+J.M.J.+
The Shadows Between the Neon
By "Matrix Refugee"
Author's Note:
I know, "Where's the rest of Zenon Eyes: Eyes of Truth?" That one is being a bear to write, so I'm trying to get this little bit of nastiness out of the way first, so you can get your Halloween treat while it's still that time of year (My Irish druid ancestors celebrated Halloween, then called Samhain, for three days before and three days after the actual date, so if I carry this over into next week, I'm just living up to some ancestral echoes.). WARNING: Contains some very bad French (bad in a grammatical sense, although there is one expletive which I have yet to find a translation for). And now a word from our sponsors: This chapter is brought to you by…candy corn…by mallowcream pumpkins…and by Yankee Candle's "Trick or Treat", "Spiced Pumpkin", "Witch's Brew", and "Pumpkin Pie" (I've been trying to see if they got one that smells like scorched jack-o'-lantern, you know that really neat, nutty smell when the candle singes the inside of the lid of the jack-o'-lantern…); trouble is I don't buy 'em, I just sniff 'em when I'm in the gift shop near my house.
Disclaimer:
See Chapter I
IV October 26, 2159
[Another Note: Me again! Life imitated art: I'm typing this chapter on October 26, 2002. And I suppose life has been imitating my art again in a far darker way, what with the sniper attacks in the Washington D.C. area. Thank the Maker that the sniper got caught yesterday! We now return to our scheduled fanfiction…]
Entry from Cecie Martin's dream journal, October 26, 2159:
A dark, warm place…silk whispers against silk…scents like roses and lilies and musk…
Image: a lily lying on rich, black satin sheets, a lily torn down the side, weeping tears of blood instead of nectar…
Cecie opened her eyes to the plain white ceiling of her room. She sat up and looked around her. Morning. A paper copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula lay on the sheets beside her. The dreams she had after reading…Phila would accuse her of asking for such things, what with THAT kind of reading. She closed the book and threw back the comforter. She arched her back, getting the sleep out of her spine as she cupped the callused soles of her feet in her hands.
An hour and a half later, she stood in the usual morning line to the milk bar on the corner of 12th Avenue and Main Boulevarde, watching the scattering of passersby. Rain had fallen in the night, leaving puddles in the worn patches in the pavement. The daylight dulled the neon to pallid ghosts of its former brilliance, disrobing the dingy gray structures of the buildings beneath. Where it lacked any pretense of moral hygiene, the City maintained a high level of public cleanliness: as in keeping the streets free of trash—the usual papers and bottles and plastic cups, as well as the occasional used needles and condoms—but they couldn't keep the facades of the buildings free of grime. Cecie swore the dinge came from all the raging Orga hormones, which congealed like smoke on the chimney of an old-fashioned oil lamp.
She got her quart of milk—thankfully no knives in it!—and went back home.
She got the Broadsheet from her mailbox and read it over her breakfast. One of Hal's photos had made the front page:
Third Mecha Destroyed; Security Suspect Serialist.
She paged through the paper to the credits box, buried on the same page as the op-ed section:
Francis J.X. Sweitz, junior reporter
Halloran McIver, junior photographer
She paged through the rest. In the business section, she found a prominent announcement:
"Per order Destiny Rohrschact, City Manager and the Rouge City Board of Commerce, Sexual Commerce Division, all male Mecha sex workers are to conduct their business in pairs in a effort to curtail further economic and commercial losses to the city…" she had floaters of Alex getting paired with Joe, perhaps because Alex seemed to get a jag out of annoying Joe, especially by offering himself to her in front of Joe. She couldn't help praying that Joe would get a partner more to his preference.
She spent the day writing late winter travel brochures. She often had a hard time getting into the seasons as they came, since she'd already gotten the spirit several months too soon. This would make choosing her Halloween costume difficult. Here it was Thursday the 26th and she still didn't have a definite idea what to dress as.
She went out again late that afternoon to send off her files and do a little Halloween shopping.
