The Clarity of Cold Steel
Chapter 9

ONLY THE SUSSURATING hiss of the heat manifold spitting a fine mist of steam is audible. That and the clacks and ratchets of Sweet Sally’s clockmech arm. Sally. Sweet Sally Hazard. And oh my, some fine workmanship there. The cast iron prosthetic? Not so much. But she keeps it covered. The rest of her, though? She sits draped Cleopatra-languid across her bed like some Rococo-era painting, an avatar of curve and pleasure set against a backdrop of taffeta pink. The pink I could do away with, but the rest? She’s something alright.

“Just set ’em on the dresser.” Slough hit Sweet Sally bout a year ago. She’s on the same cocktail I am. We have an arrangement.

“Pills for thrills,” she joked one time. Then she stopped and got real quiet. Neither of us has mentioned it since.

I set the bottle of pills on the dresser, half of what Chirag dosed me, then slide my suspenders from my shoulders and drop them to dangle in loops by my sides. My tie follows. Doffing my tricorne hat, I set it on the rack alongside my holster and greatcoat.

“Your coat’s missing some buttons.” Sweet Sally slinks up in bed, the satin cascading from her bosom in liquid waves. She lets the sheets lie where they lie. She knows her business. I fight not to tremble.

“They’re still there, darlin’.” Just been rearranged is all. Handiwork of the Gremlin.

“You’re a liar.”

“I am that.” Button by button I open my shirt. Burlesque slow. Watching her watch me all the while. Her best years are behind her now, but her years now are topside of good and better than most. Especially for this part of town. The Seep. About as pleasant as it sounds, it occupies a truncated shoreline overlooking Boneyard Bay. All desiccated warehouses and bars. Chop shops. Black market ghetto raceways. Doesn’t have all the charm and amenities of the armada town but it does have Sweet Sally. And I’ve never been partial to sleeping on the water. Tends to engender dreams of rolling liquidity and a forever sense of toppling into endless dark. And then I awaken dripping in sweat.

“You almost ready?” She taps an imaginary watch as I undo my last button.

“Like getting inoculated.” I toss my shirt toward the rack, miss. “A quick prick and it’s done.”

“Every whore’s dream.” Sweet Sally leans on one arm, cheek on her shoulder, pretty as a picture, her mech arm whirring with the movement, muffled by rippled black velvet. Her eyes grow wide at the roadmap of scar crisscrossing my arms and chest and abdomen. They always do. She doesn’t ask me about them anymore, about if they hurt. And I don’t stare at her arm or mention the hackmarks down her back, twin scars converging toward her lower spine like gill slits.

“The lies cost extra?” My shoes now, I kick them off.

“Gratis.”

“Then keep them coming.” I reach down to pull off my socks.

“Keep em on.” Sweet Sally waggles her eyebrows, bites her lip, stifling a giggle.

“Oh—?” I glance at the pair now dangling in my hand. “Sets the mood, right?”

“No.” Sweet Sally rears up onto her knees in all her glory, her sapphire eyes serious, brimming with pride, and her everything else, all simply splendid. “I set the mood.”

“That you do, darlin’, that you do.” I toss the pair over my shoulder and snatch her under the leg, drag her toward the edge of the bed, savage, the way she likes it, or pretends to anyways. Her legs straddle me, and she closes them around me. I swallow. “Lords…”

She yanks me onto her, thighs squeezing round my waist, feet hooked together as she grasps the waistband of my trousers. “What are these still doing on?” She unbuttons them. Tears them down, kicks them off with a practiced foot. I don’t fight it. Who would?

But then I do. “Huh?” I glance toward the door.

“Uh, excuse me—” Sweet Sally lurches up as I wrestle free from her, disentangling from her arms and legs. Bare feet pad quick across cold floor. I tear my Webley-Colt from its holster and step over to the door. I raise a finger to my lips.

Sweet Sally swallows, nods, hurls my pants across the short expanse. I catch them, tear them on, slide a suspender over one shoulder. The radiator sputters. Steam chug-sputters and blurts out then returns to smooth sibilant hiss.

Feet clomp out in the hall. Heavy treads. Jackboots. The kind made to kick down doors. Heads. Coming closer. Military? BlackJacks? Syndicate rats? Could be anything in the Seep. Anyone. The feet pound closer. How many? I figure on at least five. With my luck, it’ll be fifteen. I glance around the room. Like all the other coffins in the Parador Hotel, it has only one exit and the walls are of smooth ferron-crete. Easy to clean, good against fires, bad if you’re looking to bolt. Maybe they ain’t coming here. But then, Sweet Sally’s coffin’s at the end of the hall. So who else are they calling on?

“You’re paranoid,” she scoffs, but her eyes are wide on the door as she reaches for the drawer by her bed. She draws a twirly-bird out, breaks it open, checks that it’s loaded. Her lips purse.

“No—” I raise a hand. “Just sit up.” I wink. “And arch your back.”

Sweet Sally cocks her head in annoyance, spins the bird’s housing, snaps it shut.

I say nothing. The boots stop outside the door. No kicking. My luck’s holding. Someone tries the knob, carefully, but the door’s drum tight. A light knock follows. I raise an eyebrow Sweet Sally’s way, nod.

“Yes?” Sweet Sally calls out.

“Hey Sal,” calls a muffled voice through the door, “it’s Rube. You busy? Got to talk to you. Won’t take but a minute.”

Sweet Sally relaxes, lowers her gun, waves me off, calling out, “I’m with a client, Rube.”

“I’m sorry, Sal, but it’s official business. Fair urgent, truth be told.”

