Ch 6: A Kabutowari member - Jenjo
Jenjo didn’t need hookers and blow to pad her bottom line or keep her life interesting. She ran a clean club, one of the largest in Paw City, and wanted nothing to ruin that. Her staff was the highest paid, her club was open eighteen hours a day, six days a week, and it was a cred cow. She used to joke she could give money away and still turn a profit.
But, lately, the Kabutowari had been threatening her security. She was no virgin. If there was lust fueled by alcohol, there was a market for drugs. And, as long as they kept it to the corners or in the bathrooms, she turned a blind eye. However, that was no longer the case. Security had tossed fifteen Kabutowari in the last week. Twice they were forced to hospitalize the miscreants, and four others required them to call the authorities.
While, on the surface, calling the cops might mean her club was keeping on the ups, too many calls could lead to entirely unwanted interest. The last thing she needed was narcs patrolling the bathrooms and hallways.
She was about to call her head of security, an old Cat Punk named Shar, when she flipped on the morning vidcast and watched, mildly amused, as the details of the previous evening’s carnage were laid out. Twenty Kabutowari dead, all while dealing drugs in the public way. Weapon-Wielders had obviously done the work, but there was no way they’d acted on their own. City-Runners had their fingerprints all over this.
She called Shar anyway and was pleased to discover he was watching the same reports as she.
They devised a plan. Not exactly a legal one, but they felt they had some room to move in the current climate.
Shar called a couple of old Broken Chip friends and made them a generous offer. That night, as the local Kabutowari pretended nothing had happened, and nothing could stop them, they put their plan into action.
While her staff remained clueless, one of the Broken Chip would request some shatter shatter, the latest club drug, move the dealer away from the crowd, kill them, and then dispose of the body in the club’s incinerator.
It took them three days, but, finally, the club was off any legal radar.
Or so she thought.
A week later, a City-Runner walked in just as the club was preparing to open. He motioned to her to join him at a table. She was scared but did so.
“You arrived at an interesting solution to your problem.”
She said nothing.
“Not to worry, we encourage original thought—my name’s M’tambe. I was in charge of the Kabutowari cleansing in their district. We were wondering what to do about their presence here, and you solved the problem for us. As a way of showing our thanks, your club will be removed from the tax rolls for one year. Your staff, much to their impending surprise, will win a contest you entered them in. We can work out the details later, but I’m thinking a thousand creds each would make a nice prize.”
She stared, slack-jawed, and finally found her voice.
“Thank you. Um, would you like a drink?”
“Do you have any antique Scotch?”
“Will one hundred-twenty years old so?”
He smiled. It was warmer than she expected.
“Perfectly.”
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