I am almost insulted.
It�s 9:45PM. I step around a tray of stacked dishes before placing the keycard in the lock. The door swings open without a sound. He�s laying on the bed, lips parted staring at the vidscreen with one hand down his half open pants.
�They all end the same.� I close the door. It lands with a click.
He whirls over to face me, pulling his hand out of his pants with an extra jerk. His eyes are still glazed as he catches his breath. �Who the hell are you?�
To my left is a bathroom. To my right a desk. I glance at the screen, which is culminating in a mass of flashing body parts, screaming and moaning. Cheap mass market shit.
�Mr. X.� I shake my head. �A person with your connections should have better taste.�
The blood rushes to his face and I see him tense. �I said, who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my room?�
I almost smile. The edge is here. I can feel it, tingling in every breath I take. I lean back against the closet, folding my arms over my chest. �We have business.�
�What business?� His eyes are wary, calculating. He sits up completely, his legs crossed in front of him.
�I don�t appreciate this half assed attempt to screw me over.� I say it soft.
There is a gun is in the nighttable drawer. That�s what the maid told me. He�s deliberately not looking at it. Any relaxation his previous activities might have lead to has disappeared. He�s tight, like a wire bound and twisted almost to the point of breaking.
I am drumming my index finger against my arm.
�Don�t bother. It won�t help you.�
�What do you want?� He says it like he�s deigning to allow me to speak. Arrogant bastard. I walk across the room and slap the vid off. His eyes follow me but he doesn�t move.
�Just outside Arena they have a unique breed of fish. It breathes air, and spends much of it�s life cycle on land. Some can jump up over five times their length. In certain areas, this fish is considerd a delicacy. Perhaps because unless prepared correctly, the flesh is toxic. Not instantly lethal, but by the time you start showing symptoms, it�s already too late.
�At least 150 people die a year from Airfish poisoning. No matter how carefully they remove the digestive tract and the organs, or how thoroughly they cook it, the amatures always end up poisoned. Because you see, only a select few know the secret.� My voice lowers to a whisper as my hands still. His body tilts towards mine. �Professionals know. There are two types of �Airfish�. Only the lucky and the cautious survive the genuine article. And never more than once.�
His brows are furrowed but he still hasn�t lost that hint of superiority.
I cock my head to the side. �I trust you enjoyed your dinner.�
The color drains from his skin. He swallows.
�Call your dogs off.� I say through grit teeth. �My cat has had enough. And get the hell out of my city.�
I reach into my jacket, pull out a card, and throw it on the bed. �There�s a good private practice in South City that deals with Airfish poisoning.� I smack the vidscreen on again. The picture fades in, paused mid wriggle. �The office will, of course, take clients on a priority basis provided they pass a credit check.�
I start walking back to the door. He is still silent, his hands shaking a little. Good. �You have twelve hours.� I glance at my watch. �Though from what I hear the poison can kill you in three.