Chapter Eight
It was four months into training for team. They had still not come to reach the meshing point. Channelle Kitka was the name that Blaine had given his animal, or Secondary. She was only responding to his commands half the time. Growing at an amazing rate, her abilities were astounding. Blaine, on the other hand, was becoming disorientated, irritable and unstable. His eating habits were irregular, as were his sleep patterns. A scaffolding was constructed to put the team through some rudimentary paces. The team, at first code named Echo, then renamed Ultra Seven. Blaine was referred to as Ultra Seven One. Kitka Was referred to as Ultra Seven Two.
Ultra Seven One was having problems with the exercise from the beginning. He claimed to be afraid of heights, and not comfortable with Ultra Seven Two so close while he climbed. The scaffolding was purposely constructed so that in order to get from platform to platform, several leaps were required. At every platform, a monitor was placed to take notes and observations. The monitors were employees rather than vid links. Dr. Sorvino and Hancock preferred human input on the spot rather than video dissection later.
Despite the trouble that Ultra Seven One was having with the exercise, he gradually got more adept at it, mostly in part to the implants and hypno therapy. Thus, the next stage was decided upon. Obstacles were put in place, broken glass, greased poles, small vats of oil set afire, and others were put into place. A run was conducted, with no time restraints. Ultra Seven One climbed and scaled, leapt and landed, with Ultra Seven Two in front and sometimes behind.
If he took too long at any given part, she would rush ahead, lag behind, or simply sit down and groom herself. When he got to the first vat of fire on the seventh platform, he stopped and just looked at it. The monitor reported that his breathing was labored and that he was flushed and sweating.
"Four minutes." The monitor said into a headset.
Slowly, Ultra Seven One looked up at the monitor. His eyes were bloodshot and wild looking. With one fluid movement, he seized the monitor by the coat, tore off the headset and flung him around. With the aid of his enhanced muscle structure, he was easy for him to hold him over the edge, seven stories high.
"ENOUGH!" He bellowed. He was breathing through clenched teeth and foamed at the mouth like a rabid dog. His pupils were almost totally dilated. His tongue rasped around his lips several times.
"Get this out of my head!" He held his prisoner higher and shook him like a rag doll. "Out of my head!"
"I'll drop this, if I don't get some quiet!" Ultra Seven One turned and kicked the oil vat over the side. The flames splattered all over the platform and sides.
He shut his eyes hard, broke out into a musky sweat, his face turned red. He was almost panting. "The screaming in my head!" His eyes opened and darted about manically.
Yells of anger and pain. The flames got higher. A moment in time was frozen. No one could explain what had happened. The condition was something Seven One had never exhibited before. They were dumbfounded. The monitors hit the panic buttons. Security was on the way. Would it be in time? Who would die now? Just the subjects, or would the monitors die too? How many of the guards would get here in time to be victims? The silence was pierced by the pulsing warning siren, the crackle of the fire and Seven One's labored breathing.
Then as suddenly as Ultra Seven One had freaked out, he seemed to calm. His breathing became almost normal, but his gaze was far away, as if he were listening to a voice that only he could hear.
"Mreow." A small voice by his ankle.
"Moow." Again.
"Mereooow."
He looked down. Ultra Seven Two had stood up on her hind legs and placed both fore paws on his thigh, with one paw up, as if gesturing at him. Her clear yellow eyes were looking up at him in total frankness. Understanding. Honesty. Love. He turned his head, as he was held completely in her gaze. Both ears were angled towards him. Her entire attention was focused on him.
The observation team quickly grasped the situation and slapped off the alarm. They radioed the guards to make a subdued entrance. There was a chance to salvage this, yet.
The blood began to pound less furiously in his head, less and less. The minutes the two were looking at one another, gave the observation team time to hustle up the scaffolding to put out the flames. The guards slipped in and went up the scaffold, weapons pointed. Two of them gently relieved Ultra Seven-One of his prisoner. He never looked up from Kitka, not registering their presence. Lowering his hand, he stroked the underside of her chin. She began to purr loudly and he sat down. Kitka curled up in his lap, taking up all of it and then some.
