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Reconnoiter

by Marshall Payne

      “Kumiko,” Bertram Simms, the orchestra's conductor, said as he placed a hand on her delicate, bare shoulder, “I'd like you to meet Jackson Grant. Mr. Grant, this is Kumiko Masaharu, whom I'm sure you know as our featured soloist this evening.”

      What a cliché, Kumiko thought, as though someone had combined a twenty and a fifty to come up with his blue-blooded name. No doubt his rich parentage had bequeathed it to him along with the family fortune. She had been learning much about this ubiquitous component known as currency as of late. Not a necessity to her survival, of course, but indispensable to the human condition as she understood it. And this captain of industry reeked of it. All the way from his stylish gray hair to his manicured nails, his finely tailored dark suit defining his affluence. As she took his paper-dry hand in her tiny one, she noticed his wedding band.

      “I am delighted to meet you,” Jackson Grant said. “And let me say that your performance this evening was lovely.” And what came out of his mouth next was almost verbatim with what her own mind supplied: “And such a huge talent for someone so young. The term prodigy certainly applies to you.” Well, at least the prodigy part was unique. Though on just about every city on the tour, she'd heard something similar. At least Grant had been cultivated enough not to call her “such a pretty young thing.”

      “Why, thank you, sir,” she replied. “Since I've been in your country I've heard nothing but kind words, but yours are the most ... how would you say it ... debonair?” She was getting quite good at the broken-English routine; the high lilt and slight slur that actually sounded Asian. Despite her near-perfect Japanese physique, she'd been about as close to that island world as Jackson Grant had been to living in a homeless shelter, though she had caught a glimpse of that comma-splash of a country on her Earthly descent.

      Bertram Simms, who had conducted the Metropolitan Philharmonic that evening, said, “Though this is Kumiko's first visit to America, she speaks English quite well, don't you agree, Mr. Grant?”

      Grant raised his wine flute. “Yes, exceedingly well. And it's a good thing, as I don't speak a word of Japanese.” He offered a mild chuckle, and leered down at her with his perfect million-dollar smile—all caps of course.

      Good, thought Kumiko, because outside of knowing “sayonara,” neither did she. Though she supposed she could pick it up as easily as she had English, or the ability to play Tchaikovsky's Concerto in D major for violin. And as luck would have it, “sayonara” soon sprang from her lips as she was able to leave the conductor to his auxiliary function of fundraising and escape the philanthropist's leer.

      In the dressing room backstage, she shed her strapless soigné gown and donned the new street gear she'd picked up earlier that day: tight jeans in the latest fashion, a sleek tank top, and pink stilettos. Though the stilettos added a couple of inches to her height, she nudged her metabolism and added a couple more, mostly in her legs which were on the stubby side. Closer inspection in the mirror made her augment her breasts as well. She'd seen the way that millionaire philanthropist had lusted after her, as though she were his adopted teenaged daughter from the orient, all of thirteen. Well, she didn't look thirteen now. To top if off, she grabbed a pair of scissors from her bag. Her shoulder-length raven mane was about to go.

      Moments later she exited the concert hall, preened, attenuated and spiked. Hard to believe that some people spent months in school to learn this coiffeur thing. Hard to believe a lot of things about these beings. These human beings. But tonight she was going to mingle with them “down and dirty,” as she'd heard it called. Though on assignment, there was no reason why she couldn't have a little fun while fulfilling Routeur-ra's objectives. Running her hand once again across her dark porcupined hair—it tickled her palm amusingly—she stepped to the curb and stuck out her thumb.

      The first four cars that pulled over were all men with only one thing on their feeble minds. Not that she wouldn't, perhaps, be game for this fucking thing at some point in time, but the men's sole motivation was so predictable. (Yes, so far she'd learned that if currency was the first all-important commodity on this world, then fornication was the second. Odd, since her kind had evolved past both eons ago.)

      “What's your fucking problem, bitch?” a guy in the last car hollered at her. “I'm willing to pay.”

      “I said, no thank you,” she told the man. And apparently both commodities were often intertwined. Opposite sides of a similar coin.

      The fifth car to pull over contained a lone black female appareled somewhat as Kumiko was. Well, the stilettos were nearly identical. Having a good feeling about this one, she hopped in. The woman was dressed in a slinky red dress, and her hair was long and dyed platinum, which was quite striking in contrast with her ebony skin.

      “Hi, honey,” the black hooker said. “They call me Peach 'cause I'm so, so sweet. You gotta name?”

