to brandish it
without a hell of a good reason, you can expect to be rapidly removed
from the gene pool, because you should know not to be that stupid.
Nice and simple.
Kind of the way she runs her nightclub, really. You want a weapon, you
carry it, and you accept the consequences.
I head along to her room, knock: she tells me to come in. She's in the
shower, seemingly unconcerned at being naked in front of me. Slimmer and
leaner and more scars than I usually like my women, but if I didn't know
she was disinterested I'd be sorely tempted...
"Look, but don't touch, Mitchell." She seems to be reading my mind. "Go
play sweaty snugglebunnies with Innocenta, she's got the hots for you.
If you aren't already, that is."
"I'm that obvious, huh?"
"Sure. Bet you don't play poker well." She's dyed her hair black for
this job, instead of her usual albino platinum blonde, I notice as she
rinses it through. With her alabaster skin and pale eyes it looks
stunning. Lucky Mani, I figure, he's got a better chance with her than
anyone and he's _devoted_ to her. "Pass me that towel, will you? And put
your eyeballs back in their sockets."
I comply, as she begins drying herself off. "I can see why you made good
money as a dancer."
"Hah. Good money? I could clear a hundred or two a night, and that's a
_good_ night. Most of the girls I was working with were pulling in five,
six hundred."
"Why's that?" I'm genuinely curious.
"How do you tip a tabledancer?"
"You tuck the money into... oh."
"Exactly. I don't like being touched." Dry except for her hair, she
dresses with a quick, economical grace. White silk shirt, black leather
jeans, black leather jacket, finally her fine chamois gloves. Some might
say all that leather's an affectation, but I know the real reason: it's
sun-proof, and she burns under ultraviolet like she was a vampire. The
fact that she looks good in it is... fortunate coincidence.
Like me, she's packing: she's got two Manhunter automatics in a double
shoulder rig, hidden in the bulk of the jacket. A gun-fu enthusiast. Why
do so many people do that? Lynch, Lilith, Easy, all blazing away with
pistols in each hand... if you want more firepower than a pistol, get a
SMG, I figure, but these 'runners seem to like the image.
She talks as she dresses, saying "I made money for the house, so they
paid me pretty good, but I didn't make much in tips. Not when you could
have Mariko on your table: give her twenty and never mind tucking it
into her G-string, she'd let you stick it in her pussy. For a fifty-yen
stick you could push it in there with your tongue, if that's what got
you off. For a hundred you could take her upstairs and shove anything
you liked in her pussy, in her mouth, up her ass, whatever."
"That kind of club, huh?"
"Put it this way, before I bought it out, it was damn near a brothel.
The apartments upstairs were for the girls to service customers in, I
damn near had to fumigate them before they were livable. You didn't
_have_ to hook to work there, but it helped." The slim Elf pulls on her
cowboy boots, makes sure the spurs at the heels have their safety covers
in place. "I was an interesting exception. The Ice Queen. Touch me and
you'll pull back fewer fingers than you held out."
"Bad for tips, good for business." I suggest.
"Oh, yeah. I only ever had to cut four or five guys, but everyone kind
of hoped that some drunk would make a grab... and I'm not exactly
uncute, so even if I didn't carve anyone, nobody minded staring at what
little I've got as long as I shook it hard enough. Some people like the
idea of a PEFM dominatrix, so I did a few private sets backstage in
bondage gear, for the right up-front fee. Hot Dog always bitched about
how I wouldn't cut him in for more than a third of my take, but he never
pushed it."
A memory jolts loose. "Hot Dog? Thought the guy's name was Top Dog?"
"That's what he called himself, but he was a total wiener." Easy
chuckles. "He hassled the girls for blowjobs, but then they were mostly
junkies who preferred dancing to working the street, they didn't mind
sucking his dick once in a while. He was scared of me, figured a third
of the take was better than nothing. Anyway, either you just came here
for a peep show or else you wanted something?"
"More background. You know Vegas better than most of us, you gave me a
lot of specifics. Told me to see for myself for the rest, well, this is
my fourth trip, I figure I'd better check I saw right."
"Makes sense." She turns a little more sombre. "Yeah, I know Vegas.
Decided when I left, that I'd only come back for a job like this."
"Bad town?"
"Yeah. This place stinks like a whorehouse at low tide. Everyone, and I
mean everyone, is on the take. You got money or connections? You can do
what you damn well like, get what you want, no limits, until your credit
runs out. Don't have the money? You're screwed and nobody gives a shit."
She shakes her head, wet strands of hair escaping from the towel. "First
week I was here, I was coming out of the Palomino after a shift - I was
working lobby security - and I was walking back to my place when I heard
noises from an alley. Couple of punks had grabbed a girl, she was a
dancer from the legs and the looks. Hauled her down the alley, slapped
her around, got her clothes off and were having some fun with her when I
came by. So of course I killed them and called the cops. What did I
know?"
