The cool thing for high-status Corps dudes was to pass by the paid security drudges at Scales as if they didn’t exist – why make eye contact with a hedge? – which, says Zeb, has probably been the style ever since you could say Roman emperor. And that was lucky for Zeb, because the Rev didn’t even toss him a glance. Not that he would have spotted Zeb beneath his hairy face waffle and dark shades, with the shaved head, the pointy ears, and all, had he bothered to look. But he didn’t bother. Zeb looked at him, though, and the more he looked, the less he liked the view.
The mirror balls were going round and round, sprinkling the clientele and the talent with a dandruff of light. The music was playing, a canned retro tango. Five Scalies in sequins were contorting themselves on the trapezes, tits pointing floorward, bodies curved into a C-shape, one leg on either side of their heads. Their smiles glowed in the blacklight. Zeb backed up to the glass bar shelving, palmed the green lady with the bishop up her snatch, and slid her into his sleeve. “Taking a leak,” he said to his partner, Jeb. “Cover for me.”
Once in the can, he unscrewed the bishop and abstracted three of the magic beans: a white, a red, and a black. He licked the salt from his fingers and tucked the pills into a front jacket pocket, then returned to his post and eased the scaly lady back into position on the shelf with not even a clink. No one would notice she’d been gone.
The Rev’s foursome was having a high old time. It was a celebration, Zeb figured: most likely in aid of the Rev’s return to what they all considered to be his normal life. Slithery lovelies were plying them with drinks, while above them the trapeze dancers did boneless twists and spineless twines. They showed bits of this and that, but never the royal flush: Scales was tonier than that, you had to pay extra if you wanted the full peepshow. Manners demanded a display of appreciative lust: the acrobatic sin charade wasn’t really the Rev’s thing because nobody was suffering, but he was doing a convincing job of pretending. His smile had that Botox look, as if it was a product of nerve damage.
Katrina WooWoo came over to the bar. Tonight she was dressed as an orchid, in a luscious peach colour with lavender accents. March, her python, was draped around her neck, and also over one bare shoulder.
“They’ve ordered the House Special for their pal,” she said to the bartender. “With the Taste of Eden.”
“Heavy on the tequila?” said the barkeep.
“Everything in,” said Katrina. “I’ll tell the girls.”
The House Special involved a private feather room with a green satin bedspread and three reptilian Scalies billed as catering to your every whim, and the Taste of Eden was a headbender kicktail guaranteed to deliver maximum bliss. Once that thing had been swallowed the client would be off in a world of wonders all his own. Zeb had tried some of the stuff on offer at Scales, but he’d never drunk the Taste of Eden kicktail. He was afraid of the visions he might have.
There it was now, standing on the counter. It was dark orange and fizzing slightly, and had a swizzle stick with a plastic snake curled around it, skewering a maraschino cherry. The snake was green and sparkly, with big eyes and a smiling lipstick mouth.
Zeb should have resisted his evil impulses. What he did was reckless, he admits that freely. But you only live once, he told himself, and maybe the Rev had used up his once. Zeb wondered which of the three pills to slip into the drink – the white, the red, or the black. But why be stingy? he admonished himself. Why not all?
“Down the hatch, good buddy.” “Have a wild trip!” “Up and at ’em!” “Knock ’em dead!” Were such archaic chunks of joshery still uttered on occasions like this? It appeared so. The Rev was patted and treated to a bouquet of softly knowing haw-haws, then led away for his treat by three lithe snakelets. All four of them were giggling: eerie to remember that, in retrospect.
Zeb longed to excuse himself from bar duty and slide into the video viewing cubicle where a couple of Scales security personnel monitored the private feather rooms for trouble. He didn’t know how those pills would act. Did they make you very sick, and if so, how? Maybe the effect was long-term: maybe those babies didn’t kick in for a day, a week, a month. But if it was anything more rapid, he sure as hell wanted to watch.
Doing so, however, would finger him as the perpetrator. So he waited stoically though tensely, ears pricked, humming silently to himself to the tune of “Yankee Doodle”:
My dad loved walloping little kids,
He loved it more than nooky,
I hope he bleeds from every pore,
And chucks up all his cookies.
After a few too many repetitions of that, there was some tooth static: someone else was talking to the gatekeeper guys at the front. After what seemed like a long time but wasn’t, Katrina WooWoo came through the doorway that led to the private rooms. She was trying to appear casual, but the clicking of her high heels was urgent.
“I need you to come backstage,” she whispered to him.
“I’m on bar duty,” he said, feigning reluctance.
“I’ll call in Mordis from the front. He’ll take over. Come right now!”
“Girls okay?” He was stalling: if something bad was happening to the Rev, he wanted it to keep on happening.
“Yes. But they’re frightened. It’s an emergency!”