The Queen Song

6) Scenes 13-16

Mike W McCoy

10/17/2019

Version 4.0

<>13<>  He still flinched.

The atmosphere shrouding the building was an amorphous physical thing that dripped down the cement and slick slab sides like a dying slug.  Wherever the dark of the night crept a snail-trail of cruel emotion was exposed.  The 6-story edifice had enemies hiding in the gaps and brutal bouncers waiting at the corners.

Special Agent Boris strode inside the large structure, and almost instantly the interior design made him think of an inverted Mayan pyramid.  The big man in the dark suit dragged the shadows with him as he twisted deeper inside, past the outer moat of modern Gov-Corp furniture.  The well-dressed clientele lounging on the minimalistic forms slunk back from his wondering gait and mutilated face. 

The mid-volume of music coming the central squares seemed to match his intrusive mood, and emphasized the wide shouldered bruisers working a clockwise circuit along the floorplan’s outer edges.

Boris nodded towards a waif-thin waitresses, passing out the drinks and dime bags.  She paused to look him directly in the eyes, smiled and nodding back as if she somehow understood his physical pain. 

“Thanks, for trying,” he commented with half a stupid grin, and took an offered glass off her tray.

“De nada.”

Sipping slowly, Boris watched her slink away, then angled for the wide central stairs.  His thoughts were unravelling towards what is next move should be, when unexpectedly it walked up beside him.

A polite puff of sweet smelling cigar smoke was followed by a low octave voice. 

“So it’s true, yes?  You the cop called Boris?”

“Special Agent Boris,” he answered while showing a full face forward profile.  “Pleased to meet you.”

The lighting was dim, but not dark enough to smooth the crags and folds of the acid mutilated flesh that had twisted itself into a devilish smirk.  His thinning white hair was still cut to military specs, and it added a halo effect above the damaged jaw line and melted ear. 

The Juarez native flinched.  “My name is-”

“I know who you are,” Boris interrupted, as the man hid his faux pas behind a quick inhale. 

“You sure about that?” sounding almost like a giggle.

The special agent’s eyes laughed with him outwardly, but inside he was humored by the Mexican’s bright fashionable pastel fabrics designed to distract all but the most experienced eye from the concealed weapon hidden underneath.

Boris pretended to think, and finger-waved at the 3 openly armed security men dressed matching blue suits.  The farthest waved back, while the others just scowled menacingly.

“Oh I’m sure, Don Bolanos.  Tonight is not my first roll on the felt.”

“Really, it’s not for you?  Who then?”

“Wow,” Boris replied.  “Who?  That’s some killer side-bet action.” 

“No games now, yes?” the shorter round-wasted man stated flatly.  “Who are you looking for?  Maybe I know then.”

“Not to worry.  I’m not here to get blood all over your floor.”

“Then what?”

“This is a quick in and out.  I’m expecting my contact any time now.”

Don Bolanos started to speak, but the disfigured smirk and un-intimidated attitude thru him off guard. 

“Ao then.  You won’t mind my extra attention, yes?” he said with a macho snap of fingers.

The trio of the clown costumed henchmen came to attention like dogs.  They glanced at each other, then took a step forward. 

“I don’t know yet,” showing the closest Mexican Dog a good profile of his face.  The man flinched. 

“I’m keeping my eyes on you.”

“Swell, you do that,” Boris tossed back, and discreetly adjusted the heavy revolver secured in the belt behind his back.

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<>14<>  Where are you Cookie?

“This way Jax,” Rook’s tone was hesitant.

The uncertain mood sourced not just from him alone.  The Firstborn had exited the triad’s limousine only a split-moment after it stopped directly beside the glowing green Club Uzi signage. 

Jax’s appearance hadn’t changed much during the confusing ride.  His thick black hair had lost its clean combed back cool.  He also still wore the unlaced shoes below worn-out faded Denim pants and a gray Polo shirt a size to large. 

A pair of the triad Birds, dressed in thin flowing gowns, flocked near his strong thin physique.  Jax felt nothing towards the beautiful Chinese women, despite their fawning affection.  The women’s companion Snakes kept their distance, but never took their electronic eyes off him, or the sweaty, scrub-costumed bald bodyguards. 

Underboss Xais and his Vulture exited last, leaving Mahn to handle the parking valet.  A quartet of Mexican security Dogs, in matching bright green accented Guayabera style shirts, enforced the velvet rope, and ushered the entire party towards the building’s tall un-adorned main doors.

Once the valet took the handoff, Mahn stayed alongside the curb, and watched the limousine glide away.  His stance, suit and shoes, all exuded an extreme eloquence of status and sophistication, but his jittery hands and grinding jaw showed that the elderly Chinese man was worried.

“Where are you Cookie?” he muttered to himself and the growing darkness.

