Part Three: Defense and Desire
After my time on Earth, even the weather that greets me on Ganymede cannot faze me. I've come to Ginsburrough, a little town on the northeast sector of the planet. This time of year, the sector is constantly shrouded in storms, with only the briefest breaks in the clouds. To call this "rain" is to understatement. It's more in line with a torrential downpour. But it's nice and cool, and it's not Earth, so I scarcely notice the menacing clouds gathering when I walk up the dock towards my destination.
I carry a pet carrier in my left hand. Inside, my new tagalong Ein is barking like mad. Maybe the weather's bothering him, or perhaps he's just letting me know what he thinks of me. Though we've only been together for a couple of days, Ein and I have not gotten along very well. As mentioned, I'm not very good at taking care of anything other than myself...and Ein hasn't shown much interest in eating anything other than the good leather hat I left out on the shuttle ride over. I hope to find Jet soon...even if he doesn't agree to an interview, it'll be worth it just to give the dog to someone remotely qualified to care for him. In my other hand, I hold the strip of paper Ed gave me before I left. It says:
Charlie P. Gillespie
The Running Rock Cantina
777 Pasternak
Ginsburrough, Ganymede
I did a bit of research before heading out to Ginsburrough. Seems the Running Rock has been in business for a couple of years now...doing a tolerable job of catering to Ginsburrough's nightlife. I've been unable to dig up anything on Gillespie, however. I have my suspicions, though.
Ginsburrough is not a big place. There's only about 11,000 people on the island and the network of interconnected docks that has grown off of it. A large part of the town itself actually floats on these docks, which serve as the primary streets of this place. The atmosphere is pretty laid back. There's a few scraggly thug-types hanging about, and they eye the container I'm carrying as if it could be their next big payday. Seeing nothing more than an old mutt, they leave us alone. Ironically, even as old as he is, the 'mutt' is probably worth more than I make in a year at the magazine. I can't say in any honesty why that is, though. I've never found out exactly what makes a data dog so valuable. If Ein was half as intelligent, loyal and good natured as he was portrayed in the book, maybe I'd understand the sheer emotional value of this pet...but he still hasn't stopped growling at me, and I still miss my hat.
There's no big business in Ginsburrough, and very little to do, it seems, other than go to the few bars out on the west end, which is where I'm slowly making my way towards. The market seems centered around the fishing industry, and little else. I've seen half a dozen teenagers just hanging around, looking for something to do. I imagine Ginsburrough loses a lot of it's youth to the larger cities on the other side of the planet. I notice, with no little amusement, how many of these bored kids are dressed in the hunter-chic styles. Of particular notice is a scrawny boy with wildly puffed hair, dyed a sort of off-green shade. He's wearing an exact duplicate of the signature suit Spike wore, except that it's red, not blue. He's also trying, and failing, to look cool by sucking down a Marlboro Red. A paroxysm of coughing suddenly breaks out from his doorway. I just shake my head and chuckle as I walk on. Spike Spiegel. Often imitated, but never duplicated.
Just as the rain that's been threatening begins to fall, I cross onto another causeway, this one marked as Pasternak. Sure enough, there's the Running Rock a little ways down the block. It's a nondescript little joint, a little one-story blues bar with a big mural of Charlie Parker off to the left side of the entrance. I can't see too clearly inside, but it doesn't look all that busy...which seems to be par for the course in this burg. It's really starting to pour when I step through the doorway and make my entrance.
Inside, there's about a dozen small tables, an empty dance floor and a couple of pool tables, as well as a medium-sized bar. There's maybe 10 people in here, tops. A trio of men so old they look like mummies sit huddled at a corner table, one of them muttering some indistinct nonsense about building a gate while the other two just nod along with him. A tall woman, maybe on the late edge of middle age, is at the bar nursing a drink and petting a cat, which eases any fear about this place not allowing animals. There's also a small group of those punk kids, complaining loudly about how there's nothing to do in this town, while trying to sneak some alcohol from a barely-hidden flask into their sodas. Lording over it all is a man behind the bar. This has to be 'Gillespie.'
I put my coat on a rack by the door and head for the bar. Ein, thank God, has finally shut up. I look down long enough to confirm that he hasn't died on me, then keep on walking until I reach a stool. As I sit down, the barman moves over to where I'm at.
"Hey there, stranger. Welcome to the Running Rock." The man is massive, easily a full head taller than I am. He seems even larger when one sees his long grey mane (half obscured by a battered hat, which looks to be in worse shape than the one of mine that Ein chewed) and thick beard like some sort of hermit. One eye is hidden by a patch, which in turn is covered by dark shades, even at this late hour of the day. He looks like a pirate, or the leader of a biker gang...but his actual tone is very pleasant, almost easy going. "Can I get you anything?"