The two then dropped off to sleep for three hours right on the spot. When they awoke, yawning and stretching lazily, the program was executed in perfect form. From that moment on, they were Ultra One-Seven, executing the exercises with precision and speed, surmounting all obstacles with ease and flair. The training was completed sooner than expected and Ultra One-Seven was activated. They were never referred to again as Ultra Seven One and Ultra Seven Two. They were always Ultra One-Seven. They were one. Deck and Kitka had completed the bond between them. They developed a private system of communication. Before they were examined by the medical staff separately, ate separately, sometimes slept separately, but now they were never apart.
Some months after the scaffolding incident, an examiner discovered the reason behind it through subtle methods. The treatments that had left Deckard Blaine augmented, caused all of his senses to be hyped up. His hearing, normal before, could now pick up sounds that he couldn't before. He was having trouble sleeping and concentrating. This was unexpected and these sounds drove him to distraction, then finally to near madness. It was only the calming presence of the Ultracat that had saved the project from another disaster. Word came down from the top that Ultra One-Seven was to be given leeway on the training and mission schedules. After a number of failures and only one success previously, the project leaders were anxious to have another. Ultra One-Seven was to be treated with kid gloves, but it was no longer necessary. They were ready to perform any task that was given them.
.
Deck and Kitka strolled down the dark gravel road with ease. There was no moon and the sky was cloudy. The gravel crunched under Deck's feet with a snappy rhythm. Kitka paced by him, occasionally leaping after some small unsuspecting animal that foraged by the road. Early after their rotation out, Deckard attempted to stop her from nailing everything that flew, crawled or walked.
Deckard was getting tired of cleaning out the bed and sofa of her numerous "gifts". She wouldn't relent, so he persuaded her to deposit them in a basket in the back room, that he would empty out, after minutes of praise and treats, of course. After all, he didn't want to inhibit her hunting instinct.
The gravel road let way to a paved road and the bright lights of Galvez lay ahead. Here, with the oil fields and access to the gulf, ground cars were far more common. A flatbed truck loaded down with hay bore down on them, headlights glaring. A sidestep, a dash for the truck, and a jump provided them with a comfortable, if scratchy, ride into town, the driver unaware. Deckard changed from his creeper to jeans, ropers, T-shirt, and cap. He fastened a Texas pet tag onto Kitka's collar.
Texans were found of taking their dogs with them to stores, bars, and restaurants, and they were allowed under the law, but tags were required. A man and a cat wouldn't be as noticeable here in the Lone Star as other places. Particularly if that cat looked like a wild animal tamed off some ranch. The black sky zipped along above them. Ten more minutes and they would be in town, time enough for a quick nap.
The truck squeaked to a slow stop and waking Deckard, who woke Kitka. They were outside the main strip, the Strand. Deck remembered it as a cobbled stone street full of "quaint" little shops. Every year, they did a sort of street festival at Christmas, he recalled. They bailed out and stood on the corner, watching the natives. Cars, trucks, and vans of all types slid by. Some looked as if they had been made out of spare parts or forced together from separate model
s. A slick looking motorbike group slid by, their engines burbling noisily. Several people were on foot as well. He drew a lot of looks.
Deckard could see why. Every person that walked past was clad almost completely in black, even his or her hair. They were decked out in black shirts, pants, vests, shirts, dresses, boots, shoes, sandals, coats, cloaks, capes, jackets and ties. Their hair was long, cropped, shaved, pointed, spiked, mohawked, landsharked, trihawked, and swept over. Deckard drew a deep breath and turned towards where he hoped there might be a back alley.
Clearly, Galveston had changed more than its name.
