Identity
Miguel jumped awake, answering his phone before the second ring. "Hold on," he said quietly. He looked over his shoulder; Rosie sighed and rolled over, still asleep or nearly so. Miguel tiptoed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
"This is Detective Rubio."
"Hey. This is Jackson, Patrol. Sorry to wake you."
"Hey Jackson. Don't worry about it. I wasn't exactly sleeping," he lied. Miguel had the gift of being highly functional, at least verbally, whether he was alert or exhausted, sober or smashed.
"You dog. Anyway, I heard you were looking for a brown Corolla."
"Yeah, a real old one."
"I found one, down by the train station. Sixth street, two blocks up."
"No shit." Now Miguel *was* alert. "When?"
"Bout five minutes ago. Been there a while. Bums been usin' it as a shelter. Smells pretty bad. Thought you'd wanna know, maybe check it out before I called for a wrecker."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
Son of a bitch. It's her car.
Miguel recognized a particular dimple in the left front fender. Freed of its wheels -- who steals the wheels off a 1981 Corolla? -- it sat low in the street. Too low to open the driver's side doors, blocked shut by the curb. The right rear quarter-window had been broken to secure entry, and the back seat was a nest of newspaper and fast-food wrappers. The front seats were relatively clean, except for the distinct smell of human urine.
Miguel wrinkled his nose as he checked the glove box. He didn't expect any registration or other identifying papers, and he didn't find them. But the VIN plate was intact at the base of the windshield. The detective recorded the digits, even though he had no doubt this was Angela's car.
Well, if she'd cleaned the glove box, there probably wouldn't be anything else to find, especially not after being an ad-hoc homeless shelter for who knows how long. Still, couldn't hurt to check the floors... Eww, week-old banana peel. Thank God for rubber gloves. Lots of paper...
Lots of blue paper. Flyers. Well, cheap small-business owners sometimes gave homeless people a few bucks to go paper cars in downtown parking lots, and as often as not the flyers wound up in the trash.
Then again... Hot Online Action... Models Wanted...
Models Wanted. If Angela needed money, that'd be one way to get it. Posing for some online porn site wasn't that different from stripping.
It was probably nothing, but since he was already up...
Artie had just fished Jimmy in from his smoke break and was about to close the back door when a Hispanic-looking guy bounded around the corner. "Hey, glad I caught you!"
"Can I help you?"
"Hi, how you doin'? I'm great. Sorry to ambush you like this, but I've been waiting around front all morning and never saw anyone. Just came around here to see if maybe there was another entrance."
"Well, I usually close the office when I'm doing a shoot..."
"Yeah. Can I come in? It'll only take a second. Thanks." The visitor was in before Artie could say No. "I just got my own business started -- my wife's, actually, making custom-airbrushed swimsuits -- anyway, I'm looking to put together a website and a brochure of some of the stuff she's done, and I took some pictures of the wife but -- well, I love her to death, but she's put on a couple of pounds since the baby and all, not that she's fat or anything, but you know, the camera adds ten pounds -- like I have to tell *you* that, heh -- and anyway, with my wife it's more like thirty -- but I told her, you know, honey, if you really wanna do this, you should get different girls to model the different designs you've done, you know, complementary colors -- I came up with that one myself, and she bought it -- so anyway, I got your name from this guy who does custom jewelry out of his garage, Don something-or-other, and -- well, just listen to me ramble! So you can probably guess why I'm here."
Artie did his best to sift through the overflow of irrelevency for the essentials. "You want some product shots with professional models."
"Exactly, exactly!"
"Could you come back, maybe tomorrow morning? Now's really not a good ti-"
"Those your models there?" He pointed to the corkboard just visible through the office door; Artie's "talent map." It was filled with thumbtacked Polaroids of models, each with a name written at the bottom.
"Yeah, most of 'em. But now's really-"
"Can I take a look?" He was already through the office door and standing at the board, eyes darting from one model to the next. Artie looked in vain to Jimmy for help; Jimmy just shrugged.
"Excuse me, sir? Sir?"
"Oh sorry, did I forget to introduce myself? I'm Miguel. Thanks for takin' the time to meet with me. Whooee, you got some hot chicas here! Blonde, brunette... anything a little more exotic? You know, kinda white, kinda Asian, maybe a Hawaiian girl or a little Filipina -- I'm thinkin' like a Fast and Furious kinda thing, you know, they got all those custom cars, maybe they get a matching swimsuit for their girlfriend when she's showin' it off at one of those competitions -- I'm just thinkin' out loud here; if you've got any suggestions just pipe right in, I mean, you're the one does this for a living..."
"I really need to ask you to leave. I'm in the middle of a shoot."
"Really? One of these girls here? Mind if I watch?"
"Actually, yes. If you come back tomorrow-"
"Woah!" He pulled a Polaroid down off the board. "This one's a hottie! Big for a little girl, if you know what I mean. She available?"
Artie's heart skipped a beat; it was Erin's picture. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Right now."
There was an awkward moment of silence as the pleasant-but-pushy man gave Artie a blank, blinking stare. "Really?"
"Yes, really."
"Well. No need to be rude."
Artie stood blocking the office doorway, his hand out. "The picture?"
"Oh. Yeah." He took one last look. "Erin." Artie grabbed the Polaroid and stuffed it in his pocket; he couldn't bear to look at it. He motioned for the man to leave. "We can pick more later. What time tomorrow?"
"Tell you what, give me a call in the morning and we'll figure something out."
"You bet. Hey, what do the astericks mean?"
Artie's heart skipped another beat.
"Sir-"
"Right, right. Sorry for barging in, I just get kind of excited. Anyway, I'll let you boys get back to work, and I'll see *you* tomorrow!" He'd backed his way to the door and now swung it open, pausing to give one final wave.
"Call first," Artie cautioned, miming a phone with a hand to his ear.
"You bet!" And then the man was gone.
"Damn, that guy was pushy," Jimmy marveled.
"I could have used your help. That guy was a cop."
"What the hell did he want?"
"I don't know. But I better call Jacob."
Angela woke up to the sound of a garbage truck.
She sat up with a start. The squeaking came from the bed, though the way she felt it may as well have been her own body; it took her a long moment of stillness to recover from just one move.
The squeaking springs belonged to her own bed. This was her apartment.
How did I get here?
The last thing she remembered was... something she didn't want to remember. Cherry's boyfriend Neal, drug dealer Neal, apologizing for what he was doing to her, then... begging her to stop.
She'd tried to help Cherry, and she'd been conquered by an awful man. And then she'd probably done something terrible to him. She wished she could believe he'd made her that way, that her sapphires had just responded to an attack, that she'd just defended herself, that he'd deserved the retaliation. She wished she could believe she was innocent, trapped in a situation gone bad.
But she thought of Ricky, and how she'd done the same thing to him -- how she'd forced him, how she'd hurt him -- and she knew better.
Cole sat down on the bed beside her; funny how her hallucination was so complete the bedsprings even squeaked.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"No." She didn't look at him. She felt bad already.
