Jazzbeaux watched her own back because Varoomschka sometimes gave the impression that she wondered if she could get ahead by making an opening for Acting War Chief.
The negotiation with the Daughters of the American Revolution was colossally important. Jazzbeaux shouldn't be conce with petty pickings. With two good-sized states to worry about, she should pass on by without rumbling the Josephites or just give them a light pasting to get their food and fuel. She had other blat to cover, major league blat. There was no need to take the time to beat up on the new pioneers.
But there was a man among them who was unafraid. That was a personal challenge.
"Vroomsh, who's the preachie with the shades?"
Varoomschka pressed a Red Star throat-mike cameo to her larynx and sub-vocalised. The CB translated her swallowed words into a metallic Hawking voice.
"Elder Seth, he says. Leader of the pack."
Sleepy Jane pulled over and the convoy slid smoothly to a halt. As she got out of the Tucker, Jazzbeaux was pleased to see the 'Pomps were still in formation as if for a parade. The chapter would make the late, genuinely lamented Ms Dazzle proud.
Elder Seth stood tall by Varoomschka, smiling just like her old man. On sight, Jazzbeaux knew she would have to take him down.
"Good ayem, preacher-man," she said, looking at her face in his mirrorshades. Even with the eyepatch, she was doubly cute. "My associate, Miss Porteous," she nodded at Sleepy Jane, "is the commandante of this desirable camping area, and we figure you owe her kopeck or two stop-over fee."
The Elder showed empty hands and said, "The Brethren of Joseph are poor. We have little money."
"Nichevo, we'll garner the fee in goods. Vroomsh, So Long, take around the collecting plate."
"Foul hagwitch of slutdom," protested a black-hatted pilgrim with a red face, starting forward.
Elder Seth held his arm out, preventing his follower from flying at Jazzbeaux, probably saving his life.
"Stay calm. Brother Wiggs. The sister will find her reward in Heaven."
"Darlin' dearest," she said, dimpling the underside of the Elder's chin with the sharpened point of her forefingernail extension, "I'd best find my reward in your pockets, else you'll be waiting for me by the time I get to Heaven."
"We have abjured pockets," Elder Seth said, calmly lecturing as if she weren't an eighth of an inch away from puncturing his carotid artery. "Pockets encourage possessions and we have abjured ownership of worldly things."
"You can vocalise that again, preachie."
Varoomschka and So Long Suin went among the resettlers and their ve-hickles, dropping scav into wire baskets as if spreeing down at X-Mart. The haul was pathetic. Josephites abjured rings, necklaces and earrings, so there was no jewellery. Their clothes didn't even have buttons. Only about one in ten had a watch, mainly cheap American Century dial-faces. The Brother who handed over a $5,000 Swiss Chronex was almost relieved, as if he no longer had to worry his fellow pilgrims would find out about his hoard. The mishkin even thanked Varoomschka for teaching him a valuable lesson.
"I could teach you a more valuable one if you'd let me, Studley," Varoomschka said, wriggling inside her cellophanelike wrapping, tongue-touching the tip of the Josephite's nose. From the man's crawling reaction, Jazzbeaux gathered these people abjured more than pockets.
She opened the Elder's jacket and found a wallet hanging on tags. It had a few meagre cashplastics and cards, but she kept it anyway.
"I don't parse you chelovieks," she told him. "Life has few enough pleasures. Why turn away from them?"
"One day, daughter, you will understand."
He had pushed the wrong button.
"I'm not, not, not your daughter, old man," she spat.
She looked at his face. It could be a half-mask under the shades for all the expression he showed.
But there was something in his voice. Soothing and threatening, sad and strange. When he called her "daughter", there was an echo of Bruno Bonney, RIP. The word was a lash.
She had to see his eyes. She had to make him human and taste his fear.
"I'll require these," she told him, reaching up and slipping the mirrorshades from his face.
He didn't even blink, though sun poured into his eyes. There was no fear. She couldn't read anything from the colourless ice-chips looking back at her single eye.
Jazzbeaux found she was the one blinking.
"Jessa-myn," Bruno said in her head, "c'mon over here and sit on Daddy's knee."
She looked at the shades. They were ordinary. She was sure they were cheap.
"Daddy won't hurt."
Bruno always lied about that.
The brother by Elder Seth's side – Wiggs, the Elder had called him – was burning with fear and rage. Jazzbeaux felt the brother's impotent need to hurt her, and it gave her a thrill. It almost made her feel sexy.
She had not been able to enjoy acts of love until her father was dead. She had needed to outgrow guilt and pain.
Elder Seth didn't show anything. Jazzbeaux could swear he didn't feel anything. She had thought her father was like that, but, in the end, she had made him feel too many things.
If the only way of getting a reaction out of someone was to rip out their throat, then Jazzbeaux was willing to go the distance. She tried the same stunt on Officer Rachael Harvest once and wound up with a cracked wrist.
She had to make the Elder's face flicker.
"Andrew Jean," she called out. "They must be hiding something. Bread-fruit trees or coffers of gold. Their whole lives are in the motorwagons."
Andrew Jean considered the question and agreed.
"Find the scav," Jazzbeaux ordered. "By any means necessary."
Andrew Jean saluted, shocking pink fingernails tipped to a beehive hairdo.
Jazzbeaux's lieutenant had a mean streak which sometimes went a mile too far. The paper on Andrew Jean listed a couple of murders Jazzbeaux would have been ashamed of. So she was usually careful about tasks she assigned in that directon.
Now Jazzbeaux was being wilful. What happened next would not strictly be her fault – she had issued no specific orders – and, indeed, Elder Seth would be as responsible as anyone else for the blood that was bound to be spilled.
Andrew Jean cut out a couple of the pioneers and jostled them into a bunch. Three men, youngish, anonymous, good-looking. Andrew Jean always had good taste in men. One was the cheloviek Varoomschka had shaken down for his watch.
"These pilgrims have names, preacher?"
Elder Seth nodded.
"Brother Akins, Brother Finnegan, Brother Dzundza."
"Cosy."
The Josephite's face was stone over a skull.
"Do you feel like divulging the whereabouts of your fabled stash? A fabulous treasure must he hidden in your transports. Think not that you can dupe the Psychopomps."
Without pleading, he told her, "There is no treasure."
She drew her Magnum LadyKill and hefted the pistol, resting the sight against the Elder's throat apple. The gun was a Christmas present from the ganggirls, with a sentiment inscribed on the grip.
"If wishing makes it so, tell yourself there's no ScumStopper in the chamber."
The LadyKill was a single-action weapon; it cocked and fired with one pull. A light touch and Elder Seth's head would vanish. Also, considering recoil, Jazzbeaux would crack her wrist again, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Andrew Jean prowled around the three Josephites, inspecting them, feeling up butts, flicking ears, tugging sleeves. Akins, the youngest, muttered a prayer.
One of the sisters struggled forwards to plead for the Elder's life. She was pushing forty and abjuring make-up was not a good policy decision for her.
"Sister Ciccone," Elder Seth said, silencing her, "take comfort. The Lord will know His own."
The sister sniffled but got back in line. There was something about her squinty eyes that didn't fit with the God Sqaud.