I give the standard answer. "Rum and coke sounds pretty good." The barkeep smirks and half-nods at the kids trying to smuggle their drinks in.
"To you and them both, friend." We chuckle at the expense of the kids, who suddenly shut up and abruptly hide their drinks from sight as the big guy gestures at them. He quickly mixes the drink and passes it to me. "There you go."
"Thanks. Are you going to have to do something about those kids?" He waves a hand, unperturbed.
"Ah, let 'em have their fun. Life's too short to get stressed out about that kind of garbage. So, tell me something, buddy...what brings you to Ginsburrough?" He looks at me from over the rim of the shades, with the one uncovered eye. "I'd have seen you around town if you've been here before." I drain the rest of my drink before answering.
"I'm here to deliver something to a guy who lives around here." I hand the glass back, with the gesture to fill it up again, before sending out my first tentative advance. "Some cat named Charlie Gillespie...heard of him?"
The barkeep looks off to one side, hands on the surface on the bar, waiting a moment before answering. Before he can say anything, the three geezers suddenly break out into a horrible-sounding burst of crazy-old-man laughter, while one of them wheezes something about a girl in Tijuana. My man the pirate gives them a long, questioning look before he answers me.
"Well, pal...it's a common enough name," he deadpans. "But if you're looking for the Gillespie that runs this bar, you're lookin' at him." He sticks out his left hand. I notice then that he's wearing gloves and a long-sleeved shirt that covers any...distinguishing marks on his arms. "Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr..."
I shake his hand with a grin. "Hey, call me Kurt."
There's a stern set to his jaw that makes me think he knows where this is all heading. "Alright then, Kurt...what's this delivery you got for me?" He's reaching under the bar for something...a gun, maybe? Before he can get too impatient, I quickly stoop down and pick up the pet carrier.
"I think, Mr. Gillespie...that you're the man best suited to take care of this little bugger here..." I put it on the bar. Naturally, Ein starts the yipping again. This sets off the cat with the older lady, who apologizes to 'Gillespie' on her way out, as they exit the bar, heading off to some place down the road. The barkeep scarcely notices. He takes off the shades, eye wide with amazement.
"This can't be who I think it is..." He opens up the cage. Ein scampers out, barking in a way that sounds, to my untrained ear, happy. "Ein!" He scoops the dog up below it's stubby little legs and holds him high above his head, laughing like the prodigal son has just come home.
I don't say anything, myself. I figure that there's going to be a whole hell of a lot of questions to answer once his giddiness subsides. I look at the kids. They're rolling their eyes. "What's the matter, haven't you ever seen a family reunion?" The kids resume their slouching and sucking of spiked coke. The old guys are oblivious, still wrapped up in their snail's-pace conversation.
The barman puts Ein down on the bar, and looks back at me. "Stranger, I think you and I are going to have to..." but his words are cut short when the cat lady comes back in.
"Jet! There's a whole bunch of folks coming this way! I think your cover's been blown!" She takes off back the way she came, maybe to try and slow them down. Jet's face is contorted, furious, and he slams a fist down on the bar. The left hand strikes like thunder, Ein begins to whine, and every face in the bar turns to see what the commotion is.
"God damn it!" He shoots me a venomous look before peeling off the eyepatch, revealing an undamaged eye, but a vicious scar and a crudely applied mending bar as well. I don't know whether to try and give an excuse or just run for my life, but my decision is taken out of my hands when the crowd the cat lady warned him about barges into the cantina.
"God damn it..." From me, this time. I recognize every one of the bastards that file in through the doors. Press passes flashing, a slew of reporters from every two-bit newsmag from the Nova Express on up to the Daily Globes storm in, shouting at Jet. He holds Ein the way a wide receiver might cradle a football, staring aghast at the sea of journalism before him. I must have been followed, I realize, and I curse the luck I'd dare to think *might've* turned for the better.
The news hawks are screaming at him. "Mr. Black! Over here! What have you been doing all these years?" His face is a dumbstruck blank slate.
"Did you ever have an affair with Faye Valentine?" Now a mask of confusion.
"What kind of food does Ein prefer?" Confusion squared.
"Who was the better shot, you or Andy Musashi?" Now he's merely looking contemptuous. I am going to hell for this, I'm sure of it.
"Can you give us exclusive rights to publish your cookbook?" He almost looks interested before setting his face back into "scowl" mode.