      “Kumiko,” she replied. Since everything else about her was invented, she didn't see the need in adopting a plethora of pseudonyms. Dropping the pigeon-English routine, she trash-talked: “So, you partying 'round here tonight?” The lingo felt right, anyway, an amalgam from a couple of cop shows she'd caught on the hotel's TV, and two prostitutes she'd overheard from the local “welcoming committee” gabbing in the ladies' room at O'Hare International last week.

      “I don't really solo on the streets no more, if that's whatcha mean,” Peach said. “I gots me a pimp. Yeah, I know what you're thinkin', that alls they do is take yo' money, but Big Willie's different. Willie's got blow, and he don't hang it over yo' head all night long, if ya know what I mean. If a girl wants to party, then Big Willie'll share his Peruvian pile. You do like flake, don'tcha?”

      “Sure,” Kumiko said, figuring she was referring to cocaine; more cop shows. She'd never tried it, of course, but the night was still young. She'd try anything once, twice if Routeur-ra disapproved. Hell, it had to be more fun than performing in front of a bunch of staid culture vultures night after night, though that had been enjoyable at first. Which made her remember that she'd left her $8000 Stradivarius copy behind. Oh, that was no big deal, but if she would've thought to bring it, she might have been able to use it as barter for some of this Peruvian pile Peach was referring to. Though she doubted if this pandering fellow, Big Willie the Pimp, would appreciate its fine though faux craftsmanship. And she probably should hang on to the Stradivarius, as she did have another concert on the tour in a couple of days, if she decided to attend.

      “Is this your automobile?” Kumiko asked, running her hand across the fake fur on the Cadillac's dash. Cool jazz fluttered about the roomy car, a whimsical saxophone taking flight.

      “Hell, no,” Peach said, giving her new companion a quizzical look. “This is Big Willie's ride. He just let's me borrow it from time to—Hey, you ever done this befo'? You look awful young, which be a plus as you prolly know, but you look—” She stared at Kumiko through heavily mascaraed eyes, crinkled her brow. “You ever done this befo'?”

      “Of course, I have,” Kumiko replied. “I can climb the highest Peruvian pile you or Willie or anyone can pile up.” She injected annoyance into her voice, hoping she had the tone right and the lingo pat. She was beginning to like this Sweet Peach person and wanted to impress her.

      “No, I ain't talkin' 'bout that, honey. I'm talkin' 'bout ...” Peach sighed, but then smiled as she regarded Kumiko. Amber light from a passing storefront reflected off her oversized teeth and the whites of her eyes to light up the Caddy's interior. “Don't worry. Yo' pretty. Willie'll like that. But the way, you Chinese or what?”

      “I'm Japanese,” she said with a superior tone.

      Again the interior lit with Peach's smile. “Even better. He already has a Chinese girl who works outta her apartment. Like I said, Big Willie's a great guy. Though every now and again he'll get in one of his moods and pimp you out for a twenty spot just to insult ya.”

      “An Andrew Jackson?” Kumiko said, raising both eyebrows.

      Peach frowned, then nodded. “If that's who's on a twenty. Yeah, one of them white dudes. Girl, you act like youse gotta education or somethin'.”

      “I watch a lot of TV in hotel rooms.”

      “Honey, in hotel rooms we don't usually have time for TV,” she said and laughed. Peach was quite the talker and kept prattling nonstop until they arrived at Big Willie's place, a combo bordello, outcall service, and crack shack for a discriminating few. Mostly it was outcalls, Peach said. And that Willie, because he “cared” about his girls, never let them freebase or rock the stuff up, though he might occasionally be “on the pipe” himself. But there was nothing wrong with a little toot in his pimp's playbook.

      “Sweet Peach!” he cried, raising his big arms high in the air. Though he wasn't looking at the sanguine-skirted hooker at all. “What did you bring me?”

      “Willie, this here's Kumiko. Found her thumbin' down on Commerce.”

      “Well, hellooo Kumikooo,” he said, affecting a hint of the orient in his lilting delivery. If Peach's pearly-white illumination was bright in Willie's ride, it was nothing compared to the brilliance the huge, blacker-than-midnight-in-Zimbabwe pimp's grin radiated. He made the young ingenue quite welcome.

      By street standards it was still early, just a little after ten, and soon Big Willie's fillies began to arrive. Unfortunately, so far that evening Willie's cell phone had been on the reticent side.

