Mid-Flinx Page 2

  “Just a minute.”

  The voice came from behind him, completely under control yet hinting it was always on the verge of violent exclamation. It suggested tension without edginess. Unintentionally, Flinx had attracted the attention of the principal protagonist in the unpleasant domestic drama being played out near the entrance to the kitchen.

  “Are you going to let me go now?” The woman’s voice was insistent and frightened all at once. Her emotional temperature was fully reflective of her false bravado. Flinx had to admire her for it.

  “Yes, Geneen.” It was the tight, soft voice of the man who’d been holding, and hurting, her arm. “Go back to your cooking. For now. We’ll continue this later.”

  “But Jack-Jax . . .” the heavy blocking the doorway protested.

  “I said let her go, Peeler.” Paradoxically, the quieter he became, the more intimidating the speaker managed to sound. “Don’t try to leave, Geneen.”

  Flinx didn’t have to turn to know that the three had started toward his table. He sighed resignedly. At the first sign of trouble he should have risen quietly from his chair, paid his bill, and departed. Now it was too late.

  Only the one called Jack-Jax evinced any real emotion. The two heavies were emotional blanks, waiting to be imprinted by the whims of their master. As they drew near, Peeler projected a modicum of disappointment, no doubt displeased at the interruption of what had been for him an amusing diversion. Flinx disliked him immediately.

  Reflexive as automatons, the two big men took up positions on either side of the table. Peeler stopped behind Flinx while his counterpart eyed the recumbent minidrag curiously. Neither showed any fear. They were paid not to.

  The one called Jack-Jax, whose presence had so thoroughly and effortlessly intimidated the entire dining establishment, sauntered around the table until he was blocking the view. His piercing jet-black eyes bordered on the remarkable. The emotions Flinx sensed behind them were uncontrolled, unformed, and immature. Outwardly he was the soul of calm, but internally the man seethed and boiled like a sealed pot on a high flame. Only Flinx knew how close to the proverbial edge his visitor was treading.

  Unable to ignore that intense stare, he raised his own gaze to meet it. “Yes?” he ventured politely.

  The response was as cordial as it was superficial. “That’s a very, very interesting pet you have there.”

  “Thanks. So I’ve been told.”

  “I’m Jack-Jax Landsdowne Coerlis.” A little emotional pop accompanied each name.

  It was an innocuous enough salutation. “Lynx,” Flinx replied pleasantly. “Philip Lynx.” He didn’t offer a hand. Neither did Coerlis.

  Lips didn’t so much smile as tighten. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  “Sure I do. You’re Jack-Jax Landsdowne Coerlis. You just told me so.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Impatience bubbled beneath the other’s impassive visage. “It doesn’t really matter.”

  Knowing he should leave it alone and, as was too often the case, unable to do so, Flinx nodded tersely in the direction of the kitchen. “Girlfriend?”

  “After a fashion.” The lips thinned like flatworms. “I have a lot of girlfriends. It’s a matter of timing.”

  “You didn’t seem to be getting along too well.”

  “A minor disagreement easily resolved. I’m good at resolving things.”

  “Lucky you. I wish I could say the same.”

  This semicomplimentary rejoinder caused Coerlis to mellow slightly. His attention shifted back to the snake shape relaxing on the table.

  “Absolutely gorgeous. Really magnificent. It’s an Alaspinian miniature dragon, isn’t it? Warm-blooded, toxic reptiloid?”

  Flinx displayed surprise, deliberately flattering the other. “You’re very knowledgeable. It’s not a well-known species and we’re a long ways from Alaspin.”

  “Exotics are a hobby of mine, especially the resplendent ones. I have a private zoo.” Flinx looked appropriately impressed and was rewarded with something akin to a genuine smile of satisfaction. “I collect all kinds of beautiful things. Animals, sculptures, kinetics.” Coerlis jerked a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “Women.”

  “It must be nice to be able to indulge in such a diversity of interests.” Despite the cordial banter, Flinx was very much aware that Jack-Jax Coerlis was an emotional bomb waiting to go off. For one thing, beneath the underlying tension and anger a vast sorrow lingered, turgid and repressed, which bordered on despair.