"Is it true that you've fathered six children in the time you've been in hiding?" He stares at Ein and rolls his eyes.
"Were you and Mr. Spiegel ever intimate?" Jet covers his face with his hand, absolutely disgusted by all these questions. Very slowly, he bends down behind the bar and puts Ein down. From my vantage point in the corner, huddled in a fetal position, I can barely hear the scampering sound of four little paws dashing somewhere out of the way. When Jet comes back up, he's got a gun in his hand. The room goes quiet, and he clears his throat.
"Okay, then. You punks better listen up, because I'm not going to repeat myself. I've made it abundantly clear for the past five years that I have no interest in selling my story to you buzzards! Now, the next one of you that pipes up," he glares ferociously out at the mob of correspondents, "about anything to do with the Bebop, my whereabouts for the last half- decade, or my sex life, is going to get shot! I'm not threatening you bottom-feeders, I'm swearing an oath! Now, get the hell out of my bar!!!" His roar is fearsome, and anyone with some sense would get out of there as fast as humanly possible. I would have already, but my exit path is full of newsmen. Unfortunately, it's a testimony to the inherent lunacy of my profession, that some idiot speaks up.
"But, Mr. Black...what about your opinions on whether or not Spike..." This is Garibaldi Panza, a features hotshot from the Weekly Ganymedian. He never finishes his sentence. With frightening accuracy, Jet levels the pistol and fires a single shot at Panza. "Oh, Jesus Christ! He's shot me in the foot! This crazy bastard shot me in the foot! Oh, God, it hurts!"
Jet raises the pistol, and focuses back on the rest of the crowd. "I don't think anything else needs to be said. Now get out!!!" To emphasize his point, he blasts off the rest of the clip into the ceiling. The entire bunch bolts like a herd of spooked cattle, and I try to make my way to the front of the line, before Jet remembers...
A superhumanly strong hand grabs my collar before I can take off. "Not so fast, kid." Like lightening, I'm lifted bodily into the air, and slammed into the wall. Jet looks right in my eyes, dangerously close. His prosthetic arm is still clamped, vise-like, on my collar, pinning me there. Flowery descriptions fail me at the moment...it's sufficient to say that the man is pissed. "I was going to say, before we were interrupted, that we should have a conversation. Well, buddy, I think that'd suit me just fine right now." He drags me by my shirt, heading back behind the bar. I catch a glimpse of the kids, grinning perversely. This is probably the most exciting thing they've ever seen here in Ginsburrough. They'll be talking about this forever, but the fact that urban legend will immortalize me doesn't console me much, seemingly at the hour of my death.
Jet hauls me over to a heavy door, opens it up, and tosses me inside with one hand. I crash against some boxes and lie on the floor. I think this is a stockroom...but all that I care is it's too dark to find my way out when he slams the door shut on me. Outside, I hear him bellow at his patrons. "Alright, the bar is closed indefinitely! Everyone out!" There's some sounds of argument. "Look, old-timer, I don't care how many years ago you built the gate, I'm closing this place down now!" There's the sound of several people walking at various speeds across the wood floor, followed by a doorslam so loud I have to wonder if the front entrance has been damaged. Then, just one set of footsteps, stomping loudly, back towards where I've been flung.
I'm trying to remember the Act of Contrition when the door is flung wide open again. Light floods what is indeed a stockroom. Jet stomps in, holding a gun, but not with his finger on the trigger. He sits down on a box facing me.
"Alright, Kurt. Where'd you get the dog?" He isn't shouting...but the quiet, even tone is somehow worse. I wince as I attempt to at least halfway sit up, but I settle for sprawling out wheezing on top of a few more crates.
"Ed. I got Ein from Ed." Jet looks skyward, as if to say, 'No shit, sherlock.' "I mean, she gave him to me so I could bring him here to you! I swear, that was all!"
"Just a delivery boy, then? Alright...I might've overstepped a bit, then. Sorry. Here, I'll get you something to drink..." He turns towards the main room again, but I stop him before he can start walking.
"No...probably just about what I deserve. I am a reporter, after all." I see his fists tighten.
"I knew it! Always you goddamn punks gotta follow me around! Why can't you bastards just let me be! I don't want fame, I don't want attention, I don't want to talk about Spike, and I don't want money! I just want to be left alone!" He almost looks like he's going to start hitting things again...but instead, he takes a deep breath, and just stands in the doorway, back turned on me.
Finally, after what seems like a very long time...he speaks up again. I don't know how long it is...it's hard to pay attention to exact passage of time when it feels like you hit every branch on the way down off the Reality Tree. I hurt everywhere. This is not what I'd pictured it would be like when I imagined finally talking with Jet Black.