Pacing slowly Mahn focused on the asphalt and concrete surroundings, spotting everything and nothing.  At a long drunk-stumble stride down the street, the triad captain saw a mix of Hopeless people crinkling the edges of the set like burned paper.  Their stuttering steps, and jerky movements made him think.

“Now, that is a cloak of cautioned conspiracy for the night.” 

Not far beyond them was an unlabeled cop car covered in solar panels and antennae.  The vehicle’s presence looked odd, but somehow familiar.  But it was the older Asian woman standing alongside the car that his T-glass shades outlined.  The computer inside instantly tagged everything about her, from the lit cigarette, the shade of lipstick, including the semi-automatic gun resting on the car’s hood.

A relaxed smile involuntarily covered his anxiety.  “My meizi Yoshi.”

The sound shifted sideways across the street, as if it had to push through the night air to get there.

“Hello my onisan,” she answered as if having heard him.

The agent stayed in the mannequin-tight pose, leaving the lit cigarette to burn. In her mind, Mahn appeared to physically respond before stepping away, and it was that concise relative almost psychic connection between siblings which convinced her that the pre-show had started.

“Hang on big brother, I’m coming.  I’ll get you to Mars.  Then maybe, I’ll get closure.”

The vidfone ringing annoyed her thoughts, so she answered with an attitude.

“Boris, you lost?”

“That’s not funny,” his tone matched hers.  “So who are these new players?”

“Not sure on the tall black one, but he looks-”

“Oh yeah, a real charmer.  Seems to have friends with him.”

“I did recognize some as triad henchmen.”

“Anyone important?”

“Yes, Chan Xais,” Yoshi confirmed.  “He’s a Yellow Hand underboss, and one of them may be my…brother.”

Boris gave no verbal reaction her words, and the time connected dragged on.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah, do you want to background me now?” he finally asked.  “How is a Chinese triad linked with a Systems Hacker and the Mexican Mafia?”

“My Intel said it’s a show.  Maybe it’s of the synthetic’s alleged Memory Engram,” she offered knowing the answer already. 

“Boris, you said the stuff looked real.”

Reluctantly he agreed.  “I did, that I did.”

“So,” she duplicated his tone.  “You want me to call someone?”

“Swell, you do that.”

Closing off the vidfone, Yoshi smiled at her reflection.  “I already did.”

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<>15<>  I need to ask him.

“Telling you, I know him.”  The man’s tone sounded conspiratorial and hushed.

“Tio Ace, no you don’t,” a firmer younger voice responded.  “Now grab this.”

The uncle gave an exasperated huff, and took the weight of the cardboard box from the shorter light skinned Hispanic man dressed in a clean blue and white kitchen helper uniform.

“I’ve seen that face,” Ace, also dressed in similar but much dirtier uniform, mused loudly.  He set the box inside the walk-in refrigerator.

“It’s those eyes.  I just don’t remember where.”

“Nix that crap.  You not supposed to be back here.  We cousins, but we ain’t like that,” the younger man replied as he led the way back into the kitchen proper. 

“Boss-man would fire me, but only after he gives you beat-down.”

“Chris, I ain’t afraid of that.  Not no more,” Ace stated before turning back to the pile of dirty dishes stacked deep in the sink.

The shakes from the morning’s bad dream in the ally were still there, along with the smell of cheap aftershave.  A growing sense of assurance slowly twisted a crooked smile onto the ragged old man’s face. 

“I need to ask him.”

“Hell no.  What you-” Chris corrected, but Ace had already abandoned the kitchen, angling for the bar counter.

Hugging the corner, back to the action, Ace scanned the mirrored backdrop behind the bottles.  The central dance floor was crowded with costumes and concealed faces, each clutching the mid-volume rhythms of a mysterious voiceless music.

A vibe slithered across the space.  It was more of an emotional memory than a physical entity.  It appeared anchored around a tall dark-skinned man.  Ace felt a pull urging him beyond the bar, and into the edge of the crowd.

“Hey, watch it,” Boris’s voice broke the spell. 

“Sorry, I-”

Instantly the dirty man switched thoughts.  “You.  You were there.”

Boris pinned him with a glassy gaze that held them both frozen for several heartbeats.  Eye to eye, they knew each other, connecting on a Queen Song level.

“Who are you?” grabbing the shoulders.

“I’m nobody.  Let me go,” Ace blubbered, unable to pull away. 

“No, I’ve seen you before.  I just can’t-”

“It was in the dream.”

“The dream?” releasing the scrappy old man. 

“Ace, get back here now,” Chris’s voice commanded from the kitchen doorway.

Boris reached out for Ace, but became distracted by a new figure reflected in the bar’s mirror. 

It was an olive skinned man, with long greasy black hair, and a large hooked nose.  He wore a wrinkled off-white linen suit and a narrow black tie.  The skinny Arabian looking sneak-thief was being suspiciously poked and prodded by a heavy-set pair of Mexican Dogs.  They were escorting him towards the main stairs.

