by Rob Guy
They made a promise to meet up again on the next run, but they both knew that wasn’t likely to happen. Yet Raquel had one last surprise. She was there at the airlock as Harry disembarked. She waved, and he groaned. As he approached she held out a small box.
“For you,” she said. “Think of me when you smoke ‘em.”
Harry thanked her, but didn’t feel it necessary to tell her he didn’t smoke. He received a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, a hushed goodbye, and she was gone. He watched her disappear back into the ship, and couldn’t help wondering if he would ever see her again. But she suddenly appeared once more, strode right up to him without a word, and kissed him; a warm, soft, beautiful lingering gesture, on the lips, the absolute last thing he expected. They parted, and Harry saw tears welling in her eyes. But before he could say anything he was tumbling ass over tip and had to be reined in by two baggage handlers.
He was brought back down to where everyone else was waiting in line.
To Hell with zero g! I can float out of here without it after that. Watch out! Coming through!
“Anything to declare?” asked the Customs guy.
“Only my desire for that woman,” Harry replied, pointing back into the airlock. He turned to follow his finger, but Raquel was gone, this time for good. “Oh shit. Never mind.”
“I said anything to declare?” asked the Customs guy again, short and wiry, eyes tired, chin too.
“Just this.”
Harry dropped the .45 on the counter top, along with five clips of ammunition.
“Wow, that’s a beauty. Smith & Wesson, right?”
“Right,” Harry replied with an approving nod.
“That’ll be eighty credits, plus five each for the clips, or we take travellers cheques or any charge card really.”
“Eighty? Holy cow.”
“Once paid you have thirty minutes to find your room and deposit your weapon in the gun safe. Failure to do so will triple the charge and will result in immediate detention.”
“No weapons on the Station. I get it.”
“Or you could just leave it all here till you leave. It will be perfectly safe, I promise.” The official smiled in a way that told Harry it would be far from safe.
“I have the eighty.”
“Plus forty for the ammo.” The official offered a sickly smile, and ran a hand over the clips, like he was tantalizing a set of piano keys. Harry frowned, and using his well-trained left hand, deftly thumbed out the correct amount from a roll in his jacket pocket. The Customs guy looked disappointed. Harry returned the smile, signed the declaration document, picked up his stuff, and strode through into the Station proper.
The room was tight but comfortable. It had its own washbasin and shower cubicle, albeit in the same space. The toilet too was in there, so if one wished one could alleviate and wash at the same time. Harry threw his bundle on the single bed, secured his weapon, and picked up the guide map from the side table.
“First things first, Harry, my boy.”
He sat and stretched out next to his kit bag and opened up the pages, scanning keenly for the location of Delilah’s. But as he read through the thin pamphlet he felt his eyes growing heavy. Compared to The Dragonfly, the bed felt like the hands of a dozen angels stroking his weary body and beckoning him to slumber. He lay down, stretching his shoulders and rolling his neck.
“Boy, this sure is comfy.”
As he settled into the softness of the mattress he found he couldn’t concentrate on the very simple act of reading the information leaflet. His head fell forward twice, and he jerked himself awake on both occasions, momentarily at a loss as to where he was. The third time however, his chin fell forward and did not come back up.
Harry Watt, would-be Lothario and wannabe bounty hunter, fell into a deep and restful sleep.
Delilah’s was not hard to find. As Harry wandered through the market precinct of the Station, there were signs pointing him in the right direction. He’d slept for a blissful four hours, the most satisfying and reflective sleep he’d had in months. His mind was a lot clearer, and only one thing remained in order to focus his entire actions on the case.
He turned a corner to be greeted by a dead end, about five metres deep, in the middle of which was a single door. Above this, and much larger than necessary, was a huge gaudy red neon sign flashing out Delilah’s. He smiled broadly and walked up to it.