"Do you know what you people have cost me, by constantly tracking me down and telling everyone in the system where I am?" He rubs his real arm absently. "Every woolong I ever got from the bounty business, I've put into staying out of sight. I spent the last of my savings to get the lease on this joint. I even kind of liked it here. Now I gotta pull up stakes again. You guys are like vultures. No, worse...you're like parasites...trying to suck me dry when I'm still alive."
I moan a little. My leg really hurts...I think it's broken. "Hey, man, I'm in no position to argue. I've been tracking down you guys for months, and I don't have anything to show for it except a pathological fear of the Earth and a half-chewed hat." I wince a bit. "And maybe whatever might be broken here. Anyone who'd put themselves through that sort of misery for the sake of a five page article in a magazine for hunter-wannabes...well, I think there's obviously something wrong with me, if not the entire journalistic profession." With a pathetic show of wimpy academic dexterity, I manage to contort myself into almost sitting upright. Yeah, the leg is definitely broken, but I think I'll live, if Jet doesn't kill me before I leave here. I look up at the man, wondering what he's going to do next.
There's an obvious conflict of instincts playing out behind his eyes. He almost looks like he wants to help me up, but then, I know he's never stuck around more than a day after getting discovered. Faye always painted him as the big mender-and-fixer on the ship, so I can wonder if that impulse is a factor here. Part of me feels guilty...there's so much I know about the man that I can't help but like him, even after he's beat the living crap out of me; but to Jet, I'm just some news whore who exposed him after trying to get on his good side by bringing his dog back.
Finally, he grits his teeth, rolls his eyes and shakes his head; and, against his better judgement, pulls a first aid kit from off a shelf. "I really should be getting out of here," he mutters, as he feels against my injured leg, testing where the fracture is. "It's only a matter of time before the mob forgets, and starts feeling lucky again. This will probably hurt a bit." He swiftly jams my leg back into alignment where it was broken. I yelp like I'm Ein or something. Jet continues on without so much as a 'sorry.' "Hell, this time I shot one of them. Not that I'm broken up over it or anything...but it's going to make things difficult if he calls the cops. I might have a favor or two left to call in, though." He looks around for something to make a splint out of.
"I wouldn't worry. Panza'll probably write it into his next travelogue. 'Touring the Northwestern Islands: Booze, Broads, and Bullets from Bounty Boys.' Be a badge of courage for him that he bled for that kind of tripe. He won't call the cops." Jet is standing again, eyeing various objects around the room.
"Jesus...does the guy really write garbage like that?"
"He gets a king's ransom for doing it, too."
He shakes his head as he spies a ladder off to the side. "I got in the wrong business." Taking hold of one side, and standing on top of the other, he pulls the ladder apart with a horrible sound of splintering wood. He knocks off a few stray rungs from one of the sides, then breaks it in half. "This is going to have to do until you can get to a hospital." Dropping the splint by my side, he keeps looking for something else, and finds it: a roll of duct tape. "This isn't going to be a very dignified cast."
I just smile. "Well, there aren't too many guys out there who can say Jet Black played field medic to their scars in the service of journalism. That's cool enough. If I've learned anything from all this, it's that I have no dignity anyway." He's wrapping the duct tape tight across the splint and my leg. I think this officially ruins this pair of pants.
Jet manhandles the other end of the shattered ladder, leaving a couple rungs near one end. "I think this is the best crutch you're gonna get, kid. I take it gratefully. It's not very stylish, and it takes some getting used to, but I think I will be able to hobble around with it. "It was Kurt, right?" I nod. "Then, Kurt, I think it's time I head off again. Thanks for bringing Ein here." As if he can understand when his name is mentioned, Ein scampers up to where Jet is. He scoops up the little dog, and scratches him behind the ear.
Without warning, he genuflects on the floor, pulling open a trap door. Suddenly, I remember that I wasn't just supposed to deliver Ein. There was a message, too.
"Jet, Faye says she's sorry." The big man looks up.
"What?"
"Whatever it is she did, she told me, she's sorry for it, and she wanted to make sure you know."
He has one of those looks again...where he's in a mental boxing match over two sets of contradictory instincts. He obviously wants to get moving...who knows when the press will show up again...but then again...I don't think he expected to hear from Faye. Finally, he hangs his head, resigned.
"I guess I'm not getting rid of you yet, am I Kurt?" He gets up again.
"Have you ever wanted to see the inside of the Bebop?"
Holy crap! The Bebop?!?
