Reflections

Jarrod Isanti paused in front of Iwo Che'Ping's liquor store to check out his reflection. Old Iwo kept his store windows clean - a real oddity in the lower Triangle - which made them wonderfully useful as mirrors. The crazy old man would run most street people off if he caught them lingering too long at the windows, but Jarrod had unlimited use. All it had taken was a couple rounds of free knee work and Jarrod had old Iwo eating out of his hand. He'd even let Jarrod crash in the back of his store a few times and never seemed to notice that where Jarrod went, things tended to disappear.

Looking like an angel had its uses.

Jarrod raked widespread fingers through his gold-brown hair, in fashionable curls this week, and straightened the shoulders of his silky rainbow-hued tunic. Not bad. Not bad at all. He smiled at his image, and old Iwo, tending his printpad between small sad glances at the front window, smiled back.

"He loves you," a soft voice said a split second before Magma Blue's childlike face peeked around Jarrod's shoulder in the reflection.

"Um, and I loves him," Jarrod purred, licking a fingertip and using it to smooth a sleepswirl out of one arching eyebrow. "Him and his little bitty dick and his great big storeroom."

"Shameless." Magma slid her arms around him, stretched up to plant a kiss on the side of his neck. "I saw Nico up by the Truth earlier tonight."

"Lucky you," Jarrod drawled. "And what's Nico know tonight?"

"She says that girl from the Flower's looking for you, the one with the flashy tattoo. Shela." Magma grinned, drawing out the name, making it a taunt. "Too good for Nico or the rest of us. She's hanging down by the Two and Seven. If you're interested."

"Fascinating." Jarrod turned away from the window and cast an appraising glance over the visible part of 11th Street. Slow, slow, slow tonight. Not a fresh mark in sight, and he'd just given up a pod of tourists to Flicker on a bet. Reminded, he checked his watch and glanced toward the alley behind Iwo's.

"What's going on?" Magma asked, her flinty eyes registering his every move.

Jarrod grinned. "Flicker's doing a batch of tourists back there." He jerked his head toward the alley. "Six of 'em, all boytoys. He's seriously full of shit tonight, bet he could do the batch in two minutes per. Time's running out."

"What's riding?"

"Ten grams of Deathhead against a Gladstone job."

Magma whistled, soft and low. "Where'd Flicker get his hands on Deathhead?"

Jarrod shrugged, checked his watch again. "Flick-lad sleeps in some peculiar places. You know that. And he's got three minutes left before it's mine."

"Or he gets your Gladstone job."

"Whatever." A loose tendril of hair drooped into Jarrod's face and he tossed it back, gaze sweeping the street again by habit. Still empty. Dead night.

Magma backed away and leaned against a street lamp, the weak light throwing deep shadows into her spiky blue hair. She pulled a smoke from her waist pack, lit it and took a long drag. "Street talk says that Gladstone job of yours could be more trouble than it's worth."

"Street talk's cheap and usually wrong," Jarrod said blithely.

"Word is Big 'Rejni's got you by the short hairs because of that friend of yours, the big blind guy."

Jarrod plucked the smoke from her hand and helped himself to a hit, handed it back. "I'd ignore street talk, was I you."

She grunted. "Nice to say, hard to follow."

Jarrod was watching his wrist. Less than a minute to go. "Flick's an idiot," he noted idly. "And that Deathhead's gonna make me a happy lad tonight."

"When'd you take that up?"

"Didn't. But I can sell it. Got a buyer all hungry any minute. Like. Right. Now. Zenith!"

"Time's up?"

"Time's up. You see Flicker outside that alley yet?"

"Not a sign."

Jarrod grinned and planted a kiss on Magma's blue lips before she had a chance to object. "In the money," he crowed.

"Yuck," she said, wiping her lips with the back of one hand and playfully shaking his kiss off onto the ground. "Boy mouth."

Jarrod slid one arm around her for a quick hug. "Y'gotta quit limiting your opportunities, Mag. I keep telling you."

"You play your games, I'll play mine. Thanks anyway."

"Whatever." He glanced at his wrist again. "Nearly fourteen minutes. Not even gonna be close enough to argue."

"Maybe he slipped out the other way, won't pay up."

"Nah. Flick and me are pals. Friendly bet. He won't slip."

"Trusting soul, Jarrod."

"Hah. Never." He pulled a small cube from his pocket and held it up to the light. "Got his codes. He won't slip."

Magma shook her head, tight grin dancing in the shadows. A laugh echoed from the alley behind Iwo's, high-pitched and forced. Jarrod cocked his head toward the sound and frowned. It evaporated rapidly into the night, but it had been enough to make him nervous. It hadn't sounded like the usual embarrassed laughs you got from tourists, after.

"You hear that?" Magma asked, gone still under the light.

"Yeah. No problem. Wait."

A crash then, and more laughter. Then a shout that stretched, turned in on itself and became a shriek.

"That's Flicker," Jarrod said, mouth gone dry. "Shit."

Magma was away from the lamp, backing toward the street. "Somebody's skizzed," she said, voice tiny. More shouts from the alley, then a hair-raising roar, barely human. "Later, Jarrod." Before he could turn, she'd dashed across the street and faded into the shadows on the other side. Jarrod stood uncertain, listening to the sounds from the alley. More shouts, and now whimpers. The wet thunk of something hard hitting something soft. Again. Again.

Jarrod closed his eyes, tried not to picture Flicker's liquid brown eyes, tight black curls. Tried not to picture them staring blank up at the sky, tried not to picture blood where Flick's mouth had been.

Tried to not imagine himself in the same bad spot, mark gone skiz, no help coming. Because no help was on its way for Flicker, was never on its way for street trash. Never would be. It was the way.

Jarrod swallowed hard, checked the street again out of habit, then took a deep breath and smiled. Time to make use of Iwo's gratitude again, maybe make another down payment on it. Get off the street and out of the way before those skiz tourists came out of the alley. Later, maybe, he'd go check on Flick. See if he was still alive. See if they'd left the Deathhead.

Take care of business.

As usual.