<b>Roo'd</b>

# Roo'd

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# Chapter #25

Poulpe was losing it. Esco’d asked for some help from Fuentes and had gotten a skinny kid with missing teeth. The guy blinked constantly, narrow-eyed and darting, jail tats from the homies down south dirty blue smears under his filthy shirt. Esco’d asked a little, listened more, let his smooth fall over the guy. When he was sure the kid was his he’d snapped for Baby to send in Fox, the hurky-jerky bot shuffling in pushing a cart with leftovers and a beer. Esco pulled out a cigarette, didn’t offer the kid one, lit it and nodded his head to where the Frenchman was tied down onto the broken-down bed. When he’d woken up he’d started in with mewling and whining, despite the swelling in his foot going way down. Later he had pissed himself and then begun straight-out raving. When he’d started talking with himself, arguing some crazy gene-fixer sci-fi crap, Esco’d ordered him tied up and gagged.

“He gets one scratch, we find you, man. You hear me?” he asked. The kid nodded his head once, slowly, his lips twitching. Esco stubbed out the near-untouched remains of his cigarette on a dirty plate, looked the kid in the eye until he knew Esco knew he would take it after he was gone, knew what that meant about Esco.

Baby shook his head when Esco came back into their room.

“Shut up” said Esco smoothly, preempting Baby’s pending jibe. “I’m going downstairs. Biz. You coming?”

Baby grunted something to the negative. Esco had known as much before he’d asked, but following the protocol was part of what let Baby and he to work together so well. They didn’t have much in common beyond language and culture, but they did know the rules. They’d been holed up together before. Neither of them liked it. Neither of them cared. It was work.

Esco smoothed his tie, a silk number from a boat he’d helped himself into down in the docks in Florida last summer. He was dressed nice in pressed pants and saddle shoes. He adjusted his golf cap in the mirror, ran one polished fingertip down its rim, turned suddenly and left.

Downstairs Senior’s had filled rapidly. Fuentes had warned them that there would likely be a big crowd tonight. Esco hoped he was right; he hadn’t had a woman in a while, hadn’t danced in longer. A smile creased his lips and his shoulders eased, slid back in a familiar swagger.

The crowd was an odd mix, hip-hop boys in oversized blue jeans and field workers in their pearl-button best. Less savory crews from the city huddled around the edges, filtering out to the fringes, looking for anonymity, trouble. The music filled the bar from flat-panel speakers suspended overhead, monofilament plastics framed by black metal tubing. Corrido music beat down from above, a strong Latin beat backfilling lyrics endorsing a larcenous lifestyle, the bravery of the ghetto. The light over the dance floor flickered, green and glowing, and Esco looked up to see that the framework the glow sticks were suspended from had fat transparent tubing lashed to them. The tubing ran down the length of the room, switch-backing over the breadth of the dance floor. Tiny jellyfish floated by on an artificial current, glowing gently.

“Cloned human flesh” someone yelled into his ear over the pulse of the music. Esco turned to see Fuentes standing next to him, dressed neat in a tailored black suit. His shirt was green silk, the tie a tasteful robin’s egg blue. The two men shared a smile and Esco followed him towards the far side of the bar. A stage had been erected there, scavenged couches ringing something Esco couldn’t see. They wove through the rapidly growing crowd. As they went several good lookers caught Esco’s eye, took him in. Fuentes led the way up the steps to the stage, a dozen men rising from the couches to either side to shake his hand, clap arms around his back. Esco was introduced all around, names yelled in his ear he’d never hear or remember.

The couches were arranged around a pit, a six-foot-deep hole in the middle of the floor made larger by the stage wrapped around and above it. Below him in the hole three shirtless men paraded by, pitch-black skin puckered in carefully lined scars down their arms and across their cheekbones. Each man was leading an enormous dog by a thick chain. No, not a dog; Esco stopped and peered through the marginally improved light of the stage. They were hyenas, shaggy brown coats wrapped over bunched shoulders, yellowed teeth shaking through gaping jaws as they lolled their tongues nervously. Each was almost as big as the man that led it, jerking them around in circles, pumping their fists in the air in tune to the music.

Fuentes had taken a seat on the red velveteen couch by the far side of the pit, a three-foot tall wrought-iron stand holding a massive silver ice bucket to one side. Three gorgeous black women were draped around the edges of the couch, smooth silk dresses revealing more than they hid. Ornaments, but the kind Esco appreciated. He liked Fuentes, he decided, liked his style. The man had class. Fuentes waved Esco over and he took his place on the couch next to him. He noted the many men lounging nearby and across the stage, watched them share glances and tried to tabulate the number of guns he was likely surrounded by. One of the woman popped the bottle of champagne in the bucket and glasses were produced. The ladies stepped back, hands folded in front of them, and the music suddenly dropped away to a dull lull. The crowd kept moving.

“Noise cancellation — directional. Very useful for talking in private, in public” Fuentes said. He used the same Spanish Esco used, that Esco’s parents had used. He raised a glass and the light caught on the thick rings on his right hand.