  Curious patrons kept sneaking looks in their direction, frantic to ignore the confrontation but unable to wholly rein in their curiosity.

  “How much?” Coerlis said abruptly.

  “How much what?”

  “How much did she cost you?” He indicated the flying snake.

  “Nothing.” Reaching out, Flinx gently rubbed Pip on the back of her head. The minidrag couldn’t purr. Beyond an occasional expressive hiss, she made hardly any noise at all. Instead her eyes closed contentedly and a small but powerful warmth emanated from within her pleasure center.

  “I found her. Or rather, she found me.”

  “Then that should make my offer all the more inviting. What do you say to fifty credits?” When no response was forthcoming, Coerlis added, as if the actual amount was a matter of supreme indifference to him, “How about a hundred? Two hundred?” He was smiling, but internally the first stirrings of irritation were beginning to surface.

  Flinx withdrew his finger. “She’s not for sale. At any price.”

  Coerlis’s emotions were as easy to read as if he’d presented them to Flinx in the form of a printed hardcopy. “Three hundred.”

  A flicker of interest showed in Peeler’s eyes.

  Flinx offered up his most ingratiating yet apologetic smile. “I told you: she’s not for sale. See, she’s been with me since I was a child. I couldn’t part with her. Besides, no one knows how long Alaspinian minidrags live. She could up and die on you next year, or next month. A poor investment.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.” Coerlis was unrelenting.

  Flinx tried another tack. “You’re aware that Alaspinian minidrags spit a highly lethal poison?” This time both heavies reacted. Flinx sensed a jolt of real unease in the one standing behind his chair. To his credit, the man held his ground.

  Coerlis didn’t flinch. “So I’ve heard. She doesn’t look very threatening. If she’s sufficiently domesticated to allow you to pet her like that, I think I could handle her. She’ll be in a safe cage, anyway.” He reached toward the table.

  The flying snake instantly coiled and flared her wings, parting her jaws and hissing sharply. Coerlis froze, still smiling, while his companions reached for their jacket pockets.

  “I wouldn’t do that.” Flinx spoke softly but firmly. “Alaspinian minidrags are telepathic on the empathic level. She’s sensitive to my feelings. If I’m happy, she’s happy. If I’m angry, she’s angry. If I feel threatened—If I feel threatened, she reacts accordingly.”

  Impressed, Coerlis slowly withdrew his hand. Pip shuttered her wings but remained alert, watching the stranger. “Not only beautiful, but useful. Whereas I have to rely for that degree of protection on these two clumsy, ugly lumps of mindless protein.” Neither of the heavies reacted. “She can ride your arm beneath a jacket, or sleep inside a travel bag. I’m sure she’s capable of delivering a really nasty surprise.”

  Flinx said nothing, willing to let Coerlis draw his own conclusions. He was growing tired of the game, and the confrontation was attracting entirely too much attention. By now it was reasonable to assume that someone in the kitchen, the old man if not the pretty chef, had taken the step of notifying the authorities. Flinx didn’t want to be around when they arrived. He glanced toward the service doorway.

  Though he wasn’t telepathic on any level, Jack-Jax Coerlis had a feral understanding of human nature. “If you’re waiting for someone to call the police to come and mediate, I wouldn’t. You s
ee, in Tuleon Province I pretty much go where I want and do as I please.” Keeping a thoughtful eye on Pip, he leaned forward slightly.

  “Any decisions reached between you and I will be achieved without the intervention of any outside parties.” With a finger, he nudged the purple glass. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

  “Yes. Who have you lost recently?”

  The question took Coerlis completely by surprise. He straightened, gaze narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve lost someone close to you, someone very important. You’re still mourning them. The result is anxiety, fear, sorrow, and a mindless desire to strike out at those less powerful than yourself. It’s a way of reasserting control: not over others, but over yourself.”

  Coerlis’s uncharacteristically unsettled tone reflected his sudden inner turmoil. “Who are you? What are you?”

