Usso looked once again to the two across the table. They both spat out a couple of sorries, but Usso wasn’t paying much attention to that.
ëSo those two are Bowser Jr. and Diddy Kong. What are they doing way out here?’ he thought.
“óAnd had we known, we would have totally grabbed you and pulled you out of trouble,” Diddy continued while Junior nodded insistently next to him.
“It’s okayóI guess you two had your reasons,” Usso said as his eyes fell to the piece of paper he held in his hand.
“My decision,” Usso said with a sigh, ignoring the fish and chips at the table. “Is that I’m in. On three conditions: the first is that I won’t kill anyone unless it’s a kill or be killed situation, and even then I can’t promise anything. I can neutralize and capture, but I can’t kill. I can’t.”
“Huh? Kill? What?” Junior queried which caused Diddy to shush him.
“Second,” Usso said. “I… I-I’ll accept no less than a million a month! You won’t find another pilot with my record around, or with a vehicle as strong as mine, so I think that’s a fair price.” The boy sounded rather uncomfortable as he said this last part. Across the table Junior and Diddy’s jaws were almost touching the table top.
ëA million a month!?’ Diddy mouthed to Junior who only shook his head in utter disbelief.
“And third... I want guaranteed access to a phone. Every night… so I can give a call to my family.”
The boy licked his lips. He had practiced this a couple times before using the coin, but even now his heart was racing. This was a terrible ideaówhat was he thinking, getting back into combat? He did his service-- above and beyond, he did his service and then some. But he thought back to his call to Shakti. He thought about Karlman, Marbet, Dennis… everyone. With a heavy heart he placed the paper on the table and took out a pen, his hand quivering over the signature line at the bottom. Then he looked at Stripetail and spoke with all the wariness of a man making a deal with the devil.
“Do we have a deal?”
-----
Twenty minutes had passed, and the three men made pleasant conversation in the VIP booth of the sumo stadium.
“Detective work!” DÈfago chuckled. “Bien jouÈ! It’s not an easy way to make a living, but I never met a detective who wasn’t in the top tier o’ men! Do you boys work for yourselves, or are you police detectives, or…?”
“Government detectives,” Rogan said. “And damn good ones too, if you don’t mind me braggin’ a bit. We’ve both already got tenure at 31 years oldónow how do you like that?”
DÈfago nodded his head emphatically, his heavy metal mask making the gesture look almost dangerous, and yet he seemed to be able to do it as though it weighed nothing. “Hahaha! You boys definitely have luck on your side, I think that’s already been as-stablished by now! Sure bit of hard work, too, judging by the cut of you two! I'd hate to be any sorry p'tit christ that try to put a tough one over the likes a you fellas!”
G gave a light, controlled chuckle as he stared into his cocktail glass reflectively. Despite being only 31, he had plenty of premature signs of aging. They both did. “Oh, yes. The work can be very hard at times. We’ve had many a long night were it the job just seems to never end.”
“Many long nights, I expect, yes,” DÈfago said in a more hushed, humble tone, as if he was worried he was implying otherwise. “It must be a very stressful job. Ye put your life on the line so often. If I were a detective my tool o’ the trade wouldn’t be no gun or no badgeóit’d be some of these, right?” he said as he sloshed his sazerac, and gave another jolly laugh. Rogan joined in his laugh while G only smiled and rolled his eyes a little.
“Yeah, G makes good cocktails. You’ll find out once you try that,” Rogan said as he pointed to the full glass in DÈfago’s gloved hand.
As he put one foot over his knee there was a very distinct sloshing sound from inside the man’s uncomfortable looking metal shoes.
“Oh, I’m not going to drink this,” DÈfago said mildly.
G raised his eyebrows. “Hmm? Why’s that? Not a cocktail person?”
Outside there was a big cheer and the sound of a loudspeaker. The sumo matches were going to be starting up again fairly soon, it seemed.
"No, no. Because I can tell your a true New Orleans man-- or at least you clearly still remember bein' one. And a true New Orleans man would sooner die than be caught serving a sazerac on the rocks."
The friendly smiles didn't change on Rogan and G's face, but their eyes became like sharp, polished steel. DÈfago took a cube out of his glass and examined it.
"So tell me, boss. What's in the ice? Poison?"
"No," Rogan said truthfully as he downed his own glass in one long gulp.
"Just micro sensors. Harmless things. We put some in our glasses, too."
DÈfago tilted his masked head a bit. "One of those techno things, eh? Now, why would you two fellas be puttin' some fancy spy gear in my drink?"
G answered mildly, after taking a sip from his own drink. He had to agree with DÈfago-- a sazerac on the rocks just wasn't real sazerac.
"Because while you were chatting with Rogan I was doing a little bit of research on my PDA. That dialect of Quebec English you’re speaking has been extinct for almost a century. And the only Joseph DÈfago on record who matches your height was a man who disappeared around 1896."
"Ahhhhh," DÈfago said with a slight nod. A yellow light suddenly started to shine underneath the black cloth that covered the mask's eyeholes. Neither of the two men seemed to reacted to this. "I see. Par curiositÈ, what would that sensor have done to me if it had slipped down my throat, 'detectives'?"
Rogan lifted his coat out of the way, revealing a H&K USP 40 pistol attached to his belt. He had a calm, business-like expression, as if all things that had happened and all things that were about to happen were purely a matter of duty.
"Well, among other things, it would have told us if you're actually alive or not."
The temperature in the room suddenly dropped 10 degrees.