In the alley, Kitka rubbed up against his leg in sympathy, as he donned his creeper once more. That would pass well enough. He had fit one of his wrist rockets with a 10mm slug thrower, the other with the grappler. Slicking back his hair once more and stuffing his misbegotten disguise back in his pack, he again went out into the light. It would do but he wondered if he should have put some blackout under his eyes. Heavy eye makeup seemed to be the trend with both males and females.
As the Strand neared, foot traffic increased and car traffic decreased. The quaint little shops had been replaced with nightclubs, tattoo studios, dance halls, pool parlors and the like. Windows boasted all types of chains, bracelets, earrings, nose rings, lip rings, T-shirts with band names with gory pictures, posters, records, and "alternative" garments of all makes.
Deckard stopped to watch a woman with an immense sweeping mohawk pierce a man's lower appendage with a silver spike with two steel balls on either end. The man, a medium sized fellow in all respects, was sweating and seemed to be gritting his teeth. Kitka leapt into Deck's arms and rested her head on his cheek, as he stroked her tail. Her rumbling purr stopped as the man let out a loud yelp, as the point was driven home.
A mouth guard hit the window with a wet slap that Deckard was looking through. The woman turned to fetch it, saw him and winked one glittery eye. Deckard smirked and turned down the street. The Strand was alive with a low thumping music with low electric chords and distortion. The doors to all the clubs were open, even in the chill of the night, with menacing looking bouncers on both sides. He peered into one, then another. Kitka leapt off and pounced on a large rat in a flash. She carried this prize in her mouth as they walked along.
The bands were like their customers, only more so, as they belted out lyrics of tragic death and love, spurned or otherwise. It would take a month to sort through this mess. He felt like he'd been invited to the gunfight at the O.K. corral and had wound up at Dracula's funeral. He decided to park and observe. They would get the feel of this place then peel back the layers until they found the Texas Tri, or someone with the answers.
Picking a bar at random, he went down a short flight of steps to the large entrance of a cheery little spot name of "Impaler's pointe" The stainless steel letters, large and pointed, were bathed in a red glow. He eyed the bouncers, two large specimens, and walked in. They seemed like they wanted to pat him down, but his stare kept them by the doors. The music was subdued, as well as the customers, and scent of burning cloves hung thickly.
The oblong joint was done in black, naturally, with black lights outlining the floors and various steps and booths. Green and red neon paint had been splattered about and lashed around the floors, walls and ceiling. The end of the bar with a wall at his back is where Deckard finally sat, after giving the place a good casing. Bathrooms in the back, booths up against the wall, opposite the bar, old TVs here and there linked up to run some old B&W horror flick.
He realized the black lights around the ceiling made his stripes stand out. It was shock of panic, which made them stand out even more. Glancing around to see if anyone was staring at him, he relaxed. A number of them were marked with tattoos, brands, and body paint. The bartender waltzed up and looked him over as he pulled over another stool and Kitka settled into it, rat in mouth. The rat, alive still, began to squeak softly, He looked over at her with resignation and then looked to the bartender.
She was clad in a black leather bustier and skirt with small pointed boots with devil skull buckles up the sides.
"Drink with your rat?" She asked bemusedly.
"A saucer of milk would be fine," Deckard replied, massaging his temples with one hand.
"And for the gentleman?"
Looking at the price list above the bar, he shook his head, and then changed his mind.
"A Bloody Mary and a beer, please."
She nodded, smiled and waltzed away under the faint wash of overhead lights. She was a small girl, pale and delicate, made more so by the lighting, or lack thereof. Setting his beer before him, she lifted an eyebrow.
"Anything else?"
Deck looked up and spotted a window above the back sink.
"Does that window open?"
"Yes."
"Would you open it, please?"
"Why?"
Please?"
She shrugged and opened it. With a lightening flash, he nabbed the rat out of Kitka's mouth and tossed it out the window.
"You can close it, now, thank you."