"Are you hurt?"
Yes, but that was just the Glisten, so: "No." Not physically, anyway. It was the sapphires' blessing and its curse.
She expected him to rip into her for being stupid. But he just sat there. Like he didn't know her. Or at least didn't know what to do with her.
"What?" she said. "I don't need any help feeling lousy."
"That was the first time I've seen you do something for someone else. -In a long time."
Weird. It sounded like he was... impressed.
"But it was still stupid," he added. Of course. "He could have really hurt you."
"I know. I just didn't expect... I mean, I've always had problems with them, but they didn't used to turn against me that fast."
He seemed unsure of what to say. "Maybe that's not what the sapphires are for."
"They didn't exactly come with instructions. I'm doing the best I can."
"Shoving that stuff up your nose, that's doing your best?"
That again. "No. I mean, you know I need it. It's the only thing that's keeping me going."
"You need to stop. You need help, before it kills you."
"I... I can't. I can't go back to the way I was before."
"Because this is so much better?"
Ouch.
Cole took a deep breath. "I'm sorry; I'm just a little overwhelmed. I mean, what you did... what you could do if you could just get straight..." he seemed to catch himself. "It's a wonder nobody's come after you."
"You mean besides the police and the Russian Mafiya."
"Right. Like the government."
"You mean since Ginger."
"Right. Ginger."
"I don't know. I kept a pretty low profile right after Labor Day, you know, figuring stuff out, with Ricky and Noe- um, Mr. Aquino, and then when I started working with Miguel, that was all undercover, well, mostly undercover. Really until the end with the bust, well, I guess just before that, chasing Crisco downtown, that was pretty obvious, I mean a lot of people saw me there, though I don't think it ever got on the news... weird... and then right after that trying to catch Crisco, and the money burning, well, actually nobody except a couple of policemen saw me then, and I guess... I guess they're keeping quiet about it. I guess I embarassed them. Not that I ended up doing any better."
"Right."
"And I really didn't mean to attract any attention last night, I mean, I guess I wasn't thinking, but Cherry... guys like Neal get away with that all the time, and I couldn't just do nothing, not with what I can do."
"Extraordinary abilities or no, that was reckless, and it almost turned out badly. You were lucky I- "
"You, what?"
"You were lucky you didn't end up losing the sapphires. What if someone else had found you passed out like that?"
"Someone *else*?" Oh, he probably meant someone besides Cherry. It must have been Cherry who helped her get home... Angela hoped Cherry didn't just go back to Neal...
Cole pressed on. "What if he'd woken up before you?"
"That didn't happen."
"But it might happen next time."
"Sometimes I think you care more about the sapphires than me." Me -- that sounded weird...
"You obviously don't care about yourself; why should I?"
"I thought it was your job. Not that I much like the way you do it."
Someone knocked on the door. After a moment of panic, Angela made her way to the door and checked the peephole.
"Gabrielle, open up. It's Cherry."
She was wet; it must have been raining.
Cherry's eyes darted around the apartment before she stepped in. "Who were you talking to?"
"Nobody. Myself."
Cherry gave her a disbelieving look, stepping to the bathroom and ducking to peer under the bed. "Neal's in the hospital," she said as she took a seat on the creaking wooden chair.
"What?" Angela didn't know how to react.
"I came home and he was passed out on the floor. At first I thought it was just the usual, but his stash was out. He *never* leaves his stash out. I tried to wake him up but he just laid there, just barely breathing. It took a half hour for the ambulance to come. They asked me all kindsa questions, an' then they told me to just wait in this room, and nobody would tell me anything. After a couple hours, this cop showed up, an' I just took off. I'm afraid to go home, Gabrielle. They think I did something to him, I know it."
"You don't know that. And you didn't do anything, so you don't have anything to be afraid of."
"Gabrielle, I know how it looks -- and I know how it works. You don't know, Gabrielle -- they say they wanna help you, but they don't. They just use you. I'm not going through that again."
Angela sighed; she knew too well. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm gettin' outta here."
"You don't have to do that."
"Yes I do. I don't wanna be around when he wakes up."
"What if..." Angela's heart skipped a beat. "What if he doesn't?"
"What if he does? What if he calls my dad?"
Cherry was seriously spooked; Angela retreated. "Where will you go?"
"I don't know. Vegas, maybe, or LA. Just away from here. I figure I can hitch just about anywhere."
"Cherry, don't. At least take a bus."
"Gabrielle, he took all my money."
Angela got up and dug through her purse. A small stack of bills, neatly folded, mostly twenties, almost four hundred dollars total. Every dollar she had. The money she would have used to get away herself, if things hadn't gotten complicated.
"Here. It's a start."
"Gabrielle, this is too much."
"No it's not." It was the least she could do... after what she'd already done. "Here, take some clothes too." She started rifling through her things, tossing almost half of them up on the bed, anything that was longer or stretchier to fit the taller, less-curvy girl.
"Gabrielle, stop." Cherry grabbed one of Angela's wrists. "I appreciate it, I really do, but..."
"Cherry, please just take them. I know you'd do the same for me."
Cherry picked a couple of things out of the new pile and tossed them back at Gabrielle. "I'm not taking your 'princess' top," she said with unconvincing lightheartedness. She then peeled off a few of the bills. "And I'm not leaving you broke." Cherry gathered the gifts she'd begrudgingly accepted into her arms; Angela quickly found a shopping bag, tossed in a pair of oversize flip-flops and handed it to Cherry.
Cherry made a point of looking Angela in the eye. "I'll pay you back as soon as I get settled somewhere, I promise."
"It's okay, you don't..."
"I promise," she repeated. "Anyway, I should go. Eventually they'll start checking places..."
"Yeah, okay."
Suddenly Angela found herself wrapped up in a bearhug. Her Glisten-addled body complained, but she hid her discomfort.
"You're the best," Cherry said, loosening her hold just enough to kiss Angela on the forehead before squeezing her tight again. "Be careful, 'kay?"
"You too."
And then Cherry was gone.
But the guilt remained. Angela expected Cole to descend upon her and read her the riot act, but for some reason he stayed away. And that was even worse.
There was only Glisten for company.
Miguel took another deep breath.
It didn't help.
This was just... bizarre. He'd gone in looking for one missing girl, but found a different one. Sort of.
He cursed not being able to hang onto the Polaroid. He'd already pushed it too far -- they had to know he was up to something -- he should have just grabbed the thing and forced his way out. The shutterbug and his gopher weren't packing.
But his memory was good enough to know what he'd seen. Becky Robinson. Sure, the hair was different, but he knew that face, especially that particular expression she'd had in the picture.
He remembered it because he'd taken a similar photograph himself, while hiding out outside Becky's window.
He remembered it because those photographs represented one of the only things he ever did on the job that he felt bad about.
Those photographs were probably part of the reason that Angela had screwed him. Or at least just screwed up. It was a stupid move, trying to manipulate a girl like Angela by tugging on her heartstrings. Stupid and mean. Weird thing was, Miguel felt worse about being mean than being stupid.