He was about to go through the door when he heard the sound of a scuffle coming from the adjacent alley. Like most alleyways on the Station they were blind, one-way in, one-way out, designed to accommodate emergency exit doors and garbage bins. He was aching to go inside, but his years on the Bureau had to count for something. And there was no doubt he was going to investigate when he heard the tremulous voice of a woman echo through the street. With a deep sigh he walked over, and poked his head round the corner. He saw two men. He felt a kick in his stomach for what at first he thought was a child, standing between them. His humanity, for want of a better word, wanted to jump out immediately and do something. But his Bureau training held him back, and insisted he assess the situation.
He took another furtive look, and after a second or two he realized it was a young oriental woman the two men had a hold of. It was easy to forgive Harry for mistaking her for a child. She looked about twenty, weighing no more than fifty kilos to his trained eye, and about 150 centimetres, even in the heels. All she was wearing was an orange band that covered her breasts, and an equally colored and flimsy garment around her hips. But what struck him most was her flame red hair. The first man had a flick knife at her throat while the other was busying himself with removing his pants. Harry thought quickly. They were more or less his size, but he didn’t have Larry with him this time, or his gun.
He set himself and walked into view pretending to check the guide map. He stopped and looked at them. “Oh, hi guys. Sorry. Hey, what’s going on?”
Both men turned at the sound of his voice. “Nothing, bud,” said the guy with his pants round his ankles. “You’d better get lost.”
“Wow, she’s a cutie,” said Harry. He mocked surprise on seeing the knife. “Oh. Look, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Damn sure you don’t,” said the guy with the knife. “Get lost.”
All the time the woman was looking at him with terrified eyes.
“Okay okay.” Harry made to leave, then stopped and turned back round. “But I was just thinking.” The two men were visibly pissed off. The first guy now produced a knife, as Harry expected.
Perfect. Pants round your ankles and one hand holding a knife. I’ve got you covered, asshole.
The second guy pressed his closer against the woman’s neck. But his free hand, his left, was hard up against himself and the wall.
Amateur. These guys are idiots, opportunists.
The woman had closed her eyes and was whimpering.
Harry had to be quick. “I say. Can I have some fun, too? It’s been a long time for me.”
“This is your last chance, fella,” said the second man. “Get lost or you can have some of this.” He turned the knife in his hand.
“What if I pay you for the privilege?”
The two men looked quickly at each other. The one closest to Harry squinted, unsure. “How much?”
“You tell me.”
“Two hundred, in advance.”
“Deal.” Harry reached into his jacket and pulled out the money.
“Here,” said the first man, and Harry stretched out his arm. The man snatched it from him. He laughed. “You idiot. Don’t you know the cathouse is just round there? You could have had one for a whole half hour for that. What else you got?” He thrust the knife up to Harry’s nose, and he backed up slightly, still carrying on the pretence.
“Easy easy,” he said holding up his hands. “I’ve got more, but I don’t keep it in my jacket.”
“Where, then?”
Harry indicated his crotch with a nod of the head.
“Are you serious?”
“What thief would want to put his hand down there?”
“He’s got a point,” said the second man.
“Shut your face,” said the first. He turned his attention back to Harry. “Let’s have some fun with this guy. Okay, fella, let’s see it?”
“See it?”
“The money, you asshole.”
“Oh yes, of course. Sorry. I thought you meant, well, you know.”
“That too.”
“Pardon me?”
“I said that too. And hurry up, time’s getting on.” The two men laughed together.
Harry undid his fly front, and took out his best friend. The would-be rapists were evidently impressed. However, before they had any time to ask where the rest of the money was, Harry seized his moment. The first guy was now so close, Harry could smell his stale breath. The second man had lowered the blade just sufficiently to allow him more time. Harry’s well trained reflexes thrust out an arm and grabbed the first guy’s wrist that was holding the knife and twisted it backwards, fracturing the bone. The man screamed as Harry took possession of the knife before it hit the floor. He then kneed the guy in the jaw as he dropped to his knees, and fell unconscious to the cold, alloy floor. Just to make sure, Harry kicked him hard in the ribs. He didn’t move.