"That's some cat you've got there."
"I wonder who's got who, sometimes."
What's her name?"
"Channelle Kitka. I'm Deckard Blaine."
"I'm Daria Coyote."
"Nice to meet you,"
They shook hands.
"First time in town?" She asked, leaning on her elbows, showing off a modest amount of cleavage.
"I guess."
"Who are you looking for?"
He was surprised. "What makes you think I'm looking for someone?"
"Well," She smirked. "I could say something romantic like 'everyone is looking for someone.' but, the truth is, it's that kinda town."
"Well, I am on the lookout, you got an angle?"
"Everybody winds up here eventually."
This might be easy. "I'm looking for a guy who speaks in an accent and has a snake."
She laughed. "You're gonna have to narrow that down." A sweep of the hand pointed out several tall skinny guys with large snakes draped over their shoulders. "All doing their best Lugosi too."
Triple damn. Daria was called away to fill some glasses. Kitka lapped up her milk then curled on the bar next to the wall, her head resting on her back feet, as her eyes became mere slits to the world. Deckard sat and watched and waited. There were a number of guys and girls with snakes. No other cats.
One of the other bartenders had a Rottweiler, but Kitka and he just sniffed noses politely and then he went to sleep under one of the tables. Daria swayed back over to him with the rest of his order. Kitka set her front paws on the bar and began to drink. Deck took the celery out of his glass and offered it to her. Rubbing on it first, she took a delicate bite.
Daria lifted her arched eyebrows.
"So," Deckard took a large bite. "Whole town like this?"
She laughed. "No, just central. It's called Cen, as in the seven deadly? Southie is for the dockworkers, West is full of Fishermen, and Eastside, is the nice part of town."
"North?"
"Cowboys."
"Was there a treaty drawn up?"
"No, that just how things are kept."
That sounded like puppet master work somewhere.
"So, whose the keeper?"
Daria gave him a sly look and then walked away to serve someone else.
The music that lay below the din of conversation was full of angst and watchfulness.
Kitka licked her lips and gazed about. So did Deckard.
The crowd was skilled at apathy. Poses were struck, small talk was animated, gestures were flung like daggers, but no one gave them a second glance. He was amused by their rapt inattention.
He got up and pointed at Kitka.
"Stay here."
She lowered her lids slightly and yawned broadly in reply.
He made his way through the crowd to the bathroom and went in one of the stalls. The other one was occupied by pale slender couple in pursu
it of the art of passion. He leapt up on top of the toilet tank lightly, and got a very interesting view of a black lace bra being undone by a prosthetic hand. Moving aside one of the acoustic ceiling tiles, he lifted himself up.
Being careful to step on the support beams, he coved a few paces and activated his watch. Kitka was leveling her gaze through the room, giving him a near panoramic view.
"I'm in the ceiling, stay on." Deckard spoke into his watch.
The view centered in on Daria approaching, she bent over to rub Kitka's chin, as her cleavage swelled on the screen.
Clicking his tongue, he covered the building dead ceiling space. Checking what was down below periodically. He stopped and lifted up a tile. An empty room. Sticking his head through space, he put on his specs and flicked on infrared. An office, right across from the bar, behind what sounded like the DJ's booth.
Deckard got back to the bathroom and lowered himself back down. He checked his watch. Everything normal, although the natives were glancing at his spot at the bar now. The boy and girl in the stall next to his were on the edge of advent, to judge by the screaming. Deckard went to the sink, wet his comb down and slicked his hair back. The screaming lost its momentum and subsided into heavy panting.
"If it's a boy, name it after me." He whispered as he left. Weaving around the crowd, he waited for the right moment, and then with a small burst of speed and a pivot, he was back in his stool. Returning the stares of the crowd, as they quickly glanced away.
"Ah, youth," He commented as he downed his drink.
Later, after this place closed, which would be at dawn most likely, he would rifle through the office for information. For now, he would blend, relax, and make plans to infiltrate the other sectors of this corpulent city.
