Worth Every Penny by Martin Lochman

I recognized my client as soon as I stepped into the bar. He was sitting at a small table in the corner of the room across from the entrance with his back against the wall which gave him a very nice overview of everything going on in the establishment. He was smoking an acetylene cigarette which – combined with the close-to-nonexistent lighting and a flickering neon sign advertising the crazy newest flavor of GalaxyCoke hanging above his head – was giving him a slightly demonic appearance.

There was no doubt that he already spotted and identified me – meaning that my chances of backing out of the deal evaporated like water on a hot stove. Don’t get me wrong, I had worked for a rather colorful collection of weird individuals over the course of my “career” but never for anyone who resembled a fellow human being about as much as a candle resembles a nuclear power plant.

The physical characteristics of my client were not the only thing that had made me rather reluctant when accepting the arrangement. There were certain elements that could be considered rather peculiar to say the least, such as the choice of the meeting place, the exaggerated emphasis on confidentiality and most importantly the obscene amount of money I was supposed to receive upon successful completion.

To get back at least half of my original resolve, I decided to focus on that.

Those few seconds that I spent hesitating did not go unnoticed by the bartender who looked me over head to toe, then looked at the rest of the patrons of this fine establishment and then back at me whilst asking: “Can I help you with something?”

Rather than going into detail about how I was currently contemplating my life choices and whether or not I should draw a line when it came to my work, I shook my head and replied with a simple “no, thanks” and started walking towards the table in the corner.

Once closer, I noticed that there was a sizeable black duffel bag on the floor at the foot of the table and a smaller egg-shaped metal carrier on the chair next to my client. The latter unquestionably contained the object of my upcoming engagement.

“May I buy you a shot of whiskey?” I said, making sure to carefully pronounce every word, and not waiting for an answer I sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the table.

He locked his cold reptilian eyes with mine, not saying anything which made me wonder if I had perhaps messed up the password or – in the worst case scenario – he really wasn’t my client and I was about to be torn to pieces on the spot.

I mean, I am not racist or xenophobic and I consider myself to be quite open-minded about different cultures, races and species across the Galaxy but sitting practically in the personal space of someone who was two and a half meters tall and outweighed me by good two hundred kilograms made my imagination run in a very undesired direction.

“Of course, but only if you add some dead rats,” he pronounced the second part of the password after three excruciatingly long seconds.

Despite the fact that he was obviously trying to whisper, his voice rumbled like an engine of a small spacecraft and judging by the perplexed and disgusted expressions of some of the bar patrons, could be also heard in about a ten meter radius. I gave them the kind of smile that people usually give when they are in presence of someone who is not fully in possession of their mental faculties and hoped that they would continue minding their own business.

“I am glad you accepted my offer, Mr Gallagher,” he said flatly.

“Of course,” I nodded.

That apparently concluded the small talk portion of our conversation, since he asked next: “Do you have any questions about your task?”

The truth was that I had about a hundred but none of them was directly related to the task itself. For a split second I considered asking why he insisted on using a verbal password – especially since something as ridiculous I had seen only in movies from the prehistoric age – but then I thought better of it.

So I simply shrugged my shoulders: “No questions, everything understood.”

“Excellent,” he said and nodded towards the duffel bag on the floor. “As discussed in our previous communication, you will require specific tools.”

“May I?” I asked since based on what he had described earlier I had only a vague idea what most of those specific tools really looked like.

My client leaned forward and extended his left arm to pick up the bag which allowed me to take a very close look at the five-centimeter long claws stemming from each of his six fingers. The hand slammed shut around the strap and the bag was in one fluid motion transported on the table. Then he unzipped one of the pockets and lifted the cover with one of his claws to allow me to take a peek inside.

Over the course of those few moments when I was staring inside the bag, I became utterly convinced that this was going to be one of the most challenging jobs that I had ever had done. My mind quickly revisited the idea of withdrawing from it before being promptly reminded that such action would – taking into account my counterpart’s innate characteristics – probably result in me losing one or two limbs.

Before I could finish pondering without which one of my extremities I could probably still live, my client suddenly closed the back and put it back on the floor.

“Everything okay?” I asked but instead of an answer his eyes flashed warning.

I am usually very good at being aware of my surroundings which is why saying that the bartender’s sudden appearance at our table caught me off guard would be a gross understatement. It was as if the guy literally materialized out of thin air.

“What can I get you?” he asked, boredom seeping out of his voice.

I looked up to see that his voice perfectly matched his expression which read something along the lines of: I know that there is some underhanded shit going on here but I couldn’t care less.

“Water, please,” I blurted out.

Apparently my choice of beverage was somewhat inappropriate, since the bartender raised his eyebrows and shook head in disbelief. For a second it also looked like he was going to make a comment, perhaps telling me that ordering water in a place like this is a personal insult, but then he simply sighed, shrugged and walked away.

“I trust that you are capable of handling them?” my client asked inquisitively, completely disregarding the fact that the last few moments had made us look beyond suspicious.

“Absolutely,” I said doing my best to sound convincing.

This seemed to have reassured him somewhat. “Very well. I will meet you at this exact location tomorrow at 15:00. Provisions and accommodation are provided; I will send you the address and the access code momentarily. Now, as for the payment…”

In that moment, I felt like a weight of a small asteroid has just been lifted off my shoulders and the level of adrenaline in my blood started getting back to normal.

“You shall receive half of it immediately and the second half once the task is complete.”

As if to demonstrate his words, he reached for his wrist computer and pressed a couple of buttons. Barely a second later, my own computer let out a silent beep announcing that a transaction has been received. I quickly checked the screen and noted a rather nice increase in my current balance.

I nodded in acknowledgment.

He slowly got up from the chair and I did the same. His head was nearly touching the ceiling and it felt like the entire room just got smaller.

“If you experience any difficulties, call me,” he said and extended his right paw which had roughly the circumference of my trunk. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr Gallagher!”

After a moment’s hesitation I accepted it, not wanting to insult him. Even though he was most certainly using only a fragment of his true strength, it felt like I just put my hand in an industrial crusher and the shaking movement almost dislocated my shoulder.

“Likewise,” I breathed out once my hand was released.

Meeting nearly finished, he turned to the side and with a surprising gentleness picked up the metal carrier. For a brief moment he just held it, staring at it with an expression that I was unable to identify, and then he carefully handed it to me.

“Don’t forget,” he said just as he was about to leave and pointed his index finger up.

Oh-huh, I thought and held my breath in anticipation.

“She must be asleep by eight o’clock the latest. And make sure to warm up the milk to forty degrees.”

“No worries,” I said and peered inside the carrier at a little creature that bore strong resemblance to its imposing parent. It was watching me intently and baring its tiny teeth in what I assumed was a happy smile.

“No worries at all!”

—

Martin Lochman is an emerging author who lives in Malta and works as an academic librarian at the University of Malta Library. He has published one short story in Ikarie, a Czech science fiction literary magazine, and several flash fiction stories in various anthologies and on 365tomorrows.com.