Harry took the knife and made ready to throw it at the second man. He now felt he had the situation pretty much under control. But the man still had the knife pressed hard against the woman’s neck. Harry trusted his aim, but any automatic reflex from the man could inadvertently stab her. The last thing he wanted was a messy end to this stand off, at least on the girl’s part. But there he stood, ready and poised to inflict pain to the ones who deserved it. He spread his legs, and made sure his manhood was in clear view. He recalled something his first sergeant had told him. He’d only been with the Bureau a few weeks, and this piece of advice had stuck with him ever since.
“The best way to get inside the bastard’s head who thinks he’s got advantage over you, is to make them think you’re crazier than they are.”
“What’s it going to be?” Harry asked in a cocky tone, his John Thomas ready for action. “Think you can cut her before I cut you?”
“Easy now, fella. Don’t you wanna share?” The man’s gaze kept drifting to Harry’s man-sack.
“Oh no, no thank you. It’s way too late for that.” Harry started to swing his hips.
“At least put it away.” The man nodded at Harry’s you-know-what.
“I kinda like it. Feels nice and free, no restrictions. You should try it.” His dong was swaying round and round, like an out of control pendulum. He smirked and began whistling. He was starting to enjoy himself.
The man laughed, but it was an uncertain, I’m not sure, laugh. “You’re crazy.” But he kept looking down below. Harry’s old fella was drawing his eyes in better than any hypnotist’s trick. Round and round it went. Mesmerising.
However, the man still had the knife where Harry didn’t want it. “Your turn,” he said. “Take it out or I stick you. What’s it going to be?”
“I’ll stick her first.”
“I’m pretty fast with this. Your friend didn’t last long, did he? Come on, let’s see it.”
Swing swing.
“I’ll cut her. I swear to God I’ll do it!”
“Go ahead. You cut her, that gives me ample time to cut you.”
“For Christ’s sake! Can you please put your dick back in your pants!” The guy pointed the knife at Harry’s wedding tackle.
Harry let fly with his knife. It flew through the air as silently as a prayer and stuck in the man’s chest, away from the heart. All this time he had been weighing the switchblade in his hand, and had thrown it with just enough force to break the skin and maybe slice some muscle. He didn’t want to kill the guy, but he didn’t want it to be painless either. The man screamed and fell to the side. The woman immediately ran forward to land her face in Harry’s chest. He took her in his arms.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. Are you all right?”
She stuttered something that Harry didn’t catch. They stood together, he holding her to try to stop her shaking, she it seemed content just to stand there and be held. However, his ex-wife’s ex-best friend was still hanging free to the elements. He politely informed the woman that he had to perform a re-insertion.
“What’s your name?” he asked, by way of a distraction.
“Akiko. I mean, Angel. My name is Angel.”
“Hello, Angel. I’m Harry.”
“Hello, Harry.”
“Hello, Angel. I take it Akiko is your Japanese name.”
“Yes, I am Japanese.”
“Your English is excellent.”
“So is yours.”
“Parlez-vous francais?”
“No French, sorry.”
“Well, no-one’s perfect.”
The delicate matter attended to, they resumed their somewhat stilted conversation. “You know you really should be careful round here,” said Harry. “Delilah’s is just round the corner. That scoundrel was right. If I may say so, although you look great, you might consider dressing more appropriately.”
Angel’s mood changed dramatically. She moved away, and looked up at him. “Look, mister,” she began, and noticing her purse, bent to pick it up. “Contrary to what just happened I can look after myself.” She paused to stick a heel in the unconscious man’s gut. “I thank you for what you did. If you’d like to follow me your charitable deed will not go unrewarded.”
“Eh?” Harry pulled away. It was his turn to get a bit upset. “Look, I didn’t do what I did in order to get a reward, whatever it is you have in mind.” He looked down at her. Petite, smooth skin, exceptionally beautiful features, indeed perfectly formed for her size. “I did it because I’m a good guy, generally, and good guys help people who are in trouble. Forgive me if a young woman on her own with two assailants each brandishing a knife…”
“Only one had a knife before you showed up.”
