Read Online Torch Song: A Kickass Heroine, A Post-Apocalyptic World: Book One Of The Blackjack Trilogy by Shelley Singer - Free Book Online
Authors: Shelley Singer
Tags: thriller, Suspense, Science-Fiction, Mystery, post apocalyptic, End of the world, casino, near future, spy fiction, new world, scifi thriller, Tahoe
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you?” I nodded. Good. She sounded disgusted.
“Just her hand!” Bullshit. Jo shook her head. She didn’t believe him.
“But you won’t do that anymore, will you?” she snapped.
“No.” I could barely hear him grunt the word. He was pouting again, like a nasty little kid.
“Because this one seems capable of hurting you, Waldo.”
Waldo shrugged, gave me a last resentful look, and hobbled into the kitchen.
“You’re okay, Rica?”
“Of course.”
She nodded, appraising me. Looking deeper into my eyes than I liked.
“Well, I guess you can fight, after all.”
Chapter Seven
Gossip with Strangers
The worn royal blue drapes let pinpoints of daylight into the room, dusty beams brushing the scarred white-painted bureau. The room was cleaner than most I’d slept in, clean enough to please Gran. The bed wasn’t too lumpy, the walls were recently painted a soft cream, the tan carpet was worn but unstained. The clock worked. It was just before eleven. I’d slept hard. I was supposed to get my picture taken in an hour.
My sys told me there was new mail.
Not from Sylvia, of course. Still worn out from the day before, I revisited my crankiest fantasy. I was knocking on her door— no idea what it looked like— and when she appeared I said, “Now ignore me. Now tell me you still hate me for one little mistake with that whatever-his-name-was. Look me in the eye and say you’d rather stay here with whatever-this-guy’s-name-is than travel with me.”
I’d been replaying that scene for years. Like some kind of stubborn rehearsal for a play that would probably never open because I was afraid if I did go there and say those words, she’d actually do what I was daring her to do, tell me she hated me and wasn’t going anywhere.
The only message was a new offer, from New Orleans, dealing with some kind of corruption— nothing new there— but it included the cover role of Maggie the Cat at a theater in the French Quarter. I’d seen the original with Elizabeth Taylor, restored but a lot the worse for use, and fallen in love with Tennessee Williams. And Paul Newman. And Elizabeth Taylor. Maggie. New Orleans music and food, too.
I answered: “Thanks for the offer. Sierra assignment queued first. I’ll check back with you when it’s winding down.” The job could still be waiting, even if I took a side trip to visit Gran. That’s one wild old city. Came back from a hurricane and flood way before the Poison and managed to rebuild before everything everywhere went to hell. Nearly two thousand people by last count. Greatest music on earth and lots to drink. But it wouldn’t tempt a lot of freelancers. The streets were dark and violent and the people stuck to their own. The language was a problem, too. My own Loosianne was better than most, even though I couldn’t seem to keep Redwood Spanish out of the French mix.
Shooting the screen, I punched a line to channel 1, Redwood, or what I hoped would be Redwood, looking for any little piece of home. The holo shimmied for a second, a man’s head resolved shakily. Fading in and out. Singing. Badly. I muted the sound, watching his face and hoping the screen would shift to the prettier sight of Webber Doe, sending out the hearsay of Doe’s data from San Francisco. No Webber Doe. Ten minutes of staring at jiggles and fades, no luck. During one fade, another guy appeared, in Tahoe, he said, and introduced his wife. She started playing the violin. Mercifully, she was interrupted by a flicker from the Coast, back to channel 1, a vision of Webber Doe laughing and then she was gone. I gave up and shut down.
It was then that I noticed that the roomsys, mounted on the desk, was blinking at me. Imagine that, I thought, a roomsys that works—not that I’d use it for anything private. I had a message from Jo.
Her dusky voice told me to meet Monte, the head cashier, in his cage, at noon. He’d take my picture. I realized that I was disappointed that Jo wouldn’t be
“Just her hand!” Bullshit. Jo shook her head. She didn’t believe him.
“But you won’t do that anymore, will you?” she snapped.
“No.” I could barely hear him grunt the word. He was pouting again, like a nasty little kid.
“Because this one seems capable of hurting you, Waldo.”
Waldo shrugged, gave me a last resentful look, and hobbled into the kitchen.
“You’re okay, Rica?”
“Of course.”
She nodded, appraising me. Looking deeper into my eyes than I liked.
“Well, I guess you can fight, after all.”
Chapter Seven
Gossip with Strangers
The worn royal blue drapes let pinpoints of daylight into the room, dusty beams brushing the scarred white-painted bureau. The room was cleaner than most I’d slept in, clean enough to please Gran. The bed wasn’t too lumpy, the walls were recently painted a soft cream, the tan carpet was worn but unstained. The clock worked. It was just before eleven. I’d slept hard. I was supposed to get my picture taken in an hour.
My sys told me there was new mail.
Not from Sylvia, of course. Still worn out from the day before, I revisited my crankiest fantasy. I was knocking on her door— no idea what it looked like— and when she appeared I said, “Now ignore me. Now tell me you still hate me for one little mistake with that whatever-his-name-was. Look me in the eye and say you’d rather stay here with whatever-this-guy’s-name-is than travel with me.”
I’d been replaying that scene for years. Like some kind of stubborn rehearsal for a play that would probably never open because I was afraid if I did go there and say those words, she’d actually do what I was daring her to do, tell me she hated me and wasn’t going anywhere.
The only message was a new offer, from New Orleans, dealing with some kind of corruption— nothing new there— but it included the cover role of Maggie the Cat at a theater in the French Quarter. I’d seen the original with Elizabeth Taylor, restored but a lot the worse for use, and fallen in love with Tennessee Williams. And Paul Newman. And Elizabeth Taylor. Maggie. New Orleans music and food, too.
I answered: “Thanks for the offer. Sierra assignment queued first. I’ll check back with you when it’s winding down.” The job could still be waiting, even if I took a side trip to visit Gran. That’s one wild old city. Came back from a hurricane and flood way before the Poison and managed to rebuild before everything everywhere went to hell. Nearly two thousand people by last count. Greatest music on earth and lots to drink. But it wouldn’t tempt a lot of freelancers. The streets were dark and violent and the people stuck to their own. The language was a problem, too. My own Loosianne was better than most, even though I couldn’t seem to keep Redwood Spanish out of the French mix.
Shooting the screen, I punched a line to channel 1, Redwood, or what I hoped would be Redwood, looking for any little piece of home. The holo shimmied for a second, a man’s head resolved shakily. Fading in and out. Singing. Badly. I muted the sound, watching his face and hoping the screen would shift to the prettier sight of Webber Doe, sending out the hearsay of Doe’s data from San Francisco. No Webber Doe. Ten minutes of staring at jiggles and fades, no luck. During one fade, another guy appeared, in Tahoe, he said, and introduced his wife. She started playing the violin. Mercifully, she was interrupted by a flicker from the Coast, back to channel 1, a vision of Webber Doe laughing and then she was gone. I gave up and shut down.
It was then that I noticed that the roomsys, mounted on the desk, was blinking at me. Imagine that, I thought, a roomsys that works—not that I’d use it for anything private. I had a message from Jo.
Her dusky voice told me to meet Monte, the head cashier, in his cage, at noon. He’d take my picture. I realized that I was disappointed that Jo wouldn’t be
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