That girl really did fuck up everything she touched. Even me.
But now he had a different problem. Becky Robinson. She was here, and she was Sapphire.
He compared the images again -- the still from the surveillance tape last night, and the photos he'd taken from outside Becky's bedroom window. The surveillance tape was snowy and streaky. Nobody expected a positive ID from such bad source material. But Miguel knew. Nobody would believe him -- thank God -- but he knew. Last night's Sapphire sighting wasn't Angela, it was Becky Robinson.
It was just... bizarre.
Did Becky and Angela team up? Were they never really rivals in the first place? Miguel let his imagination run through a half-dozen wild-ass schemes. They were all crazy -- but he was trying to find a vigilante heroine (or two?) without tipping off his superiors or the Russian Mafiya man who was watching him, so "crazy" was hard to pin down.
Well, he assumed Crisco was watching him. Miguel never actually saw him, but he kept feeling it. That thing with the handcuffs still bugged him. It was just a trick, some magician's misdirection, but...
Knock if off, Miguel. There's no such thing as magic. Or girls who can fly and stuff. If you keep grinding away on it, you're going to drive yourself crazy.
Or maybe start to believe it.
Whatever. Miguel knew what it was like to be followed. Crisco was a car thief, so it wasn't that surprising that Miguel hadn't actually *caught* the guy shadowing him. But he should assume it was happening, or try harder to keep it from happening, and he wasn't.
Which meant going to that photographer's was stupid. And grabbing Becky's picture even more stupid.
But it was hard to stay a step ahead when the path took a sudden weird left turn like that -- how was he supposed to know he'd see a picture of Becky Robinson there? She was supposed to be in New York somewhere. He didn't even know it was her at first, he just saw something familiar, something he *wasn't* looking for, and eyes talked to hands talked to brain stem and under the pressure of the situation, Bam! he was holding that picture and it was Becky. And Becky had just been caught on tape picking up Angela's slack in the half-naked vigilante business.
Bizarre.
Becky Robinson, what the hell are you up to? Angela's got reason to be off her rocker, but you're a good kid. Did Angela get to you through Ricky? Are there really two girls in this city who believe in comic books?
Miguel didn't think Becky would be playing Sapphire if she knew the price on the superheroine's head. After all, Angela was smart enough to fade away quietly. Which discredited the Angela-Becky-tag-team theory. Which, now that he thought about it, was even weirder than if they *were* working together.
I never should have gone to the photographer's. Damned instincts. Hell, damn basic police work. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Looked like just a feedback loop -- Angela's trail leading back to Moroshkin's own business.
Well, maybe I didn't tip them off. Hooks didn't say anything to Jacob about Becky -- er, "Erin."
Miguel replayed the recording. Illegal phone taps weren't evidence, but they were still useful...
"Yeah."
"Jacob? It's Artie."
"(Groan) I told you not to call me."
"A guy was just here. He saw the board."
"What board?"
"The board. In my office. With the pictures."
"What the fuck? I told you to get rid of that."
"That's the way I work; I gotta be able to work."
"So? So he saw your board."
"He asked about the stars."
"The what?"
"The stars. On the pictures."
"Aw, fuck, you left those up?"
"Well, how else am I supposed to keep 'em straight?"
"You're not, you're supposed to get rid of 'em! So who's this guy?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"He's supposed to call me in the morning."
"He's supposed to call-... Artie, fuck. I know Uncle likes you, but even I'm not as dumb as you."
"I'm sorry. I'll make it right."
"Just get rid of the fucking board. And go back to sleep. We got what we need already."
"Good, cuz I really didn't like the idea of starting up again."
"Well now it's dead. If this guy calls, you let me know, I'll check him out."
"Yeah."
"And if he doesn't, well, one way or another it ends with you."
"It- it's probably nothing. (Click) Hey, I've got another call."
"Artie, are you on your cell?"
"No, why?"
"Fuck, Artie!"
That was it.
Miguel was fucked. He'd walked right into... something, obviously -- a blind stumble and a couple of questions doesn't prompt an immediate call to a Russian Mafiya lieutenant on a land line unless it's Something.
Look on the bright side -- they're freaked out about the asterisks, not about Becky. And she didn't have an asterisk on her photo. So just go back to sleep and everything's cool.
Except that if Becky didn't stop playing superheroine, Kostya's men would be looking for *her*, not Angela. And if Becky was already working for them, it probably wouldn't be hard to find her once they made the connection. Which his little visit might have just done.
The music had stopped; quiet clinking from beyond the curtain meant Mitch was cleaning up.
Pandora was the last one to leave besides Gabrielle. "You sure you'll be okay walking home?"
"Yeah." Mitch said he'd give her a ride.
"I'll let you know if I hear from her, okay?"
"Yeah."
It had been days -- how many Gabrielle wasn't sure at the moment -- and no one had heard anything from Cherry yet. Every time the subject came up it drove Gabrielle into a deep funk. The other girls probably assumed that Cherry and Gabrielle had been closer than appeared, or maybe that Gabrielle had had a similar abusive relationship, or... well, Gabrielle let them think whatever.
Cole hadn't brought it up since the morning Cherry'd left, but still feelings of guilt and failure and... *uselessness* ate away at her. Even her precious Glisten was losing out, giving her ever briefer tantalizing breathers of bliss. She was having to use more of it, and more often. And as horrifying as the prospect of needles were, she was idly starting to wish the nightmares of Neal brandishing that sharp dagger of defilement would become more than dark fantasy. She could never do it herself, but if someone were to force her, maybe she wouldn't resist too much...
Cole didn't even come around much anymore, just an occasional appearance, a few minutes of half-hearted protest before fading away again.
Life must be lousy when even your conscience gives up on you.
Tonight had been particularly ugly. There was a convention in town, and the cheapskates had all come to Hotties, pushing out the regulars, sticking to the minimums, trying to negotiate every lapdance into more for less, grabbing everything, ripping dancers' outfits, brazenly propositioning...
Gabrielle inhaled sharply, once, then again, and the stress over where her last customer had tried to shove his finger began to fade into the dark gray smudge that was Sindee, Hotties Stripper.
She heard mumbling.
"...Gabby?" Fingers snapped in front of her; she opened her eyes. Mitch. "Wow, are you out of it. Come on, sweetie, let's get you home."
Yeah, okay.
As long as Glisten came with her.
She didn't even mind when Mitch put his hand on her ass...
Angela didn't really wake up until the ice water hit her face.
She screamed, jumping back, nearly falling out of the shower.
At least it was her shower. She thought she'd gone over to Mitch's last night. She thought she'd slept in his bed. She thought he'd given her more Glisten. She thought they'd done more than sleep...
But even under the shock of an initially-cold shower, last night with Mitch was nothing but a handful of suggestive images, and there was no way to separate memory from worry. It was probably better than way.
"Where've you been?" Cole. Sounding more judgemental than he'd been in a while.
"Out." As if her conscience knew any more or less than the rest of her.
"You left them here." Her sapphires.
"I forgot my bag."
