Re: The Chain of Pursuit
The Queen of Bratwurst turned onto a street, and covered her nose.
“My goodness,” she called out to no one in particular, “what a strong scent! It’s worse than the rotting scrap heap at the plant.”
Off to her left, an ogre was lumbering down the sidewalk, toting a club and wearing an expression that managed to look both vacant and determined at the same time. Around his mighty green arm, he wore an armband with a police badge pinned on it. Something about the sight recalled something to the woman’s muddled mind.
“Hallo, son! Where might you be heading at so brisk a pace?”
The ogre stopped dead in his tracks, and glanced around. There was no one else on the street—well, at least no one out in the open. A few pickpockets were easing their way around to the safe of a fruit vendor; but there was no one else that one might call out to so jovially.
“Ungh?” he called back.
“I asked, young man, where you might be heading?”
“Grung.”
Dealing with the ogres was hardly different from dealing with the sorts of people Mrs. Montag once employed in her factories; they were big, inarticulate, and simple-minded. But they were also good workers, and she respected that.
And that made what she had to do next all the harder to do.
“Work? Well, we can’t have you going looking like that. Come here and let me scrub your face.”
“Grugh.”
The creature turned and lumbered over towards the woman obediently. When she produced a soapy sheet from a pocket somewhere, he shied away for a moment, but at her urging, he submitted himself to a thorough face-scrubbing. As the suds clouded his already limited vision, Officer Montag pinched a radio from its pouch on his belt and then shoved the beast onto the stone-hard floor.
“Sorry, dear,” she said above his whimpers. The soap was beginning to sting. “Duty calls.”
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Eight calls had been dispatched to her squad. All eight had answered back.
Something is wrong.
Normally, at least one or two of the ogres would forget his own strength and snap an antenna off or break a tuning knob; that was frustrating, and sometimes pricey, but expected. But this time, all had successfully received her message--and that was worrying. There had been the heavy breath upon the speaker as always, but…something was definitely wrong. The ogres hadn’t become competent that quickly.
Tracey de Carlo drew her pistol from its holster, waited for the shadows of a passing plane to sweep over the street, and made a mad dash into the city of Sereia. If her researches were correct, then this was the town where she’d find Cadenza.
And maybe a few people who had posed as her ogres.
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Sailors like to drink; it’s a well-known fact (and often the butt of many bad jokes.) And as it turns out, wannabe-pirates also like to drink. It goes with the image.
Although one that had always been able to hold her liquor pretty well, Cadenza had swapped her whiskey for water the past five rounds because: a) she knew that instead of asking questions, she would most likely be singing sweet but embarrassing songs about a zombie-turned-cop that she had warm-fuzzy feelings for if she had drank, and b) drunken guys couldn’t tell the difference between the two beverages. Water was cheaper. And the gypsy wasn’t looking to fund a second wing to The Buccaneer’s Boot anytime soon.
The woman glanced around the bar. Peanut-man had gone home to his “damn old lady”, the barkeeper was fawning over a sack of coins surreptitiously handed to him when no one was looking, and everyone else was drunk. Smirking, Cadenza sent around one last round of whiskey to ensure that any potential cops just pretending to be drunk, were, in fact, drunk.
Then it came time for business. She stood on a chair, and calling out to the dazed masses, she began, “How many of you know a man by the name of Anton Lorenzo Dionne?”
There was a general murmur of attention.
“He’s Cernilian, about six foot tall, black hair,” she continued. She didn’t bother mentioning eyes. The only way these kinds of people would have noted eyes was if at least one of them were missing.
“Har, he’s six foot where, Señorita?” This witty reply coming from a particularly proud-looking slob of a man, chewing on a bandana in the back.
The question bounced off the ears harmlessly. Normally, Cadenza might have grinned a little; the humor of drunks was always amusingly simple-minded but irreverent. But any joke in relation to Dionne quickly lost its charm for the sole reason of who it was about. She went on with the description; “Smokes a Cittá Royal. Wears dusty suits, but slick boots he cares for well. Supposedly maintains several residences, one of which is on 21G Delfin Street, in this city. Works as a ‘financial’ assassin.”
There was another general murmur making its rounds about. A few men raised eager hands, like students in class when the answers were still easy things like the sum of two and two, and you got gold stars for answering.
“I know, Señorita! Pick me!”
“Yeah?” she called to the man jumping up from his chair.
“21G Delfin Street is the Post Office!” he shouted.
Oh, it would be, Cadenza thought, it would be. How no one there noticed that he put the post office itself as the return address on his letter isn’t surprising either.
“What else do we know?” she called out, cupping her hands.
“He takes job offers at the intersection of Concha and Araças!”
“Good, good! And where is that in relation to this bar?”
“Two blocks south!” someone volunteered. He was promptly rewarded with a bowl of relatively fresh pretzels.
This line of questioning had taken them admirably far, Cadenza thought. She’d ride it out until it came to its inevitable screeching halt. “Yes, yes!” she said, “And how often is he there?”
Fingers were held up and counted before mumbling lips. Finally, one pirate’s face lit up and he shouted out, “Five times!”
“Nuh uh!” another one said, “You’re lying!”
The first one was elbowed in the gut as he tried to scarf down a handful of pretzels. All he caught of the other guy’s comment was “lying!” but that was enough to offend. “Mhno mph phnot!” he yelled between mouthfuls.
“Are too!” someone else joined in, just for the sake of joining in.
Cadenza could only sit down and numbly watch the fight that ensued, slightly awed by how quickly things had turned for the simple fact that the stupid always fascinated anyone who watched them long enough. After a few men with bloody noses were carted out, she futilely tried to salvage things by searching out the shouter of “Five times!” and asking him, “Five times a what? A week?”, but he couldn’t be found amidst the drunken heaps. Sighing, she left a tip for the bartender on the counter (he had a nasty welt on his head and probably wouldn’t wake up in time to get the tip while it was still there) and walked out into the evening gloom.
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