"So how does it feel to be on the receiving end?"
Vickers shook his head. He couldn't speak. He finally managed to get onto his feet. The woman slowly walked around him.
"You sure don't look like no sixty-five grand."
Even a steriod beef could hunt bounty. Vickers was disgusted with himself for being caught so easily. He blustered without conviction.
"I don't know what you're talking about. If it's money you want"
"You can cut the crap. I've checked you out. You're a Contec corpse called Mort Vickers and you're worth sixty-five thou-dead."
"My name is Joseph Pope, and if it's money you want"
"Save your breath, Vickers, you're going to die."
Vickers shrugged.
"Why don't you get it over with, then?"
The woman shook her head.
"Oh, no, nothing as easy as that. Strip."
She wasn't only steriod beef. She was also a sadist. What were steriods supposed to do to the personality?
"Strip?"
"I said strip. What's the matter with you? Shy or something? I want to see more of what they're paying sixty-five
grand for."
"And what will you do if I don't? Shoot me?"
The woman grinned. "I could hurt you plenty without using this gun. Nothing you could do to stop me."
Vickers didn't bother to resist any more. As he took off Joseph Pope's daytime suit, the huge woman lowered herself into a chair as though expecting a show.
"You're a sorry specimen." Her voice was an approximation of a bullfrog.
"At least I'm natural."
For one so big she was amazingly fast. He hardly saw the punch coming before his head exploded.
"Wipe that stupid expression off your face and get down on your hands and knees."
How weird was this going to get? The woman mountain settled herself back in the chair.
"You don't look much like the big bad killer."
Vickers didn't say anything. He stared resolutely at the pile of the carpet. He didn't want to show that he was sick with fear. This, however, didn't satisfy the woman.
"Hey! I'm talking to you. Look at me while I'm talking to you or I'll break your kidneys."
Vickers looked up. She was clearly getting her kicks from watching him grovel. He didn't want to guess what might be next on the menu. She started to answer the question he was hoping to avoid.
"This is going to take a long time. I've got plans for you."
Vickers wondered what would happen if he simply began screaming. He didn't really want to find out. Then the steriod woman stopped his train of thought dead on the tracks.
"You got any booze?"
Vickers was so stunned that he almost said no. He caught himself in the nick of time.
"Yes there's some vodka. It's in the refrigerator."
He could feel sweat running down the inside of his arms. Her bloated, meaty cheeks dimpled nastily. She gestured with the 9mm.
Vickers got to his feet. He walked slowly to the fridge, doing his best to look totally humilated. He opened the fridge. The woman's chair creaked. Was she getting up, coming up behind him? He didn't want to look back. The Yasha was on the top shelf. He put his hand on it. The black plastic grip was cold to his touch. The fingers of his right hand curled around it. With his thumb he moved the control to full auto. Red LEDs came to life. His left hand folded around the barrel.
"What's keeping you?"
Vickers turned, firing. The Yasha blared its high-speed snake hiss. His teeth were bared and he was snarling. He savored the instant of complete atavism and then he became coldly practical. The steriod woman had been blown across the room. She was a mess. There was blood on three walls. He stood perfectly still and listened. There were no running feet. No one was beating on the door. Perhaps he hadn't been heard. His next move was clothes. Joseph Pope's daytime suit wouldn't do. He was on the run until further notice. He selected a leather space jacket with built-up shoulders that was of ample enough cut to hide the Yasha. He pulled his spare IDs from under the carpet and stuffed them into his coat. The case and the detector could stay where they were. So could the 9mm. It had no serial number and the steriod woman's fingerprints were all over it. It would add a token confusion. At the door, he hesitated and hurried back to the bathroom. He grabbed the bag of eighty-eights, swallowed two and dropped the rest into his pocket.
He eased carefully into the corridor. It was always possible that the steriod woman had brought some backup. Nothing happened. There was no alarmed Plaza security or lurking bounty hunters. Vickers quietly closed the door and started toward the elevators. He turned a corner and was startled by a maid with her pushcart of mops, brooms, cleaning materials and fresh stationery. She looked at him with complete indifference. It seemed impossible but apparently she'd heard nothing.
Once inside the elevator, he felt safe enough to take his hand off the Yasha under his coat. Three floors down, a pair of middle-aged women filled the car with Chanel No. 5. They glanced at him briefly but again the looks were indifferent. Every time that he killed, he expected the first people he encountered to smell the death on him but they never did. He walked swiftly through the muted sparkle of the cut-glass lobby, whirled through the revolving doors and started down the steps. On the nearside of the street, yellow cabs were coming and going, on the far side, chauffeurs lounged against a line of limos. Beyond them, tourists sat on the steps of the fountain. A couple was feeding the pigeons. One of the Plaza doormen was looking enquiringly at him. Did he want a cab? Vickers realized that he had no plan. He hadn't thought ahead. He started toward the first available cab. It was a yellow Mercedes. There seemed to be more of them each time he came to New York. As he reached for the door handle, he spotted