"Again." Though Cole almost seemed to prefer when she did.
Angela used the last of the shampoo. She'd have to go shopping. Maybe this afternoon. No, wait, was today Thursday? "Is today Thursday?"
"You're asking me." He was right, the question was absurd. And yet he answered it. "Yeah, it's Thursday."
Angela rinsed quickly -- as much as her stiff muscles would allow. She could really use a hit -- but she needed to save it for later. She needed to be On later.
Cole wasn't in the bathroom when she opened the shower curtain. At least her conscience was a gentleman. Which was probably just another attempt at ticking her off.
Her only timepiece was a cheap digital watch a customer had given her; she kept it on the strap of her handbag, the one she'd forgotten last night. The watch said she'd have to hurry. She checked to make sure her sapphire stuff was safely tucked away in the bottom, then tossed in her vial and her fuzzy sweater -- it had been really cold last night and she would need it coming home tonight...
Angela picked out her girliest top -- really just a babydoll, but it was a popular trend and certainly something she could get away with -- and her only pair of jeans, which were really more holes than jeans. A gift from Kat, they were out of fashion but better suited for the trip across town than the half-slip she was going to wear as a skirt once she got there. Almost half of her thong was visible above the jeans' lowered waistline, but she didn't have time to hunt for the only one that didn't, and that one was uncomfortable anyway.
Cole noticed her unusual sense of purpose this morning. Naturally, he tried to wreck it.
"You know, what you did that night, with the sapphires... you can't do that anymore."
Finally, the other shoe. "What, I have this ability, and I'm not supposed to use it?"
"It's not that. It's just that... the sapphires are *important*. And while the way you used them was noble, it was also stupid. Maybe if you weren't so strung-out... Anyway, you need to think of the bigger picture. You can't be attracting attention like that."
"Yeah, well, someone else is doing that for me." Becky's little stunt in the alley had kept the girls at the club buzzing for days -- and when it finally died down, Blaze had come in saying she'd seen Becky shadowing her from the rooftops. "Maybe you should go give her a hard time." Angela picked up her things and headed for the door. "While you're doing that, I've got a job to do."
"Hold on, you can't-"
"Relax. It's a photo shoot."
"Did Kat line this one up too?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I didn't think you liked how the first one turned out."
"It wasn't that bad. Anyway, no, somebody else at the club told this guy about me; I think it was Melody. He does commercial photography. Art Hooks Photography. It's to promote this new thing coming out."
"And you think it's a good idea to have more pictures of you floating around."
"Relax. No one will recognize me. Besides, he said there were costumes."
The door at the corner of the squat concrete building opened to a long narrow reception area cut in half by a long high counter. Oversize prints of beautiful young women looking classy and unattainable lined the walls. But there was no one here.
Gabrielle heard the cab outside pull away. She hoped she hadn't screwed up the time, because she didn't have enough money to get back.
"Hello?" Her meek voice seemed swallowed up. She cleared her throat and tried again, louder. Still no one.
But there was a muted banging coming from somewhere. Through that door there...
Gabrielle peered down the short office hallway for a moment, but if there was anyone back there, they were awfully quiet, and they hadn't bothered to answer her. She tried the door to the left.
A whoosh of cool air and heated conversations slowed her entrance into a large open space. In the middle of the room, three different guys were shouting and pointing in three different directions as a pair of hapless movers tried to figure out where to go with what looked like a wall on wheels.
She felt someone sidle up next to her; she spun around in nervous overreaction. A shorter-than-average twentysomething in new jeans, an unflatteringly-untucked island-print shirt, and a "Last Action Hero" ballcap stood with hands on hips and grimace that became a smile when he saw her.
"Hey, you're on time." As if he expected otherwise. "We won't have the set ready for another hour yet. Go on in back and Barb'll get started on you."
Gabrielle relaxed a bit. This was obviously the man in charge, Art Hooks, and there was a simple honesty about him.
"Is it just... is there anyone else?"
"What? Oh, yeah, you'll be working with Anna. She's always fifteen minutes late. Excuse me." He brushed past her, ramping up a yell. "What the hell is that?" he bellowed, his voice oversized for his body as he approached the assemblage of head-scratchers poking at a random-looking conjoining of metal poles.
"I said 'bridge', not 'geodesic dome.' Haven't any of you dipshits seen 'Spider-Man?'"
Gabrielle made her way down the side of the big room to another doorway, cringing at the syncopated clanging of men wrestling metal they didn't understand.
"Hey, you're on time." The smoke-graveled voice belonged to a smoke-obscured woman; she waved her hand to clear the cloud. Revealed: ill-fitting polyester slacks, paisley-patterned blouse, helmet-hair. Gabrielle could see she'd been pretty, once; cigarettes and sensible shoes conspired to make her look like somebody's angry ex. "I'm Barbara, Artie's mother." The word had no 'r' sound but was nonetheless a one-eighty from urban street slang. "But don't tell him I told you that; he hates it." Barbara gave Gabrielle a wink. "Come on, let's get you made up. Once Annie Amazon gets here she'll start telling me how to do you like her opinion means shit, and I haven't had enough bourbon yet to put up with her. Don't call her that, by the way, or she'll kick your ass."
Gabrielle followed dumbly and sat where she was told. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap to keep the jitters at bay.
Barb stood behind Gabrielle, chubby fingers running through the girl's hair; they both looked at Gabrielle's reflection in the mirror.
Barb's face wrinkled up in a big grin. "Aren't you just the sweetest little thing. Mitch was right -- you're perfect for the part."
"Who's the pixie?" The voice was at once syrupy-sweet and sharp as a razor; it came from a very tall, very angry-looking brunette.
"Morning, Annie, right on time," Barb sneered. "This is Gabrielle."
"Never heard of her. This mine?" Anne held up a patent leather bodysuit.
"Yeah, and the stuff on the chair there."
"She's too small," Anne dismissed.
"Not that I'm a conniseuer, or anything, but I think that's part of it."
"I don't care -- as long as I get to fu-"
"There she is!" Hooks burst into the room. "How ya doin' Anne?"
"Hey, Artie. I'll be doin' better when the Princess there gets outta my chair."
"Hush," Barb snapped, "I'm almost done with her."
"Good," Hooks gruffed. He looked at Gabrielle. "Your costume's hanging back there in the corner. Be careful with it, we've only got the one."
"So," Gabrielle asked, "what are we doing?"
"Basically, it's a study of opposites. You're a beautiful princess, and she's an evil sorcerer. You meet on the bridge at night, and-"
"Artie!" someone yelled from out on the floor.
"Yeah!" Hooks rolled his eyes. "That's it, basically, the rest'll come out as we're doin' it. Piece o' cake." To Barb: "Half-hour."
The costume was for a princess, all right -- a princess in the bedroom, maybe. Details were fuzzy, but she remembered Mitch saying it was just glamour stuff, nothing dirty. It was Mitch, right?
Gabrielle took a deep breath -- she could get through this.
But first she'd have to get the delicate top untangled from the hanger.
She tried to will her hands to be still, but it was no use. She needed another hit of Glisten.