Boris felt sure that he was the target Mohammed Maxx.

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<>16<>  A very sexy spooky.

The Japanese woman crushed out another cigarette, and counted the Hopeless now gathered around the streets of Club Uzi.  A quarter dozen more broken-edged people had added themselves since her last count 2 smokes ago.  It was now getting crowded on this crumbling ‘Tip of Chaos’, and a tingle of unease had tightened her panties.

“Ao, Agent Yoshi,” she scolded herself.  “It’s time to move.”

She rechecked the safety of the suppressed .45 caliber semi-automatic, and felt for the combat knife hidden behind her back, before leaving her cop car with a mean stomp.

A handful of imagined scenarios competed as each stride brought her closer to Club Uzi.  The strongest thought ended in a veil of blood, and a glimpse of suicidal defeat.  Sucking up the emotion emanating from the growing amorphous darkness surrounding the building, Yoshi mentally prepared for the actions to come. 

“Screw it, I’m all in.”

The biggest Mexican security Dog stopped her at the velvet rope.

“No access miss, VIP invite only.”

His bright multi-green colored Guayabera shirt was well tailored, and hid the flexible body armor underneath, but did nothing to disguise his foul breath or over-perfumed testosterone.

“And no cops,” he added with a smirk below his oversized mustache. 

“Yeah,” the Org-crime Agent responded after a grunt.  “Somehow I knew you’d say that.”

“So get lost,” a 2nd matching security goon added, stepping past the flimsy polite velvet rope.  “Now.”

“Are you gentlemen blind?” she replied, not backing down.  “Or just stupid?”

“Watch your mouth,” the original Dog said.  “Or I’ll find a better use for it.”

“No need for that,” she began, reaching slowly for the man’s chin.

Then with a gentle stroke of her hand, “Take a good look.”

“Oh what the?”  He started while his gaze softened after seeing the gathering surplus scraps of humanity.

Down the street, figures that could be men or woman, or neither, seemed to congregate together like sniffing animals with nowhere to go.  In unison, they turned to look past Mexican Dogs, the Japanese woman, and focus on the upper stone-inlaid walls of Club Uzi. 

“I think it’s the eyes,” she noted by pointing towards several of the earth-toned costumed dregs. 

It was hard to see, but their faces seemed sunken, slack jawed, and intense.

“I think it’s some kind of a spell.”

Looking confused, the security goon walked closer towards the Hopeless. 

“What in the Hell is going on?  Is it something in the air?”

“Ha, good one,” she joked back after a brief smile.  “Yellow Hand triad, Mexican Mafia, paranoid security, whores, cops and convicts.  This sounds like my kind of party.”

The bigger man kept shifting his gaze back and forth between the crowd of extras, and her smirking deeply scarred visage. 

“You’re one spooky bitch,” waving her inside.

“Oh, thank you,” she said strutting seductively for the doors. 

Inside the Club Uzi temple, Boris still kept his focus on the mirror behind the ornate ostentatious altar to alcohol.  Ace had slid smoothly away towards the kitchen, but the man acid burned man could still feel his presence, like a bad smell.

He watched his Asian partner, in the stylish gray suit and sophisticated hairdo, enter from the far side.  She slipped across the dance floor between the slow crowd as if she was invisible to them.

“Boris,” she greeted, with a firm stop at arm’s length.

“Yoshi,” he nodded a reply.  “Any problems outside?”

The Japanese woman started to answer, but hesitated upon focusing on her own mirrored image.  The reflection showed the bangs of her shoulder length graying hair sticking to her forehead, brazenly exposing the long scar crossing her heart shaped face.  Yoshi agreed it was a very sexy spooky. 

“Problems?  Some, and it’s getting worse.”

They faced each other to speak closely, as if on a romantic date. 

“Swell, how much time?”

“Not sure, but the dice are rolling.”

“I always figured you had some hidden angle.  Care to share?”

The woman slid out another smoke, but didn’t light it.  She stared at the cigarette instead of him.

“The Systems Hacker was a side move.  I…I needed you.”

“Please, do tell.”  Boris held up a gold cased lighter. 

“My half-brother, he’s Yellow Hand.  He wants to defect for witness protection.  Vanish on Mars.”

He clicked on the flame.  “So what am I?”  . 

“Special Agent Boris,” she began after lighting the smoke.  “You can’t figured it out?  You’re the game’s diversion.”

“Great,” he nodded accepting his role in her little scheme.

She smirked, and nodded back.

“Just so you know,” he added.  “Mohammed Maxx is here.  I saw the greasy prick being escorted upstairs not too long back.”

“Wonderful,” she exhaled.  “You deal with him, while I go find my brother?”

“Swell, you do that.”

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