Dirty Work: Volume 1

Red Rose - 2

Chorus bar was throbbing even before I got there. It was around eleven at night and the typical Celestrian rain had made the ground slick and shimmering, and it seemed that even the puddles were pulsating with the sound of thumping rhythms and shuddering with distorted guitars. The pink/purple sign outside could have been seen a mile away, even without the trio of Merkiosen girls outside shoving something into their arms via a needle. The package, though light, seemed heavy in the pocket of my coat.

I walked past the girls, pushing more than anything as their conversation was beginning to spill over the front of the club, and stepped into the club. My first impression was that I had somehow wandered into a warzone. I was never a clubbing person, having to work from a young age more often than not and certainly not having either enough money or friends to warrant a night out such as this, and so the whole thing hit my chest and about doubled me over. Great drum blasts like bombs threatened to break my ribs apart, the bustling hive of jostling and jockeying was like that of livestock being steered into the pen, and over it all hung that cloud of sweat that had come over from the main dance floor area/performance zone for tonight's act (Androscream, their banner proclaimed). I don't think I'll ever get over it.

Off to my right was the main bar, where only a few stood around, most having lost themselves in the madness that was on the floor. I made my way through the crowd, thinner here than past the stairs and in the central mayhem but still numerous, towards the polished sheen of the serving section where the purple neon lined each surface.

'Excuse me,' I said (or yelled) to the barman, a clean-shaven man of perhaps a little over my own age who was busy talking to a young girl and Soorvite boyfriend. He looked up and walked over to me, the girl continuing to talk to her other half who was working his two-thumbed hands up her skirt.

'How can I help, sir?'

'I'm delivering a package to Chorus,' I said. When the man raised an eyebrow as if to say you're IN Chorus, numb nut, I added, 'the owner.'

The man looked over his shoulder to another bartender.

'Jerro!' he yelled. The other bartender, older and beginning to grey around his beard, raised a finger as he finished pouring the final of five drinks for a cluster of girls that looked to be of the same group as the ones fighting outside. He put it down and took the money off them, cashed it and headed over towards us.

'He says he's got a package for Chorus,' the man said. He looked at me with a devious twinkle in his eye and added, 'the owner.'

'Well Chorus don't just accept random packages,' the second bartender, Jerro, said. 'People have tried to kill her in the past, you know. Flowers dipped in poison, stuff like that.'

'As far as I know, my boss doesn't even like flowers,' I replied thinking of Grasslea's office and amidst all the paintings and frescos recalling no sign of plant life, 'and I'm pretty sure he would have just sent in a crew of twenty guys with automatics if he'd wanted to kill the boss. I've just got this to deliver to her, then I'm outta here to grab a bite to eat.'

I pulled the package out of my coat and placed it on the counter. The first bartender started back a little, just in case I'd put a bomb into the middle of the club, but Jerro looked at it with a hint of recognition. He looked down at the corner of the package and fingered it, his nail scratching away a piece of tape that had been used to stick down the purple ribbon that wrapped around it. On the surface of the package itself was a set of interlocking initials. DW.

'He's cool, man,' Jerro said, pleased with his inspection. 'He's credible.'

'You sure?'

'Yeah, I know where he works. Used to work there myself.'

Now this was a turn up for the books. I had only been Grasslea's employee for a few days and I knew that he had contacts, but I had expected most of them to be unfriendly, or mafia bosses or the likes. I hadn't suspected that guys just came and went from out under him, and ended up working for people he traded with. It was probably a major security risk, which meant that he had had extreme confidence in this man, Jerro, who was now serving drinks just like I was, in a rival club. Networking, it seemed, had its perks.

'Come with me,' Jerro said, walking to the end of the bar, 'I'll take you up to Chorus.'