Lou...by aeon
A corporate, just been ripped, neo-Armani suit torn, carrying half of an
empty briefcase, walks into The Pit, dirty, bleeding freely but not heavily.
He tries the public phone, taps on the moldy casing to make sure his
suspicions are confirmed, then slams it down angrily, walking over to the
bar. From somewhere, he produces a stack of cred-chips, and I stop wondering
why he got ripped; with a dumbass attitude like that he was lucky to be
alive.
"I need to use a phone, " he says, dropping a hundred-credit counter on the
bar. I point at the phone he just tried to use, both of us knowing it
doesn't work, never has, and probably never will.
"My cellular phone got stolen, and I need to get the number discontinued
immediately." He pulls out a few more chips, placing them on the bartop.
"You have a phone in back."
It's a statement, not a question. He seems surprised when I answer.
"No."
He scowls, glancing up at the television screens above the bar. Cracked or
barely used, black & white or color, from five inch to the two projection
screens down at the far end: every one of 'em owned by somebody who ain't
me. Way I figure it, if anyone ever wants their set back, and can prove it's
theirs, I'll gladly give it back.
If they ask nicely.
"You mean you can afford digital cable television, but you can't pay your
phone bill?" He produces a few more cred-chips, which I started ignoring a
while back and continue to ignore now.
"Phones are expensive. Cable's cheaper." I shrug.
"You mean it's free, don't you?"
I shrug again. Half the city had illegal cable hookups, and mine were a lot
better concealed than most. He wasn't gonna turn me in anyway. And if he
did...well, let's just say I paid more to the police than I did to the cable
company, if you catch my drift.
He sighs, and I almost start to think about starting to feel sorry for him.
"Where can I find a phone?" he asks. In response, I glance around the room.
Half of the people out there had notebooks and netlinks, doing "business"
and pleasure at the same time. About half of those also had cell phones.
Mostly other people's cell phones. Common practice. Phone calls were so
'spensive now that you were better off getting 30 minutes free time by
stealing someone else's phone. Or 30 days, if you killed the guy you stole
the phone from. Not that I'd ever do that...
I had no relatives to call, anyway.
He looks a bit upset at this news, so I offer him a drink, and he scowls
some more. I feel like smacking him, but it'd prolly kill him, so I refrain
for the moment, and settle for just walking away. He stares at himself in
one of my mirrors for a long minute, checking how pretty he is I guess, then
gathers his money and his courage and slides off the stool, walking over to
a table where a few daemons and techies were dealing.
Of course, I listen. It pays to be nosy when you tend bar.
"Excuse me gentlemen," he says, seeing earrings and hair and making
half-assed assumptions. Marcie, of course, is pissed, and grabs his hand,
pulling it under her torn coat and pressing it to her half-bare breasts.
Marcie ain't no slut...she just can't afford good clothes. Spends it all on
computer equipment instead. Go figure.
"Does it feel like I'm a man, 'corpo?" He shakes his head and pulls his hand
back, apologizing and blushing. Great, a 35 year old virgin. He's squinting,
it seems, and I'm thinking that maybe he wore eyeglasses, before they got
stolen and/or broken about five minutes ago.
"What?" Marcie asks, demonstrating that she's the one in charge, which she
is, almost, except for me. I'm surprised she hasn't killed him yet, to be
honest. She looks at me and raises an eyebrow, and I shrug one of my all
purpose shrugs, which all look the same. This one means "I don't know, he's
an ass, don't get me involved, clean up the blood." She understands
perfectly.
"I...I need a phone. It's urgent." He's sweating like the pig over the
fireplace in the corner...or was it a dog tonight? I wasn't sure...SNIFF...
dog, definitely.
"For what?" Marcie asks. "Gotta call the wife?" She sneers. It's an
irritating habit of hers which I abhor. It makes her ugly.
"I had a phone stolen, and I need to cancel the service. I'll pay you."
"Of course you will," she says, and starts digging around for what he thinks
is a phone, but is more likely a weapon or in/out cable, knowing Marcie. It
turns out to be a notebook and calculator, and she fiddles with the keyboard
for a few minutes, "chatting" with someone online. She nods, grins, and
looks up.
"Ten thousand credits, and you can use a phone for two minutes. Longer'll be
a hundred every ten seconds. And you can only call to cancel your service.
No drug sales or calling the polcie or anything."
"I..."
"Yes." She doesn't haggle, and rules out "No" as an option now. He gets
flustered and agrees, counting out credits into her palm, all good, solid
plastic. No Yen, no old-country play-money. Maybe the guy ain't all bad.
It really is an almost fair deal, considering how much phone calls cost,
'specially overseas. Still, he doesn't look happy as he gives her the
credits and looks up, wondering where the phone's coming from. Just then,
these two punkers walk in carrying his answer: half a briefcase and a cell
phone. One of them's wearing Gargoggles and fiddling with a keyboard, and
the guy gets all pale and backs away towards the bar, looking at me for
protection which I don't give to anyone. I ignore him and wipe a glass which
doesn't need wiping: I douse them all in disinfectant anyhow, and I keep
nanotech spores floating about to kill off the more virulent strains of "The
Disease of the Month."
"Relax," says Marcie, giving the punks a bit less than half of the wad the
guy just gave her and grabbing the cell phone. "You can use their
phone...rent it, so to speak."
"But it's my..." But he knows he's stuck now, so he takes "his" phone and
only for a second glances towards the doorway...he might have made it.
Maybe. I grin in spite of myself, and Marcie sees my grin and sneers. I roll
my eyes at her sneer and she sticks her tongue out at me, so I wave a finger
in the air at her and she returns the gesture, and we both realize we're
being stared at out of the many corners of people's eyes, so we both cut it
out. She acts like my kid sister sometimes. Well, like my kid sister would
act if I had a kid sister. I decide to watch the guy sweat it out...even the
house band ain't this entertaining.
He punches in the number and connects, grimacing as he tells the company
that his phone has been stolen, that "No," he has no idea where it is, and
that "Yes," he'd like the number disconnected. Obviously, they do so
immediately, because his hand drops the phone away from his ear like it's
fallen asleep. He sighs, and places his phone back in Marcie's hand, who
gives it back to the punkers. With a grin, they sit and begin haggling with
Marcie about getting the phone renumbered, and the suit sits back at the
bar, staring into space...
"Here," I say, pushing a Succubus in front of him. "On the house." I don't
feel sorry for him at all. I figure he'll start paying for drinks after the
first one, when he starts forgetting things. Besides, his money'll be a lot
safer with me than with him. He's gonna get ripped as soon as he leaves the
bar.
The other half of that briefcase of his is worth at least a coupla credits.