After my time on Earth, even the weather that greets me on Ganymede cannot faze me. I've come to Ginsburrough, a little town on the northeast sector of the planet. This time of year, the sector is constantly shrouded in storms, with only the briefest breaks in the clouds. To call this "rain" is to understatement. It's more in line with a torrential downpour. But it's nice and cool, and it's not Earth, so I scarcely notice the menacing clouds gathering when I walk up the dock towards my destination.
I carry a pet carrier in my left hand. Inside, my new tagalong Ein is barking like mad. Maybe the weather's bothering him, or perhaps he's just letting me know what he thinks of me. Though we've only been together for a couple of days, Ein and I have not gotten along very well. As mentioned, I'm not very good at taking care of anything other than myself...and Ein hasn't shown much interest in eating anything other than the good leather hat I left out on the shuttle ride over. I hope to find Jet soon...even if he doesn't agree to an interview, it'll be worth it just to give the dog to someone remotely qualified to care for him. In my other hand, I hold the strip of paper Ed gave me before I left. It says:
Charlie P. Gillespie
The Running Rock Cantina
777 Pasternak
Ginsburrough, Ganymede
I did a bit of research before heading out to Ginsburrough. Seems the Running Rock has been in business for a couple of years now...doing a tolerable job of catering to Ginsburrough's nightlife. I've been unable to dig up anything on Gillespie, however. I have my suspicions, though.
Ginsburrough is not a big place. There's only about 11,000 people on the island and the network of interconnected docks that has grown off of it. A large part of the town itself actually floats on these docks, which serve as the primary streets of this place. The atmosphere is pretty laid back. There's a few scraggly thug-types hanging about, and they eye the container I'm carrying as if it could be their next big payday. Seeing nothing more than an old mutt, they leave us alone. Ironically, even as old as he is, the 'mutt' is probably worth more than I make in a year at the magazine. I can't say in any honesty why that is, though. I've never found out exactly what makes a data dog so valuable. If Ein was half as intelligent, loyal and good natured as he was portrayed in the book, maybe I'd understand the sheer emotional value of this pet...but he still hasn't stopped growling at me, and I still miss my hat.
There's no big business in Ginsburrough, and very little to do, it seems, other than go to the few bars out on the west end, which is where I'm slowly making my way towards. The market seems centered around the fishing industry, and little else. I've seen half a dozen teenagers just hanging around, looking for something to do. I imagine Ginsburrough loses a lot of it's youth to the larger cities on the other side of the planet. I notice, with no little amusement, how many of these bored kids are dressed in the hunter-chic styles. Of particular notice is a scrawny boy with wildly puffed hair, dyed a sort of off-green shade. He's wearing an exact duplicate of the signature suit Spike wore, except that it's red, not blue. He's also trying, and failing, to look cool by sucking down a Marlboro Red. A paroxysm of coughing suddenly breaks out from his doorway. I just shake my head and chuckle as I walk on. Spike Spiegel. Often imitated, but never duplicated.
Just as the rain that's been threatening begins to fall, I cross onto another causeway, this one marked as Pasternak. Sure enough, there's the Running Rock a little ways down the block. It's a nondescript little joint, a little one-story blues bar with a big mural of Charlie Parker off to the left side of the entrance. I can't see too clearly inside, but it doesn't look all that busy...which seems to be par for the course in this burg. It's really starting to pour when I step through the doorway and make my entrance.
Inside, there's about a dozen small tables, an empty dance floor and a couple of pool tables, as well as a medium-sized bar. There's maybe 10 people in here, tops. A trio of men so old they look like mummies sit huddled at a corner table, one of them muttering some indistinct nonsense about building a gate while the other two just nod along with him. A tall woman, maybe on the late edge of middle age, is at the bar nursing a drink and petting a cat, which eases any fear about this place not allowing animals. There's also a small group of those punk kids, complaining loudly about how there's nothing to do in this town, while trying to sneak some alcohol from a barely-hidden flask into their sodas. Lording over it all is a man behind the bar. This has to be 'Gillespie.'
I put my coat on a rack by the door and head for the bar. Ein, thank God, has finally shut up. I look down long enough to confirm that he hasn't died on me, then keep on walking until I reach a stool. As I sit down, the barman moves over to where I'm at.
"Hey there, stranger. Welcome to the Running Rock." The man is massive, easily a full head taller than I am. He seems even larger when one sees his long grey mane (half obscured by a battered hat, which looks to be in worse shape than the one of mine that Ein chewed) and thick beard like some sort of hermit. One eye is hidden by a patch, which in turn is covered by dark shades, even at this late hour of the day. He looks like a pirate, or the leader of a biker gang...but his actual tone is very pleasant, almost easy going. "Can I get you anything?"