In a gift shop, she found three electric candles and bought them. No one was doing much mourning for the fallen Mechas—except a few sodden businesswomen she'd seen in the bar at the Graceley the night before—but she would do her part. Phila would be livid if she knew, but it had to be done.
She roved the tamer sections of a seasonal costume shop set up in an empty storefront on the Lower Deck. She gravitated to the gothic section of the store: black and maroon simulsilk and simulvelvet gowns with décolletage and built in corseting. She never went for the Victorian drag, preferring a more techno look. And the décolletage wasn't 'her', mostly from principle, but also—even if she didn't have the principles—because she didn't have anything to show for it. Nobody knew, but she sometimes strapped her bosom in place under her blouse with duck tape: finding the right bra size for her scrawniness was nightmarish too often. And she didn't need the corseting either: despite her leanness, she had a good figure with a naturally slender waist and wide hips.
She settled on a maroon-black simulvelvet Empire gown with black and forest green draperies and opera length black half gloves. Add a mask with iridescent black feathers she had and a few black roses, maybe tease up her dark hair and gel it into place and she could be an enchantress.
She bought it and brought it home. She contemplated stopping by the Langiers' apartment, but she decided they needed arrest from her and she didn't want to risk getting into a confrontation with Phila about her costume ("It's immodest!" she could hear Phila cry) and the candles…what kind of argument would they torch off?
"Why did you get those?"
"I'm mourning the Mechas that got destroyed."
"You can't do that: they don't have souls."
"They might have SOMETHING."
She wrapped her scarf more snugly around her head and throat as she ascended to the Upper Deck. The wind had died down during the day, but it had picked up again, not as strong as it had been, but no less frosty.
Rouge City had its own approach to the holidays, including Halloween: she'd seen some of the younger model female lover Mechas walking the streets wearing black witch hats or clad in pink ballerina costumes or schoolgirl outfits in the manner of a teen singer named Brittany Spiers, from early the last century or other cloyingly feminine Halloween costumes. The Vintage Theatre downstairs had run a month-long series of antique 2-D horror flicks including Vertigo and Dark City from way back in 1998; the Cinema Erotique not far from the Graceley had run a month-long series of its own, mostly pornographically artistic and artistically pornographic vampire movies. She'd actually gone to one out of sheer curiosity and found the more symbolic scenes more erotic than the actual sex scenes.
As she approached the Graceley, a familiar slim shadow fell in step beside hers. She looked up.
Joe walked alongside her, giving her a cheeky smile clearly meant to get her attention.
"Hey, Joe, whaddya know—I thought you were supposed to be doubling up?" she asked.
"That protocol has been brought upon us: I was about to rendezvous with my colleague." He glanced past her. "Ah, he comes."
She looked behind her. From the door of the casino emerged a small male figure in a baggy violet blouse open at the neck tucked into black velour pants molded close to his legs. He peered about him with almost birdlike movements, then approached them. She glanced at Joe, whose smile had taken on a roguish twist.
"Is that your friend?" she asked.
"It is he," Joe replied, slyly.
The neon caught on the newcomer's bushy dark brown hair, a little too nicely arranged to make a really credible tousle, and his too-glossy olive-tinted skin.
"Hey, Julien, where've you been?" Joe asked the rhyme did not work, but that had more to do with Joe's accent than anything else.
The small Mecha looked around and quickened his pace, approaching them, his eyes lighting on her.
"Hey, Joe, what do you know?" he responded with a slight French accent.
"Did Miss Ironwood maker her usual demands?" Joe asked.
Julien spread his arms and tilted his head back to one side. "Alas, mon ami, she did. Such is our life. She must have her share of delight. We are only the kneeling ones at the mercy of les maitresses humane." Cecie detected a note of delicate angst in his voice; she knew she'd seen him elsewhere in the city.
"Perhaps if you stood up to her a trifle, she would find another, more interesting form of delight," Joe twitted.