“Well excuse me,” Harry said with as much indignity as he could muster. “Guess I’ll be on my way.”
He turned to leave, but not before retrieving his money. As he bent to pull it out of the man’s grasp his eyes flickered open, and on seeing Harry, he let out a long, low moan. Harry grimaced, stood up, and laid him out again with a punch to the side of the head. The other attacker had somehow managed to crawl a few metres but now lay panting, a hand over his wound. The knife had fallen out. But Harry couldn’t care less. He walked off, chuntering to himself. After a few seconds, Angel followed. He thought she was going to offer an apology, but instead she just brushed past him. Harry, not really caring now, made a big deal of opening the door to Delilah’s. He grinned when he saw the girl turn and look back.
Once inside, the foyer was pretty much what Harry expected to see. It was lit just enough to allow discretion over sight-seeing. Lots of red lace and velvet backed chairs and even a chaise long. Soft music reached his ears, and the scent of rose petals was in the air. On the walls hung seductive murals depicting various acts of carnal pleasure; nothing gaudy or distasteful, simply the use of a medium that left the looker in no doubt that they were in the right place.
Very nice indeed. But where are the girls?
The only person Harry could see was the Madam, seated behind the booth, filing her nails. She looked up and greeted Harry with a practised smile and beckoning gesture. Harry approached eagerly, keen to expedite proceedings.
“Good evening, sir, and how are you?”
“I’m well, thank you. Err…”
“First time?”
“No no. I’ve been laid before.”
What! Did I just say that?!
“I mean first time in Delilah’s?”
“Yes of course. First time here.” Harry forced a laugh.
“Fine,” said the Madam, totally unflustered. She had seen and heard it all before. “What can I in
terest you in?”
“A woman.”
Aagghh! What the hell is wrong with you?
“Well of course. A fine looking gentleman like you, Mr....?”
“Hmm? Oh. Err, Watkins, Larry Watkins”
“Of course it is. Any particular taste, Mr Watkins?”
“Pardon me?”
The Madam flashed her long eyelashes. “Blonde? Brunette? Redhead?”
“Brunette. No. Actually, a redhead. I think.”
“Black? White? Asian?”
“I’m not fussy.” An Asian redhead. Now there’s a thing. “It’s just been a long time, you know?”
“I understand, dear. Take a seat, and I’ll bring some of our ladies out to meet you.”
“Thanks.”
The Madam stepped from behind the desk and walked across the hall, her movements deliberate and honed over many years to catch the eye. She was around sixty, with bunched up curly white hair. Harry admired the fact that it didn’t appear dyed, that she was quite the natural beauty. She was wearing a simple black dress with a ruff and frilly cuffs and a burgundy colored front which allowed the eyes to explore her curves perfectly. She smiled as she drew level, allowing him ample time to admire a magnificent pair of fun bags. To Harry’s practiced eye he could tell they were not enhanced in any way. It was obvious she was putting on a show for him. Nothing tawdry, just very sensuous. She moved passed him and winked. Harry watched a pair of fine hips move majestically atop a pair of stately legs, as this elegant, mature, sexy lady continued her catwalk and disappeared through a door. Down below, Mission Control was priming for lift off.
Oh boy.
Harry grinned as the door closed, and sat in one of the red velvet chairs. It was high backed with lots of black studs round the edges. Elegant, but cheap at the same time. He rubbed the arms and settled back. There was a small, octagonal table adjacent to the chair, upon which were some holo-pamphlets advertising the establishment’s facilities. Harry was about to pick one up when he heard a door open. Out tottered a wizened Oriental man in the region of a hundred and fifty years old. He wore a permanent smile, displaying yellow and brown teeth. Long, scraggy grey whiskers hung from either side of his mouth, like a shredded violin bow. His back was bent like a boomerang, and he was carrying a silver tray in his trembling hands. On it was a crystal decanter filled with what appeared to be scotch, and a small shot glass.
