“And bring the Mags down us,” somebody else shouted. “You gotta do better than that.”
Teague spread his hands. “What can I say? Times are hard.”
“Times are always hard,” said a small woman standing at the front of the podium. “They ain’t likely to get any better, neither. But hard times or good times, a piece of shit is still a piece of shit.”
A wave of appreciative laughter rippled through the crowd.
Teague wasn’t offended, but he behaved as if he were. He tossed the circuit board back into the crate and announced petulantly, “Ho -kay, you ungrateful sobs. Auction is over.”
A few people clapped and whistled in sarcastic appreciation as the obese Pit boss lumbered off the podium, followed by Uno and Dos. His quarters were attached to the warehouse, a boxlike structure made of plyboard, corrugated metal and walls of rockcrete. It had no windows, and his strong-arms took up position outside the closed door.
Uno and Dos looked very much alike, twins almost, though neither claimed to be related to the other. They were tall, rangy men, bom and bred in the Pits. They were dressed identically in baggy bodysuits, scuffed combat boots and pseudoleather brown jackets a size too small to accentuate the length of their arms. Sheathed at their hips were foot-long knives. Their dark blond hair was swept and greased back with the same homemade pomade. Since its primary ingredient was lard, a cloud of gnats was their constant companions.
Inside his one-room home, Teague turned on the overhead light, and its naked blaze fell on a flagstone floor, four whitewashed walls, a table, two chairs and a daybed. The girl stretched out on the daybed looked up quickly, shielding her eyes from the sudden glare.
She wore a pair of bright red stockings on her long legs and nothing else. Her hips were generously proportioned, her breasts perky, and her bone white hair was cropped very short. Contrasting sharply with her white skin was a pair of upslanting crimson eyes, as red as cut rubies. Those eyes, adjusting to the light, gave Teague a glance edged with resentment and fear.
Pleasantly he said, “How very decorative you look, Domi.”
“Fuck off,” replied Domi sulkily. “You paid off already, I want to leave.”
Teague wagged his head from side to side and eased his bulk into a chair. It creaked beneath his ponderous weight. “No, sweetheart, I don’t think so. I’m not tired of you yet.”
One of the genetic quirks of the nukecaust aftermath was a rise in the albino population, particularly down south in bayou country. Albinos weren’t exactly rare anywhere else, but they were hardly commonplace. Teague found Domi particularly unique and enchanting, though her personality fell somewhat short of inviting.
She was a relative newcomer to the ville. He’d spotted her during one of his periodic forays into the Outlands and smuggled her into the Pits with a forged ID chip. In exchange, she’d been called on to give him six months of personal service. Now seven months had passed.
“Your main function,” continued the Pit boss, “is to please me. You haven’t always pleased me, so as I told you before, I’ve extended your term until I’m completely pleased.”
Red rage flared in her eyes, and she sprang to her feet. “I run away!”
“To where and to what, sweetheart?” He still maintained his pleasant, reasonable tone. “The Pits are not that large. You may hide, but you can’t run. And your striking appearance will prevent you from blending in even in the deep squats. Besides, isn’t this place better than wandering the Outlands?”
Domi nibbled her lower lip. “Turn you in, I could. Turn you in to Mags.”
Teague chuckled. “You, with a bogus ID chip in your arm? I don’t think even you are that impulsiveor foolish.”
He sighed wearily. “Haven’t I been kind to you? Haven’t I provided for your every comfort?”
Domi’s face twisted in angry contempt. “You disgusting. Green skin, scales. Body like smelly sack. Lizard tail between your legs. Make me sick.”
“No abuse, please, my darling. It causes hot blood to rise in me, and you are aware of what happens then.”