Disclaimer: I don't own Cowboy Bebop; Sunrise, Inc. does. I do, however, own this original story.
Life in the Fast Lane
By The Lady Razorsharp
Part 2: Good Looks and Charm
He had a nasty reputation as a cruel dude
They said he was ruthless, they said he was crude
They had one thing in common, they were good in bed
She said, "Faster, faster! The lights are turnin' red"
--The Eagles
"Asimov—"
Katarina bit her lip as he swung around to look at her, his dark eyes taking in her curvaceous form seated on the edge of the bed in her chemise. He raised his eyebrows at her.
Her voice sounded very small and timid to her ears. "You're sure this is going to work?"
Irritation crossed his handsome face for a moment as he approached and laid his hands on her shoulders. "Katia, don't worry. What have I told you these past few days?"
"That I should just act natural and everything will be fine," Katia repeated, feeling like a schoolgirl who hadn't studied her recitation.
"What else?"
She sighed. "That in perfecting a con, one only has to follow one simple rule: Do What You Know." Her head fell back to look him in the eye. "I'm just nervous, Asmiov, that's all. I've never done this before."
"Of course you have, dollinka." Asimov was the picture of longsuffering patience. "Look. Think of it as just another night back at that rathole of a brothel, and he's just another john. You've done that lots of times, right?"
Katia frowned. "But—"
"Just think of it that way and it'll be no sweat." He caressed her tousled brown waves. "Okay, time to get ready. Our 'client' will be at the Silver Swan in half an hour, and I've arranged for him to meet us at the bar." He brought her to her feet and pulled her against his lean body. "Wear your red dress, the one I bought you on Venus. And the stockings with the seam down the back…" Asimov's fingers traced an imaginary line up the back of her thigh, lifting the hem of her chemise as his hands continued their upward caress. "You'll be making me crazy every minute, just watching you," he growled in Russian before kissing her roughly.
After a moment, they stepped apart, chests heaving. Between breaths, they could each hear the other's heart racing in the silence. "See you soon," Asimov whispered, nipping gently at her nose.
Breathless, Katia nodded. With a swish of his leather duster against the sill, Asimov was gone.
Her knees gave out as soon as the door clicked shut, and Katia stumbled backward to sit down hard on the bed. She suddenly felt sick, and dry sobs kept tearing at her throat. One hand flew to her mouth, but whether it was to keep a scream or her lunch in, she wasn't quite sure. Asimov had said it before, that this was the big time. One wrong move could mean disaster.
She forced her hand away from her face. "Pull yourself together, Katia," she murmured to herself in Russian, running her fingers through her hair. "Like he said, it's just another night. Nothing to worry about." She rose and went into the bathroom to fix her makeup at the poorly lit mirror, then arranged her hair in her customary soft, shoulder-kissing waves. She took off her chemise, and then shimmied into the skin-tight red vinyl dress and pulled on the stockings, making sure the seams were plumb-line straight. The red vinyl boots, like ruby slippers nestled in their shiny black box from Allman's, zipped to mid-calf, and she retrieved her matching clutch from the dresser.
Katia turned to survey the pathetic little room; the bed was a shambles from their exertions that afternoon, and last night's Chinese takeout was congealing in greasy white boxes on the rickety table. She'd have to leave the chemise behind, since they would have to split right after tonight's business. Oh, well, she thought to herself, shrugging her bare shoulders, Asimov can buy me a new one with the money we'll get tonight. After applying one last coat of ultra-shiny red lipstick, Katia smiled bravely at her reflection and left the room.
The clock in the lobby was chiming six-thirty as Katia strolled into the bar of the Ganymede Silver Swan Resort. She could feel the stares of the men—and not a few of the women—as she walked calmly across the plush navy carpet. Seating herself on a stool near the center of the bar, Katia turned to survey the crowd, making sure to keep her eyes moving. In the corner, she spotted Asimov sitting at a table, drinking a glass of reddish beer. He lifted his glass toward her, just another man appreciating a beautiful lady, and she nodded, just another lady acknowledging a man's attention. So, all was well, then.
There was a cough at her elbow, then a hesitant string of rehearsed Russian syllables. "Excuse me, miss, are you here alone tonight?"
