Free Sugar Skulls by Lisa Mantchev, Glenn Dallas

and chemicals.
    When he kisses me, he tastes like it, too, and everything is sticky and sweet and perfect.
    M
    Wow, the Palace is packed to the rafters and then some. There’s no slipping past the front-door bouncer or the delivery-side security on a night like this. Instead I take the scenic route, scaling the neighboring hardware supply outlet and blue-skying across the alley to the Palace’s rain-slicked roof.
    I land on both feet, but such leaps of faith come with a tax, so I tumble forward and shed that excess momentum, rolling back onto my feet and dusting myself off.
    The roof pulses with pounding bass lines. I listen for the revealing rattle of a loose hatch and strike gold on the far corner of the building. Prying up the skylight, I gaze down into the writhing sea of flesh, the heady scent of sex and artificial pheromones already hitting critical mass.
    Slipping through the window and onto the rafters, I pull the skylight shut behind me and spidermonkey my way to the nearest catwalk, dropping in on a couple in the midst of petting so heavy, I’d call it pawing. They don’t even spare me a glance. Works for me.
    It takes a few minutes to weave a path to a spiral staircase and down to the dance floor. Easier to crowd-surf across the room than push my way there. Unfortunately, that’s not an option. The crowd is so thunderously addled with chemical comforts that they’d fold like pamphlets under my weight.
    I shove, elbow, and fight for every inch of territory, and finally make it to the neon-trimmed bar. When I manage to flag down Rete, he slams both palms on the countertop, the universal symbol for “get your ass over here and help me out.” Already giving orders.
    It would take forever and a week to crawl my way to the swinging gate that separates the drunken rabble from their beloved booze, so I take two steps back—just barely, considering the crush of the crowd—and charge forward, planting my hands on the counter and leaping upward, almost doing a handstand before dropping feetfirst onto the raised plastic mats behind the bar. The few patrons that actually notice look impressed. Then thirsty.
    I turn toward Rete and immediately wish I hadn’t. Maggie’s second-in-command is a fingerpoke to the visual cortex. Jeans with flared legs, more fashionable than utilitarian, so not at all my style. Long sports jersey over an electric blue undershirt, and the just-audible buzz of freshly applied magtats, though I can’t see them. Underneath his broad-brimmed cap are a mountain range of cheekbones and chin, with two brown valleys for eyes.
    He puts me to work mixing drinks: two Desevros on the rocks; several party cocktails that are more drug than drink; a small bathtub’s worth of some whiskey variant called minksack; three Blasters; and a shot of Sex on a Park Bench. Nothing I haven’t served before.
    After the rush, we steal a quiet moment and duck in the back, ostensibly to restock. It’s the perfect opportunity to do a little fishing.
    I pull the parcel from my back pocket and hand it over. “Any word from Maggie? I went by the club and her place, and nothing.”
    Rete tucks the packet into a case full of something orange and viscous before straddling a neighboring crate, obviously glad to be off his feet. A runner gone to seed. “Not a word, not a peep. Like she evaporated and fluttered away to the clouds, man.”
    “And you’re more than happy to step in.” Rete and Maggie share each other’s distribution networks, though I’ve never gotten a look at what he’s moving. This might be my chance.
    “Hey, Mr. Quick, it’s all for the greater good. You just let me handle the supply side, and everything will be golden. Dig?”
    Ugh . “Sure, I guess.”
    Rete ignores my lack of enthusiasm. “That’s the spirit. Do you need any Rivitocin to keep the greyfaces away?”
    He doesn’t know I’m off-grid, so I don’t need it. But the less he knows, the better. “No, I’m good for a while