.
It was near dawn, at five, when the place began to clear out. Deckard and Kitka had tired out earlier and decided to camp out on the roof. Deck stretched out and dropped off. Kitka prowled about and then curled up near him. She began to twitch in her sleep when the crowd began to empty the streets. Deck also stirred and looked over the ledge, chin on arms, watching. Finally the place was empty and the bouncers went off down the street. The way cleared, they vaulted over the side, down the stairs. Once there, a sense of danger and they eased off. Deckard put one set of fingertips on the door, closed his eyes and listened. Nothing. Still, instincts were never to be ignored. He signaled and they went around back and through a window. Kitka cloaked and sniffed around, as Deck waited. She scanned about, as he kept watch. The way was clear and Deckard went in. The first thing he checked out was the door. The lock was simple, but it was wired to fire off four shotguns, if picked, or forced open. They left the setup alone and went to the office. Infrared specs on, Deck went through the files and various papers.
Standard office paperwork, really, it turned out that Daria Coyote was part owner with a guy named Starkweather. His name was on all the permits and ownership papers. Only Dario's name was on the inventory forms and suppliers lists. She ran it, but they both owned it. Looking about the office, one wall was covered with photos of bands and customers of affluence or importance with Daria. Only her, not Starkweather. Karl Starkweather. Further examination, revealed several checks made out the Starkweather for enormous amounts.
More than this place was capable of generating. Payoff? Blackmail? Money laundering? Whoever he was, he had to be connected, and as it was, he was the thread to pull and see what would unwind. His watch switched on, his infrared cutting out. Kitka had picked something up. Deck darted out the office door, closed it and froze. Someone was coming in the front door. Daylight streamed in and a woman was silhouetted. It was Daria and she had a pistol raised. Reflexively, Deck's wrist rocket slid into his ready hand.
"Whoever's in here, show yourself, now." She called out hesitantly. "I have a gun,"
He cursed sub-vocally.
She came down a step. Kitka was behind her now. Waiting for the code to attack or to fly.
"Look, I know you're in here, so just come on out." Her gun trained from left to right. Blown. Nothing left but to clear it and find out how. Daria peered into the darkness, her pistol before her, cocked and safety off.
A high-pitched tone, a small flash of light, and a thin wire cable wound around her gun and yanked her suddenly forward. The gun flew out of her hand and she began to fall forward, as a solid weight slammed into her back. Crashing into the ground, her head cracked sharply against the thinly carpeted floor.
Deckard stepped from the darkness, Daria's gun in one hand, and the cable in the other. A slight flick of his wrist and it was retracted. Kitka uncloaked as she sniffed around Daria's hair.
"Is she unconscious?" He said in surprise and knelt down. "Wow."
.
Daria woke up on her office sofa, a wet napkin over her eyes. Her head thumped horrendously. She groaned.
"Here, drink this." A cup was held to her lips.
Steam wafted into her nose, it was peppermint tea.
She sipped and her pain abated. The napkin was removed and Deckard Blaine's face slowly focused.
"What happened? Where's my gun? Dammit! I should've called Zeke and Dave." She lay back.
"I was hanging about, and your door was open, so I came in, and you were on the floor. Your gun was near by." He pause and tried to gauge her face, to see if she bought it.
"Hanging out? Where?"
"On your roof."
"Why?"
"Well, we don't have a place to stay, and your roof looked pretty comfy, so we lit up there and crouched, er, crashed out for a while. We heard the door open up, so we decided to check it out. We came in, and there you were." He tilted his head and watched her expression.
She closed her eyes and shook her head.
"I don't believe it." Tension. "I've never been jumped before. And in my own place." She took her tea that he held out to her and sipped it.
"Well, thanks for looking after me." Daria sat up and put her pale face in two white hands.
"Let me ask you a question." Deckard eased to the edge of the chair.
