Robert Charette - Never deal with a Dragon

The Dragon stayed on only long enough to pronounce the result, “ Satisfactory. ”

Crenshaw nodded and Ridley kicked the door. The frame splintered and a section tore away, taking the lock plate, still fiercely resisting, with it. The door swung open to reveal a room screened from the afternoon sun by heavy drapes. Illumination came from a pair of red bulbs sitting baldly in cheap floor lamps supposed to look like candle Scones.

Startled, a naked fat man scrambled up from the bed. His companion, a petite Asian woman, stayed where she was, wide-eyed in surprise and just as unclothed. She had no choice; she was tied spread-eagled to the bedposts.

Crenshaw let Ridley and Markowitz precede her into the room. The detective stopped just clear of the door, but the razorguy stalked in, catching the naked man as he lunged for his clothes.

“Now, now, John,” Ridley said, grabbing the man by his hair and hauling his head back. The razorguy smiled as the man sagged in his grip, yelling in pain. “You shouldn’t leave before we get acquainted.”

Ridley pulled the John upright again and pumped two quick punches into his abdomen. The man doubled over, choking and starting to vomit. Ridley twisted the man’s hair, forcing the john to spew away from him. When the man had retched himself dry, Ridley shoved him at the door. The man stumbled toward it, arms folded over his middle.

“Want these?” Ridley taunted, holding up the man’s abandoned clothes. His laughter echoed in the hall as the man fled. “Oh, yeah. A real man.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Markowjtz said.

“Oh, no?” Ridley gave him an innocent look. “You did the dossier, Marky. You know how tough he gets. With women, anyway. Maybe he’d have tried to take us all on. I mean, he could have hurt A.C. I was just taking a little precautionary measure.

“You’re sick, Ridley,” Markowitz said.

“Leastways I don’t have to tie them down to get a girl. What about you, Marky? Ever manage it without a few straps?”

“Dump it, you two. We’re here on business.” Crenshaw turned to the woman on the bed. “We came to talk to you, Candy.”

Candy stretched her neck, trying to reach the strap release with her teeth, but Crenshaw slapped her cheek and pulled the release out of reach.

“Not just yet, dear.”

“I got nothing to say to you.” Candy’s eyes burned with hate, but she held still. “You guys just cost me 500 nuyen, and if you don’t buzz now, Alfie’s gonna set his stompers on your tails.”

“Let him try, babe.” Ridley held up his forearms and cocked his wrists inward. Nine centimeters of chromium steel blade snapped out from imbedded sheaths, glistening in the red light. “I eat stompers for breakfast, then go out for a real meal.”

Crenshaw sat on the edge of the bed. “You see, Candy. In his crude way, my associate has expressed a truth. We have no need to fear your friend Alfie’s bullies, as we are quite capable of protecting ourselves. You, on the other hand, have no one to protect you from us. You won’t need it, though, if you’ll just tell us what we want to know.”

Candy set her jaw and turned her head away.

“We know that you’ve been seeing a corporate manager by the name of Konrad Hutten.”

No reaction.

“We also know you work for Congenial Companions who arranged your liaisons with Hutten, Who’s your boss, Candy?”

“Go check the Hall of Records.”

Crenshaw nodded to Ridley. He moved to the side of the bed where Candy could see him. Crouching, he brushed a blade down her cheek. Blood welled up in the shallow furrow it made.

“Reconsider, babe, or you’re going to lose something near and dear to you.”

“Sit on your spur.”

“Bad answer, babe,” Ridley’s arm flashed down, slicing his spur through the girl’s wrist. Her hand fell to the floor and was spattered with the blood pumping from her wrist. She started to scream.

“Ridley!” Markowitz leaped forward, only to be stopped short by a bloody blade whose point was less than a centimeter from his right eye.

“It’s biz, chummer. You want your own taste?” Ridley said through clenched teeth.

Crenshaw ignored them and spoke to the girl. “You’re going to bleed to death unless you tell me what I want to know. Now, who do you work for?”

“You won’t let me die?” Candy’s voice quavered. She was already going into shock.

“Of course not, dear. Who do you work for?”

“Help me first,” she pleaded.

“No, dear. You have to talk first.”

Candy began to cry, her breathing irregular and ragged. “The Elf bitch,” she moaned. “Calls herself Hart.”

“Now that’s a name I have heard before. You should have spoken up sooner, Candy. There was no need for you to get hurt.” Crenshaw stood up. “Markowitz, tie off her arm, then call a DocWagon.”

Markowitz gave Ridley one last glare and stepped around the razorguy to reach the bed. With swift motions, he freed the vacant restraining strap and applied it to Candy’s arm as a tourniquet. By the time he was done, she had fainted.

“You didn’t have to maim her,” he said.

“Null the static, Marky.” Ridley tapped the flat of one spur against his chrome arm. “Her kind’s always got credit socked away. She can buy the tech. They can make her faster, stronger, better!”

Ridley’s wild laughter made Crenshaw’s stomach go sour. The man was over the edge and would have to be watched. If it came to it, she could send him against Hart. He probably couldn’t take the Elf, but it would get him out of Crenshaw’s hair for good.

The street corner was like a hundred others in the metroplex this time of day. Hurrying by were corporate day-wagers, salarymen, and office ladies, all trying to make it home before the city’s nightlife took over the streets. Or else heading that way to ready themselves to join it. Already the first wave of night breeds was out. Chippers, chemguzzlers, and jackheads were panhandling for their next fixes while rockerfans, glitzqueens, and underage wannabees hustled off to the next scene-or-be-scene. The only thing that made this corner unique was the ebony Mitsubishi Nightsky rolling slowly to a stop by the curb.

The doors on the curbside of the limousine opened. A burly Ork rolled out of one to stand stern and vigilant sentry. The gray livery she wore was tailored to enhance her already considerable presence. Through the open door, Sam could see that the driver wore a similar uniform; he was also an Ork.

The back door gaped on a cool, dark interior. A woman who he recognized as Lofwyr’s secretary sat in a bucket jumpseat that backed against the partition separating the sybaritic rear compartment from the control center of the front. Across from her sat a man whose face was unfamiliar. The man, so relaxed he could only be the rightful owner of the vehicle, was slim and well-dressed. Fiftyish and distinguished, he wore his gray hair trimmed in a slightly old-Fashioned cut. When he smiled, a glint of gold showed among his teeth.

“Please get in, Mr. Verner,” the man said. “The sidewalk is no place to transact business.”

Sam ran his fingers through his hair, a signal to Ghost that the contact had arrived, He heard the sound of the Indians motorcycle starting, but the noise of traffic quickly swallowed the Sound. Ghost was ready to follow him, for they’d anticipated the possibility. “I guess that will be all right.”

Sam ducked his head and slid into the Nightsky then sank into the luxurious leather seat. Without a touch, the door closed silently, and the view outside the window began to move, Sam had not felt the Ork return to her seat or the car begin to roll. He turned to his host. “You are Mr…”