Julien rolled his eyes as he looked up at Joe. He was probably the same height as Hal, but he was slightly heavier. He had a stockier build, but he was slim in a soft way. "You perhaps could stand up to her more swiftly than I, ma cher Anglais: you are taller."
"But we are being rude. Cecie, in your perambulations, have you met Julien before?"
"I've seen him from a distance."
"And you, Julien, have often heard me speak of the goddess of the datascriber, Miss Cecie Martin."
Cecie let Julien take her hand. He turned it over and kneeling, covered it with light kisses. He rolled back the cuff of her coat sleeve to start on her wrist, but she gracefully retracted her hand and reached down to lift him to his feet.
"Thanks, but you needn't kneel to me," she said.
"If you are un diesse de datascriber, I must acknowledge your divinity with my being," Julien said, bowing his head and spreading his hands as he arose.
"I meant this as but a term of endearment," Joe said, slightly bantering.
Julien made a harassed noise. "Oh, the crassness of these homes Anglais."
"You know as well as I that we were both built in Pennsylvania," Joe twitted, a gleam in his eye.
"Pfui! Hear how he scoffs at his own kind!" Julien cried. Eying her, he added, "Your family name is Martin; are you une Francaise?"
"Not really: I'm three quarters Irish, one part French, one part English, one part Native American," Cecie replied, trying not to smile at this exchange.
"Ah, Mam'zelle s'amuse. You find the abuse this Anglais homme-putan heaps upon me a well of amusement?"
"I'm afraid I can't help it," Cecie admitted. "It sounds like you're fighting over me."
The two Mechas looked at each other without turning. Then they looked at her, both slightly bemused, but Joe's face betrayed amusement.
"I shouldn't keep you: I've got writing to do tomorrow, so I'd better turn in."
"Must you take your departure so soon?" Joe asked.
"Your abuse of me has annoyed her, M'sieur le Pest," Julien retorted, jabbing one elbow at Joe.
"No, really; besides, you have your business to attend to, your conquests to make."
"But would you not wish to have a pair of arms to shield you from the cold of this night? It could turn you to a maiden of ice."
Joe leaned closer to Julien's ear. "She chooses to sleep alone of nights, no matter how cold." His eyes danced mischievously.
"Perhaps some night you will choose otherwise, ma cherie?" Julien said, a slight Gallic lift to one eyebrow.
"That's hardly likely to happen," Cecie said. But she gave him her hand again, though she tensed it and drew it away before he could start again on her wrist. He thrust out his lightly gathered lips as she did so; she could almost hear his processors forming the words: you have a block of ice where your heart should be, ma cherie.
"You take care of Julien," Cecie said to Joe, her hand on his wrist. "Better yet, set your DAS on high, just to be on the safe side."
"So you advise the Anglais and not me?" Julien snipped.
Joe ignored his colleague. "Because you refuse it, I shall heed it." He caressed Cecie's palms with his thumbs.
"You'd say that to any woman who'd think to tell you that," she teased.
"Not many women have had the concern to think of advising me," he replied.
She slid her hands up his arms and drew his face close to hers, her cheek against his, nearly as soft and smooth as her own, but warmer. "You keep yourself out of the shadows tonight and every night until they find out who's doing this." She pulled away, her lips parted, and let him move in on them. Behind them, Julien let out a rude noise. Even that didn't break Joe's concentration on her.
They released each other slowly.
"I shall return to you whole and sound with the morning," Joe promised.
"Don't make promises you may not be able to keep," Cecie warned.
Julien interrupted. "And what of moi?"
Cecie made a shooing gesture at him. "Off with you! You're just a gigolo."
Julien recoiled as he'd been struck with an electric bolt. He wrinkled his nose and thrust out his pursed lips, eyes wide. He drew himself up to his full height, which brought the top of his head level with her nose, and turning away, he strutted off in high dudgeon.
"Good riddance," she said.
Joe glanced after the retreating Julien. "Perhaps, on your recommendations, I should request to Mr. Flyte that he should pair me with another?"
