Re: The Chain of Pursuit
“I, ah…can’t read the streets signs from up here, Avello.”
“Gragh?”
“No, no, if we go lower, we’ll attract too much attention. We’re getting too many looks as it is anyway.”
“Gragh-ragh.”
“Yeah, I think I’m going to have to go it on foot. Land in an alley somewhere and go find yourself some trash, okay? But no fish.”
“Ragh.”
“Okay, okay—one fish.”
Cadenza wasn’t sure how much one fish really was to a dragon (probably something akin to a crumb to a human), but she figured keeping her ride in good spirits was probably a wise move. And if it took one smelly sea critter to do it, then…so be it. She’d feed him a box of mints or perfume later to take care of the stench.
They touched down behind a high row of gray, moss-covered boarding houses and inns, where a particularly promising whiff of guts and brine hinted at a treasure trove of old fish to be found in the various dumpsters, if an adventurous soul (and nose) was willing to look. Against her better judgment, Cadenza left Avello there, and strode out into the streets, a free woman. Man, she thought as she walked along, it was sure good to be able to look a copper in the eye and blow him a raspberry (or flash a finger that didn’t mean anything here, but sure as hell meant something in other worlds. Ah, the joys of other cultures.) It was almost refreshing. Word apparently traveled fast, and all the cops could do was try not to reach for their guns.
Striding? Hah, no, I’m strolling. I’m out for a nice little stroll in the streets, and there’s not a bloody thing any of these cops can do about it. By the gods, I may be on my way to kill a man, but I’m strolling.
She nodded a particularly cheeky “hullo” to an officer, and turned onto a street known as “Cutelo Avenue”; Cutlass Avenue. The pirates Vargas had mentioned clearly had had their influence on the city; all the graffiti on this sign consisted of poorly-drawn skulls and crossbones, and, by one daring soul, an attempt at a pirate ship. Attempt, Cadenza said to herself, because it looked more like a wooden bathtub.
As she looked down it, she noted that Cutlass Avenue was full of buildings shaped like barrels of rum and old, creaking ships. Some, by the looks of things, might have even been made from barrels of rum and old creaking ships. But bars like these tended to be good sources of information (forget bored housewives--drunken men were terrible gossips), and Dionne, if she was any judge of character, would be someone that could only be traced through people like those found around here, so she proceeded down the street. The address was a good starting point, but Algretta had maintained that the man had other places of residence that they had no written record of. Whatever she found here would be invaluable help.
Every bar and inn the gypsy passed looked as if it was infested with an eternal plague of rodents and cockroaches, and most of the doors could hardly be made out among the moss and creeping sea-vines. After walking to the end of the street and back, hoping futilely to find somewhere not steeped in staph, she finally selected one bar that looked less diseased than the others (even if that wasn’t saying much) and sauntered up to free the rusted doorknob from the brown-green foliage. The rotting sign above the entrance read “The Buccaneer’s Boot.”
The pirates here had apparently given up all hope of concealment.
Most bars in Rubato had the same set-up; there was the run-of-the-mill, regulation idiot barkeeper, who, if a barfight broke out, would invariably be the first to go down and the last to get up (if he ever did get up); there was the skinny guy in the corner who obtained all his sustenance from bar pretzels and bowls of peanuts, and was always mumbling about that “damn old lady” he had at home; and then there was the group of thugs, dispersed about the room to some extent, but mostly gathered in a knot at the back, breaking bottles over each other’s heads and guzzling the piss-water the town called beer. Sprinkle in a few more pirates and a couple of misplaced ladies who apparently thought “The Buccaneer’s Boot” was a reputable place of business, and you had this tavern. Cadenza could run this place like a mob boss.
The first thing to do was loosen up the gang’s lips with a bottle of the good stuff kept underneath the bar counter.
She sauntered in, casting a look around to all to make sure that she was seen. It only took once glance-around. Beauty did that for you.
“A round of whiskey, barkeep,” the gypsy said, slapping down a forty-zecca piece as she came up to the counter. The man’s eyes widened at the sight of the coin; he had probably never seen so much money in one place in all his life.
Yes, yes, Cadenza thought as the big oaf went off to find where he had stashed the real alcohol, get ‘em drunk, but don’t show off too much. You want their respect—but you don’t want them to think you’re rich. Thugs hate the rich.
A few of the roughnecks from the back murmured amongst themselves before stepping closer. They had heard the magic words--“free drinks”--and now they were ready to negotiate terms of business.
“You…look familiar, Señorita. Do we know you from somewhere?”
Group-speak, the gypsy noted. The gang thought together as a whole.
“No, Signors, I’m new in town.”
The men blinked. They had expected a request to be affixed to the end of that statement. There was always a request fixed to the end of that statement—the newcomer was supposed to tell you their purpose for coming to town. When the woman blatantly ignored this rule and didn’t give one, the gang speaker felt subtly unnerved.
“Was there…something you needed, Señorita?”
“Oh,” Cadenza said, taking a proffered glass as the barkeep returned, “A drink.”
“Just…a drink?”
“Just a drink. Bottoms up, boys.”
Everyone--as if puppets on strings pulled by those words--rose their glasses and drank.
Later, when the gypsy would ask them about Dionne, she knew she’d be pleased to hear that they were too drunk to remember the story for a cop later. Get them drunk, and then let them talk, so the whole conversation is just some bubbling beer suds later…
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Cruz stared coldly at a computer screen that could not lie. This, she thought, was not going to go over well.
“She’s twelve leagues under the sea, Captain.”
Moreno nearly spat his coffee at a quivering intern. The boy was covered in patches of burn ointment. “What?” he barked.
“That’s what the readout says. Now twelve-point-zero-zero-eight leagues, Captain.”
Moreno sighed. He wasn’t paid nearly enough for this. “Call Buffón and tell him to get his girl on this, will you? It doesn’t take a fool to see we can’t rely on that tracking device anymore.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“…And Cruz?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Don’t roll your eyes at me next time I give you an order.”
“…Sorry, Captain.”
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Last edited by Altamira; 12-23-2007 at 05:14 PM..