      “Why don'tcha break out and make a pile, Willie,” Claudia, a mulatto hooker with a glass eye and an unbelievable mountain of orange hair, prompted.

      “Do that, Willie-baby,” said Rose, a skinny white chick with an overbite. Though the Pancake covered her acne-ripe cheeks fairly well, nothing could mask the hunger in her watery eyes. “That way when yo' cell starts beepin', yo' bitches'll be in the mood.” Kumiko got the feeling that Rose was only imitating the king in his castle here, but Big Willie didn't seem to mind.

      “My bitches better be in the mood,” he cautioned, “but I s'pose I could break out a teenager.”

      “A teenager?” Kumiko asked Peach.

      “A sixteenth of an oh-zee,” she replied. “Half an eight ball. Girl, where you been livin'?”

      Kumiko didn't answer, but did take the proffered line when it came her turn. She really didn't see what the fuss was all about. Yeah, she felt a little something, but it wore off quickly. Probably her unique metabolism, she decided, because the other girls seemed to be having a grand time, chatting, prancing around while sniffling and grinning ear to ear. That was until the small pile Willie had laid out for the four of them had disappeared up an octet of nostrils. Soon after that happened Claudia was down on her knees, her hands fawning all over Willie, who kept brushing her away. “You'll get some mo' after you earn it,” he said. “And not a moment befo'.”

      “Oh, come on, Willie,” Rose pleaded. “Be a friend.”

      “It's like this every night,” Peach whispered to Kumiko from their vantage point nearby. Big Willie was reclining in his big easy chair where, cell phone in hand, he ran his postage-stamp-sized empire.

      Finally, Willie had had enough. “Okay, you bitches want some mo' blow? All right, I'll make yas another pile. Now, who want's to play Prussian roulette?”

      “But it's not like that every night,” Peach said to Kumiko. To her pimp: “Willie, don't. Please, forget it. You know what happened last time ...”

      All eyes fell on Claudia. “Yeah, I was in the hospital for days.” She frowned, but then her mulatto brow unfurled and she smiled. “Which means it's somebody else's turn.”

      “Well, I'm certainly not gonna do it,” Rose said. “I mean, of course I'll give you some head, Willie, but no more Prussian roulette.” Watery eyes darted about nervously.

      But while they were arguing, Willie dipped into his stash and pulled out two teenagers this time, a full eight ball, and piled it on the smooth jet-black tabletop stand to the side of his easy chair. Next to it he laid his pearl-handled revolver and grinned wickedly.       “Come on, Claudia. Big Willie wants yo' sweet lips.”

      At that, Claudia lost it and pulled off the orange mountain which Kumiko never doubted was a wig. She was basically bald, only a tiny dark fuzz present. On the side of her pate was a gash where a chunk of her skull was missing. A small chunk, but missing nonetheless. She pointed to the cavity, ire in her good eye that seemed to carry over to her glass one. “So you can do this to me again?” she squawked. “I don't think so.”

      “Why not let the new girl give it a try?” Rose said. It was obvious all she wanted was her little side of the tiny white mountain Willie had piled up before them, and she didn't care how she got it.

      All eyes fell on Kumiko.

      “Yeah, why not?” said Claudia, reapplying her orange mania.

      Willie smiled. “What'd you think, sweetstuff? Best way in the world to be 'doctrinated into Big Willie's stable. To become one of my prize bitches.”

      “No,” Peach said. “Please, Willie, don't.” To Kumiko she whispered, “Honey, you don't wanna do this.”

      But that wasn't entirely true. Kumiko had been standing there for three-quarters of an hour now, observing. True, this was what Routeur-ra had instructed her to do. Her task in general was to observe, to reconnoiter this world—but perhaps it was time she stopped being an observer and became an active participant. And besides, this Big Willie wasn't so much of a pimp as he was a wimp, she figured, hiding behind his gun and his Peruvian flake. Perhaps it was time someone—

      “So, what do I have to do?” she asked.

      Unzipping his suede pimp-pants, Willie beckoned her near. “On your knees, my fine newest bitch. Time to find out why they call Big Willie Big Willie.” He chuckled.

      The last thing Kumiko saw before tucking her head down to take care of business was his million-dollar smile. Or a smile worth at least a few grand, she figured. Not any excessive grillwork there, but he did sport a fair amount of gold. So this is giving head, Kumiko thought as she took him in her mouth. This fellatio thing. Sometimes she thought she'd be lost if not for the television in her hotel room, this one practice gleaned from a cable channel in Milwaukee that she'd quickly learned wasn't part of the standard network fare. Pornography, it was called. Most interesting.

