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It’s the weedy ones who think they have something to prove by taking a run at him, Jet thinks as he plucks the knife out of his left elbow and turns a fearsome glare on the weedy guy in a leather spacer jacket, who now looks like he’s regretting his choices but is not ready to back down. His bigger, beefier buddy, having assessed the situation a bit more soberly, has unfortunately already drawn a gun.
The café was quiet, hours past the dinner rush and hours yet before curfew will close the pachinko lounge across the concourse and send its clientele to detox with coffee and pie at Jet’s – or down the concourse to Jenny’s for a more lively cool down into the wee hours. The quiet meant Jet couldn’t ignore the plinky plonky tune coming from one of the booths on the far wall punctuated with shucks howdy and a chipper exclamation about the lucky cowboy who lands this big fish. He looked past the slick customer standing at the counter with his hands creasing the pants pockets of a tailored suit and eyeballed the two characters hunched over a screen in the booth.
The suit was examining the menu like a Martian marriage contract with a hidden monetary loophole. He looked out of place for the outer ring of Halfway Station. Could be tourist or a lost businessman wandering the docks on a stopover, but something about his confident slouch said dangerous to Jet. Not currently a risk, but with potential for trouble. Probably gangs then, possibility the scion of a mafioso. He looked a little too smooth to be simple muscle or a wetworker, Jet thought. He has really nice hair.
“Take a seat, take your time,” Jet told the suit. He set a cup of coffee at a place setting at the long counter and pointed at the stool in front of it to encourage the guy to sit down and stop making Jet nervous, tucked his towel into the waistband of his apron and flattened his palms on the counter. He turned toward the dumbbells in the booth and fixed them with a glare.
“Hey,” he bellowed in the penetrating voice he perfected as a beat cop on the decks of Callisto Station. The three old women playing Ganymede mahjong in the corner window booth stopped their chatter and looked away from their game to watch the drama.
“Oooh, Jet doesn’t like cowboys,” Jinghua said.
“Mmmmm mmm,” Jane said. Juanita shuffled her tiles. The two men in the booth flicked their eyes away from their screen, one cranking his head around toward Jet at his counter. Jet pointed at the sign over the register with it’s bold: No drugs, no johns, NO bounty hunters.
“None of that shit in here. I’m going to generously assume you’re just curious about Big Shot. Turn it off or get out,” Jet said. The weedy guy's pale complexion flushed angry red around his collar.
“What’s your problem, man.”
“I don’t have a problem. But you’re going to have a problem if you keep playing that honky tonk bounty bullshit in my joint. No. Bounties. No cowboy business in the café. Do we have understanding?” The beefcake is already reaching to shutdown the pad, placating hands raised.
“No problems here. We heard this was the place for intel and connections. Honest misunderstanding,” the big guy said, but his friend coudn’t give it up, pulling the pad out of reach still blaring chipper descriptions of open bounties in its hokum, woman-objectifying style. Out of the corner of his eye, Jet could see the suit had swiveled around to watch the drama unfold, still egregiously stretching the line of his expensive pants.
“We’re going to finish our coffee and our business, and the barista can mind his,” said the thin guy from his booth.
Jet slapped his hand on the counter and circled around it, heading toward the problem table. Which brings us up to the present moment, in which the weedy guy has taken a swipe at Jet with a knife and had the luck to catch the articulated joint of Jet’s prosthetic. It doesn’t hurt in the way the bounty hunter intended, but it has broken something probably expensive inside his arm. Jet’s thumb won’t close on his left hand, so he can’t grab the guy by the collar and smack his head into the wall the way he’d like. Jet ends up punching him in throat with his open hand. Now his smarter partner has a gun on Jet, and a third person has emerged from the back hall, dropping the restroom key on the floor and going for their gun. Jet has to admit, the third partner could be a problem.
