Page 26 of Warped

The big man takes out his pistol and aims it at the tip of the bartender’s bulbous nose.

“We already discussed the options available to you,” says Mikkelson. “You chose the money. Are you changing your mind?”

“N-no!” the bartender blurts. “P-please!”

“Very well then. The woman. When was she here?”

“’Bout two hours ago. She was wearing a long trench coat, which I thought was funny. Pretty girl like that, you wouldn’t expect her to cover up her body. Anyway, she ordered a drink, then she sat down at that table where your little buddy’s sitting right now.”

Indeed, the Psi-hound is already at Binx’s table, sitting in the exact same chair where she sat a few hours before.

“Did she meet anyone?” Mikkelson asks.

“I didn’t see. I swear. Things got busy for a minute, and when I turned around she was gone. She was a real looker. Wouldn’t be surprised if some fella took her home.”

Stanley’s face reddens, but he says nothing.

“Got security cameras in this place?” Mikkelson asks.

“We do, but they don’t work. Rats chewed through the cables a while back.”

“Great,” says Mikkelson, and he turns to look at the Psi-hound. “Well?”

The little man doesn’t answer right away. He just sits stock still at the table, giving no indication that he heard Mikkelson speak. After a full minute, he finally says something.

“What did she order?”

“A Shirley Temple,” says the bartender.

The Psi-hound smiles faintly.

“A Shirley Temple. How interesting. Please make me one, exactly as you made it for her.”

The bartender prepares the drink. It only takes him a few seconds. A glass of ice. Some lemon-lime soda. A splash of grenadine. A cherry. He carries it over to the Psi-hound and sets it on the table in front of him. Then he quickly retreats behind the bar again. There is something about that small, frail manthat frightens the bartender even more than the big guy with the gun.

The Psi-hound lifts the drink and holds it up to the light like a connoisseur studying a fine wine. He sniffs it, takes a sip.

As the sweetness of the drink suffuses his tongue, he lets his mind unfurl. After a while, images begin to form, cloudy at first, but soon resolving themselves into a greater clarity. A large man stands over him, smiling. A handsome man, with a dark beard and pale blue skin.

“She met a warper,” he says. “They left together for his ship.”

This time, Mikkelson doesn’t just chuckle; he guffaws. He claps Stanley’s shoulder.

“A warper! Damn, that’s rough, man. Bet he’s got his big blue dick down her throat as we speak. Who knows, maybe a pair of them are giving it to her from both ends. They say those warpers like to share their women, ain’t that right, Lundgren?”

The big man doesn’t say anything.

Neither does Stan. He just wrenches his shoulder away from Mikkelson’s grip and glowers.

“It’s a clever move on her part,” Mikkelson goes on. “A ticket on a passenger liner would have been easy to trace. ’Course, she wasn’t counting on us having our very own Psi-hound.”

The Psi-hound takes another sip of his drink and nods.

“The trail will be easier to follow once we’re in the Warp,” he says. “The scent is always much stronger there.”

“That’s good,” says Mikkelson. “But if we’re heading into the Warp, we’ll need company.”

He looks at the bartender again.

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