Iconoclast -- "Photo"

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Iconoclast -- "Photo"

Photo...by aeon

The guy was in my face. We both reached under our trenchcoats. Mine was black oilskin, waterproof and lightly armored, and produced an automatic shotgun, loaded for bear. His was greyish and dirty, wet and tattered, and produced a yellowed photograph. Since this wasn't standard combat tactics, I chanced lowering my shotgun away from his forehead.

"Roger Thompson," he said. "I need your help."

"A lot of people need my help," I said.

"I'm one of them," he said. "I need your help finding this girl."

He wasn't going to kill me, and it was getting heavy, so I put the shotgun away. Less conspicuous, too. The bouncer stopped glaring at me and turned away. Bulletproof turd, overpaid and underworked. A job I wish I had.

"Why do I want to help you?" I asked.

"You asking about money?"

"I'm asking about the job?"

"How much do you work for?"

Now, before we go on here, let me just say that from the start this was all very unprofessional. As you've probably figured out, it's not polite to shove things in people's faces, and even less polite to talk about money in public. If you talk about it, it implies that you have some, and if you have some, it implies that you want it taken away from you, and there are plenty of assholes who're willing to take it away from you, no charge. Not that I was one of those assholes, mind you. I gave up mugging a long time ago for more profitable ventures.

Since he was being unprofessional, I figured this gave me the right to be unprofessional right back, so I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him into the women's bathroom. It was cleaner than the men's room by far. Marcie was in there, brushing dried blood from her hair. I was betting that it wasn't hers, but didn't ask. We nodded at each other and I dropped Mr. Thompson on the floor, giving him a full ten count to resume breathing. Marcie stayed. She didn't care, neither did I. We'd known each other for fifteen years now, and we had an understanding. Her business stayed her business, my business stayed my business, and occasionally we watched each other's backs. Oh, and we had sex too. Friends with benefits, so to speak.

"The job?" I said, leaning on the sink. It groaned disconcertingly.

"I need you to find someone for me. I'm getting paid 4 million to track this girl down," he said, producing the photograph again, "and I'll give you half of that." I took the photo but didn't look at it.

"Why?" I asked.

"She's wanted by some very influential men for something she took from them. This may take hackers, crackers, some muscle, maybe some police assistance to crack this one. That's why I'm offering so much for your help. I've tracked her here, but this is a big city. Now I need help."

"And you get half the money for doing nothing?"

"No, I get 2 mil in credit for referring you the job and taking credit for it. You get 2 mil in untraceable streetcred, tax free, guilt free." He looked at me as if expecting an answer, so I looked at the photo again, considered the prospects, and nodded.

"Great, let's get..."

"But you pay me in adva..."

"In advance?"

"Expenses. Yes or no?" I leaned on the sink and waited.

"Fine," he said at last. "Just a second." He pulled a phone from his trenchcoat, punched some numbers, and handed me the phone so I could key in my account and PIN. Just to be safe, I checked my account balance on my own phone while he shuffled his feet and Marcie continued brushing her hair. The woman sure had a lot of hair. The display lit up. The money was there. I made him wait another few minutes while I moved the money through a few other accounts.

"What now?" he asked.

"Ask her," I said. I pushed off from the sink and walked out of the bathroom, letting the door shut behind me. I wandered over to the bar and ordered two drinks, threw mine back and ordered another. Finally, Marcie came out, shaking blood from her hairbrush. She sighed.

"You disembowelled him with your hairbrush?

"Didn't want to get my knife dirty."

"Ah."

We sat in silence for a few minutes. But I couldn't help myself.

"You were pretty cute with blonde hair."

"Shut up," she said. She tossed back her drink and ordered another. It wasn't a problem. We had one hell of a bar tab now.