But she didn't want to just take a whiff right here in front of strangers; she didn't know whether they'd be cool about it, and she couldn't afford to blow this job.
"Where's the ladies' room?"
Barb was working on Anne's makeup. Anne was already in her costume, slumped down in the makeup chair, the patent leather teddy rippling up her long torso, the tall heels of her matching patent thigh-high boots hooked on the edge of the makeup table, knees splayed lewdly. "Right behind you," Anne snapped, as if Gabrielle's question had been an offensive interruption.
"Thanks."
Gabrielle couldn't get the door closed fast enough. She went to work with her compact mirror and razor; she needed this dose to really count. Two long hard snorts later and she could feel Glisten melting her nerves into glassy smoothness...
Where was she? Oh, right, a photo shoot. She didn't know what she was supposed to do, except pose with the tall, dark, and scary girl sitting next to her. Anne. Annie Something. Annie Amazon. No, she didn't like that... the polyester momma said so. Barb. So what were they waiting for? For the photographer to stop yelling...
"Why'd you bring so many guys?" Hooks scowled. "I told you three."
"Bert brought his own guys to put the bridge together-"
"-and I still count seven, eight, nine, ten. Now, my math is a little rusty, but I think that means six of these dipshits are yours. Look, they just get in the way. I'm sorry they can't get laid, but this is a studio, not boner charity. Get 'em outta here."
At that, most of the younger guys visibly slumped, and with a lot of dragging feet made their way toward the front door.
"Now, ladies," Hooks said, turning to his stars and smiling, "let's put on a show."
The set was a big confusing web of metal poles designed to look vaguely like a bridge, with two scaffold-like towers that stretched toward a suspended platform in the middle. Hooks was in one of those little cart-mounted cranes, the kind they used to change light bulbs in the high school gym.
"Okay, Anne, you're our villain, the modern-day sorceress. I want you to lay back on that lounge chair there -- you've just committed a crime, and you're relaxing and enjoying your success."
"Now, Gabrielle honey, you're our princess. You've come to take back what the sorceress stole and to haul her off to jail." Hooks motioned for her to stand at the far side of the bridge. "Stand taller, hands on your hips."
Gabrielle did as she was told, feeling the drafty air in the warehouse against her mostly-bare skin. She was wearing a wearing a filmy babydoll top and matching wispy skirt that would have worked well as a Sapphire costume...
"Dammit, Barb, where's her shoes?"
"Coming."
Something clattered to the platform in front of her. A pair of spike-heeled plastic slides... with big blue rhinestones on the strap.
Gabrielle looked down at her wrists. When did she put on these bracelets?
"Put the shoes on, honey. That's it. *Much* better! Now you look like a proper heroine. Hold on, let me just..." Hooks hopped from his crane to the platform; it jostled a bit -- or was Gabrielle just dizzy? Hooks reached up into her hair and tugged on something...
"There, that's better. Hey, you all right?" Gabrielle blinked; Hooks was snapping his fingers in her face.
"Yeah," she said dully.
"Okay. Let's see, costume, jewels, crown -- our princess is ready!" He hopped back to the crane. "Jimmy! Bring the umbrellas down just a bit, and be ready on the spotlight!"
Gabrielle looked down at herself. Something was wrong.
She wasn't supposed to be a princess.
She was supposed to be Sapphire.
She couldn't do this. This was too much.
"Okay, Anne, you see her standing there -- she's found you. You're a little afraid, but you pretend you're just annoyed. This is the mighty princess, but you have a secret weapon. Good. Now, stand up, slowly, and match her pose."
Gabrielle turned around; there was a ladder here somewhere...
"No, not you, honey, you just stay right... no, don't get d- Woah, honey, where you going?"
"I gotta go."
"Whaddya mean ya gotta go? Why didn'tcha go before?" Seeing she wasn't stopping, he just threw up his hands. "Well, all right, but make it fast, and try not to mess up the makeup. We gotta lotta shots to get and I can't afford the overtime."
He misunderstood; he thought she was just going to pee. "No, I..." She saw the understanding snap into place. "Woah, no, no," he said, starting to hop after her. "You can't just..." He seemed to recognize her fear then, because he cut himself off and visibly calmed. His voice became soothing even before he reached her; she stopped backing away, but couldn't help cowering a bit.
"Look, sweetie, I know this is your first time, and it's intimidating with all the lights, and the big set, and working up off the ground and everything, but I know you can do it."
"It's too much like..." Gabrielle just trailed off. She didn't know what to say. She just knew she didn't want to be here. She felt suddenly hot, and nervous, and unsteady...
"You're shaking."
"It's nothing. It's just... my meds. I need my meds."
"Oh, okay." He turned his head to yell over his shoulder. "Barb, get her meds!" To her: "in your purse?" She nodded. Yelled: "In her purse!"
A few moments later, a huffing Barbara hustled up with Gabrielle's purse dangling from one puffy hand and the vial of Glisten pinched in the other. "All she's got is this." It was obvious from their frowns that both Barbara and Hooks knew they weren't exactly prescription.
"Well, hurry up, we got a shoot to do."
Gabrielle took the vial and started to unscrew it when she felt something drop on her wrist. Something warm and wet. And red. As she stared at the droplet, another landed right next to it. And another.
"Aw, shit, she's bleeding!"
Barb looked up at Gabrielle from the top of the ladder. "Oh, honey... come on down before you get blood all over."
Someone put a chair underneath her as soon as she got to the bottom of the ladder.
"Tell her to lean back."
"No, hold it real tight and lean forward, it'll clot faster."
"Shut up. Put a piece of ice under her upper lip."
"What the hell does that do?"
"The blood vessels constrict on account of the cold."
"That's the dumbest thing I ever heard."
"You ever try it?"
"You?"
"All of you, just shut up!" Hooks tapped his foot as he tried to decide whether to look at Gabrielle, or Barb, or his crew, or the ceiling. Finally his eyes settled on Gabrielle. She leaned back in the chair, a bloody towel on her chest covering the humiliating costume. "Damn, Barb, she's a mess. We gotta strike it. Unless I can find somebody to fill in. Maybe Dana's back from-"
"Hold on, Artie, it's not that bad. The bleeding's almost stopped."
"But she's shaking like a leaf. I'd have to shoot Thousand and that'll look like shit."
"Don't worry about it. I'll fix her up." Barbara leaned close. "Come on sweetie, I got what you need. Everything's gonna be fine."
Gabrielle felt Barb take her hand and lead her back to the dressing room. The girl sniffed experimentally; it was hard to breathe, and the smell of clotting blood wasn't pleasant, but at least it wasn't pouring out of her anymore. If only she wasn't so light-headed...
Barb motioned to the makeup chair; Gabrielle collapsed into it.
"How long you been sniffing that stuff, honey?"
"I... I don't know. A little while."
"Doesn't last so long anymore, does it?"
"Not really."
"You look a little spooked. This your first bloody nose?" Gabrielle nodded slowly. "Won't be your last unless you quit. Or at least switch to something else."
