Read Online Wild Cards V by George R. R. Martin - Free Book Online Page B

the kitchen and stood, thumbs hooked behind his belt, toothpick moving slowly within a faint frown. Then he advanced.
    â€œYou look a little familiar,” he said, coming up beside the booth.
    â€œI’m Bludgeon,” the other replied, raising his hand.
    â€œChris Mazzucchelli. Yeah, I’ve heard of you. I hear you can bash your way through nearly anything with that mitt of yours.”
    Bludgeon grinned. “Fuckin’ A,” he said.
    Mazzucchelli smiled around the toothpick and nodded. He slid into Croyd’s seat.
    â€œYou know who I am?” he asked.
    â€œHell, yes,” Bludgeon said, nodding. “You’re the Man.”
    â€œThat I am. I guess you heard there’s some trouble coming down, and I need some special kind of soldiers.”
    â€œYou need some fuckin’ heads broke, I’m fuckin’ good at it,” Bludgeon told him.
    â€œThat’s nicely put,” Mazzucchelli said, reaching inside his jacket. He removed an envelope and tossed it onto the tabletop. “Retainer.”
    Bludgeon picked it up, tore it open, then counted the bills slowly, moving his lips. When he was finished, he said, “Fuckin’ price is fuckin’ right. Now what?”
    â€œThere’s an address in there too. You go to it eight o’clock tonight and get some orders. Okay?”
    Bludgeon put away the envelope and rose.
    â€œDamn straight,” he agreed, reaching out and picking up the pitcher of beer, raising it, draining it, and belching.
    â€œWho’s the other guy—the one back in the john?”
    â€œShit, he’s one of us,” Bludgeon replied. “Name’s Croyd Crenson. Bad man to fuck with, but he’s got a great sense of humor.”
    Mazzucchelli nodded. “Have a good day,” he said.
    Bludgeon belched again, nodded back, waved his club-hand, and departed.

    Croyd hesitated only a moment on reentering the dining room and regarding Mazzucchelli in his seat. He advanced, raised two fingers in mock salute, and said, “I’m Croyd,” as he drew near. “Are you the recruiter?”
    Mazzucchelli looked him up and looked him down, eyes dwelling for a moment on the large wet spot at the front of his trousers.
    â€œSomething scare you?” he asked.
    â€œYeah, I saw the kitchen,” Croyd replied. “You looking for talent?”
    â€œWhat kind of talent you got?”
    Croyd reached for a small lamp on a nearby table. He unscrewed the bulb and held it before him. Shortly it began to glow. Then it brightened, flared, and went out.
    â€œOops,” he observed. “Gave it a little too much juice.”
    â€œFor a buck and a half,” Mazzucchelli stated, “I can buy a flashlight.”
    â€œYou got no imagination,” Croyd said. “I can do some heavy stuff with burglar alarms, computers, telephones—not to mention anybody I shake hands with. But if you’re not interested, I won’t starve.”
    He began to turn away.
    â€œSit down, sit down!” Mazzucchelli said. “I heard you had a sense of humor. Sure, I like that stuff, and I think maybe I can use you in a certain matter. I need some good people in a hurry.”
    â€œSomething scare you?” Croyd asked, sliding into the seat recently vacated by Bludgeon.
    Mazzucchelli scowled and Croyd grinned.
    â€œHumor,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
    â€œCrenson,” the other stated, “that’s your last name. See, I do know you. I know a lot about you. I’ve been stringing you along. That’s humor. I know you’re pretty good, and you usually deliver what you promise. But we got some things to talk about before we talk about other things. You know what I mean?”
    â€œNo,” Croyd answered. “But I’m willing to learn.”
    â€œYou want anything while we’re talking?”
    â€œI’d like to try the linguini again,” Croyd said, “and