“He’s on the level.” Sweet Sally nods to me, places the gun on her dresser, pulls on a black silk robe and ties the shimmering sash, gets up. “One second, Rube.”

“Who’s the client?” the constable asks.

I raise up a hand.

She pauses halfway to the door.

Gun leveled, I turn the doorknob. A crash and a blast follow, and the door explodes inward, smashing me back. Bodies pour in and someone with an iron grip crushes my gun hand, forcing it up. A blue electric jolt rocks me crippled instantly, and the bodies bull-rush me back, slamming me into the wall. My Webley-Colt’s torn from my neutered grip and someone wallops me in the gut.

I slump down to the floor. My shoulder’s smoking. I’m shaking, feeling like I’ve been hit by a cattle prod. Seven coppers surround me when the smoke clears. A gods-damned constellation of copper stars. A wide bloke with a steamjack riveted onto his arm stands at the door. Steam pours up as the hammer-rod retracts slowly into its black iron sheath. I could go for my ankle piece, the derringer, but the rest have guns drawn and leveled, and though my math ain’t aces, it sure as shit ain’t deuces, either. So instead, I clutch my shoulder and mutter some of my best ineffectual curses.

“You bring seven men just to talk, Rube?” Sweet Sally demands, struggling, her hands held tight behind her back by one of the coppers.

“Shut it, whore,” a lanky copper snarls.

“None of that,” chides a stocky copper. What hair he’s privy to has gone all to pepper and salt, but he’s solid still, a boxer gone to fat, maybe, but who can still take some licks. Dole some out, too’d be my guess. The lanky bastard casts him an acid glare. The stocky chap ignores it. Pointedly. “Bring seven men just to set foot in the Parador, Sal,” he admits as he smooths his hair down, turning to Sweet Sally. “Let her go.” He draws his coat back, revealing a bulky hand-cannon. “Now.”

The lackey copper holding her glances at the lanky bastard, who nods. Eyes aglow, he lets her go.

Sweet Sally rubs her wrists. “What the hell, Rube?”

“Official business, Sal.” Constable Ruben closes his coat. “Apologies.” The constable’s tired eyes fall on me. “Constable Ruben.” He tips an imaginary cap. Wears a dark suit, the copper star pinned at his left breast. He glances at his companions. The other men are likewise dressed, stars, bowler hats, truncheons, guns. “Didn’t have much say in the matter.”

I replace my legs, finally, stand on my very own.

“You Avinash Shakteel?” Constable Ruben asks.

“Will it matter if I say no?”

“Don’t hazard it will, lad.” Constable Ruben turns a glum eye toward the coppers crowding the room. Takes a deep breath. “Not my show, truth be told. Just my side of town.” One of the other coppers steps forward, the lanky, angular looking piece of work, all jagged edges and missing teeth. Looks like a scarecrow drawn by a psychotic eight-year-old. “This here’s Constable Draegar. Runs an outfit out of the Boneyard. Port Authority. He’s been looking for you.”

“Draegar,” I say, “I’ve heard of you.”

“Weren’t at your pad.” Constable Draegar licks his lips, casting a black glare Sweet Sally’s way. “Heard you was shacking up with the whore, though.”

“From who?” I ask.

“Ain’t here to answer your questions, boyo.” He lays his truncheon across the palm of his gloved hand. “You answer mine, get it?” From the truncheon’s tip extrude two small metal diodes. Draegar presses a button and electricity jumps wide across the void, blue energy crackling, lighting up that hillbilly sneer, all gap-toothed as a broken fence.

I should keep my mouth shut. Answer his questions. Give no guff. The smart play. But I ain’t always smart. “Good dental plan on the force?”

“The very best,” Draegar says as he steps toward me and jabs the tip of his truncheon right into my sternum.

I gasp at the impact. Then it explodes worse as blue sparks ignite and he forces it in, crushing me against the wall. Energy crackles through me, a clicking noise like a man shuffling cards bridge style. Then it stops and I drop dead. Almost. Two others snatch me under the arms and heft me up, limp as a sack of drowned kittens.

Draegar leans in, slithers his fingers into a fistful of my hair, yanks my head up. I can smell rotten fish and burnt flesh. Smoke curls up in slow blue dragons from my chest. “You been sniffing round the Cartagena?”

I gasp, drool, garble something. Not sure what.

“Course, you have, you raghead fuck.” Yellow teeth gnashing, he shakes my head. “You hear me, boyo?”

“What happened to the kid?” I manage.

“You are one dumb motherfucker.” He raises his truncheon and presses the button. Blue crackles as he rears back to jab.

I close my eyes.

“Enough o’ that!” Constable Ruben draws on Draegar, but he ain’t flashing that hand-cannon solely on my account. “Ain’t icing the sod on my watch.”

Draegar turns on him. The others follow suit, every one of them armed.

Constable Ruben doesn’t shrink, but he doesn’t exactly press the issue. Can’t say I blame him. “You made your point.” He eyeballs me hard. “He make it, lad?”

“Sure,” I lie.

Draegar straightens his lapels. “We ain’t in the business of giving no warnings.” He spits Constable Ruben’s way. “Best thank the old geezer.”

“Thanks,” I manage.

“Don’t mention it, lad,” Constable Ruben mutters, looking like he just ate the sourest of lemons.

Draegar and his boys leave me all burnt and smoking across the floor, Sweet Sally leaning over me all cooing dovey. Constable Ruben’s still there, his arms crossed and lips pursed, and all I hear is the drumbeat of jackboots clomping off somewhere that ain’t here. And ain’t it the most glorious sound?