      Willie's member had an odd pungent taste about it, a medley of dried perspiration, old soap not cleansed away properly, and something else. An odd savor, yes, the image of a black stallion came to mind. He'd probably like that, she realized. But what had at first not been an unpleasant experience, was quickly becoming a chore as Willie rose to the occasion. Kumiko had such a tiny mouth and Big Willie was so . . .

      “Harder. Harder,” he told her. And then she felt the barrel of his revolver press against her temple, heard an ominous click as the hammer was cocked back. “Step back from the pile, Rose,” he told the skinny hooker. “And how do you even know Kumiko here's gonna wanna share withcha?”

      “'Cause that's how it's done,” Rose said. “The sucker always shares.”

      “That don't mean she has to,” Claudia put in. “Though I imagine if ya ask her nicely ...”

      “Willie, don't ya think you got the barrel pointed a little too much into her head?” This from a concerned Peach.

      Kumiko heard a click as Big Willie pulled the trigger and the hammer came down on a empty chamber. From above and behind, Kumiko heard a sharp intake of breath and then a couple of sighs.

      “Weren't no bullet in that chamber anyway,” he said, as he raised the revolver and spun the cylinder.

      Ah yes, she thought, the roulette aspect. Like a casino game in Las Vegas. Funny, Las Vegas wasn't one of the cities on her concert tour. Perhaps there Tchaikovsky wasn't—

      “This one I ain't so sure about,” he furthered, then laughed and placed the barrel back to her head. Not directly at her temple this time, but resting against her pate. Willie may have been reckless, but he wasn't stupid. He had no intention of killing her, Kumiko realized. To him, she represented money, making her both sides of that all-important coin so often tendered in the human equation. Also, this time he probably didn't know whether the lone bullet was in a deadly position or not.

      “You forgot to add to our pile,” Rose said.

      “Kumiko's pile,” Peach reminded her.

      “I'm sure she'll share,” Claudia said. “Won't you, Kumiko?”

      “Shut up, bitch,” Willie said. “Can't you see she's busy now and can't talk?”

      But Kumiko could hear some light tapping sounds as Willie built upon tiny Mount Peru. He then spun the cylinder again, put the barrel to her pate and fired. Another empty chamber since only a click ensued. Though there was no way of being absolutely sure, a small mathematical part of Kumiko's brain had told her that chamber would be empty. That, and her keen ear that could actually hear each click of the spinning cylinder. Yes, this was much like Las Vegas, only the stakes were higher.

      “All right,” Rose cried with enthusiasm. “Kumiko's pile keeps getting bigger and bigger.” And that it was. Kumiko hadn't seen it yet, but she was sure her efforts were producing quite the little narcotic knoll.

      “Don't you think she's had enough, Willie?” Peach asked after the next blank chamber was determined with a click and another teenager added to the pile. Kumiko had to agree; her jaw was getting tired.

      “One more time,” he said, and spun the cylinder. But this time Kumiko could tell that her number had come up. Unless she'd miscounted the clicks, the bullet was aligned with the chamber and this time the hammer would fire the round. Well, Big Willie had had his fun long enough, she decided. Now it was her turn. So when he placed the barrel against the top of her skull, she reacted in concert. With her right hand she reached up and relocated the barrel against her temple, while at the same time she razored her teeth to a sharp blade and bit down. Hard!

      As the gun went off, Kumiko stood. Writhing in his easy chair, Big Willie screamed, his cries joined by Claudia's hysterical wailing. Rose merely stood there in shock. Then Peach came up beside Kumiko. “Girl,” she said, astonishment in her voice, "there be a hole in yo' head.” Peach's eyes widened even further as Kumiko willed the opening in her temple to close. Kumiko then spit Big Willie's penis out into his bloody lap, and worked her tongue around inside her mouth. Within a moment she had the bullet between her teeth, then held it up. “Is this yours, Willie-san?” she said in her mock-Japanese accent, then giggled.

      Willie was still screaming, seething with pain, but he managed to get out, “Why you do this to me, bitch? Why? Why?” But there was no arrogance in him now, as Big Willie had lost a few inches of his pride.

      “Girlfriend,” Sweet Peach said, “I've seen lots of strange shit in my life, but that's. . .

      “That's just weird,” Claudia finished.

      “I'll say, but ...” Rose said with a raised eyebrow above that hungry look.