  “A perceptive visitor.”

  “You some kind of traveling therapist?”

  “No.” Flinx had very slowly edged his chair away from the table.

  Attempting to reassert himself, Coerlis’s tight grin twisted into an unpleasant smirk. “You’ve been poking around, asking questions. I’ll bet my cousins hired you. Not that it matters. They can dig all they want. They’re still getting nothing.” He plunged on without waiting for his assumptions to be confirmed or denied. “So you know about my father. What of it? He’s been dead two years last month.”

  “You still mourn him. His memory plagues you. He dominated you all your life and you suffer from consequent feelings of inferiority you’re unable to shake.”

  Flinx’s evaluation of his antagonist’s emotional state of mind was part reading, part guesswork. Coerlis’s hesitation suggested that he had deduced correctly. Now the question was, how far could he push this paranoid without nudging him over the edge of rationality? It wouldn’t do to embarrass him in front of his flunkies, much less the other diners. A glance showed the young chef and her elder protector watching from the safety of the kitchen portal.

  “I’ve run the House of Coerlis as well or better than the old man did ever since the accident! I don’t know what you’ve heard or who you’ve been snooping around with, but I’ve done a damn good job. The interim administrators all agree.”

  Paranoid, neurotic, and pathologically defensive, Flinx decided. Traits that did not necessarily conflict with ability or intelligence. Coerlis had been forced to assume control of a large trading House hastily and at a young age. No wonder he bristled at any hint of defiance, any suggestion of a challenge to his authority. He was secure within his position, but not within himself. The shade of a domineering sire loomed over everything he did. It went a long ways toward explaining his anger and frustration, without in any way lessening the danger he posed to those around him.

  “I haven’t been doing any snooping,” Flinx protested mildly.

  “Of course you have!” Dark eyes glittered as Coerlis convinced himself he’d regained the conversational high ground. “Not that it has anything to do with the business at hand.”

  Flinx shrugged mentally. It had been worth a try. Though he doubted its appeal to someone like Coerlis, there was one more thing to be tried.

  “At least you knew your father.”

  This admission appeared to please Coerlis rather than spark any sympathy. “You didn’t? That’s tough.”

  It was also, Flinx concluded resignedly, probably the last chance to end the confrontation peaceably.

  “Didn’t know my mother, either. I was raised an orphan:”

  Coerlis’s expression remained flat. “You don’t say. It’s been my experience that the cosmos doesn’t give a shit. Better get used to it.

  “All that matters now is our business together. Dead parents don’t enter into it. Four hundred. That’s my last offer.”

  Flinx stiffened, knowing that Pip wouldn’t have to look to him for directions. She knew what he was feeling the instant he did himself.

  “Try to understand. You’re not making the connection. I never knew my mother or father. An old lady raised me. She was my whole family. Her—and this flying snake. I had a sister once, too. She’s dead also.”

  Coerlis’s smirk widened ever so slightly. “With a run of bad luck like that you can probably use the money.”

  Flinx met the dark gaze evenly. “One more time: she’s not for sale.”

  Coerlis inhaled an exaggerated breath as he ran the fingers of his left hand through his curly black hair. “Well, I guess that’s that. If she’s not for sale, she’s not for sale.” He smiled reassuringly.

  Flinx was unconvinced. Alone among those in the dining room, only he could sense the near-homicidal fury that was mounting within the other man. Compared to the emotions boiling inside Coerlis, the mixture of anticipation and eagerness Flinx sensed in the two heavies was negligible.

  He felt rather than saw the sudden movement of the big man standing behind his chair as a rush of adrenaline sparked an emotional surge in the man’s brain. At the same time, Peeler’s hand slid deep inside his open jacket and Coerlis reached for his own concealed weapon. Raising his legs, Flinx put his feet on the edge of the table and shoved, sending himself and his chair smashing backward into the figure behind him. Jarred off balance, the big man stumbled backward.

  Patrons screamed and parents shielded children. The more alert among them dove for cover beneath their tables. One elderly couple, eschewing temporary salvation, staggered as best they could toward the exit.

