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Off he went, in a hurry but not in any way looking it: best to seem unemployed. Also best to seem up to no good, in non-specific ways.
The Scales and Tails where he was heading was deeper into the pleeb. If he'd gone there in his geekwear he'd probably have had to defend his personal territory beginning with scalp, nose, and balls, but as it was he attracted not much more than a few narrow-eyed assessments. Worth taking on? Not, was the verdict. So his sauntering went unimpeded.
There it was, up ahead: ADULT ENTERTAINMENT in neon, For Discerning Gentlemen in subscript. Pics of reptilian lovelies in skintight green scales, most of them with impressive bimplants, some in contorted poses that suggested they had no backbones.
A woman who could hook her legs around her own neck had something to offer in the way of novelty, though exactly what was unclear. And there was March the python, looped around the shoulders of a red-hot cobra lady who was swinging from a trapeze, and who greatly resembled Katrina WooWoo, the lovely snake trainer from the Floating World he'd so often helped to saw in half.
Not even very much older. So she was still keeping her hand in. As it were.
It was daytime: no customer traffic inbound. He reminded himself of the ludicrous password he'd been saddled with. Oleaginous. How to use it in a plausible sentence? "You're looking very oleaginous today?" That might get him a slap or a punch, depending on who he said it to. "Oleaginous weather we're having." "Turn off that oleaginous music." "Stop being so fucking oleaginous!" None of them sounded right.
He rang the doorbell. The door looked thick as a bank vault, with a lot of metal on it. An eye peered at him through the peephole. Locks clicked, the portal opened, and there was a bouncer as big as himself, only black. Shorn head, dark suit, shades. "What?" he said.
"Hear you've got some oleaginous girls," said Zeb. "Ones that butter you up."
The guy stared at him from inside his shades. "Say that again?" he said, so Zeb did. "Oleaginous girls," said the guy, rolling the phrase around in his mouth as if it was a doughnut hole. "Butter you up." His mouth upended at the corners. "Good one. Right. Inside." He checked the street before shutting the door. More locks clicking. "You want to see her," he said.
Down the hallway, purple-carpeted. Up the stairs: smell of a pleasure factory in the off hours, so sad. That moppet-shop smell that meant false raunchiness, that meant loneliness, that meant you got loved only if you paid.
The guy said something into his earpiece, which must have been very small because Zeb couldn't see it. Maybe it was inside a tooth: some were using those now, though if the tooth got knocked out and you swallowed the thing you might end up talking out your ass. An inner door marked HEAD OFFICE, BODY OFFICE TOO, with a shiny green winking-snake logo and the motto "We're Flexible."
"In," said the big guy once more - not a large vocabulary, him - and in Zeb went.
The room was an office of sorts, equipped with a lot of video screens and some expensive overstuffed furniture that was making a muffled statement, and a mini-bar. Zeb eyed the bar longingly - maybe there was a beer, all this running around and pretense had made him thirsty - but this was not the time.
There were two people in the room, each deep in a chair. One was Katrina WooWoo. She wasn't in her snake outfit: only an oversized sweatshirt that said BITCH #3, tight black jeans, and a pair of silver stilettos that would cripple a stilt dancer. She smiled at Zeb, one of those stage smiles she could always maintain while hissing. "Long time," she said.
"Not that long," said Zeb. "You still look easy to pick up and hard to put down."
She smiled. Zeb had to admit he longed to wend his way into her scaly underthings - that boyish yen hadn't faded - but he couldn't concentrate on such goals right then because the other person in the room was Adam. He was wearing a dorky caftan affair that looked as if it was put together by spastic ragpickers for a stage play about leprosy.
"Fuck," said Zeb. "Where'd you get that pixie nightshirt?" It was best not to show surprise: it would give Adam an advantage he didn't, at the moment, deserve.
"I note your tasteful T-shirt," said Adam. "It suits you. Nice motto, baby brother."
"Is this place bugged?" said Zeb. One more baby brother quip and he'd deck Adam. No, he wouldn't. He never could bear to hit the guy, not full-out: Adam was too ethereal.
"Of course," said Katrina WooWoo. "But we've turned everything off, courtesy of the house."
"I'm supposed to believe that?"
"She actually has turned it off," said Adam. "Think about it. She doesn't want any of our footprints on her establishment. She's doing us a big favour. Thanks," he said to Katrina. "We won't be long." She stilt-walked out of the room, teetering a little, casting them a smile over her shoulder: not a hissy smile this time. She was evidently keen on Adam, despite the caftan. "There's some food later, if you want it," she said. "In the girls' caf. I need to get changed, showtime coming up."
Adam waited until she'd closed the door. "You made it," he said. "Good."
"No thanks to you," said Zeb. "I might've been lynched because of those nerdy brown pants." He was in fact very pleased to know that Adam was still alive, but he wasn't going to straight-out admit it. "I looked like a fucking fuckwit in those fucking things," he added, piling on the profanity.
Adam ignored that part. "Have you got it?" he said.
"I take it you mean this fucking chess piece," Zeb said. He handed it over. Adam twisted the head, and off it came. He turned the bishop upside down: out slid the six pills: red, white, black, two of each colour. Adam looked at them, then put them back into the bishop and reattached the head.
"Thank you," he said. "We have to think of somewhere very safe for this."
"What is it?" said Zeb.
"Pure evil," said Adam. "If Pilar's right. But valuable pure evil. And very secret. Which is why Glenn's father is dead."
"What do they do?" said Zeb. "Supersex pills or what?"
