Part 30 (1/2)
They'd think he was a total idiot. That was it, Hap thought in disgust. He would never fit in up here.
Antonio's mouth was pinched. He was either nervous, angry or both. ”Sir, we're waiting for your decision. It's up to you. As you see, we're at your mercy. Of course you'd have to make a nondisclosure agreement, but you'll find us more than generous. Five million credits? Eight million? Ten million?”
Summoning every erg of his courage Hap waved his hand like he'd seen the man do in the vid. ”Mr. Antonio, I've got a different proposition for you. I want an ID.”
”Ah,” Antonio exchanged glances with Chinn. ”Of course. That would be the first thing, of course. Otherwise, how could you enjoy your reward?”
”No!” Hap shouted, then hurried on before he could have second thoughts. If he didn't get it all out now he'd falter, and they'd know how close he came... ”It's not for me.”
”What?” Antonio exclaimed.
”I want it for Soraya.” Hap blurted out. ”The girl you sent Belowstairs. She gets her ID back. And her job. And wherever she was living, she gets that back, too. You don't know what you did to her. And no retaliations on her, or on me. That's my proposition,” he said, settling back in his chair with his arms folded. Then he thrust out a finger and pointed at the plate on the table. ”Oh, and I'd like a case or two of all that stuff to take Belowstairs with me. New food, not recycled. Today, right?”
A few days later, fists pounding on the end of his s.h.i.+pping container blasted Hap awake. He groaned with regret. He'd been dreaming about the custard in that tart again. The treasure-trove of food from his visit Upstairs was long gone. As soon as he'd returned Below he'd shared it out with the Chief and everybody on his corridor. It didn't last, but he'd had some, and he had the fun of telling everybody about his adventures. He'd seen Upstairs, smelled the air and met some of the people. Now he had that memory for good. If he'd been a different person, been raised differently, well, he might be living up there now, but he was content enough.
”Food! Come on, share!” one of the men howled from outside the lift. Amlin put her boot in the intruder's chest and pushed him back.
”Make way for the rich man,” she said with a sneer.
Rich man. Hap grinned. He'd never have dared to do it before, but the trip Upstairs had made a difference in him. He picked up one of the little fruit tarts and shoved it in Amlin's mouth. The crowd roared with laughter. With hate in her eyes she started to spit it out. Then her face changed. She chewed. And swallowed. And smiled.
”Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned. I haven't had custard since my sixth birthday.”
”Come on,” Hap cried, hoisting the case onto his shoulder. ”Chief gets first share, then everybody!”
The crowd cheered and fell in behind him.
”Philantropist, huh?” Amlin said, shouldering people out of his way with her rifle b.u.t.t. ”Not everybody would be as generous with a piece of luck. Keep this up and you'll be Chief one day.”
Hap grinned. Now, that was a goal he might be able to reach.
ZAPPA FOR BARDOG.
Joe Murphy
Wrappers make Bardog hungry; bottles cause thirst. But cigarette b.u.t.ts, those are best. Bardog puckers its maw and spits gravel onto the parking lot. Gray plumes of launch smoke hide the sun.
Tarmac warms its peds, but there, another crushed b.u.t.t. Soon the parking lot will be clean, soon no more to eat until skyblack and bandnoise. Wriggling, Bardog sniffs the crushed white stub.
This one smells of Jason. Bardog hunkers down, sucks the b.u.t.t into its foremaw where the stub won't dissolve too fast. Jason (yeah, baby) Hartach. Fast-fingered Jason with the ancient Fendercaster. Jason with dark eyes reflecting launch plumes.
”-wouldn't even look at me,” the b.u.t.t said in Jason's methane-raspy voice. Jason leaned against the brick wall, swallowed a mouthful of beer, and took another drag. ”Might as well been on Mars.”
”Credit-grubbin' woman is what she is.” Dirtman nodded over his own beer. ”Sheeiit, not like you need her.”
”How'm I ever gonna do better?” Jason shrugged. The night air smelt nasty, full of sulfur from the Companies, tanged with launch exhaust.