Katia turned to see a middle-aged man in an expensive suit standing next to her. His features, though perhaps handsome twenty years ago, had sagged into the folds of excess and domesticity, but his blue eyes were bright. The black hair caught into a ponytail at his nape was still glossy, if going a little gray at the temples. Even in the dim light, she could see the pale line on his finger where his wedding ring usually resided. How quaint, she thought, and let the image carry her into a smile. "Yes, I am," she answered in English.
The man let out an explosive sigh. "Oh, thank God, you speak English," he murmured under his breath. "You must be Sabrina."
Katia swept her hair back from her shoulders, tracking Asimov's movements out of the corner of her eye as he strolled behind their 'client' toward the exit. In less than twenty minutes—depending on how chatty the guy was—it would all be over. "I am. And you are—?"
"Johnson. Dick Johnson," the man smiled, his doughy face flushing. Katia almost laughed out loud. Had Asimov suggested the alias, or had Mr. Johnson come up with it all on his own? She made a mental note to ask Asmiov later.
She put her hand in Johnson's, and he kissed it wetly. "It's a pleasure, Mr. Johnson. Shall we have a drink before we…get down to business?" She let her eyes shimmer at him from under the kohl makeup. "I've found that it helps to, how do you say—break the ice a little."
"I agree," Johnson said, hiking himself up onto a stool beside her. When he was settled, Katia placed her hand on his thigh under the bar. Johnson grinned like an idiot and whistled for the bartender. "What'll it be, my dear? Perhaps a glass of champagne to toast this lovely occasion?"
"Well, I usually prefer bloody marys," Katia answered truthfully—probably the only moment of truth in the entire charade, she mused—"but I won't insult you and say no." She squeezed his thigh, letting her fingernails rake against the fabric of his trousers as she pulled away.
Johnson turned the color of Katia's dress. "Garçon! A bottle of your finest champagne!" He glanced at Katia, who was checking her lipstick in her compact. He nearly choked as she ran her tongue against her glossy lips and blew him a kiss. "And two glasses," he squeaked. "To go!"
"Just wait till you see this," Johnson grinned, trying to juggle the two crystal flutes, the 10,000-woolong bottle of champagne, and his keycard for the door. "My company pays for it, though."
"And what do you do, Mr. Johnson?" Katia took the champagne from him; it was a crying shame that it would probably go to waste, but maybe she could grab it on her way out.
"I'm a consultant for the Gate Corporation. You know, number cruncher, bean counter, that sort of thing." The keycard chimed. "Ah, here we are, my dear."
The door swung open to admit them into the suite, and Katia realized that the suite was bigger than the house she grew up in. The creamy white antique furniture was touched with traces of gilt, highlighting the elegant carvings on every surface. Springy carpeting the color of toasted marshmallows cushioned their steps into silence, and heavy brocade curtains shut out noise and light from the street fifteen floors below.
"Make yourself at home, my dear," Johnson offered as he shut the door behind them. "Have a look around. I'll open the champagne."
"Mm," Katia nodded, her eyes full of the beautiful room. The sunken sitting area held a loveseat and overstuffed chair upholstered in beige velvet, along with a marble-topped white iron table in the center of an oriental rug done in tans, browns, and cream. A squat bowl filled with tightly packed white roses graced the middle of the table, and an oil painting of a nude woman seated with her back to the artist hung over a faux fireplace. Katia sighed. This room's wasted on idiots like him. I bet he doesn't even realize how beautiful it is.
A right turn at the edge of the entrance area led her down a short hallway to the bedroom. Katia gasped; the bed was huge, made with khaki-colored linens and fitted with a voluminous duvet of vanilla silk. Thick, luscious pillows covered in khaki velvet were corded with the creamy silk, which also formed the bullion fringe on the khaki velvet drapes. For a moment, Katia considered sleeping with Johnson, if it meant she would get to luxuriate in that wonderful bed.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" A voice purred in her ear, and Katia turned with a start to see Asimov at her elbow. "What do you say when we hit it big, we stay here for a whole week, and tear that bed to pieces?"
Katia glanced nervously toward the door, but her cheeks were pink. "How did you get in?"
"In his hurry to get his lovely guest inside, Johnson forgot to close the door all the way." Asimov smirked. "His kind is so predictable."
Johnson's voice came floating in from the other room. "Be right there," he called. There was a loud popping sound, a muted splash, and a muttered curse. "Just one more minute."
Asimov grinned at Katia and put a finger to his lips. He backed away into the closet, melting like a dark specter into the sea of white terry robes. One hand shot out and pulled the slatted door just to, where it looked like someone had carelessly left it that way. Just as the screen slid into place, Johnson appeared in the doorway.