I give the standard answer. "Rum and coke sounds pretty good." The barkeep smirks and half-nods at the kids trying to smuggle their drinks in.
"To you and them both, friend." We chuckle at the expense of the kids, who suddenly shut up and abruptly hide their drinks from sight as the big guy gestures at them. He quickly mixes the drink and passes it to me. "There you go."
"Thanks. Are you going to have to do something about those kids?" He waves a hand, unperturbed.
"Ah, let 'em have their fun. Life's too short to get stressed out about that kind of garbage. So, tell me something, buddy...what brings you to Ginsburrough?" He looks at me from over the rim of the shades, with the one uncovered eye. "I'd have seen you around town if you've been here before." I drain the rest of my drink before answering.
"I'm here to deliver something to a guy who lives around here." I hand the glass back, with the gesture to fill it up again, before sending out my first tentative advance. "Some cat named Charlie Gillespie...heard of him?"
The barkeep looks off to one side, hands on the surface on the bar, waiting a moment before answering. Before he can say anything, the three geezers suddenly break out into a horrible-sounding burst of crazy-old-man laughter, while one of them wheezes something about a girl in Tijuana. My man the pirate gives them a long, questioning look before he answers me.
"Well, pal...it's a common enough name," he deadpans. "But if you're looking for the Gillespie that runs this bar, you're lookin' at him." He sticks out his left hand. I notice then that he's wearing gloves and a long-sleeved shirt that covers any...distinguishing marks on his arms. "Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr..."
I shake his hand with a grin. "Hey, call me Kurt."
There's a stern set to his jaw that makes me think he knows where this is all heading. "Alright then, Kurt...what's this delivery you got for me?" He's reaching under the bar for something...a gun, maybe? Before he can get too impatient, I quickly stoop down and pick up the pet carrier.
"I think, Mr. Gillespie...that you're the man best suited to take care of this little bugger here..." I put it on the bar. Naturally, Ein starts the yipping again. This sets off the cat with the older lady, who apologizes to 'Gillespie' on her way out, as they exit the bar, heading off to some place down the road. The barkeep scarcely notices. He takes off the shades, eye wide with amazement.
"This can't be who I think it is..." He opens up the cage. Ein scampers out, barking in a way that sounds, to my untrained ear, happy. "Ein!" He scoops the dog up below it's stubby little legs and holds him high above his head, laughing like the prodigal son has just come home.
I don't say anything, myself. I figure that there's going to be a whole hell of a lot of questions to answer once his giddiness subsides. I look at the kids. They're rolling their eyes. "What's the matter, haven't you ever seen a family reunion?" The kids resume their slouching and sucking of spiked coke. The old guys are oblivious, still wrapped up in their snail's-pace conversation.
The barman puts Ein down on the bar, and looks back at me. "Stranger, I think you and I are going to have to..." but his words are cut short when the cat lady comes back in.
"Jet! There's a whole bunch of folks coming this way! I think your cover's been blown!" She takes off back the way she came, maybe to try and slow them down. Jet's face is contorted, furious, and he slams a fist down on the bar. The left hand strikes like thunder, Ein begins to whine, and every face in the bar turns to see what the commotion is.
"God damn it!" He shoots me a venomous look before peeling off the eyepatch, revealing an undamaged eye, but a vicious scar and a crudely applied mending bar as well. I don't know whether to try and give an excuse or just run for my life, but my decision is taken out of my hands when the crowd the cat lady warned him about barges into the cantina.
"God damn it..." From me, this time. I recognize every one of the bastards that file in through the doors. Press passes flashing, a slew of reporters from every two-bit newsmag from the Nova Express on up to the Daily Globes storm in, shouting at Jet. He holds Ein the way a wide receiver might cradle a football, staring aghast at the sea of journalism before him. I must have been followed, I realize, and I curse the luck I'd dare to think *might've* turned for the better.
The news hawks are screaming at him. "Mr. Black! Over here! What have you been doing all these years?" His face is a dumbstruck blank slate.
"Did you ever have an affair with Faye Valentine?" Now a mask of confusion.
"What kind of food does Ein prefer?" Confusion squared.
"Who was the better shot, you or Andy Musashi?" Now he's merely looking contemptuous. I am going to hell for this, I'm sure of it.
"Can you give us exclusive rights to publish your cookbook?" He almost looks interested before setting his face back into "scowl" mode.
