Metrophage | Page 8

flames. That seemed like small comfort. How much better was it to smother than to burn?
Jonny continued drinking straight shots of the fishy vodka until the taste disappeared altogether. Taking six of the shot-glasses, he constructed a little pyramid, but Random took the glasses away and soon Jonny ran out of money. While he was fishing in his pouch for more dope, there was a slight tug on his arm. Somehow, when he turned, Jonny knew the little man would be standing there. His shades were off and he held his hands up as if to ward off a blow.
"Truce, okay? I did not grab you," the little man said. "I just tapped you on the shoulder."
Jonny nodded. "I could tell you were a quick study. What do you want?"
The man leaned forward, anxiously. "Look Jonny, I didn't want to tell you before--I'm working for Mister Conover. He sent me to get you. If you don't come back with me, my ass is grass."
"Sorry to hear that. Tell Mister Conover I'll get in touch with him as soon as I'm through with the deal I'm working on now."
"I can't do that. He wants you now," said the little man. Hopefully, he added, "You know that whatever it is you're working on, Mister Conover will make it worth your while to drop."
Jonny shook his head.
"No thanks; this is personal."
The little man leaned closer. "You aren't looking for Easy Money, are you?"
"What if I am?"
"Well, that's great," said the little man. "That's the job--Easy Money copped something that belongs to Mister Conover. And Mister Conover wants you to help him get it back."
Jonny nodded, took a piece of ice from someone's empty glass, and rubbed it across his forehead. "My problem, friend, is that I know Mister Conover pretty well and I know that he is a professional," Jonny said. "No offense, but why would he send a hard guy like you to get me?"
The little man looked around, apparently to make sure that nobody was eavesdropping. "This really isn't my job," he whispered. Jonny smiled. "No shit?" he said.
"I'm more of a bookkeeper. It's just that Mister Conover's got all his muscle guys out looking for Easy Money," he said. The little man looked at Jonny gravely. "You know how it is."
"Yeah, I know how it is," said Jonny, genuinely amused.
"He told me that you always hang out at Carnaby's Pit," the little man continued. He made a face as if he had just smelled something foul. "To tell you the truth, it's a little bit much for me."
Jonny laughed. "Sometimes it's a bit much for me, too," he said.
The little man smiled; for real, this time. "Then you'll come with me?" he asked.
Jonny shrugged. "That stuff about looking for Easy, you weren't just being cute again, were you?" "No, all that was true," he said.
"Good."
"Then you'll come?"
"I'm not sure. I hate to beat a point to death, but how do I know you work for Mister Conover?" "Oh yeah," said the little man brightening. He reached into his jacket pocket. "Mister Conover said to give you this."
He handed Jonny a plastic bag containing two gelatinous blue capsules. The manufacturer's markings were Swiss, the capsules NATO issue, banded with an orange warning stripe indicating myotoxins. Jonny had seen the stuff on the Committee. Frosty the Snowman. It was a necrotic, a synthetic variation on pit viper venom that killed by breaking down collagen fibers, effectively dissolving skin and muscle tissue. The NATO variation, he had heard, was constructed with certain "open" segments along its DNA chain, allowing the toxin to bind with polypeptides in the victim's collagen and replicate itself there. Rumor had it that Frosty could break down the skin and muscle tissue of a seventy kilo man in just under fourteen hours. It was not the kind of drug that many people would have access to. Jonny stuffed the bag into his pouch.
"So, I'm convinced," he said.
"Then you'll come?"
"Why not," he said. "I'm not getting anywhere here."
The little man beamed at him. Jonny thought it might be love. "By the way, have you got a name?" Jonny asked.
"Cyrano. Bender Cyrano, like the guy in the old book, you know? Only I haven't got the nose." Cyrano laughed at his own joke.
Jonny did not know what the hell Cyrano was talking about, but he smiled so as not to hurt the little man's feelings. When Cyrano extended his hand, Jonny shook it.
"Nice to meet you, Cyrano. Let's get out of here," said Jonny. When they reached the dirty curtain, Jonny turned and took a last look at the band. They were burning through one of Saint Peter's best tunes, "Street Prince." The crowd ignored them, utterly.
Random was right, Jonny decided. A bunch of assholes. Outside, the hot night had cooled