"No, you'd probably get Alex then, and I know you don't like Alex."
He winked at her. "And still you show concern for me!"
A dark-skinned girl with her hair bleached platinum blonde passed by them.
"There's gotta be someone who can walk me through the shadows," she said in a come-hither voice loaded with double entendres.
"Duty calls; perhaps I can keep one eye on her and the other on the shadows," Joe said and followed the dark girl into the dusk.
Cecie went up to her room pretending the pain in her chest came from the cold night air she'd been breathing.
The boss had appreciated his work and had rewarded him well—a little too well, perhaps: he still sensed sharp aches at the pain memory of it…
He's gonna get himself caught; he didn't rip out the neural cubes; if you're gonna kill a Mecha and do it cleanly, you gotta rip out the cube, or else some expert's gonna scan the memory banks and they'll see your mug…
Late the next afternoon, Cecie went to the Library on the Lower Deck to check out a few printed copies of the horror novels of a late 20th century writer whose work was just coming back into repute.
She was scanning the list of newly acquired e-books added to the collection (Despite the City's repute as the red light district of the Eastern Seaboard, the library had a respectable collection—if not always respectable in a moral sense) when she heard movement nearby.
"Now what's a nice girl like you doing in a s---hole of a place like this?" asked a grating male voice at her elbow.
She turned to find Hal at her side. "I was about to say the same about you—in much less salty terms," she replied.
He chuckled deep in his throat, a jagged metallic sound with a razor edge of humor. "You got spirit, girl. If I weren't already falling for someone else, I'd take a shine for you, go a little upscale, though we're really in the same profession. Professional liars get more respect than those who tell the truth."
"Only sort of in the same profession: I work chiefly in words."
"And how you do," he mused. "You thinkin' of writin' a perspective on all these Mecha destructions?"
She wagged her head. "I've got other ideas cooking right now, but I might get a minute to toss something off for the Broadsheet."
"Eh, we could use some action on the op-ed page. Maybe I could get Fink to let you write a guest column."
"Thanks, but where do you come in calling Finkelsteen 'Fink'?"
"Don't let him know I call 'm that behind his fat a--. He can't seem to get my name right. He's called me McIvers, McGyver, Maguire, you name it. Can't get my name right in the credits either, dammit."
"I noticed."
Hal shrugged one shoulder, an almost imperceptible movement under his coat, which bagged on his frame like a slack teepee around a very short tent pole.
"So what brings you to the Library? I figured you'd be out enjoying the night life."
"Research. Readin' old archives on other serial destructions, like the Chainsaw Massacree here a few years back."
"I was there: Joe and I almost got it that night."
"Thank the fates y' both survived, or we'd have lost a good writer and a good looker at one fell swoop. I see he's had company the past couple days. Who's the frog Frenchman?"
"That's Julien."
"You thinkin' a' jumpin' the Channel in yer tastes? Had enough crumpets, now yer lookin' to try a baguette?"
"He isn't my type, too arrogant and feisty."
"So you like 'em sensitive and lordly, eh? How far you scored with 'm?"
"I don't keep score and I don't try to. Joe and I are just very good friends."
Hall waved one pointer finger in midair. "You're forgetting I've got eyes, Cecie. One picture's worth a thousand words of protesting. Your eyes tell a different story entirely."
"Let's say my heart and my head are at sixes and sevens."
"So you DO get itchy, like the rest of us. I didn't think you were made of marble. Joe ever scratch them itches?"
"It's none of your darn business."
"Information's my business: Who, What, Where, Why, When, How?"
"All right, if you'll stop prying: Who: Joe and I; What: have a platonic relationship; Why: because it isn't in my principles to take it any further."
"How's he take that?"
"He takes it gracefully: he's said his work isn't always about sex, anyway."
"Must be a first for this town. That would make quite a headline: Rouge City Woman Maintains Platonic Relations with Sex Mecha."
"I bet it would, but I'm already notorious."