The sky rumbled; couldn't get away from the d.a.m.ned launches. Jason glared at the soaring flash that spread a harsh glow onto the slab tenements of Haightport before casting glittering diamonds upon the Los Frisco towers and vanis.h.i.+ng over the Pacific. Turning away, he scowled at Dirtman. ”Not with this face.”
”So get skinned.” Dirtman shrugged rumpled suit shoulders. ”You got Medi-dole.”
Jason shook his head, swigged the last of the beer. He poked a finger at Dirtman's scrawny chest. ”A standard face? On me? That's all they'll pay for.”
”Hey, man,” Freddie yelled from the door. ”Some Hee-Haw f.u.c.king with your Fender!”
”Jack'em up time!” Dirtman grinned and started inside.
Jason headed for the door, past an old caddy parked in the shadows. Matecca's caddy, Matecca the money grubbin' b.i.t.c.h is what she is. ”Now if I had cash she'd be all over me,” he muttered. ”Cash makes the world go round.” He took one last drag off his cig and flicked it- Bardog opens its eye. Good, Jason always lasts a long time, so full of flavor. But the lot isn't done. Bardog moves on.
Bottle gla.s.s! Matecca's bottle flavored with lip-gloss and Tri-Buzz Beer. Synthetic hops clouds the taste, but man oh man, Matecca's mad. Bardog settles down with a mawful of shards.
Matecca, all glow-in-the-dark garters, leather boots and HyperCalc mind. Profits and Overheads, beer orders and put off paying the band till Tuesday.
”-of course you come first,” Matecca tried her most gracious smile. ”Business is just a little off, you know? The Port Authority's gotten tight-a.s.sed again.”
”What's that to me?” Mr. Gambo in his three piece frowned down at her. ”I don't get mine; you don't get yours.”
”But you'll get it, sir. And I'm not making a dime.” Matecca stepped back against the Caddy's hot hood. ”I just gotta pay the distributors first. No beer, no profits for anyone.”
Gambo reached out and stroked her cheek with a white-gloved finger. His breath smelled spicy from off-world cuisine.
Matecca tried to look past him at the white light rectangle of the club's back door. She concentrated on the Fendercaster's wall, the back beat blues as his hand strayed lower.
”Let's go for a ride.” Gambo stroked her hip.
”Business is good tonight.” She pulled away. ”I need to be here watching the till.”
”Then have my money by the weekend.” Gambo shoved past. He turned back to her, haloed in the light from the doorway. Could have been a laugh that came out of him, or a sob.
”Hey!” Matecca caught herself against the caddy. But the stark lines of his face, eyes more anguished than angry. Framed against the doorway he looked like a lost child. The image filled her mind; she could have painted him once, but that was long ago, another, better life. The beer slipped through her fingers- Bardog blinks and sits up. Lotta flavor in that one, yes indeed. More than Matecca's usual. Bardog rolls to its feet and swivels its head. Back to the lot. Plastic cup-not many of these high-priced drinks.
It flops down and slurps the cup into its maw. A zesty ammonia tang rolls over its tongues, salt, and olive oil. A Talto Stinger, so the drinker must be Glib.
Taltos don't come here much, not Haightport. Glib who looks like a giant jelly condom in a wide-lapelled suit, skinny little tentacles that dangled too far past the sleeves. Ever try to play a Fender without fingers?
Glib, lurking behind the audience, sometimes with a rental biomed just in case. Hee-Haw Glib!
”-Suzy Cream Cheese must rise again!” Glib stood, pseudopods wide upon the stage. The chord rang out, thrilled and frilled with feedback.
”G.o.d d.a.m.n it!” Jason bellowed, stalking past an amplifier. ”Get your s.h.i.+t slime off my ax.”
”I was just...”
”Hee-Haw!” Dirtman, the ba.s.s player, muttered behind Jason.
”Job thief!” Their drummer Freddie, short, muscled to the max added.