Gabrielle looked over at Barb, who was now standing at the girl's side. Something was wrapped around her arm and stretched...
"Now just relax, everything'll be all right in a sec..."
Gabrielle let her head loll back; she was pretty sure she knew what was coming, and she wasn't sure she liked the idea, but she was too woozy to protest, and Barb had a very strong grip on her arm...
Gabrielle closed her eyes.
And then she began to melt.
She didn't know how long she'd sat in the makeup chair, or how she got back up on the platform, or why the other girl looked so... *mean*... but Gabrielle didn't really care. The whole world was like a high-speed liquid around her. Around *her*.
"Okay, let's start this again. Good, stand right there, hands on your hips -- maybe you better hold onto the pole there, yeah, good. Now our villain is afraid, then annoyed, then... stand... match her pose... beautiful! Now start walking toward her, and you toward her, good, good..."
The other girl seemed to be mad at her. Like Gabrielle was intruding. The other girl looked familiar somehow. Who was she?
"Okay, now, take out the secret weapon, that's it, show it to her, and honey, you don't recognize it at first, but you're still suspicious, wait until she gets closer with it... then you start to feel it... Yeah, that's it!"
Gabrielle knew who she was supposed to be now. From that night in the restaurant. Tall, angry, powerful. The Black Widow.
"She feels it now, it's making her feel weaker, you can tell. It feels good to know you've got her number. You start to think about all the things she's done to you before, and all the things you're going to do to get back at her now... Yes!"
Gabrielle started to back away, but there was nowhere to go; the platform was small. Somehow she got turned around; Black Widow was backing her across the platform, to the other side. She was trapped.
"That's it! Oh, wow, hot stuff! Yeah, lick your lips; honey, that's it... -Careful! You okay? Good, go with it. She's fallen because she's dizzy; your secret weapon is working. Wait until she gets back up, then back her against the bridge tower there. That's it, good, good!"
"There you go, hold her arm with your right hand, and now start sliding off the bracelet with your left, slowly, slowly, perfect! Now the other one..."
Her limbs were so heavy; she could barely move them. Everything seemed one way -- she could feel everything, but couldn't do anything...
"Okay, take her shoes off. That's it. Just let that other one fall -- great! Hold still just a minute, let me come around the side for a close-up of her feet..."
The Black Widow had taken her power. Immobilized her.
"Right up to her, in close, arch your back -- yeah! -- look down at her, stare at her, and that's right honey, look up, she's got you, she *owns* you now, you both know it... Excellent! Gorgeous!"
"That's it... now take her crown. Careful there, now just pull it away. Beautiful, beautiful! Hold it up -- yes! -- and look at it like it's nothing, like you're surprised how easy it was, almost disappointed... fantastic!"
She had to get away. Why couldn't she move faster? She felt so heavy, like a part of her didn't want to go... but if she stayed, Black Widow might want more than her sapphires, more than her tiara...
"Oh, yeah, good honey, good idea... Uh-oh, she's trying to get away, reach after her, like that, like that, now grab the back of her skirt, you've caught her, pull it down, she's slipping away, brilliant, just brilliant... Now let her slip out of it, let her think she's getting away -- woah, she's *really* out of it, you've weakened her so much she can barely even crawl, yeah, -oh, great sneer! Bigger! Now, smile! Lick your lips, lick your lips, she's tasty prey and it's almost time to eat..."
"Now step up next to her there, bend down, one knee down, that's it honey, look up at her, you can't get away after all... Now reach your arm around her -- don't cover her tits, yeah, there -- and just start to pull her around, back into your lair -- great, honey, reach, reach, feel that freedom slipping away... Now toss her down on the bed like a piece of meat. Perfect, perfect!"
"Yeah, that's right, right next to her, now reach up over her head, that's it, and... the cuffs, one... and the other... yes! Okay honey, let's see you struggle... come on, just a little bit... Be a dear and pull her down a bit so it looks like she's tugging on her bonds... oh good, good! Shed a tear, yes! Now, reach up and grab her tit, like it's yours now. Yeah, yeah!"
"Okay, Barb, why don't you help her with it while I reposition and get some closeups of the princess in oblivion here. You're doing great, sweetie, I just need a little more. Okay, you've been drained of your powers, captured, defrocked, fondled, it seems like it can't get any worse, you think she's left you here to be discovered by the police, but... wait... wait, you feel someone coming back onto the platform. It's her. She's reaching for your panties now; your last line of defense, your last shred of dignity. Try to hold onto them, don't let her take them... --Put her hand on the waistband there, that's it; God, she's out of it. Okay, she stops trying to pull them down, a small victory, but no, she pulls hard on them, trying to snap the string, harder, hard- Yes! Okay, hold right there, let me get a closer shot. Drape them so they almost cover her- yeah, that's it, hang on... now move up, position yourself, but don't... yeah, just wait."
"What's she doing? You feel something down there... it's hard, and cold, and... but she's a girl! Hang on, hold it right there, on the cusp, one more shot, okay let me position for her reaction... okay, now! Oh! That's right, you try to squirm free, but she has you pinned, and your hands are cuffed to the bridge, you can't get away, can't escape this final ultimate *conquest*..."
"Uh-oh, I think she likes it... yeah, there you go babe, shift this way a little, pull it out and hold it... fabulous! Back in, find the rhythm, yeah... yeah... Yeah! Oh, fuck yeah! She can't help it, you totally control her now, you've turned her to the dark side... and it feels fucking fantastic..."
"There's the edge now, yeah, you getting close? I think she's close. God, just look at her, she's gonna pop for real... Just do me a favor and give me a good cum right when she does, okay? Great..."
"Here it comes... faster... almost there... Oh, fuck *me*!"
The big SUV lurched to a stop in front of an old brick-front warehouse. Erin was surprised Artie had let her drive. She had to remind herself that he didn't know she was only sixteen, or that she'd had a total of maybe ten hours behind the wheel, and none of it in a huge truck like this.
Her cell rang. Artie. Probably checking to make sure she hadn't wrecked his Escalade yet.
"Hey Artie."
"Oh. My. Fucking. God. Ask me how the shoot went."
Somebody was excited. "How did the shoot go?"
"Hot. Hot hot hot. Hot-hot-hot-hot-hot-hot-hot. I get the whole superheroine-in-peril fetish thing now."
"Do you."
"This girl was amazing. It was almost like she was really a superheroine reliving a bad experience or something. Totally real."
"Really? Annie Amazon?"
"No, the other girl. New girl. Barb brought her in."
Erin thought it was weird the way Artie referred to his mom by name. It's not like she was his stepmom or anything. He said it was to maintain professionalism; she knew it was just because a man lost all his authority the minute anyone heard him talking to his mom. Of course, the show was pointless; Barb told everyone who she was the moment she met them.
Back to the issue at hand. "Who's this girl?"
"Gabrielle."
"Never heard of her." As if Erin was an industry veteran... then again, she had been doing her homework.
"I told you she's new. Anyway, you should do a shoot with her."
"She's that good."