A metallic twitter peeped from somewhere in Hal's coat. He patted his pockets, then opened his coat and reached for his jacket lapel, where a round pager had been clipped.
"The heroic reporter's calling me upstairs. Breaking news about a knife fight in a casino off Courtesan Plaza. If you see Joe before I do, tell 'm I said hello."
"Drop dead, Hal," Cecie said, taking Frank's tack of half-bantering, half in earnest abuse.
"Don't worry: at the sight of him I just might, though it would take just one lick to revive me."
When Hal had sidled out, she let herself bristle as she hadn't dared in front of Hal: it would gratify him too much. She had an understanding of men of that bent. She could even relate to it while not quite condoning it: she liked guys; she liked guys so much she could see why one guy would have it bad for another guy. But people of Hal's ilk just made her nauseous. He was a consumer, the sort who drains dry whatever he grasps and tosses it aside.
She checked out her selections and headed out, heading home.
In a nook formed by three concrete pilings, a group of homeless men had lit a fire in a barrel to warm themselves. One of them, a ruined accountant she knew only as Vincenzi, glanced her way as she passed them. His companion nearest him nudged him none to gently.
"Hey, Vinz, here's yer gal."
"Shut up, Rufus, she's Joe the Mecha's gal," Vincenzi snapped back. "Hey, Cecie."
"Hiya, Vincenzi. How are you holding up?"
"Same as always: hanging by my thumbs."
"We were gonna get us a handout by sending Vinz over t' Camden come Halloween night: he's so small he'd look like a kid, and with them rags on his back, who'd know?" Rufus said.
"You know it wouldn't work," Vincenzi said. To Cecie, he added, "You following the destructions?"
"Yeah, have you heard anything?"
"Word here on the streets is some Orga man-whore is doing it to thin out the competition."
"I say someone from the Flesh Fair is doin' it," Rufus put in.
"Nah, that was the Chainsaw Massacree a few years back," said the third guy.
"You must know the Mechas are going two and two?" Vincenzi asked.
"Yeah, I met Joe's partner yesterday."
"Ooh, a double delight, eh?" Rufus teased.
"No, the other one isn't my type."
"Besides, she's gone on you, Vinzie," the third guy added.
"Don't be ridiculous," Vincenzi retorted.
"You gonna pay up for the news bite with some spare change?" Rufus asked.
Cecie reached into her satchel. "I don't have any spare change, but I got some spare food," she said. She pulled out some foil packs of freeze-dried cheese and bacon sandwiches.
"Aw, not that freeze-dried s---," the third guy groaned.
"Hey, don't look a gift horse in the mouth," Rufus retorted.
"Besides, she's a good person," Vincenzi said.
"So was my ex-wife," the third guy grumbled, but he took the foil pack anyway.
"You run along before that weird guy comes this way," Vincenzi said.
"Don't worry, I've been keeping an eye out for him," Cecie said. "You guys stay together."
"We will, we're all we got," Rufus said.
Further up the corridor, Cecie heard voices nearby, singing, male voices, one higher and lighter than the other, singing alternating lines, the lighter voice first:
"'Just a gigolo, ev'rywhere I go…"
"People know the part I'm playing," replied the darker voice.
She looked back. Two shadows, a tall graceful one and a shorter, stockier one, approached her out of the darkness between the old-fashioned klieg lights high up on the pilings: the taller shadow danced slow circles around the shorter one.
"Paid for every dance…"
"Selling each romance…"
Then together an octave apart, "Ev'ry night some heart betraying."
As they stepped into the pool of light under the next lamp, the light fell on two familiar sheening faces, one with green-gold eyes, the other with black. Joe and Julien…Here comes the Jay-team, she thought, smiling.
"There will come a day…"
"Youth will pass away…"
"Then what will they say about me?"
"When the end comes I know…"
"They'll say 'Just a gigolo'…"
"As life goes on without me."
She applauded as they reached the spot where she stood. "Bravo! You both got good harmony," she said.
"Would that our working conditions were so harmonious," Joe said.
