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And that, you say, is why you think vehicular manslaughter should be downgraded as a crime to a misdemeanor. Your guest just shakes his head. You don't actually mean it, especially because misdemeanors are generally more paperwork than a full-on murder, but he takes the ridiculous assertion like you just said that you're a pipe man and not a cig man. But that's just the kind of class act Crocker is. Sharp as a razor, polished as your shoes, honest as an eviction notice. The kind of guy who makes you real glad your boss is in jail. If Slick was here you'd be up to your shoulders in quotas and red tape, but you of all people know the value of chilling the fuck out, which you've been gladly doing for six months.
All in all, the new boss has been good for you. Hardly asked a damn thing of you for months now. Seems she's perfectly content to lounge menacingly in the throne room and watch videos of dancing clowns all day. Fine by you, you aren't about to yuck your employer's yum. Especially when your yum is some fine conversation and exchanging smoke with your very important prisoner.
Said prisoner is about to retort, doubtless with some clever observation, but it seems you thought too soon.
The boss lady's calling.
You pick up. She's asking you to return the ring. Damn. This was a nice accessory, and it made it even easier to sneak out on smoke breaks, which at this point comprise more of your day than work. But you knew this was a rental, and it seems your loan's expired. No need to throw yourself to the sharks over some fancy jewelry.
You stand up, donning your fashionable hat, and bid the gentleman a good evening. No more lollygagging. It's business time.
You swing on your jacket and ask the boss lady where the fire is. Or rather, where the fire needs to be. She says that things gotta start accelerating. She's got some nice assets coming in soon. You refrain from making the obvious comment. You ask her why she needs the ring if she's getting new toys. She asks why she needs a reason to want her damn bling back. Can't argue with that. The lady likes her treasure.
Oh, she notes. She's got a few more little coffin-stuffers coming in with the new assets. Everything's falling into place, but you gotta be on standby just in case things get out of hand. Any intel on them, you ask? Plenty, she fails to elaborate. Great. Just wonderful. Oh, she says. I got one of the ankle-biters in a cell on Derse. Which one, you ask. She informs you it's the blonde skirt. She's got her locked up in a cell, and she says something about an egg that you aren't going to think about. You have no idea how she managed to pull that one off. You can barely ever get a pair of eyes on her with your walls. She says it's none of your fishness and bring her the ring. You sigh, deep and hard, making sure she knows just how inconvenient this is for you. She hangs up.
Well, time to start digging graves. You head out the door.
Or you would, but you feel a grip like a vice on your shoulder.
Crocker, you warn. Hands off the merchandise.
He lets go, but folds his arms. He asks if you're going to be going against his daughter and her friends.
You shrug. Sorry, pal. That's business.
His fist tightens. You've seen that fist crunch a metal cup like it was tinfoil before. If he got his hands on you, it'd be curtains.
You know he could break out of this place anytime. Hell, you told him he could, then gave him a long list of reasons why that'd be a terrible idea. The cold war only stays cold if no sides move their pieces. And if all hell broke loose, his daughter would be the first corpse in the crossfire.
But now, deal's off. Shouldn't have turned your back on him.
You flick your wrist, sliding a knife into your grip. Glad you got carapace and not sweaty flesh. Glad you've been trained with a steady grip. You know he sees the knife flash. He's sharper than he lets on.
Neither of you make the first move. A cold war only stays cold if no side makes a move. You imagine in your mind's eye how this goes. Best case scenario, you drive your dagger into his gut and dump his body in the sewer. He isn't needed for anything. Keeping him in this gilded cage was half hostage scheme, half, well. You liked having him around.
The worst case scenario is watching as that hand that's rested on your knee after you spun him one hell of a yarn about Slick rockets towards your face, punching through carapace like a shattered window and splattering your gore around the room.
The most likely case is neither of those. No one gets a clean hit, and one of you goes down swinging, neither leaving this room an unbroken man.
If you kept clocks in this room, you're sure you could hear them tick, each individual second a breath of life down the drain. You've been in too many shootouts and stabbings to not know when shit is about to go south. And this situation is quickly going Antarctic.
Hey, might as well make the first move. Maybe use your other sleeve knife, catch him off-guard as he's watching your right. Would have the time to take one step before it's in his heart, then lights out.
You tense your arm to make the drop, but his hand moves first. He raises it high and grabs his hat.