      Which prompted Kumiko to share her little slice of Peru with the girls. Claudia was kind enough to razor-blade out the lines, while Big Willie lay in his easy chair, whimpering, bleeding profusely, using his big hands to try to stanch the flow. He begged them to come to his aid, but they politely ignored him. Yes, eventually the paramedics were called, but Peach and Kumiko left before they arrived. As did Claudia and Rose, who had helped themselves to Willie's stash of dope and cash. Cops usually came with the paramedics, and this was one best left to Big Willie to explain.

      “Hey, be careful,” Peach groused at the cop who pushed her into the cell. Kumiko had already entered and staked out a spot on the cold, hard floor. Because it was a holding cell, there was nothing in it except a metal sink and a toilet. The door slid shut with finality.

      “Well, this is just fuckin' great,” Peach muttered.

      “Have you ever been in prison before?” Kumiko asked.

      “No, and this ain't prison, child. This is just an overnight stay in this squirrelly city's idea of lockup. Don't worry, we can make bail tomorrow. Normally, Big Willie would have me out in a couple of hours, but seeing as you went an bit his dong off.” She chuckled. “Girl, I thought I'd seen it all.” She went to the wall opposite Kumiko and sat down on the floor facing her. A slow night, it was just the two of them.

      They had Peach double-booked on charges. She'd shoplifted a box of tampons at the 7-Eleven and Willie had reported his Caddy stolen. Peach matched the description of the woman in 7-Eleven they'd stopped at, but the only thing they had Kumiko on was no I D. It was probably with her Stradivarius, she figured, which she found amusing since both were as authentic as her Japanese heritage.

      The two of them sat there chatting aimlessly until Peach submerged and Routeur-ra animated the hooker's physique. After taking a moment to marvel at his lithe fingers and ebony skin, her superior said, “This is not what we had in mind, Dara-da, and you know it.”

      She shot him a bitter scowl. “You wanted me to reconnoiter this world. Well, I'm reconnoitering.”

      “How, by allowing yourself to be incarcerated? I don't see where this aids your mission at all. I do admit the role of concert violinist has run its course, but I don't see where spending the evening with a pandering pharmacologist and his courtesans is all that enlightening.”

      Kumiko had to laugh at that. Pandering pharmacologist ...? She was immersed in the culture enough now to find that funny. “You mean drug-dealing pimp and his hookers.”

      “Now don't get insolent with me.” Peach's eyes flared for a moment as back on the homeworld Demigod Routeur-ra's ire raised, but something must have happened to the connection because Peach started giggling, then said, “Girl, I thought I'd seen it all, but the way you bit off Big Willie's ...” She shook her head and grinned.

      About a half hour after they brought Peach back from questioning, an officer, a woman this time, said, “Kumiko Masaharu,” and ushered her from the cell. When questioned, Peach had told the authorities that Kumiko had nothing to do with any of it, so soon Kumiko found herself cut loose and back on the streets. It was just a little after two A.M.

      Because it was a weeknight, the streets were nearly dead. The only people out were those few up to no good, the rougher element. Funny, now Kumiko felt like she was a part of the down and dirty. Truly one of them. As much a part of it as she'd felt toward the symphony crowd. But still it was all so weird. These beings of the human variety ... so different from her kind. It amazed her how they could have evolved in the first place, climbing from the seas eons ago, learning to walk upright, making simple tools at first, and then more complex ones later like Prussian revolvers and Stradivariuses. Amazing how they could break off into splinter groups, some of them addicted to narcotics, while others became captains of industry. It wasn't like where she emanated from. Where she came from there was order and discipline and purpose to one's own perpetual existence. And always there was Routeur-ra. The transubstantiated godthing of the hierarchical flow. And this bothered her. How was she to report to him her true findings? That despite these humans' ability to wreak havoc with every turn they made, they had discovered something her kind severely lacked: spontaneity. On Earth it flourished in abundance. On her world there was no name for such a thing, the closest designation being “creativity,” a concept no longer practiced or allowed.

      As she passed a garbage-strewn alleyway, she heard a moan. An animal dying ...? Common sense told her to continue on. She recognized this area from when Bertram Simms the conductor had picked her up at the hotel and taken her to the concert hall. She was headed in the right direction. But something made her stop and venture into the alley.

      And that was where she found him. Half covered in old newspapers, lay a beleaguered old man. Bewhiskered, sallow of complexion, it was apparent he was desperately ill with perhaps only moments to live. Death? Kumiko had heard of it, but was unsure of it particulars, its dynamics. She had to learn more.