“To our mutually beneficial relationship,” he said. “It is my hope that your employer and I may continue to enjoy each other’s business.”

Esco smiled politely. It was not his place to reply. Fuentes gestured towards the pit and the music fell over them like a wave. Huge white sheets on both sides of the dance floor unfurled and projectors flickered, threw up their light. A roiling black mass resolved into a cage full of dogs. Pit bulls and Dobermans snarled and snapped at the camera, jumping and slamming against the bars. A tune from Esco’s own youth, ’Who Let the Dogs Out,’ wove into the mix, a solid horn instrumental layered over it, and the crowd began to shift. The music picked up its pace, moved to Spanish, and Esco could see men with gold platters moving through the bar, two of the women with the same shining disks slowly sashaying past the couches, collecting bids. The crowd began to shudder, slamming rhythmically against the side of the stage. The fringe-dwellers had left the dark edges, mosh pits and small fights breaking out on the floor. The heat rose, adrenaline a hot metal taste in Esco’s mouth. The lights flashed faster now, stark images of flesh, arms and legs and beer bottles, white teeth and wide eyes caught in the glare. The crowd surged again, away from the screens and back again, the shuddering air causing the images to distort as the sheets fluttered.

Eventually Fuentes waved a hand and the men in the pit jumped out, thick metal chains trailing behind them. The men sitting around the edge of the stage hand-adjusted lenses on two ancient video cams, and out on the floor the sheets flickered to reflect their view, the nervously trotting hyenas swimming in and out of focus. Two of Fuentes’s ladies carefully fitted a transparent plastic panel into a slot cut in the edge of the stage in front of them, returned and wrapped themselves comfortably into the couch. The floor underneath Esco’s feet shuddered and a trapdoor in the edge of the stage banged open. A solid stream of dogs poured out, over the edge, onto the hyenas below. The fight started.

Blood splashed up against the panel and one of Fuentes’ men leaned over and wiped it off with a white handkerchief. Esco barely noticed; the fight below was entrancing, it was everything. It was horrible. Animals were slaughtering each other below him, pit bulls latching sharp teeth into the hyenas’ thickly scarred hides, pulling them down, being kicked and bit and disemboweled in the process. A Doberman bit into one of the hyena’s neck and the thing bent and snapped back at it, the thick skin stretching in the Doberman’s teeth. Huge jaws crushed the Doberman’s snout, splintering it like an ice cream cone. Blood and bone splattered and one of the dog’s eyes fell out of its head, ruined as it tried to run. Its good eye turned toward Esco before the hyena kicked free of another dog holding its leg, leapt forward and latched onto the Doberman’s side, pulling it down and tearing a great patch of flesh from its belly like wrapping paper from a birthday present. A pit bull jumped and caught its haunch, knocking it aside, the Doberman left thrashing helplessly on the floor with its legs tangling in its own skin.

Across the pit two dark hounds had each caught a hyena’s rear leg and were dragging it backwards. Another Doberman caught the back of its neck and was pulling it down as it struggled to stand. As Esco watched a big-headed dog with a short brown coat leapt forward and caught the hyena by the throat as it snapped at the Doberman on its back. Another pair of Dobermans, suddenly bold as the thing fell backwards beneath the onslaught, leapt forward and tore at its stomach. Bright glistening entrails spilled onto a floor already slick with spittle and blood and the howling, baying, screaming din of the crowd leapt to a new pitch.

It didn’t last long. Esco’s heart was pounding in his throat, his blood singing in his brain. He had a hard on like a lead pipe and could barely keep from leaping out of his seat. The woman in his lap snarled lightly at him, her pupils wide against big brown eyes. The crowd was a wild thing, frothing and pounding as the music washed over them. Esco’s lady unfolded, pulling him up with her. He paused to look back at Fuentes, received a pleased nod, and turned to follow her off the stage.

As he walked across the stage he noticed a shift in the crowd out by the door, frowned as he stared. He snapped a finger to his ear and comm’d Baby.

“Gotcha. Bunch of gringos, bad news” said Baby’s voice inside his skull. The sound was an itching buzz over the rumble of the music. “Looks like bikers. Should we move?”

“No” subvocaled Esco. His voice sounded fuzzy in his own head; he hoped the words made it through to Baby. “Fuentes gets first shot; it’s his show.” He shook his head ‘no’ at his lady, watched with disappointment as her fine ass turned with a shimmy and disappeared.

The newcomers flowered inside the crowd, bodies shoved aside as they descended on the bar. People’s drinks flashed into the air as they were dumped out of their seats, and still more of the bikers came through the door. Esco wondered where the bouncers were.

The music changed, shifted to a more neutral metal band singing in Spanglish, a cover of an old White Zombie tune. The crowd eased but continued to roil where the bikers met its edge. The flow of gringos ceased, joined the rest like a blot of water in oil. As Esco watched a goth boy slipped through the door after them, white studs lined up his face. As he looked the boy slid a hand up the back of his spiked black hair and began following the edge of the floor towards the stage.