"Ok,"
"Why did you come back? I mean, did you get an alarm code, a MIL call, what?"
"No, nothing like that, I just got a feeling that someone was here, so..." She let her sentence trail off, as she caressed her injured skull.
Ah. Well, can't account for ESP, Deck reasoned. It had hurt his professional pride that after scores of break ins at hi-tech insulations with loads of ultra modern detection and alarm equipment, that a simple shotgun trapped dive would get them tipped off.
"Well, I checked the place out, and there's no one here, so maybe you want to go back home and rest up before the witching hour, huh?"
Daria stood up woozily and then sat back down.
"I'd better see you home, I think," he took her arm. Kitka had been waiting by the door, and upon seeing them, went out the door. As they reached street level, she was sitting on top of an ancient black convertible, across the street.
"Your car?" Deckard asked politely. Daria nodded as she locked the doors. It was nearly eight now, and life was returning to the Cen. The various stands were being propped open, deliveries were being made, and stores being readied for customers.
Kitka sat impatiently, her tail whipping about.
Deckard handed Daria into the passenger side and then got in, as Kitka settled between them.
Daria began to pet her, but Kitka uttered a low growl.
"Channelle!" Deck rebuked. "She just hungry," He added to Daria.
Kitka widened her eyes and softly hummed.
"Okay, don't pout, just be polite to the lady, she's had a rough morning." Kitka blinked and curled into a ball, her eyes bright, her tail wrapping about Daria's left wrist.
Daria smiled at this, as Deck started up the car and eased into the light morning traffic, the dawn raking the skies with beams of yellow light.
"You talk to her as if she can understand," She remarked.
"Well,
we've been together for a long time." His eyes were intent on the road.
"Did it take long to train her?"
Deckard barked out a short laugh, then composed himself.
"About a year, for the, ah, training."
"I get the feeling you two are having joke at my expense!" She smiled ruefully and stuck her arm out the window.
"It's long story." He shook his head, as she indicated a right turn.
.
Her house was a one story, low affair, with a modest yard and garage in an average neighborhood. As she opened the door, two small spiny looking balls scurried over. She knelt and cooed to them. Kitka was very intrigued, as was Deckard. Daria turned her head to look at Deck, as she gathered the two in her arms.
"She won't hurt them, will she?"
"No, she'll be cool." He examined them closer. "What are they?"
"My hedgehogs," She let them down. Kitka approached, and the spines began to expand. She sniffed them both, and then sneezed twice. The two spinny critters scurried off.
"Well, I can get the both of you anything?"
"Yeah, and I have a few questions, if you can answer them."
"About Starkweather, I can assume?"
Astonishment.
He opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again.
"You want to know how I know right?"
He had forgotten her ESP, and said so.
"Well, in this case, it was more of an informed guess." Daria smirked, as she swayed into the kitchen. They followed her. It was small homey affair, a far cry from the spider-webbed crypt that he had been expecting. She stopped at the stove, hands on hips.
"Let's see, stranger in black and a power cat, perched at my place, has no interest in music, alcohol, or girls, has no idea how Galvez is cut up, then asks who's in charge...." She tilted her hips, her pale composure growing slightly pink. "I'm not stupid, you know."
"Okay, I didn't know I was that obvious." Oh, well, blending in with the crowd had never been his forte. "Power cat?" He added.
"We've heard stories about the Corp war, you know, after the boarders were closed, repats came back with stories, about the OSS, about men with power animals that would spy, sabotage, and kill for their masters." Her eyes widened, as her eyes took him in. His stripes had darkened, his hair had began to rise, his whole visage changed from a normal man's to one of an animal about to attack.
"I thought it was just a trick of the light last night, or body paint." She took a step back. "Maybe make-up, or..." Her voice trembled as fear splashed across her face.
Kitka, sitting near Deckard, stood, folded her ears down, and furred up, in tune with Deckard.