"Why, is this whippersnapper taking the tricks from you?" Cecie asked.
"If only they would step down from their high horses, they could find that good things often come with small packages," Julien said, standing straighter and taller as if to say, I count you among these high and mighty ladies.
Joe smirked at Julien, who retorted with his face crinkled in derision.
"Have you seen anything suspicious?" she asked.
"I have seen nothing you might consider suspicious," Joe said. "Not in a sense of danger."
"Only those who suspect our virtue," Julien added.
"Well, I just want to give you both the heads up on someone else; you take note especially, Joe: Hal McGeever has it bad for you, so if you see him around, just keep walking."
Joe took this with an innocuous smile. "He must be told I am not optimized for his tastes."
"He's struck me as the sort who doesn't care if you are or not, that's why I'm warning you."
"And who is this voracious Meester Mac-GEE-vair?" Julien asked.
"He is a most disagreeable and unpleasant little man with an appetite too large for his small frame," Joe said.
"Perhaps, if you would come down from your high horse, Mam'zelle Martin we could return the favour and guard you on your way back to your hotel?"
"Well, thanks," she said. She let Joe take her arm, but she kept the other close to her side.
"If you will not let me take your arm, will you not let me carry your satchel?" Julien asked, his eyes on her bag.
"O-kay, M'sieur Pesk-ee," she said, mimicking his accent, even as she let him take her bag.
As they stepped out onto the street, a jagged vibration of sound entered their ears, just rippling the quiet of the side street. As they headed along, the sound grew louder, resolving into voices. Two voices yattered and screeched at each other in a ground floor apartment up ahead, an older woman's screech and a young man's holler.
Joe slowed down, then led Cecie across the street as they passed the apartment, keeping himself between her and the street, Julien at their heels.
The apartment door crashed open; a gangly young man stormed out, banging the door shut behind him.
A woman in a faded housecoat pushed open the door.
"Jake, where are you going now?" she quavered.
"Go to f---ing hell, bitch!" the young man roared back. The old hag went back in, banging the door shut
He kicked the front tire of a cruiser parked on the sidewalk. He punched in the window glass, then keyed the door open, shoving it back as it opened. He dropped into the front seat, yanked the door shut and keyed the engine.
The tires screeched, sending a cloud of litter and gravel flying as the cruiser trundled up the street.
"God help them," Cecie murmured.
"We can't go this way," Joe said. His hand on her arm tightened slightly. He led them down an alleyway, along a labyrinth of passageways to the Hub.
"How beautifully the Orgas treat their offspring! They must not wonder that their youngsters seek the consolations we Mecha offer!" Julien cried.
"I know, it's like the young folks can't do anything right for the older generation," Cecie said. "They scream their heads off at us, and then when we take irrational turns, they wonder why."
"Perhaps we Mechas could say the same," Joe mused.
"I wouldn't argue that," Cecie agreed.
They got to the escalator hub and ascended without incident, the cold breeze didn't bite as cruelly as it had on the way down; Joe cut the wind for her by standing on the step above her, facing her. Julien, on the step below her, hedged in close to her, but kept a respectful distance. Still, she caught him eyeing her bosom appraisingly, not lecherously, oddly like a little boy eyeing the jars of sweets in a candy store window.
"May we see you to your door?" Joe asked.
"Thus the voracious Meester Ma-GEE-vair shall not devour you," Julien added.
"Gosh, having both you guys around is like having an entourage," she said. "Thanks, fellas."
To further confuse Hal or anyone else who might be trying to trail them, they took a less direct route, up Broad Way to where it crossed 12th Street at Harlot Square.
A crowd had gathered there, close to the wall of a nightclub, where an all-too-familiar group of guards and techs had gathered. Cecie tried to avoid the crowd; Joe led them away from the press. But the crowd parted, letting Stanger and a couple other guards through.
"Cecie Martin?" he asked. "We got something we want you to take a look at."
