Regers shoved him away. “I didn’t for a reason, Jiminy.” His scowl annoyed Jennings. A source of amusement for Regers. He would have kept the sniveling killjoy on the ship, but he didn’t trust him not to fly off to a NOA base, spilling his guts about floaters down on a desolate moon and a crew of mercs breaking laws. Happy hour was on. The brazen crew at last hit the Hothouse Blues roundhouse bar.
“Looks more like the respectable establishment we’ve been hankering for,” Regers mused.
Low translucent tables ranged to the sides, with touch-screen menus to order from—synthesized beef jerky, caramel tarts, ranghorn stew. Smoky clouds of dry ice and incense lit up in colors from the dusky lights above—blue, muted orange, red, and grey. A weird stage lurked on a low dais, and weirder band members wearing colored costumes, wielding electro-wind instruments that oozed out a seedy beat while sleek, bronzed, naked women and men paraded around the tables selling their wares. Which weren’t bad all in all, considering the low-ball price. Not a shabby little joint, Regers thought.
Everything went as expected. Deakes soaking up the vibes, Vincent wearing a shit-eating grin. Drinks, fun, grab and snatch, time to peel off some layers and hit the back rooms. Until Ramra got too excited and like a hungry wolf, groped for some passing ass and had the unlucky timing of interfering with a musclebound sod’s grab. A mean type who objected to Ramra’s sweaty paws on the woman he wanted to take to an upstairs room. Deakes moved in fast for his size but Ramra got his horns boxed and staggered back, his eyes glazing over as one who sees stars. “Stay down, you dumb billygoat,” roared muscle boy. Deakes stepped in and drew back a fist but Regers held him back, a thick grin on his face.
“Got a problem there, chief?” snarled the angry man.
Regers faced him. “No, do you?” The brute’s oiled bald pate gleamed in the sultry light with oily skin smelling like musk.
“Your baby face friend’s the problem, chief,” spat the man. “Had eyes on my lady.”
“Who says it’s ‘your’ lady? You own this joint?”
“I’m a regular paying customer. I come here a lot. First time I’ve seen you and your yobos’ faces.”
“Well, whippy doo. I’ll just run out and get a merit medal and pin it on your chest.”
Joe Atlas took a swing. Regers ducked, leaning in to slam a left jab at the man’s chest. The other was big, clumsy and tipsy too, a bad combo, carrying more synthetic whisky than his capacity for his height and weight. The night was still young. Regers was well under the limit.
The brute came in swinging with both fists and a roar in his throat. He overshot and Regers snuck under the hairy arm, flung out his metal hand and knuckle-wiped him under the chin.
The man gasped. Regers snatched up a blue pellet from his pocket and jammed the sniffer in the brute’s nostrils.
Blue smoke wafted from his face and sent his world tumbling. The giant went down, gagging and Deakes stomped on his head.
Regers nodded in appreciation. Sensing trouble brewing in the smoky haze, Regers pulled them all back to their table. “Play dumb.”
Robot bouncers with reinforced plate metal on their forearms and chests, came to drag the fallen man by his heels and eject him out into the street. Two came to study Regers and his crew. Deakes and Regers put in their pleas how they were minding their business when this brute started hassling them. The two robot bouncers blinked. The offworlders had paid out a lot of yols from Dez’s funds, so they let them off with a warning.
Regers nodded. “All’s well that ends well, Ramra. You’ve earned your skin, but don’t get too grab-happy next time. Go right on ahead with that sweet gal, and we’ll see you in a bit. Vincent and I got our eyes on some choice pieces in the back.”
Ramra nodded, Deakes let out a belch. Jennings shook his head, fuming.
Ramra and Vincent came out of back rooms, taking turns, while Creib watched over Dez. Jennings stayed put, scowling into his meal of synthetic fried veal. The man didn’t drink or smoke a synth-hash pipe or mix with the ladies. Much to the jeers of Deakes and Vincent.
Dez stared off in stony silence.
The sweat under Regers’ mask was starting to make his face itch, so he pulled it off. “Come on, Dezzy, get into the spirit of it,” he coaxed. “Join the fun. You’re a wet blanket on a dry day. Not likely I’m going to let you out of my sight, even if I had all my buddies aboard like Creib and goody-goody Jennings manning the fort. Might get some fool idea to call the NOA or Santie Claus and report us. Wouldn’t want that.”
Deakes’s whiskey-rich laugh assaulted Regers’ nose. “I say we deep six the bastard. Look at him sulking over there like a warmed-over toad in the hot sun. Think of the hassle he could cause us. What do we need him for?”
“We may need him, Deakes.” Regers scowled. “For something down the road. Let sleeping dogs lie and let me do the thinking. You do the brawling. Got it?”
“Sure.” Deakes shrugged. “Whatever you say.” He turned away.
Lots of fresh, oiled and scented meat came by but Dez refused any offer of female company. Or male. Regers smiled at that and shrugged. “Your choice, Dez. You and Jiminy can sit here and twiddle your pricks for all I care. I’m due