And suddenly the beefcake’s gun hand is flying up, the gun soaring into the air and a polished leather shoe heel headed straight for his chin with a solid thwack. A saltshaker smacks the newcomer between the eyes before he can get his gun up and he falls backward, landing with a startled yelp on his ass. The suit completes his balletic high kick with a slide and a twist that brings his other foot around to neatly hook the big man’s ankle and pull his feet out from under him. The big bounty hunter’s head snaps back from the force of the kick. He goes down like a sack of rice. The weedy dude who started the trouble is on his knees gasping and clutching at his throat. Jet sighs irritably and smacks the guy in the head with his open metal hand to keep him down.
“I don’t allow nonsense in here. No altercations, no bounties, no backtalk,” he says to the room at large in his do-not-test-me cop voice. The suit raises an eyebrow at him. Jet scoffs and squelshs the urge to growl at him. “No violence in the café.”
Jet gestures angrily at the robot server in the corner and it rolls forward.
“Take out the trash?” it asks. Jet doesn’t know how the thing got to be a smartass. He turns to survey the mess. Some blood, one broken mug and an overturned chair. Not too bad. The majong ladies have crawled back out from where they had taken refuge under the table and are resettling themselves, bickering about resetting their game.
“Maybe just a little violence. Judiciously applied,” says the suit. If he turns out to be Syndicate, Jet will be very disappointed.
“I had it under control.”
“Sure,” the man says. “But what about me? I can’t just stand here. It would be rude.” Something in his demeanor suggests he means it would be rude to leave me out of the fun. He holds out his hand, Mars style. “Spike Spiegel.” Jet only rolls his eyes a little bit. Far be it from him to criticize a man’s chosen pseudonym. He shakes Spike of the spiky hair’s hand.
“Jet Black. Welcome to the Bebop.” He turns to the impatient little server bot. Honestly, how is it possible for a robot to be impatient? “Yes, okay Ein, let’s take out the trash.” They dump the problem against a planter in the corridor. It’s part of a beautification scheme for the docks.
“Seems like their luck has run out,” Spike says, looking over Jet’s shoulder as Jet, one-handed, drags the big guy into the corridor but doing nothing to help. Jet sighs another sigh. He is destined to be surrounded by beautiful useless people.
The big guy is coming around. Jet generously allows him to pick up his friend from the restroom and slink off down the concourse, blinking through what is likely a monstrous headache. He leaves his little buddy in the leather jacket behind, mutter darkly about lessons. Jet sends a text suggestion to station security about trash pickup and stalks back inside and back around behind his counter.
Spike sits at the counter and picks up the coffee, still steaming. “So. How about those spicy sesame noodles?”
Outside, the cops have arrived to sweep up the mess. Jet feels no nostalgia, watching the flickering blue lights. He turns up Thelonious Monk on the sound system and pulls himself an expresso. He lets his temper burn down to coals. Spike starts up a conversation about the docks, the alcohol and gambling curfew, the late-night wildlife, and Jet knows Spike’s pumping him for information, but he doesn’t mind. He has opinions about Halfway Station management. They’re still talking when Faye comes in for the swing shift wearing a Jet’s t-shirt she has shrunk to child-size.
“Put on an apron, woman, we have health and safety regulations,” he grumbles at her. It’s a rote argument and she just waves him off.
“If you showed your titties, you’d get more tips too, Jet,” she says. “Get out of here, I can’t stand any more sad trombone music tonight.” Jet doesn’t bother to argue classic jazz instrumentation with her. He stands up from his lean against the counter.
Spike is pushing away from the counter on the other side and slinging his jacket over his shoulder. He’s smirking, but not looking at Faye. His eyes lazily slide up Jet’s chest and Jet is hit with an unfamiliar feeling of uncertainty.
“You walking out?” Spike asks.
“I’ve got to set up for breakfast,” Jet says. “Start the cinnamon rolls.” Spike nods and vanishes out the door with a wave. Jet walks into kitchen and stares at the wall. Cinnamon rolls? What is wrong with me? He must have said that out loud because Faye laughs from the coffee station.
--+--
It’s only a week before Jet learns an upset chair and a few belligerent bozos is really the minimum chaos for an evening in Spike’s company. And another two years before he figures out how to take Spike up on that offer. Or rather, Spike runs out of patience. But that’s another story.
See you space cowboy…