Esco descended and bee lined towards him. He caught up just as he’d left the wall and started towards the stage. The goth boy sized him up, noted the tie and the attitude, and glanced at the stage. He bent his head towards Esco.

“I’m looking for the owner” he shouted, extending one hand. Esco took it, laughing when he felt the cash inside.

“You want me, not the owner” he yelled back. He held up the bill. “Word from Egypt, man. Follow me.”

Together they threaded through the crowd towards the stairs in the back, mellowing into the pools and groups, drug-mad dancers owning the central part of the floor as the rest sized up the gringos while they got their drink on. The screen showed the remaining pair of hyenas gorging themselves on the corpses of the dogs, wide jaws and teeth, fur matted with blood.

“The bikers yours?” Esco asked as soon as they’d ascended the stairs and closed the door behind him.

“Hell’s Angels. Yeah” said Tonx. He didn’t say more. Pharoe was a business partner, but his business was shady and Tonx needed the package and a ride out of here. The guy who’d led him here, who’d met him in the bar was wound like a spring, but smooth. Real chill. Tonx was ready to bet on him for that alone, especially after his biker crew had met up with three other groups on the way out of Austin. Tonx was nervous, the ragged edge of lost control panting at the back of his neck. The mouse had bit him, and he needed a get out.

Esco shrugged and knocked five times, then twice more on the first door in the hall. He smiled at Tonx and pulled out a cigarette with a practiced motion. Something was jacked about this goth and Esco’s senses were already wired sky high after the dogfight. Something clattered down at the end of the hall and Tonx stepped back, towards the stair.

Fox slowly shuffled down the hall towards them, an ancient red laser painting a grid over the walls and floor. Baby was showing off. Tonx laughed, rubbed his eyes.

“Got me scanned, yeah?” he asked Esco, nodding towards Fox. “All I got is my comm.”

Esco nodded cautiously, waited.

Tonx turned his head slightly, leaned back against the wall behind him. He was tired. Nancy had kept John Wayne pumping the whole damn drive, increasing numbers of increasingly rowdy bikers adding their whoops and hollers all along the way.

Eventually Fox turned and left, his head swiveled backwards to draw a red line rolling down the hall behind him.

“After me, I presume” said Tonx.

Esco arched one eyebrow, the corners of his lips tensing slightly.

Tonx paused, smiled. “Tonx” he said, holding out his hand. Esco took it.

“Esco.” The two men’s eyes met, locked. They let go of each other’s hands and turned, slowly, unsure of the other’s measure.

This here’s one weird ghost, thought Esco, glad that Baby had agreed to contact Pharoe at first sign of their lead. Apparently the response had been positive, else he’d have gutted the gringo already. Still, he was surprised Pharoe had given up the package so fast. Perhaps, he thought spitefully, it was because the package was drug-addled scum.

They followed Fox past another door and continued on to the end of the hall. A candle in a worked tin lamp was nailed to the wall, tiny holes casting light in a constellation over the wooden walls. Fox stopped in the far corner, raised one arm towards the door.

Tonx cast a glance at Esco, grabbed the knob and went in. Esco shook his head at Fox as he passed, left the door open.

“Well fuck” said Tonx. The kid had a shiv at his throat, his other hand gently but firmly holding Tonx’s balls in dirty fingers.

“Ah...” coughed Esco, embarrassed. That was sloppy. The kid could have killed their contact. He swore and gently moved the shiv, pointed at the hallway beyond. The kid disappeared.

“Well fuck again” said Tonx, this time catching sight of Poulpe tied down on the piss-stained mattress with lengths of purple plastic twine. His wrists were purpled and his eyes were screwed up tight, a low guttural chant escaping around the gag. Esco sighed, wrinkled his nose. No wonder the kid with the shiv had been high strung.

Tonx walked over to his colleague, let his hands hang open by his sides in the universal gesture for helplessness.

“Poulpe?” he asked, pulling out the gag.

“Why yes” announced Poulpe in a rough singsong voice. Suddenly his eyes snapped open, his eyebrows darting to the top of his brow. “Tonx?” he asked in a desperate whisper.

“Ye-sss” said Tonx, drawing the word out long, doubtfully.

“Thirty cc’s risperidone analog, please” Poulpe whispered, then, “Risperidone? Over the long term risperidone produces ex-trapyramidal symptoms at therapeutic dose. In contrast, amilsulpride is a highly selective antagonist of dopamine D2 receptors...” The words faded on Poulpe’s lips, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head.

Esco walked slowly up to the side of the bed, one hand holding his sore elbow, his other hand bringing his cigarette from his lips.

“Any idea what he’s talking about?”

“Risperidone’s a neuroleptic — an atypical antipsychotic medication” said Tonx.

“Antipsychotic?” asked Esco, one carefully sculpted eyebrow raised. He regarded the remains of his cigarette, carefully inhaled the last of it and dropped it. He ground it into the floor with one foot.

“Wonderful.”

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