The Damsel
Page 13
“And if I say no?” the boss asked, his hand resting on his pistol.
“I’ll call station security out here and they can move you, if you want to go the hard way,” Liz said with a shrug. “They’re good friends of mine, but they’re not very careful people. Something would probably get broken, and I don’t think you want that.”
The boss and I exchanged a glance, and I hoped he could read in my look that this was a fight we probably wouldn’t win. I don’t mind dragging things out as a matter of principle, but I also don’t like doing any more maintenance than I have to—on the ship or my face.
“You know what? Fuck this,” the man with Liz said. “We’re wasting time, and if the weather gets too bad, I’m going to have to delay the shoot again. Let them stay, for all I care. I’ll edit their piece-of-shit rust bucket out in post.” He looked at us and narrowed his eyes. “Just close the cargo bay, and you can have your precious pad back when we finish. But you have got to stay inside. If one of you comes out and fucks up my shot, I’m going to have station security move your ship and I’ll sue you for every fucking credit you’ve got, you hear me?”
The boss’s jaw worked, but he nodded. “We’ll stay inside, but don’t touch anything out there, you got it? This ship may be a ‘piece-of-shit rust bucket,’ but it’s my piece-of-shit rust bucket.”
I decided now was not the time to point out that technically, the ship was half mine, too.
“Sure, whatever,” the man said with a dismissive wave, and he and Liz disappeared back out onto the tarmac.
Five hours later, it was almost dark and we were almost crazy. It turns out the video shoot was for a music holo, and whatever song they were shooting for either only had four words—baby, baby, baby, baby—repeated over and over again, or they shot the same goddamn scene a hundred times. Either way, by the time they were done, if I heard one more baby I was going to put a pistol in my mouth.
As soon as their hovercraft took off, passing overhead and shaking the ship, the boss and I went outside to stretch our legs. The air was cold like a knife between the ribs, and it was all I could do to smoke without feeling like my fingers were going to freeze off.
The boss clapped his bare arms around himself for warmth and disappeared around the front of the ship, only to return a moment later, glancing across the empty docking pads.
“Where’s my coat?” he asked.
“The black one? How the fuck should I know? I’m not your mom, man.”
“I left it out front, on top of the toolbox next to the J7 box.”
“Maybe it blew across the—”
“No. I looped it through the handle. Plus, it’d be blowing around out here if the wind got it.”
I shivered against the cold. “I dunno, boss. If you left it there, it should still be there.”
A sudden look of fury crossed his face. “I’ll bet one of that piece-of-shit film crew took it! I told him not to touch our stuff. If I see somebody wearing it, I’m going to break their goddamn arms.”
I snorted. “Dude. Why would somebody steal your nasty-ass old coat?” I asked. “But whatever, it doesn’t matter. I think we got another—”
“I don’t want another coat, damn it! I want mine. And I wanna know who took it.”
I gave him an incredulous look. “It’s just a coat, man. If you want another one, I know we’re hard up for cash, but I think we can afford a coat. It isn’t like that thing was the height of fashion anyway.”
He stomped up the ramp. “That coat has sentimental value.”
“Sentimental value?” I asked, following him. “You shitting me right now?”
“No, I’m serious. When I got this ship, only two things came with it.” He pointed to the .45 revolver hanging in its shoulder rig by the hatch to the crew compartment. “The first was that pistol. The second was the coat. Now they’re my pistol and my coat. And I want my damn coat.”
“You’re wrong. Three things came with the ship. That pistol, that coat, and a fuckton of headaches,” I cracked.
“Goddamnit, Snake, I’m serious. I want my fucking coat back.”
“Well, I got no idea where it went, all right? But if I see it, I’ll make sure to tell it to come home and that daddy misses it very much.”
I chuckled at his scowl.
“Look,” the boss said. “I get that you can’t get it right now, because your tiny little reptile brain is incapable of understanding how somebody else might feel, but let me put it in terms you can understand. How long have you had that ratty green duffel bag you always carry around with you?”
“I dunno, as long as I can remember. At least since I was ten or twelve, ‘cause whenever me and my mom got kicked out of a place, that’s what I put all my stuff in when we left.”
“Okay, fine. So, say somebody stole your duffel bag, what—”
“Nobody’s gonna steal my duffel bag,” I objected.
“Jesus, Snake! Work with me. Say somebody did steal it, because—somehow—they were even worse off than you. If somebody sketched that bag from you, what would you do?”
I gave it a moment’s thought before I answered. “I’d fuck ’em right up.”
“Right. Same thing with my coat.”
“Whatever, bossman. If we’re out and about and you see somebody with your coat on, I guess I’ll give you a hand, if it means that much to you.” I shook my head and went back to working on the voltage calculations I’d abandoned earlier, figuring I’d heard the last I’d ever hear about his stupid coat.
I was wrong, of course.
About the Author
David Dixon has been writing fiction and non-fiction for over twenty years. A husband, father of two, and Army veteran whose combat days are long behind him, he lives in Northern Virginia where he writes across a variety of genres and topics. He believes that for every person and every place, there’s a story, whether it’s a comedy, tragedy, or something in between—and it’s his hope to write them all.
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