      She sat down beside him and wrapped her arms around him the best she could. No, she was not telepathic, nor really even empathic, but the old derelict was radiating a history as forceful as the sour whiskey reeking on his last few breaths. Though only vague sensations, she could tell he'd been prosperous once. Not a captain of industry or a Big Willie-type, but someone with a family and a business, before the latter fell on hard times and he'd lost everything. Now he was just a wasted shell. As he sat there and groaned, coughing, probably not even aware Kumiko sat beside him, she felt the life force leaving his body. And when it finally had, she stood and realized that a tear had sprung from her left eye. She had tried to invoke them before, but with no success. Now she thought she understood a little better.

      As she found herself walking back down the boulevard, she wiped her eyes and forced her hair to grow back to shoulder length. It was late and about time to find the concert hall and resume her old life. Of course, the place would be locked up tight, but that wouldn't stop her. Same as the holding cell wouldn't have held her if she'd decided to leave before being released. But as of late, she'd been learning patience.

      Lost in thought, she glanced up to see that a car had pulled up beside her and the electric window in the rear was rolling down. And not just any car—a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce with a purr so fine it was barely audible. “Hi,” a well-dressed man said in back. “I was wondering ...”

      Kumiko stopped and looked in. He looked harmless enough so she did more than just look, she hopped in. It was too early to call it a night, and there was still more reconnoitering to be done.

      “Hey, don't I know you?” the man said.

      Yes, he did. It was Jackson Grant, the captain of industry from earlier. Not wanting to be bothered with explanation, Kumiko altered the shape of her face slightly, making her cheeks a little puffier, her chin a little longer. “Would you like to know me?” she asked in broken English and gave him a wink.

      “Oh, I'm sorry, at first you looked very much like a young lady I met earlier,” Grant said. “But that's no matter.” He took a moment to let his eyes stroll up and down her form. “My, you're out awfully late.”

      “So are you. So what would you like to do?”

      He shrugged. “I don't know. A little bit of everything, I guess. I'd like to talk for a while first, if you don't mind. Would you like a drink?”

      “Sure, what do you have?”

      The discreet chauffeur didn't need to be told to raise the one-way glass separating the two compartments, and Grant offered her a brandy. At least that's what he called it as he handed her the snifter. It had a warm, mellow savor and Kumiko could tell that the millionaire had already had a few. Had he been driving around for the last few hour, alone like this? Noticing his wedding band again, she had to ask, “So, your wife isn't much of a talker?” Instantly she knew it was the wrong thing to say, but she was new at this tricking thing.

      “My wife's dead,” Grant said, eyes on the dark liquor in his glass. At length, he furthered, “Ovarian cancer. It's been a few months now, but tonight would have been our ruby anniversary. That's the big four-oh, if you didn't know.”

      Kumiko didn't. “I'm sorry,” she said. The Jackson Grant sitting beside her now was not the same man from the reception earlier. The leer was replaced with a look of melancholy, a loneliness he could no longer hide. She sat her brandy down in the receptacle in front of her and took his hand. His hand still felt dry, but there was a warmth to it that had been missing earlier.

      “So, how much are we talking about?” he asked. “Money's not an object, but perhaps certain things should be settled first.”

      Now Kumiko had to ponder that for a moment. The death of the old derelict still lingered with her, and for some reason she felt in a benevolent mood. There was nothing she could have done to save the poor old fellow, but the gentleman next to her did have needs she could minister to. But then she thought about Sweet Peach, still in the holding cell most likely. And about Big Willie, probably in a hospital by now having his business sewn back on. Sex and money. And now compassion. She wasn't quite sure yet how the latter equated with the first two, but somehow it probably did. And if she'd learned anything in her reconnoiter so far it was that there is no such thing as something for nothing.

      “Twenty bucks,” she said. “An Andrew Jackson.” And tried to light up the Rolls with her smile.

Marshall Payne has led a colorful life. He has worked as a touring musician, music producer, sound technician, a salesman, and a waiter. He has written over 80 short stories and his fiction has appeared in print and online in The Sword Review and Dragons Knights, & Angels, and online on Atomjack, The Harrow, Nanobison, Quantum Muse, The Written Word  and Allegory.  He is an interviewer and reviewer for The Fix.  He has an off-beat blog at http://marshall-payne.livejournal.com/ and welcomes you there.

Prolix, Marshall Payne's previous Atomjack story can be read here.

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