"Thank you."
"Don't encourage him, Peabody." Taking Mook's arm firmly in hand, she strode to the nearest private-table booth. As it was occupied by a couple of chemi-heads in the middle of an illegals deal, she kicked the tube, flashed her badge. Jerked her thumb.
They slithered out and away like smoke.
"This is cozy." She settled in. "Watch the door, Peabody, and we'll keep this quick and private. Who's in the poison business these days, Mook?"
"I'm not your weasel."
"A fact that has always brought me joy and cheer. As does the fact I can put you in solitary lockup for those thirty-six hours during which time your life will not be the living hell you know and love. The Reverend Munch is dead as Hitler, Mook, and so are all his merry men, but for you."
"I testified," he reminded her. "I gave the Feds all the info."
"Yeah, you did. Seemed like mass suicide was just a little over the top even for someone with your particular appetites. But you never told them who provided that curare and cyanide cocktail the reverend mixed up with the lemonade for his congregation."
"I was low on the feeding chain. I told them what I knew."
"And the feebies were satisfied. But you know what? I'm not. Give me a name, and I walk out of your sick and pitiful life. Hold out on me, and I'll be coming down here, or whatever cesspool you try to frequent, every fucking day. Every day, interrupting your S&M games until orgasms are just a fond and distant memory for you. Every time you try to get off, jack off, whack off, I'll be there spoiling the fun. Come on, Mook, it's been what... better than ten years since the cult offed itself. What do you care?"
"I was sucked in. I was brainwashed—"
"Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. Who brought in the poison?"
"I don't know who he was. They just called him the doctor. Only saw him once. Skinny guy. Old."
"Race?"
"White-bread, through and through. I figure he drank the shit, too."
"Did he?"
"Look." Mook looked around, and though they were in the tube, lowered his voice. "Most people, they don't remember what went down back there; they don't know about it. People find out I was in the Church of Hereafter, they get all weirded out."
She glanced around as well, taking in the screams, the writhing bodies. "Oh yeah, I can see how people acting weird would be a major concern for you. Spill."
"What's it worth?"
Eve pulled out twenty credits, slapped it on the nail-head-sized table.
"Shit, Dallas, that don't buy me an hour VR time. Give me a frigging break."
"Take it. Or leave it and we'll stop being so friendly and go into Central. You won't see Madam Electra and her many exquisite tortures for thirty-six, minimum."
He looked sad, sitting there in his studded dog collar. "Why you gotta be such a bitch?"
"Mook, I ask myself that very question every morning. Never have come up with a satisfactory answer."
He scooped up the twenty, tucked it into his cock sheath. "Want you to remember I helped you out."
"Mook, how could I ever forget you?"
"Right." He looked around, through the smoky glass of the booth. Licked his lips. "Okay, right. Nothing coming down on me about this shit, right?"
"Not a thing."
"Well, see ... I was going to tell the Feebs everything, total cooperation."
"Get to it, Mook. I have a life to get back to."