"I take it this _wasn't_ the right course of action?" I ask.
"The two good ole boys were Nicky Malone and Jonny Petruchio. Belonged
to Santiago's mob out of the Platinum Princess, both made men, just out
having some fun. The girl lapdanced in some sleazejoint on 14th and San
Pedro, she didn't work for anyone important, didn't know anyone
important, didn't amount to anything, so who cares? Two good ole boys
want to show her a good time, she'd better lie back and like it, even
feel flattered that such important guys want to fuck her, she could
maybe parley it into favours later."
Easy snorts with disgust. "I put it like that, and the Lieutenant who
hauled me in didn't deny it. I shit you not. I had to go apologise to
Santiago personally for whacking his boys. In Seattle they'd at least
_mention_ the rape-in-progress even if they were really ignoring it."
The Elf shrugs. "He left it at that, though. I think he was embarrassed
that two of his supposed .90-calibre hardcases were taken down by a
newbie Elf-bitch from Fort Worth, because he just made me a job offer.
The cops gave me a hard time about it, but since I was working at the
Palomino and I'd already made myself useful, Don Diego said to lay off,
he'd explain things and make sure I didn't fuck up like that again."
The Elf looks sombre. "Christ knows what would have happened if I'd been
independent, though. Probably been buried in the desert or stripped for
spare parts.."
"And the girl?"
"The two cops who answered the call hauled her off. Supposedly for
questioning, in fact they told her to screw them both or else she could
spend a week in cells on accessory to murder charges. So she put out and
she got out. I ran into her when she came by the Mistral for an
audition, she told me to mind my own fucking business and walk on by
next time." The Elf shrugs. "So, don't be tempted to play Good Samaritan
here. Round here, you see someone being screwed over, it's because
they're low down and nobody cares, and nothing you do will help. Keep
that in mind."
I just nod. Some of what we may have to do here was gnawing at my
conscience, but Easy's salved it nicely. Something else strikes me,
"What was the offer Santiago made? Wetwork?"
"Prize fights. He figured I could be a contender."
She used to be a pitfighter? I didn't know that. "And were you?"
"Oh, yeah. You know me, Mitchell, you've seen me fight. You don't
usually get top-class talent on the bloodmatch circuit, not even in
Vegas. Especially not Vegas, because the audience want blood and lots of
it, the losers usually end up dead. So the guys who go for it tend to be
desperate, and not that bright.
"Once in a while you get someone young and sharp and ambitious who
carves their way to the top, has a couple of good fights, then kicks it
in the head to retire undefeated." Easy flexes her fingers, watching the
razors extend and retract through the selfseals in her gloves: one after
another, viciously sharp slivers of borocarbide with serrated, Dikoted
edges, polished to a bright glittering silver.
"I was top-flight talent for that league. Most of the fighters aren't
even wired, they jack up on kamikaze instead. Bad stuff, you have to
kill the guy three or four times before he realises he was dead, but it
also makes you careless and too aggressive. Six fights, six wins, then I
got out. Didn't even get cut much doing it."
"Profitable?"
"Yeah, not bad. Usually paid maybe five, ten grand as winner's prize,
plus you can bet on yourself to win. Why not, as long as you're good for
the bet? Lose and you won't be around to care you're broke. My first
fight, I got three to one against me against 'Neil II'. Borrowed fifteen
thousand - didn't say what for, of course - and put it all on me to win,
plus everything I had myself. Fifty K clear, plus ten more for the prize
money. Last fight, I pulled in nearly a hundred big ones all told,
that's when I decided it was time to quit the game and get out of town."
I nod. "So how come you hit Seattle so broke?"
"Medical expenses. When you're wearing someone else's beta-grade, even
as good a genetic ditto as that Taingire slitch was for me, you get
compatibility problems. I got the worst of them fixed at a place in
Denver, but it pretty much cleaned me out." She shrugs, smiles. "Easy
come, easy go. Cost me a quarter-million in cold change, left me with
just about enough money for a bus fare to Seattle, but it was worth it.
Probably saved that much in immunosuppressants and all the other shit I
used to have to take."
I just nod, as Mani enters: the big Sufi bristles slightly at seeing me
with Easy. Weird, that: I know they're not lovers, yet Mani hardly has
eyes for other women, just sticks to Easy like glue.
A mental shrug: it's probably a Sufi thing. Mani might keep quiet about
his faith, but he's got a lot of it hidden away in there.
Two's company, three's a crowd. Time to leave. Let's see what the
restaurant in this place is like.
+++++end diary
Wish he had video instead of a cybercom diary... oh, well.
Anyway, that was Thursday night. Wait until you see what he did
yesterday.]<<<<<
-- Yefrem <13:27:43/02-13-60>