"Well... she's kinda messed up, but there's an amazing tragic energy about her."
"Messed up. Artie, you know I can't work with heroin addicts."
"I think it's Glisten. But still-"
"Look, Artie, I'm sure she's great. I gotta go, we'll talk later."
She hung up before he had a chance to protest. Artie had been after her for days to do a drug-related set. Some of her most vocal subscribers were begging for it. Erin didn't mind playing around with power roles, and she wasn't really against the subject matter as long as it was tasteful -- well, her liberal definition of tasteful -- but she just didn't like being around actual addicts. They... *spooked* her.
Erin shook her head clear. Best not to dwell on such thoughts. She'd driven all the way out here to this furniture shop based on Annie Amazon's inability to shut up about the cast-iron bed they'd made for her.
Little Oakdessa -- not technically the name of this district, but the one everybody used due to the mostly-Russian makeup of the residents. Twisted Oaks had the reputation for being the ugliest and scariest part of town, but Little Oakdessa was far more disquieting for outsiders. Less a ghetto than simply a neighborhood transplanted from another world, it was clear that nothing took root here without the owner's permission -- not businesses, not residents, not government, not law enforcement, not even ideas.
And the Russian Mafiya was a very picky gardener.
But Erin didn't care about any of that. She just needed a new bed. A very sturdy bed. And the Azarashvilis were supposed to be meticulous craftsmen.
"Welcome! My name is Khveli. How may I help you today?"
Khveli wore a soft blue button-down shirt and jeans faded by use rather than fashion. Dark deep-set eyes looked warmer than they should from either side of a sharp-angled nose; a thick black mustache stretched over an oversized smile.
Erin noticed the speed with which his eyes darted over her body before returning to meet her gaze. Most men took much longer. Not that it bothered her. If anything, she was disappointed at this man's restraint -- after all, she'd dressed for a discount. Her strategically-cropped-and-cut boy's football jersey distorted its numbers over her ample chest, parting down the middle to show generous swells of bare flesh. The satin half-slip she wore as a skirt matched the sheen of the jersey as much as it clashed with its style. Erin picked it mainly because it was cool and it didn't cling. But salesmen types seemed to get particularly distracted by the thought that they were seeing a girl walking around in an undergarment, and that was a nice bonus. She put her hands on her hips, fingers stroking the outer edges of the pair of handcuffs dangling from her slim leather belt. Silly decoration, but suggestive. And practical, considering what she was looking for...
"I'm looking for a bed," she smiled, dipping her sunglasses enough to catch his eye. "I broke the last one."
Even with his tanned rugged skin she could tell he was blushing. She suppressed a satisfied giggle.
"What kind of bed are you looking for?"
"I guess a four-poster." She spotted several in the corner and started threading her way through the dressers and bureaus and end tables.
"You guess?" Khveli asked from right behind her.
"Well, what I *really* want is a canopy bed, but the top frame is always too flimsy. I know it's just supposed to hold a sheet, but I wish it could stand up to more..." She flipped the cuffs with one hand to rattle the chain between them.
Khveli stopped in the middle of the store; it took her a moment to realize it. "Actually," he said, a little disbelieving, "I might have just the thing. Come on into the back."
For a moment Erin wondered if it was some kind of proposition, but quickly realized it would be difficult for a man selling bedroom furniture to say anything that *didn't* sound like a proposition. She smiled and followed him through a wide open doorway.
The space in back was almost half as big as the showroom in front, but looked even bigger for its lack of wall-to-wall furniture. In one corner, a partition that blocked off what must be the office; in another, a workshop area, crowded with power tools and benches racks of raw materials. The rest of the glossy-concrete floor was sparsely populated with works-in-progress and more experimental looking pieces.
And there, in a cleared space nearest the office, stood a seven-foot-tall cube covered by a tarp.
"Allow me," Khveli said as he whipped the tarp away with dramatic flourish.
Beneath was a cube of space defined by two-inch steel pipe, welded and polished to gleaming. The bottom had extra horizontal tubes, a foot off the floor on two sides and maybe two feet up on the other two sides, neatly suggesting bedrails and head-and-footboards.
It took Erin's breath away.
"Did you make this?"
"My cousin Mukhran does the woodwork; I work in metal."
"It's... amazing."
Khveli just beamed.
Erin approached it almost reverently. The canopy was almost absurdly tall, and just as stout-looking as the lower frame. Way overbuilt for supporting the gauzy canopy most people would assume, but not for the more adventurous uses Erin had attempted.
"Hold on, I gotta see something." She fished the handcuff key from her purse and unlocked the chrome restraints from her belt. Gingerly, so as not to mar the beautiful polished surface, she clicked one cuff around the nearest post. Perfect.
"Look here," Khveli motioned toward a workbench, picking up a short section of pipe, "it is actually two layers -- a triangle inside a tube. Very very strong."
Erin raised an eyebrow. "What made you do that?"
"My girlfriend said she wanted to try... something," he blushed, glancing furtively at the handcuffs. "It didn't work out, so she made me get rid of it."
"Not strong enough?"
"Oh, no, the bed was fine. My girlfriend, not so much."
Erin jumped up, grabbing the bar overhead, starting to swing back and forth from it. "Won't the corners flex?"
"No, they are very strong, as you can tell." Erin was starting to get pretty good air, with nary a squeak or groan from the frame. She managed a full three-sixty before dismounting. "The welds are perfect." He pointed to the bottom corner nearest her; she squatted down for a closer look. The welding was so smooth it almost looked like the thing had been bent into shape from a single piece.
The phone rang. "Excuse me a moment." Khveli ducked behind the office partition.
Erin sat in the middle of the bed frame, eagerly considering the possibilities. Bondage variations, multiple camera mounts and light mounts, maybe even some acrobatics. There was no way it would fit in the Escalade, or even the back of a pickup truck, but she knew Khveli would figure out a way to get it delivered to the studio. Maybe she wouldn't even have to pay cash for it -- the man might go for a free subscription to the website. Especially if she agreed to do a shoot featuring whatever thing he'd tried with his girlfriend...
Erin's playful scheming was interrupted by the sight of someone in the doorway. Whoever it was either hadn't noticed her there on the floor or wasn't interested; he immediately stepped behind the partition into the "office."
Erin heard Khveli's conversation end in mid-sentence. The phone was cradled.
"Do you have it?" the man asked.
"Mukhran paid you last week."
"That was for last week."
There was a disbelieving moment of silence. Then Khveli stammered, "That was for the whole month."
"Not any more."
"I... I will need to talk to Mukhran."
"I already talked to him yesterday. I'm here to get the money today."
"We do not have this money."
"But you haven't even looked. Maybe it's in your pockets -- let me help you look."
There was a muted oomph, and then Khveli stumbled backwards out from behind the partition, bent over, holding his midsection. He looked at Erin; she wasn't sure whether his bulging eyes said "get out" or "help me."
Now the visitor stepped out where Erin could see him; he was an ugly dude, not big, but hard and mean. He grabbed Khveli by the lapel, yanking upright, a firm shaking interrupted when eyes followed Khveli's look and spotted Erin.
