Never trust an elf

The man was tall and on the thin side. Though too bulky for an elf, he might be mistaken for one by a less astute observer. He didn't fool Kham, though. He wondered if the suit knew how dangerous such a resemblance could be. If he did, he had plenty of reason to be nervous. The Ancients, an elf biker gang with no permanent territory but claiming all of Seattle for their own, had rumbled through two nights ago. Those elves had no friends in Orktown and had used their visit to make a few more enemies. Tempers were still up, and any elf, or even a human who looked like one, could end up the target of well-deserved hate. If the suitboy knew what had gone down, he was brave to come around without backup. It was surprising he'd gotten this far unmolested. Maybe the fact that Kham's guys were watching him had kept the other locals off the suitboy's back.

The man had noticed Kham's arrival and was trying to watch the orks without being obvious. The attempt was pathetically inept. The suit might be able to see them if his shades were set for light amplification or if he had enhanced eyes under those dark lenses, but his continual fussing said that he couldn't hear the orks.

"Let's see what da man has got ta say fer himself." The guys trailed along with Kham, bouncing and hooting, in high spirits. They thought they were going to get work. Kham didn't want to let himself believe that just yet. It had been too long and disappointing a day. He walked right up to the suit and thrust out his chin.

"Hear yer looking fer Kham."

To his credit, the suit did not back away, although his nose wrinkled at Kham's smell. "Yes. Are you he?"

"Are you he?" Ratstomper said in imitation of the man. "Fancy, fancy for Orktown, chummer."

The others laughed at her remark, but the man held onto his calm. "Can you take me to him?"

"Might," Kham replied.

"There is remuneration in it for you."

Fancy words. Upscale words. The suitboy needed to be reminded of where he was, so Kham asked, "Re-what?"

"Money."

"Dat I understand." Rabo was nudging John Parker and grinning. "How much?"

"That depends on how quickly you take me to him."

"Dis is hot biz, den."

"There is a time element."

Turning, Kham backed up half a step, letting the man relax, then swung back. "Why Kham?"

Startled, the man was silent for a moment before 1 blustering, "I'll discuss that with him." 1

Kham leaned into the man, eye to eye. His bulk was impressive and he let it have its usual effect on a norm. "Ya tell me, or Kham never hears." The gang snickered behind him. Kham was hoping the man would take it as a threat. "Well?"

The man was breathing heavily, and, yes, he did smell nervous. "There is to be a trip. The persons taking it want protection. They are looking for discreet escorts who are able to handle themselves in case of trouble." J

"A muscle job."

"As you say."

"So ya come looking fer Kham. Maybe somebody else'll do?"

"Highly questionable. It is reported that this Kham leads an efficient group experienced in such matters and able to respond on short notice. In any case, my principals specified his group."

The gang broke out in guffaws.

"Drek, Kham," Rabo burst out, "if we used them big words ourselves, we could charge more."

"You're Kham?" the man stuttered.

Kham gave him a toothy grin. "Whatsamatta, suit-boy? Didn't dey give ya a pic ta spot me?" ^

"Of course, but I… I…" 3

Dropping the grin, Kham snarled. "Yeah, right. Us orks all look alike. If ya ever bodder ta look. Let's get one ting straight, suitboy. We don't gotta like each odder ta do biz. And I don't like ya. Straight?"

Nodding, the man said shakily, "I understand."

"I doubt it," Kham said with a snort. "What's yer schedule?"

"That you will have to discuss with, er, Mr. Johnson."

Ratstomper piped up. "Johnson? Johnson? That name's familiar. Hey, John Parker, you ever hear of a Johnson doing biz in Seattle?"

"Johnson? Yeah I heard of him. He's the short, tall, fat, skinny guy, ain't he? A real Mr. Corp."

"I tink ya may be right, John Parker." Kham poked the man with a horny-nailed finger. "Okay, suitboy, when do we meet yer Mr. J.?"

"Ten o'clock at Club Penumbra. Back room three." Kham grabbed the man's shoulder and thrust him out into the street. "Ya said yer piece. Vacate."

Catching himself before he fell, the man straightened up, stiff with repressed anger, or maybe fear. His eyes would have told the tale, but they were hidden by his dark glasses. He mumbled something, then set about straightening his clothes. By the time he'd arranged himself to his satisfaction, a black Ares City-master was rolling down the street toward him. It didn't have Lone Star markings, but that didn't mean it wasn't the cops. The twin machine guns in the turret said that; police-issue cars mounted water cannons.

The armored riot vehicle stopped behind the suit. He gave the orks a last hard, unfriendly smile, then climbed in. Kham and the others didn't bother to watch the Citymaster roll away, but they stayed quiet until it was gone. John Parker was the first to speak.