"Is it true that you've fathered six children in the time you've been in hiding?" He stares at Ein and rolls his eyes.
"Were you and Mr. Spiegel ever intimate?" Jet covers his face with his hand, absolutely disgusted by all these questions. Very slowly, he bends down behind the bar and puts Ein down. From my vantage point in the corner, huddled in a fetal position, I can barely hear the scampering sound of four little paws dashing somewhere out of the way. When Jet comes back up, he's got a gun in his hand. The room goes quiet, and he clears his throat.
"Okay, then. You punks better listen up, because I'm not going to repeat myself. I've made it abundantly clear for the past five years that I have no interest in selling my story to you buzzards! Now, the next one of you that pipes up," he glares ferociously out at the mob of correspondents, "about anything to do with the Bebop, my whereabouts for the last half- decade, or my sex life, is going to get shot! I'm not threatening you bottom-feeders, I'm swearing an oath! Now, get the hell out of my bar!!!" His roar is fearsome, and anyone with some sense would get out of there as fast as humanly possible. I would have already, but my exit path is full of newsmen. Unfortunately, it's a testimony to the inherent lunacy of my profession, that some idiot speaks up.
"But, Mr. Black...what about your opinions on whether or not Spike..." This is Garibaldi Panza, a features hotshot from the Weekly Ganymedian. He never finishes his sentence. With frightening accuracy, Jet levels the pistol and fires a single shot at Panza. "Oh, Jesus Christ! He's shot me in the foot! This crazy bastard shot me in the foot! Oh, God, it hurts!"
Jet raises the pistol, and focuses back on the rest of the crowd. "I don't think anything else needs to be said. Now get out!!!" To emphasize his point, he blasts off the rest of the clip into the ceiling. The entire bunch bolts like a herd of spooked cattle, and I try to make my way to the front of the line, before Jet remembers...
A superhumanly strong hand grabs my collar before I can take off. "Not so fast, kid." Like lightening, I'm lifted bodily into the air, and slammed into the wall. Jet looks right in my eyes, dangerously close. His prosthetic arm is still clamped, vise-like, on my collar, pinning me there. Flowery descriptions fail me at the moment...it's sufficient to say that the man is pissed. "I was going to say, before we were interrupted, that we should have a conversation. Well, buddy, I think that'd suit me just fine right now." He drags me by my shirt, heading back behind the bar. I catch a glimpse of the kids, grinning perversely. This is probably the most exciting thing they've ever seen here in Ginsburrough. They'll be talking about this forever, but the fact that urban legend will immortalize me doesn't console me much, seemingly at the hour of my death.
Jet hauls me over to a heavy door, opens it up, and tosses me inside with one hand. I crash against some boxes and lie on the floor. I think this is a stockroom...but all that I care is it's too dark to find my way out when he slams the door shut on me. Outside, I hear him bellow at his patrons. "Alright, the bar is closed indefinitely! Everyone out!" There's some sounds of argument. "Look, old-timer, I don't care how many years ago you built the gate, I'm closing this place down now!" There's the sound of several people walking at various speeds across the wood floor, followed by a doorslam so loud I have to wonder if the front entrance has been damaged. Then, just one set of footsteps, stomping loudly, back towards where I've been flung.
I'm trying to remember the Act of Contrition when the door is flung wide open again. Light floods what is indeed a stockroom. Jet stomps in, holding a gun, but not with his finger on the trigger. He sits down on a box facing me.
"Alright, Kurt. Where'd you get the dog?" He isn't shouting...but the quiet, even tone is somehow worse. I wince as I attempt to at least halfway sit up, but I settle for sprawling out wheezing on top of a few more crates.
"Ed. I got Ein from Ed." Jet looks skyward, as if to say, 'No shit, sherlock.' "I mean, she gave him to me so I could bring him here to you! I swear, that was all!"
"Just a delivery boy, then? Alright...I might've overstepped a bit, then. Sorry. Here, I'll get you something to drink..." He turns towards the main room again, but I stop him before he can start walking.
"No...probably just about what I deserve. I am a reporter, after all." I see his fists tighten.
"I knew it! Always you goddamn punks gotta follow me around! Why can't you bastards just let me be! I don't want fame, I don't want attention, I don't want to talk about Spike, and I don't want money! I just want to be left alone!" He almost looks like he's going to start hitting things again...but instead, he takes a deep breath, and just stands in the doorway, back turned on me.
Finally, after what seems like a very long time...he speaks up again. I don't know how long it is...it's hard to pay attention to exact passage of time when it feels like you hit every branch on the way down off the Reality Tree. I hurt everywhere. This is not what I'd pictured it would be like when I imagined finally talking with Jet Black.