"Take it easy, we don't mean any harm," He said hastily, he picked up Kitka, and sat down, smoothing out her fur. Deckard had to keep better control of himself. He had no wish to intimidate or scare her.
"And we don't have masters."
"Then why are you here, after Starkweather? Are you here to kill him?" Daria was still alarmed, but regaining her nerve.
"No, we just have some questions to ask him, about some people that work for him, or used to, anyway."
"Who?" She thought the better of it. "Never mind, I don't want to know. AND I can't answer any of your questions either."
He sighed and let Kitka down.
"All I want to know is where I might find Starkweather, or anyone in, the, ah, same, club that he's in.
"You mean the Tri, right?
"Yes."
"Well, everyone knows which spots are theirs,"
"I don't." Deckard pointed out. And if everyone knows, then it won't matter who tells me, like you, for example."
She went over to the refrigerator and poured two glasses of iced tea. A dish of tuna was placed on the floor for Kitka, and two bowls of chili, with chips were placed on the table. During this, Deckard watched her expression intently. Daria's expression grew calm and impassive. She was thinking it over. Finally, sitting, a few sips of tea, a couple of spoonfuls of chili, and she spoke.
"Okay, you could've found this out anywhere, so I don't guess they could blame me, anyway. Just don't you tell them about me, or the Pointe, or anything about Cen for that matter."
"You have my word that we don't talk."
"I'm sure you've had a lot of practice at not talking." She eyed the two.
"Okay, down at the docks, there's a spot called Tubby's Chapeau, not the big Tubby's, that's on the Sea-wall. This place is a "club house" I guess you would call it. Only Tri members, their guests, or prospects go there, anyone else goes in, and they get the brush off about reservations, or being booked up. Angry brush-offees are referred to the complaint department, two thugs with saps and brass knucks. I suppose if you go in there, and ask for Starkweather, you'll get a swift reaction."
"I imagine a swift reaction indeed."
"Look, you go in there, you're gonna get trouble."
Deckard raised his eyebrows. "Oh, trouble is our specialty.'
"You're not even worried about this, are you?"
"Oh, I wouldn't say worried, exactly."
Daria stood up and raised her palms up in resignation.
"Okay, fine. I'm beat, and I've been beat, so I'm gonna crash." The Pointe opens at half past nine, and I gotta get there by ten, so there's that." She walked past him, and went down a hallway to the left.
"You can doss on the couch if you like."
He turned to watch her go. As she went down the hall, she kicked off her shoes, unzipped her dress and let it fall. Her black lacy bra was unfastened and let fall. Her pale back was bare to him, as she turned to enter her room. She folded her arms to cover herself. She tossed her mane of black hair over her shoulder and winked at him.
"Nighty-night." Daria smiled back at him and vanished from view. The door softly clicked shut. Deckard had no doubt that she was now nestled, very naked, between silken sheets. Very comfortable. He finished eating and went down the hallway to the left, then left again. Into the bathroom. He had a quick wash. Deckard paused in the hallway. Kitka was sitting at the door of her bedroom. He made a face at her and indicated the living room.
It was done in early 50's sitcom, and the couch was large and soft. Clad in black knit shorts, he lay down, looking at the ceiling. Stretching out, he thought about what lay in wait for him at Tubby's Chapeau. He thought about what lay in wait for him in the back bedroom. Daria said she had wanted sleep, though, and then shut her door, so she was just teasing him. It was a good joke. He fell asleep, a gentle smile crossing his face, and Kitka turning about at his feet.
When he awoke, it was night, close to midnight, he guessed. Daria was gone, but she'd left a note:
Remember to keep your mouth shut!
Good luck and try not to be murdered.
Daria
P.S. I slept very soundly last night.
He mused over the note, as he fed his hungry Kitka. Towards the dock, too, he thought. Maybe some good fish down there. He sat and thought. How should he approach this?