  The big man behind the chair recovered quickly and threw both arms around his quarry as the younger man rose. Flinx offered no resistance. Removing the needler from his jacket, Peeler aimed it with practiced ease. At the same time, Coerlis threw his open jacket over the table, pinning Pip beneath. Grinning broadly, he carefully gathered the material together, bundling his prize tightly within.

  Chapter Two

  “Got ‘er!” Breathing hard, Coerlis gazed triumphantly at Flinx. “Wouldn’t want to leave you thinking I was some kind of thief.”

  “We both know what you are.” Flinx spoke quietly, unresisting in the heavy’s grasp.

  For an instant Coerlis’s expression flickered, like a video image subject to momentary blackouts. Then the smile returned. “If you’ll give me an account number I’ll see that payment is forwarded. Four hundred. I’d be grateful, if I were you. At the moment, it strikes me that your bargaining power is severely reduced.”

  “I told you. She’s not for sale.”

  Holding the bundled jacket securely, Coerlis made a show of pondering this last remark. “Maybe you’re right, boy. Maybe I haven’t been paying attention. I guess in spite of everything, I can’t buy her after all. What that says to me is that you’d prefer to make her a gift. Oh, don’t worry. She’ll be well looked after. I take good care of my zoo. Even have two vets on permanent staff.”

  “Mr. Coerlis, sir?” Peeler’s eyes were dilating.

  “Not now, Peeler,” growled Coerlis impatiently. “Can’t you see I’m in the midst of delicate negotiations?”

  “But sir—” The big man started to explain himself. He didn’t have time.

  Smoke was rising from the middle of Coerlis’s heavy jacket. He barely had time to gawk at the widening hole in the center before he screamed and flung the bundle aside, shaking his right arm violently. A few wisps of smoke curled upward from the back of his hand. Flesh curled away from the source like the peel off a potato.

  Stumbling backward, Coerlis banged into another table, sending silverware and plates clattering to the floor. With his left hand he grabbed the standing pitcher of ice water in the center and dumped the contents over his smoking hand. Unbeknownst to him, this action saved his life by flushing away the corrosive before it could get into his bloodstream.

  Emerging from the steaming hole in the jacket, wings fully unfurled and buzzing like the grandfather of all hummingbirds, a pink, blue, and green blur erupted toward the ceiling. Flinx took advantage of the diversio
n to break free of the stunned heavy’s grasp. Meanwhile Peeler was trying to divide his attention between the angry, buzzing reptilian shape hovering overhead and the moaning, unsteady form of his master.

  Coerlis shakily wrapped a linen napkin around his injured hand, making a crude bandage. His pain almost overrode his rage. “Shoot him, you idiot!” With his good hand he pointed at Flinx. “Shoot them both!”

  Peeler’s reactions were excellent, but no match for a predator of Pip’s quickness. As the muzzle of the needler shifted in her master’s direction, she dove straight at its wielder. Knowing what was coming, Flinx did his best to project an air of compassion. He was only partially successful.

  Waving wildly at the darting, weaving flier, the big man tried to bring his pistol to bear. Pip’s mouth opened, jaw muscles contracted, and from a groove in her upper jaw a needle-thin spurt of poison shot forth. Because of Flinx’s emotional intervention it struck Peeler on the back of his gun hand instead of square in the eyes.

  Letting out a surprisingly high-pitched shriek, the gunman dropped his weapon and clutched at the wrist of his injured hand. The caustic toxin ate into his flesh.

  “Need to wash it off quick,” was Flinx’s calm advice. He glanced back at the heavy who’d been restraining him. “Better help your buddy. If the poison gets into his bloodstream, it’ll kill him.” He turned back to Peeler. “He’s not paying attention.”

  “Get him, you imbecile!” Tears were streaming from Coerlis’s eyes, and his injured arm was trembling uncontrollably.

  “I . . .” The big man came to a decision. Ignoring his master, he snatched up two pitchers of water from a pair of nearby tables and hurried to assist his associate. As their quarry backpedaled, the two men combined efforts to douse the steaming wound.