"Do you know what you people have cost me, by constantly tracking me down and telling everyone in the system where I am?" He rubs his real arm absently. "Every woolong I ever got from the bounty business, I've put into staying out of sight. I spent the last of my savings to get the lease on this joint. I even kind of liked it here. Now I gotta pull up stakes again. You guys are like vultures. No, worse...you're like parasites...trying to suck me dry when I'm still alive."
I moan a little. My leg really hurts...I think it's broken. "Hey, man, I'm in no position to argue. I've been tracking down you guys for months, and I don't have anything to show for it except a pathological fear of the Earth and a half-chewed hat." I wince a bit. "And maybe whatever might be broken here. Anyone who'd put themselves through that sort of misery for the sake of a five page article in a magazine for hunter-wannabes...well, I think there's obviously something wrong with me, if not the entire journalistic profession." With a pathetic show of wimpy academic dexterity, I manage to contort myself into almost sitting upright. Yeah, the leg is definitely broken, but I think I'll live, if Jet doesn't kill me before I leave here. I look up at the man, wondering what he's going to do next.
There's an obvious conflict of instincts playing out behind his eyes. He almost looks like he wants to help me up, but then, I know he's never stuck around more than a day after getting discovered. Faye always painted him as the big mender-and-fixer on the ship, so I can wonder if that impulse is a factor here. Part of me feels guilty...there's so much I know about the man that I can't help but like him, even after he's beat the living crap out of me; but to Jet, I'm just some news whore who exposed him after trying to get on his good side by bringing his dog back.
Finally, he grits his teeth, rolls his eyes and shakes his head; and, against his better judgement, pulls a first aid kit from off a shelf. "I really should be getting out of here," he mutters, as he feels against my injured leg, testing where the fracture is. "It's only a matter of time before the mob forgets, and starts feeling lucky again. This will probably hurt a bit." He swiftly jams my leg back into alignment where it was broken. I yelp like I'm Ein or something. Jet continues on without so much as a 'sorry.' "Hell, this time I shot one of them. Not that I'm broken up over it or anything...but it's going to make things difficult if he calls the cops. I might have a favor or two left to call in, though." He looks around for something to make a splint out of.
"I wouldn't worry. Panza'll probably write it into his next travelogue. 'Touring the Northwestern Islands: Booze, Broads, and Bullets from Bounty Boys.' Be a badge of courage for him that he bled for that kind of tripe. He won't call the cops." Jet is standing again, eyeing various objects around the room.
"Jesus...does the guy really write garbage like that?"
"He gets a king's ransom for doing it, too."
He shakes his head as he spies a ladder off to the side. "I got in the wrong business." Taking hold of one side, and standing on top of the other, he pulls the ladder apart with a horrible sound of splintering wood. He knocks off a few stray rungs from one of the sides, then breaks it in half. "This is going to have to do until you can get to a hospital." Dropping the splint by my side, he keeps looking for something else, and finds it: a roll of duct tape. "This isn't going to be a very dignified cast."
I just smile. "Well, there aren't too many guys out there who can say Jet Black played field medic to their scars in the service of journalism. That's cool enough. If I've learned anything from all this, it's that I have no dignity anyway." He's wrapping the duct tape tight across the splint and my leg. I think this officially ruins this pair of pants.
Jet manhandles the other end of the shattered ladder, leaving a couple rungs near one end. "I think this is the best crutch you're gonna get, kid. I take it gratefully. It's not very stylish, and it takes some getting used to, but I think I will be able to hobble around with it. "It was Kurt, right?" I nod. "Then, Kurt, I think it's time I head off again. Thanks for bringing Ein here." As if he can understand when his name is mentioned, Ein scampers up to where Jet is. He scoops up the little dog, and scratches him behind the ear.
Without warning, he genuflects on the floor, pulling open a trap door. Suddenly, I remember that I wasn't just supposed to deliver Ein. There was a message, too.
"Jet, Faye says she's sorry." The big man looks up.
"What?"
"Whatever it is she did, she told me, she's sorry for it, and she wanted to make sure you know."
He has one of those looks again...where he's in a mental boxing match over two sets of contradictory instincts. He obviously wants to get moving...who knows when the press will show up again...but then again...I don't think he expected to hear from Faye. Finally, he hangs his head, resigned.
"I guess I'm not getting rid of you yet, am I Kurt?" He gets up again.
"Have you ever wanted to see the inside of the Bebop?"
Holy crap! The Bebop?!?