What.
He holds it to his chest.
Please, he says to you.
Please. Holding out his hat like you're a goddamn charity act. This maroon is putting himself at your mercy, like a hog on a spit, like a fish in a barrel, like a man who is looking at you in the eyes and…
Oh god. His eyes.
You don't know why you never noticed them before. Maybe it's because they were always shadowed by his hat. It was always hard to put a name to any feature's on Crocker's face besides that broad, cliffside nose. You blink, and stare at those deep blue eyes. The light crows feet around his eyes crinkle, and well he might as well have punched you straight in the heart with those.
Please, Droog, he says. You freeze. That goddamn nickname. He said calling you the Dignitary sounded too formal. When you asked what it meant, he said it was from a book he liked once.
It meant friend.
My daughter is out there, all alone, he says. Probably scared to death if one of her friends is locked up in the slammer. She's been on her own, and on your own suggestion, I stayed here to keep her safe.
You cared enough about that to tell me, he says. You tell him it was just the boss's orders. Well, that and a heavy dose of respect for his attire. He asks you if you expect him to believe that. You tell him to believe what he wants.
He says he believes you're good enough to do the right thing.
Good? Oh, he's gotta be fucking joking. You ask him if he knows how many bodies you've put in the ground. How many lives you've ruined. How many times you've slammed an eviction notice onto a weeping family's home before you set the place ablaze. You ask him, frankly, is he knows who the fuck he's dealing with.
He narrows his eyes, then quirks up a corner of his mouth.
He says he's dealing with a man who's smart enough to always have a backup plan.
No one. No one knows about your backup plan. And you're damn sure you've never let it slip to this handsome rube.
You say you don't know what he's talking about.
He says it's obvious. Your boss lady is a homicidal alien psychopath. If you don't have a plan to get rid of her, he'll eat his hat.
Well. It is a damn good hat. Hate to see it go to waste.
So what if I do, you ask.
And he asks you if you believe that she's really just asking for the ring because she wants another piece of gold to litter the floor of her palace.
You think, then curse. Of course not. Boss lady's crazy and treasure-hungry, but she ain't a fucking moron.
Then why, he asks, isn't she telling you about what she wants to do with it? She's being awfully vague, isn't she? Sending you off on a mission to fight some unknown assailants sounds like a great way to get you to bite it.
You hate how much he's right. You hate hearing shit you should've seen coming through his stupid idiotic dulcet tones. Makes you feel like a real jackass for not seeing it.
And yeah, you got a backup plan, but it ain't exactly regicide-worthy against the new boss yet. You don't know if there's anything that could kill her at this point, and you're not gonna be the schmuck who tries it.
Still, you know that you've outlived your usefulness to her, and she doesn't seem the one to keep a toy lying around on the shelf without a porpoise you mean purpose. The cold war between Prospit and Derse isn't the only standoff in town.
You glance out the window, only just now noticing that the fucking moon is gone.
Well. That settles it. She's insane.
You sigh. Look, you say. You won't hurt his brats, but you're also not gonna stick your neck out to help some goody-two-shoes kids from that namby-pamby golden atrocity to good taste. You've got a safehouse with your name on it.
He asks what he should do. You shrug. Door's unlocked, you say.
He stews for a moment, and for some reason you just can't let yourself have the last word.
One favor, he says. That's all he needs.
You light up a new cigarette, striking the match against your carapace. You take a deep puff.
What is it, you ask.
He hands you his PDA. Asks you to take it to the prisoner. That's risky, you say. Derse prisons aren't exactly a place you can walk through without the boss noticing.
So don't walk through yourself, he says.
He knows you too well. You radio the Droll, tell him you have a delivery for him to make. Then, with a puff, you turn to him. So, you ask. What's your plan?
He smiles slyly. Well, he says. I think I'll stay right here. It's awfully comfortable, and he wouldn't want to cause a ruckus.
You blink, thinking on what an idiot the man is. Then he winks at you.
Stupid, gorgeous wink.
If he broke out, the first person the boss would go to was the man in charge of keeping him locked up in the slammer.
By staying behind, he's giving you time to escape.
A favor for a favor.
You puff deeply. Then snuff your cigarette out into an ashtray. Suit yourself, you say.
And when you shut the door behind you, you find yourself hoping that that isn't the last time you smell his pipe tobacco, and look into those piercing, clever eyes.