Joe tried to draw her away, but she drew her hand free of his arm. She followed Stanger into the midst of the now whispering throng.
A black-clad body lay sprawled on its side on the ground. At first her insides tightened with anticipated horror: had Joe…? But then as she got closer, she realized it was much larger figure. It was—it had been a bondage artist, a massive, blond beast of a Mecha who'd strode the streets clad in form-fitting black simuleathers that always had made her think of an SS trooper in the old World War II movies. She'd heard him called Kurt or Konrad; she couldn't remember which.
"Didn't you once say you wouldn't mind seeing this Mecha destroyed?" Stanger asked.
"I said something like I wouldn't mind seeing him go, but that was after he tried pinning me to a wall," Cecie said. "Besides, that was years ago when I first moved here."
"Oh, it only took you that long to finally get fed up and take care of him yourself," Stanger said.
"I just got here…I didn't kill him."
Whoever had done it had all but hacked Kurt apart: his arm had torn from the sockets of the servos, the wires and connectors snapped. One eye had been gouged out, the shell torn loose, the gray receptor underneath cracked. The mouth hung open, the "flesh" of the cheek cut, exposing the teeth and cut through to the metal understructure behind the mouth cavity.
"That's what they all say," Stanger said, as a female guard took Cecie's wrists and strapped them together behind her back with an orange plastic strap.
"Sirrah, you cannot arrest her," Joe tried to interpose himself.
"We aren't arresting her: we're taking her into custody until further notice," the female guard said.
"Merde! You call yourselves the guardians of justice and order!" Julien cried, with a toss of his head.
Cecie heard the wing-click of a camera shutter; she looked up.
Hal stood over the body, snapping photos of it. He turned suddenly; without removing the camera from his eye and before she could bend her head, Hal's finger twitched on the shutter button.
Across the crowd, Frank was interviewing one of the techs, but at the moment the shutter button clicked, he looked over in Cecie's direction. In the flash of light, his irises seemed to white out for a split second.
"For the love of God, McGeever, let the poor girl have her dignity!" Frank shouted.
As the guards led her away, she saw Julien brandish one hand in an obscene gesture. Joe's face, looking at her from the crowd that moved between them, had gone blank with something like abject horror
His shoulder pulsed where the last one had tried to wrench his arm from the socket. He'd returned the favor in kind, but his pain neurons fired madly, sending needle-stabs of pain up his neural cord. Well, the boss had him take on the bondage artist; he should have known something like this would happen. Let him be the one to patch up the damage…
To be continued…
Literary Easter Eggs:
The lilies in Cecie's dream—My dad discovered an Easter lily in our yard which decided to bloom a second time this season, so he brought it into the house for us to enjoy, so that's kinda where this came from.
Milk with knives in it—a reference to A Clockwork Orange, the setting of which is second cousin to Rouge City—minus the Mechas (They also appear in films by Stanley Kubrick); I've never actually been able to figure out what the "knives" are supposed be: my guess is some kind of kickapoo go-go drug.
"hangin' by my thumbs"—Borrowed from the sign-off of the two classic radio comedians "Bob and Ray" (Bob Elliot and Ray Gould): "This is Ray Gould reminding you to write us if it works"; "Bob Elliot reminding you to hang by your thumbs".
Joe and Julien's little song and dance bit—I modeled the choreography after a song and dance number by Frank Sinatra and Gene Kelly in I-don't-remember-which-Hollywood-movie-musical where Sinatra couldn't keep up with Kelly to save his life (Oh well, he could sing better than Kelly).
Julien's pronunciation of Hal's last name—Another bit from another Hollywood musical, An American in Paris, where an irritated Leslie Caron keeps calling the Gene Kelly character "Meester Moo-lee-gahn"
The domestic disturbance—Art draws upon life: the night I drafted this chapter, I went for a walk in the moonlight, up my street and along a side street, when I nearly walked in on a domestic disturbance very like the one I described here. I'd gone out into the dark hoping to find some inspiration to bring a darker quality into this story. I guess I got it.