legs threatening to give way on me -- heading towards the gallery's central service desk. My thoughts split between the beast and a bolt gun I kept stashed for hanging pictures.
"I apologise, in advance, for anything I may do," the beast growled. "I have no wish to harm you, but you must know that this man controls me completely."
As the back of my thighs bumped against the edge of the hardwood desk, the beast stopped. It settled onto the floor and watched me.
"It's true, Mr Whistler -- what he said. I stuck a compliance node in his head."
I glanced at the man; he'd followed the beast over.
He was old, Afro-Chinese, perhaps sixty-five or so, grey-haired, tired clothes, yet a sly smile under a broad, scarred nose.
I slid sideways, round the desk, to the other side and tentatively lowered myself into the chair. "D . . . Do I know you, sir?" The bolt gun was inches away -- the urge to wrench open the drawer was strong.
The man ignored my question. "Mr. Chasin owed me money and tried to run away." He reached out and stroked the black fur on top of the beast's head. "He was a fool. Some black-market surgery . . ." The man's finger traced the ridged of pink tissue encircling the beast's head. ". . . and now he serves me, whether he likes it or not."
"Who are you?"
"Hei Long." The man made a small bow. "Just a simple business man."
"W. . .well, Mr. Long, if you call back during business hours we can discuss whatever it is --"
I jerked backwards in my chair as the beast jumped up and put its front paws on the desk. Its stiletto-like claws scraped splintery grooves in the soft wood as it watched me with unblinking pale eyes. Large, curved teeth glinted in its half-open mouth. For an instant, I pictured them tearing out my throat.
"We will talk now. Yes?" Hei Long said casually.
"Okay, okay." I nodded, leaning as far from beast as the chair would allow.
The beast dropped back to a watchful crouch on the floor.
Hei Long walked slowly around me the way a serpent encircles a mouse before burying its fangs.
"You have children, Mr. Whistler?"
"Yes. I have a son, Justin, but I don't see --"
"What's he like? He's a good son?"
"Yes, he's a good, honest boy. Studying molecular design in Jinglang University. But, I don't see what that --"
"You're a lucky man, Mr. Whistler. A good son is good fortune." Hei Long nodded. "So, your son, he told you he owes me money, yes? He admitted he is gambler, but not good one? He told all this to you, yes? Like a good son?"
I froze.
I'd not spoken to Justin for a week, and he'd certainly mentioned nothing like that. He'd asked for money, though.
"Justin doesn't gamble, he --"
"Oh, he gambles, Mr Whistler, and he owes eleven and a half thousand sys-dollars. I have a holo of him in my casino." He tossed a data chip onto the desk and arched an eyebrow. "You don't believe me?"
I looked at the data chip.
Eleven and half thousand dollars?
I shook my head. "No. I'm not doubting you -- it's just that . . ." I trailed off. How had Justin had got himself entangled with a man like this Hei Long? I couldn't believe it. Eleven and a half thousand sys-dollars was a chunk of money -- it would hurt -- but I could pay it. It was better than this predator having his hooks in him.
"I'll pay what he owes. Then we're done." I triggered the swiper-tech embedded in the desk; colourful icons swirled into existence just under the wood grain. "If you'll give me your account details --"
"Keep your money for the moment, Mr. Whistler. I want a service instead."
I looked up. "What sort of service?"
"Easy service for you." Hei Long cocked his head to one side. "I know a man, an artist -- he owes me money, lots of money -- much, much more than your son. It is in my interest that he succeeds -- he can't repay money if he's a poor artist, yes? You understand?"
"Yes, but I can't just make someone famous. It depends on their skill --"
Hei Long's hand was a blur; pain exploded across my cheek and nose.
He
"I apologise, in advance, for anything I may do," the beast growled. "I have no wish to harm you, but you must know that this man controls me completely."
As the back of my thighs bumped against the edge of the hardwood desk, the beast stopped. It settled onto the floor and watched me.
"It's true, Mr Whistler -- what he said. I stuck a compliance node in his head."
I glanced at the man; he'd followed the beast over.
He was old, Afro-Chinese, perhaps sixty-five or so, grey-haired, tired clothes, yet a sly smile under a broad, scarred nose.
I slid sideways, round the desk, to the other side and tentatively lowered myself into the chair. "D . . . Do I know you, sir?" The bolt gun was inches away -- the urge to wrench open the drawer was strong.
The man ignored my question. "Mr. Chasin owed me money and tried to run away." He reached out and stroked the black fur on top of the beast's head. "He was a fool. Some black-market surgery . . ." The man's finger traced the ridged of pink tissue encircling the beast's head. ". . . and now he serves me, whether he likes it or not."
"Who are you?"
"Hei Long." The man made a small bow. "Just a simple business man."
"W. . .well, Mr. Long, if you call back during business hours we can discuss whatever it is --"
I jerked backwards in my chair as the beast jumped up and put its front paws on the desk. Its stiletto-like claws scraped splintery grooves in the soft wood as it watched me with unblinking pale eyes. Large, curved teeth glinted in its half-open mouth. For an instant, I pictured them tearing out my throat.
"We will talk now. Yes?" Hei Long said casually.
"Okay, okay." I nodded, leaning as far from beast as the chair would allow.
The beast dropped back to a watchful crouch on the floor.
Hei Long walked slowly around me the way a serpent encircles a mouse before burying its fangs.
"You have children, Mr. Whistler?"
"Yes. I have a son, Justin, but I don't see --"
"What's he like? He's a good son?"
"Yes, he's a good, honest boy. Studying molecular design in Jinglang University. But, I don't see what that --"
"You're a lucky man, Mr. Whistler. A good son is good fortune." Hei Long nodded. "So, your son, he told you he owes me money, yes? He admitted he is gambler, but not good one? He told all this to you, yes? Like a good son?"
I froze.
I'd not spoken to Justin for a week, and he'd certainly mentioned nothing like that. He'd asked for money, though.
"Justin doesn't gamble, he --"
"Oh, he gambles, Mr Whistler, and he owes eleven and a half thousand sys-dollars. I have a holo of him in my casino." He tossed a data chip onto the desk and arched an eyebrow. "You don't believe me?"
I looked at the data chip.
Eleven and half thousand dollars?
I shook my head. "No. I'm not doubting you -- it's just that . . ." I trailed off. How had Justin had got himself entangled with a man like this Hei Long? I couldn't believe it. Eleven and a half thousand sys-dollars was a chunk of money -- it would hurt -- but I could pay it. It was better than this predator having his hooks in him.
"I'll pay what he owes. Then we're done." I triggered the swiper-tech embedded in the desk; colourful icons swirled into existence just under the wood grain. "If you'll give me your account details --"
"Keep your money for the moment, Mr. Whistler. I want a service instead."
I looked up. "What sort of service?"
"Easy service for you." Hei Long cocked his head to one side. "I know a man, an artist -- he owes me money, lots of money -- much, much more than your son. It is in my interest that he succeeds -- he can't repay money if he's a poor artist, yes? You understand?"
"Yes, but I can't just make someone famous. It depends on their skill --"
Hei Long's hand was a blur; pain exploded across my cheek and nose.
He
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