“Okay, let’s see what you got for me,” Patrica said, loosening the ties. Right off, the bag itself was of some value. There wasn’t a hole in the fabric, and the buckles still worked. She shook it and heard a delicious metallic rattle of steel on steel. Perhaps it was a bag full of blasters!
“You like.” Harold beamed, bobbing his head as if in church. “Good stuff. Best! I take Laura now.”
“Not yet, boy,” she stated. “Not until I see in what condition the blasters are. And how much ammo. We had a deal, remember?”
Harold smiled so wide he drooled. ‘”Member. Good stuff. You like.”
It took every ounce of control Patrica possessed not to gasp in wonder when she opened the canvas bag and found it full of predark medical supplies in perfect condition. It was a baron’s ransom of technology, more than enough to buy half of Alphaville.
“Bah, useless.” She forced herself to curse, rummaging a hand through the surgical instruments. The flawless steel felt as smooth as silk. “Where are the blasters? I don’t see any blasters in here, just some old junk.”
“Better,” Harold said, feeling confused. “Fixes people. Is better!”
“I said blasters, didn’t I, boy?” Patrica stated, crossing her plump arms across her flabby breasts. “Is this a blaster?”
“Better,” the hunchback whispered, his fleeting dreams vanishing under her stern gaze.
The madam dropped the pack and kicked it into the corner.
“Useless. I can’t do anything with this. Now go get me some blasters.” Patrica reached out and shook the man. “You savvy blasters? Revolvers, pistols, boom sticks. Get me blasters, or I put Laura to work tonight!”
Harold shook off the hand and stood to his full height. “No,” he said in exacting pronunciation. “She no work here!” He grabbed the madam and lifted her off the floor, her shoes wildly kicking to find a purchase. “She no work here! Wife!”
“Yes,” the fat woman gasped in terror. “Of course. Laura no work here. I was only teasing. Joke. A joke! No work here. Never work here. Okay? Okay?”
“Okay,” Harold growled, his face a mask of feral madness. As effortlessly as if he were holding a child, and not a four-hundred-pound woman, he returned her to the floor.
Wheezing for air, Patrica retreated behind her desk and started to open a drawer with a machete hidden under a towel, then thought better of the action and slowly slid the drawer closed. The desire to kill had been plain on his face, and the woman wondered if her game was worth the chance of reward. One wrong move and he would smash her apart. In that instant, her decision was made. Whatever the gimp brought back as payment next time, she would accept as enough and then kill him. He was a golden goose, but one with the fangs of a tiger.
“I go get blasters. Magnum 16s. Remytons. One bag full blasters.” Harold started for the door, then stopped and glared at Patrica, his hatred clearly visible. “You obey deal,” he growled, rubbing a forearm across his wet jaw. “Or you no friend!”
Shaking more with rage than fear, Patrica watched the door close, the handle ripping out of the wood as the hunchback stomped away in barely controlled fury. A wave of outrage swept over the madam, and her gaze shifted to the spot where he had dared to lay a hand on her as if she were one of the sluts working upstairs, just another common whore! That was where the gimp would die, his guts spilling out onto the floor, screaming and weeping for his life as Patrica hacked away at his limbs until the misshapen body was reduced to flesh and bones.
Striding to the wall, she opened a battered cabinet and withdrew a knotted leather whip, a specialty item reserved for the baron himself when he visited on tax day. Her back twitched in memory of those awful hours. Expertly coiling the banded leather, Patrica cracked the whip and cut a chunk of wood the size of a plum out of her desk.
Leaving the office, the madam closed and locked the door carefully, then lifted a fat leg and started to climb the stairs for the next level, the long length of the bull-whip trailing behind.