Katia's heart began pounding, both from anxiety and the thought of her and Asmiov putting the plush mattress through its paces. So it was that Johnson noticed the flushed complexion and quickened breathing of his beautiful companion, and utterly misread it.
"Here, my dear. Have some of this. It'll relax you a little." Johnson handed Katia one of the flutes and clinked it a little too loudly with his own. "To a lovely evening," he toasted her before draining his glass. When Katia merely sipped at hers, he frowned. "What's the matter, dear? Don't like it?"
"But you've spent so much on it," she said, as if she were sorry to waste the liquor, when in reality it was the best champagne she'd ever tasted. "Here, darling, you finish it for me." She handed the flute to Johnson, who eagerly downed the golden liquid.
"Don't have to ask me twice." He let out a small burp. "Now. Let's get down to that business we were talking about, shall we?" Already in a haze of expensive booze, Johnson encroached on Katia's personal space and gave her a clumsy kiss. Katia nearly gagged when Johnson thrust his clammy tongue into her mouth, so she pushed away from him with a liquid smack of their lips separating.
She stepped over to the bed and sank gracefully onto the silk duvet. "Let's not waste any time, shall we?" Anytime, Asimov!
Johnson's expression was so comical, Katia was sure she could hear a sproing! come from below his belt. "You're a girl who knows what she wants," he said breathlessly, first ripping at the buttons of his shirt and fumbling with the buckle on his trousers. "Strong women just get me so excited."
"Ohh," Katia moaned, mostly for Asimov's benefit. "Well, then, come here, darling." She patted the bed next to her, and Johnson yelped like a trained seal.
Down to a pair of blue-and-white striped boxers, sleeveless undershirt and navy blue socks, Johnson tensed to leap onto the bed, but found his progress hampered by something that had caught the back of his shirt. Turning his head, Johnson found that something to be Asimov's gloved fist. Eyes bugging, Johnson let out a shriek and promptly wet himself.
"Better hope your expense account includes carpet cleaning," Asimov grated, bitchslapping Johnson so hard that Katia heard Johnson's neck pop. The tall desperado dropped the blubbering man to the floor only to grab him by the front of his shirt. "Where's your wallet, dirtbag?"
Johnson raised a shaky finger toward the other room. "On the table…in the hallway."
Asimov nodded to Katia, who sprung off the bed and dashed down the hall. Sure enough, Johnson's wallet lay on the foyer table, and Katia quickly thumbed through it. She removed the cash card and stuffed it down her dress, as well as the gold and platinum account credit cards. There was a picture in a plastic holder stuck in the wallet, and Katia glanced at it; it was Johnson, standing behind a seated, sweet-faced woman, who was holding a toddler girl on her lap. A young, dark-haired boy stood at his left, and they were all smiling.
She felt a sharp pang of guilt as she stared into the faces of Johnson's family, but it swiftly turned to anger. She had never had a family like this. Johnson did, but chose to seek the company of hookers. Bastard. I hope Asmiov beats the shit out of him.
Asimov appeared at the entrance to the hallway. "Did you get it?" At her nod, he thrust out his hand, palm up. "Gimme the cash." Katia put the card in his hand, and his eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch as he glanced at the readout. "Heh. I'm in the wrong business; if this is just the expense account for idiots like him, I wonder what his take-home is."
"I almost feel sorry for him," Katia mused, remembering the picture. "He was so gullible."
"Don't start with the sob routine," Asimov growled as he pocketed the card. "He deserved what he got." The tanned face split in a feral grin. "You, however, were fantastic. I almost pushed that fat fuck out of the way and jumped on you myself." He took Katia's face in his hands and kissed her breathless. Now that it was Asimov's tongue thrust between her lips, Katia had no qualms about responding in kind.
After a few dizzying moments, Katia pulled away. "Mm. Asimov." She put her hand against his chest and pushed gently. "We should go."
"Come on." He took her hand and led her toward the door. As they passed the hallway, Katia caught a glimpse of Johnson, lying facedown in a pool of blood.
Horrified, Katia tried to slow down, but Asimov dragged her through the doorway. "What did you do to him?" she hissed.
Asimov waved her question away. "I broke his nose; it bled like a bitch. He'll wake up stuck to the damn carpet. I just hope they get the stain out before we come back, or I'll complain to the manager."
