Down And Dirty

She watched him go, a crystalline tear glistening on her invisible cheek, but he never looked back, he never saw.

II

The Twisted Dragon was located somewhere within the nebulous boundary of an interlocking Jokertown and Chinatown. One of Bre

Bre

He smiled, smoothing the tips of his mustache in a gesture that had already become habitual. Time to see if his plan was a stroke of genius, as he sometimes thought, or a quick way to a hard death, as he more frequently thought.

It was warm inside the Dragon, more, Bre

A girl, young and blond and looking vaguely stoned, sat next to Mao. Three men crowded the bench across the table from him. One was a Werewolf in a Nixon mask, one was a young Oriental, and the one in the middle was a thin, pale, nervous-looking man. Before Bre

He was a lean six four or five, so he towered over Bre

The scars that patterned his cheeks, forehead, and chin were the insigna of the Ca

"What do you want?" The Headhunter's voice was too reedy to sound menacing, but he tried.

"To see Da

"'Bout what?"

"'Bout what's not your business, boy."

Bre

"I say it is." The Headhunter smiled a grin he fondly thought savage, showing filed front teeth. Bre

Bre

"You," Bre

Bre

"What's your name?" Mao asked. "Cowboy," Bre

Mao picked up the glass in front of him and took a short sip. He looked at Bre

Bre

And the irony of his disguise, Bre

"My Asian ancestors helped build the railroads. I was born in New Mexico, but found it too limiting." That, too, was true.

"So you came to the big city looking for excitement?" Bre

"And found enough so that you have to use an alias?" He shrugged, said nothing.

Mao took another sip of his drink. "What do you want?"

"Word on the street," Bre

Mao nodded. "Why should we hire you?"

"Why not? I can handle myself."

Mao glanced at his erstwhile bodybuard, who had managed to drag himself to a hunched position on his knees, his forehead resting on the floor. "Fair enough," he said thoughtfully. "But do you have the stomach for it I wonder?" He looked at the three men crowded together on the bench across the table, and Bre

The Werewolf sat on the outside and the Oriental, probably an Immaculate Egret, was on the inside. The man they sandwiched, though didn't look like a street tough.

He was small, thin, and palid. His hands looked soft and weak, his eyes were dark and bright. Many street toughs had a streak of madness in them, but even on first sight Bre

"What kind of mission?" Bre

"If you have to ask, maybe you're not the type of man we're looking for."

"Maybe," Bre

"Caution is an admirable trait," Mao said blandly, "but so is faith in and obedience to your superiors."

Bre

Bre

Mao nodded. "The morgue, as Deadhead says."

"Do you have a car?" the Werewolf asked Bre

Bre

"I'll have to steal one," the Werewolf said.

"Then we can go to the drive-up window!" the man called Deadhead enthused. The Asian sitting next to him looked vaguely disgusted but said nothing. "Let's go!" Deadhead pushed at the Werewolf, urging him out of the booth.