Erin was standing; without thinking, her hands went to her hips and she straightened up. "What's going on here?"
"I didn't know you were with a customer." The thug eyed her up and down; he continued, still to Khveli: "Or maybe *you* are the customer. No wonder you cannot pay what you owe."
Erin tapped her foot haughtily. "What's that supposed to mean?" The answer was obvious...
Thug sneered. "Maybe you should pay for him." From his look he didn't mean in cash; he released Khveli's collar and moved toward Erin.
She turned a bit, body coming to a defensive position, tensed for quick movement. Her voice supported the body language, snapping: "Back off, Squiggy."
"I don't think you understand the seriousness of this situation." It sounded like the biggest sentence he'd ever completed. He probably practiced it in the mirror, over and over.
Right down to the way he drew the cheap .22 revolver out of his expensively-tasteless leather jacket.
Erin's reflexes fired. Suddenly she was lunging, jumping, kicking...
...and suddenly the thug was holding nothing but hurt. His head turned slowly to track where the gun had clattered off -- under one of several solid-looking nightstands.
Erin regained her footing and stepped into him, channeling her energy into a punch to his solar plexus. But she wasn't squared up to him and the hit was only enough to stun him.
His head snapped around in time to see Erin duck away, leaping backwards, reaching up to grab the top bar of the canopy bed frame. The thug lunged for her legs, but she tucked up smartly, then stretched into a handstand before flipping over behind him, driving her feet into his shoulder blades, sending him sprawling into the middle of the empty bedframe, tripping over the footboard pole and smacking hard onto the concrete floor. Erin swung back up to perch in a corner overhead; she suspected he was more stung than broken.
Sure enough, he scrambled to his feet, checking his nose with one hand and finding it a broken bloody mess.
The bitch broke his nose! Was she nuts? Did she think she could get away from him by hiding up there? Itsov went to the opposite corner, grabbing the vertical post with both hands, heaving and shoving, trying to shake the girl loose. But the big frame was stiffer than he expected -- Khveli was very good, curse him!
Suddenly the girl leaped across the top of the bed, hooking it, swinging, spinning, faster than he could follow, overhead, to his right, in front of him, behind, --Whack! Clang! His head banged into the bedpost. Fuck, this little monkey-girl was really hurting him!
He spun around, stepping outside the frame. She was at the other end of the bed, perched on the low bedrail. Now he had her!
"Come here, you little..." He lunged, but she disappeared; a kick down on one shoulder threw off his balance; he had to grab the bedpost to keep from falling over. Blood was still pouring out of his shattered nose; he was beginning to feel woozy.
And then she dropped down from out of nowhere and kicked him in the face.
He staggered back, turning the blow into positive momentum, almost finding his balance. He had to find his gun; it was back there somewhere under one of the bureaus. Or he had to get out to the car for his backup gun. Or he had to just get out to the street. Out in the open, away from this whirling dervish where she couldn't keep kicking the shit out of him.
She swung around the top bar like a gymnast; he backpedaled another step, and another, knowing he should turn and run but afraid to take his eyes off her. Something caught his eye -- his gun? No, just a screwdriver. When he looked back, the girl was off the bar, *flying* right at him, one foot outstretched like a karate kick...
It felt like his chest caved in.
Just before the lights went out.
Erin took deep breaths; her nerves were abuzz with adrenaline.
That was really stupid.
But it was also totally amazing.
Khveli rushed up to her. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah. But you might wanna give him some Advil."
Khveli cautiously checked the thug. "You really hurt him. You need to go."
He was right. She could claim self-defense -- he pulled a gun! -- but it was better just not to be around.
Especially since a guy like this wouldn't be calling the police. He'd be calling his friends.
Really really stupid.
But still totally sweet. She was *doing* it. She was making a difference.
"Don't worry," Khveli said. "I will tell them I did this in self-defense. No one will believe him anyway."
"I'm sorry..." Erin had just made a lot of trouble.
"Are you kidding? It's about time someone kicked his sorry ass. Now go."
Erin found her purse and shoes and headed for the door. Then she remembered why she'd come in the first place.
"Hey, about the bed."
"What?"
"It's perfect. I'll take it."
It was another meeting with Jacob. Vadim thought it strange; Moroshkin didn't use to meet this often with Jacob here, at least not in a long time. But then a lot of things were different.
Vadim knew he was trusted not to listen too closely as they spoke, and he didn't. He busied himself reading the only magazine in the room that wasn't about computers or naked women.
"Boss." In the doorway, one of Moroshkin's thugs -- Vadim didn't know the man's name, only that he was a collector.
Jacob spoke first. "What the fuck happened to you?"
"The girl..."
Moroshkin frowned. "A *girl* did that?"
"Not just any girl. *The* girl."
"You mean..."
Jacob spoke the name with awe: "Sapphire."
The thug's shoulders slumped as he sank into a chair. "Yes. At the Azarashvilis." Vadim handed him a glass of water; he mostly spilled it down his neck.
"They hired her?"
"No, I think she was just there."
"Don't think," Jacob criticized, "it's not your strong suit." Vadim raised an eyebrow.
"What did she do?" Moroshkin asked.
"She interfered. I pulled my pistol -- just to scare her, I mean, she was only a girl. But she kicked it out of my hands, so fast! Swinging and spinning. I went after her, to grab her, before she could run away-"
"Why not let her go?" Jacob interrupted. "Cops ain't gonna-"
"Hush," Moroshkin barked.
"-but she turned and spun around so fast, twirling like a monkey. She hit me, and kicked, and whenever I tried to grab her she was gone from here to over there and hitting me again. When I tried to leave-"
"You were running from a girl?" Jacob interrupted again; Moroshkin swatted him across the head, knocking Jacob right out of his chair.
"-to get my other pistol from the car," the thug stressed, "she flew across the room and kicked me in the chest. So small, but so fast! It knocked me down. I hit my head on the cement floor. When I woke up she was gone, and Khveli too."
"Khveli?" Vadim asked, forgetting himself.
"Azarashvili, the Georgian furniture makers," Moroshkin muttered, too troubled with the thug's report to admonish the interruption. "You are bleeding," Moroshkin noticed, raising a hand to the thug's temple. "You should see Desny." Desny was their private physician. "Vadim, take him. I will wait here."
The thug stood unsteadily and teetered his way to the door.
Jacob was just getting into his chair; still shaking the cobwebs clear.
Vadim was fishing for the car keys when he heard Moroshkin swear in Russian.
"Vadim, wait."
Moroshkin motioned; Vadim stepped close. "Sir."
Moroshkin took his arm. "Vadim. I want you to look at this problem for me."
"Sir?"
"This Sapphire girl. She is playing with us, like a cat pawing at a bird with a broken wing. And Crisco," Vadim winced at the silly nickname, "he is not subtle; a dead yak could evade him. But I trust you. Find out what you can. Tell me what you think. You know what is at stake."
"Sir."
"Vadim -- call me Kostya."