her place.
“I came to talk about your son. I think he was murdered.”
“Who do you think you are coming to my home, my home, and bothering me with this garbage?”
“I was just-”
“I don’t want to hear it. Get the hell out.”
I opened my mouth to protest some more but could see the futility of it. Hudson Samusaka held his head high, nose aimed upward, chin jutting like he was completing a chin-up. Like he’d spent his whole life keeping his head above us riffraff.
He tapped his ear, activating some kind of communication device. “Who let this joker in here? I want him out, you hear me?”
Defeated, I headed for the door.
“Where are Kripsen and Lumbela?”
Deluski scratched his nose. “They got called in on riot duty.”
“Again?”
“Half of Villa Nueva went dark an hour ago.”
“Fucking blackouts.” I shook my head and looked up at the sign above the door. MAZE. The name of this club was all I’d managed to weasel out of Samusaka’s mother. That was one touchy family. The rich were naturally suspicious. All that money to protect. Giant nest eggs resting in a forest full of starving vultures.
Maggie should’ve been there with me. Wealthy as she was, she would’ve known how to put Samusaka’s mother at ease. How to deal with Samusaka’s prick of a father. Maggie’s family was old money. Brandy-era plantation owners. She knew the ways of the rich.
We should be working together.
Deluski lifted his shirttails, a pair of lase-pistols tucked in his belt. “I brought an extra like you asked.” He handed a weapon over, and I tucked it into my waistband. You never knew when those Yepala cops might show again.
Deluski pulled open the door, and we stepped inside. Heads turned. Men’s heads. A dozen or more gave us the eye. I could practically hear the pings of gaydar. This was Franz Samusaka’s favorite hangout. I was tempted to call his mother and cinch it for her. Your boy liked outies, not innies.
I scoped the room. Crammed tight with tables and booths, the place was near full, and uniformly male with a few fag hags thrown in. A small dance floor jammed to club music, sweat-streaked faces bouncing and swerving in a melee of arms and legs and pheromones.
I led us forward, not really knowing what I was looking for. We meandered through tables, drawing a multitude of stares. Appraising stares. Who-the-fuck-are-you stares. Stares that said, fresh meat.
I stopped at a table of five, flashed my YOP badge, and raised my voice over the music. “Did you guys know Franz Samusaka?”
Quintuple no.
“Marvin Froelich? Emil Mota?” More negatives. I moved to another table. Same questions, same responses. Deluski went off to question the bar. Old-fashioned police work.
I canvassed from table to table. “Ever seen a tat with two snakes in a circle? How ’bout an offworlder with a steel trap for a hand?”
I wandered up a short set of stairs into a second room-sofas and settees, mood lights, and opium smoke. This room had its own bar, little more than a window cut into the wall. I stepped up and ordered a brandy from the shirtless bartender, dropped a generous but soggy tip on the bar. “Did you know Franz Samusaka?”
“We don’t kiss and tell around here.” He nabbed the bills and abruptly turned his back to wash glasses in the sink.
Brandy in hand, I turned around and leaned against the bar, my eyes soaking up the scene. Gay porn on vid screens. Sofas loaded with entwined twinks, frenching and fondling. Flames milled around, libidos in overdrive. Flirtatious winks and waves ricocheted off the walls. Shit, there were more pup tents in here than in Tenttown.
I spied an offworlder in the near corner, inside a circle of admirers. His shirt was unbuttoned, hairless pecs and tight abs on display. He had a brandy in one hand, and he held the other out front. Some caterpillar-like creature snaked through his fingers, coiling and uncoiling, slithering and sliding. Always in motion. Some kind of genetically engineered pet.
One of his admirers held up a thumb and the offworlder transferred the creature. Fluffy fur wrapped the thumb, then wound back and forth between outstretched fingers. Delighted shrieks sounded over the bar’s hubbub.
The offworlder finished his brandy, and his gaze turned toward the bar, his eyes snagging on my stare. He stepped out from his group and came my way, his legs scissoring inside nut-hugger pants. Despite the still air, the back of his shirt flapped like he was walking into a breeze. His hair blew too, long raven-colored hair that whipped in fictional wind. Vain bastards with their high-tech bullshit.
“I saw you watching me. Do we know each other?”
“No.”
“In that case, I’m Angel. And you are?”
“Straight.”
He lifted a brow. “Forgive me if I doubt that, the way you came in here acting so butch. It’s quite the look you’ve got going there. Badass shades. A bump on your forehead like you’re a tough boy.” He took hold of my empty sleeve. “Oh, and this is a nice touch. Where’s your hand? Is it detachable?”
I leaned back to pull the sleeve from his hand. “You been coming here awhile?”
“You could say that.”
“Ever know a guy named Franz Samusaka?”
“Maybe. Why do you want to know?”
“I’m looking into his death.”
“You police?”
I lost patience. Not sure I had any in the first place. “Did you know the fucker or not?”
He acted taken aback, his lips forming a playfully exaggerated O. “You’ve really got that rough-boy act down, don’t you?”
“Not an act. Did you know him?”
“No.”
“Then fuck off.”
I watched the chill overcome the charm, twinkly eyes going dark, disarming smile going flat. “As you wish,” he said. “I’ll leave you be after I get my drink.”
I went back to scanning the room. A couple sat scrunched together on an ottoman. One was holding a jar up to the light. I could see something small and black inside. He unscrewed the lid and tapped the glass facedown against his palm in an attempt to dump out the object. Whatever it was, it held tight to the side of the jar. He and his partner giggled like teenagers until it finally popped loose.
The offworlder I’d told off brushed past me, his brandy glass now filled. He stopped to look back at me. “You know what you need? A good fuck.”
I pretended like I didn’t hear until he moved off. Asshole offworlder was used to people bowing at his feet. I studied the couple on the ottoman. One of them was picking at the black object with his fingers, trying to get hold of something. Finally succeeding, he pulled it free and made a show of holding it up high. It dangled from his fingertips-black and oily. And wiggling.
A snail, I realized. He’d pulled it from its shell, and now he closed the snail in his fist and squeezed, black juice oozing out from between his fingers and down his hand. Holding his hand over his open mouth, he let the thick black drops fall to his outstretched tongue.
He popped what was left of the snail into his mouth and chewed, an oily drop running down his chin. His lover swiped away the drop with his index finger, and they smiled at each other, the snail eater grinning inky teeth.
Deluski appeared at my side. “Get anything?”
“Did you see that?”
