Angry jasper: Thirteen

Madame Pie was in her study. Some tinny-sounding Cambodian Pop music was playing. She was facing the window and the garden beyond from a small chair. The garden was lit by the filtered sun so that all the colors were accentuated in dramatic pastels. Out past the garden and through a pair of red leafed crabapple trees the ring curved gently upwards into a bank of puffy white clouds. Madame Pie was covered in a broadly woven black wool shawl. There were crumpled tissues around her. She had been crying, and wanted everyone to know that she had.

Her hair was straight and gray, curving up gently at the ends just above her small shoulders. She glanced over her shoulder, acknowledging Jazz in the least possible way. He could see that she was not an attractive woman by any means. The years, he mused to himself, had not been kind to her. And those years, Jazz figured, began well before she was born.

Jazz disliked her right off. He hated rich folks as a matter of course. They didn’t know what hard work really was, and Jazz resented that more than anything. Sure, they might have done something menial once upon a time, but never out of necessity. They didn’t know the ache of exhaustion in the pit of their back, or the strain in a body unsure of where its next meal would come from or the trepidation that one day a body would just give out. She turned and regarded him as if he was a rat or some low thing that had just crept through the door, and to be honest, that’s just about how he felt.

“You’re mister Jasper?” she sort of sneered, indignant. “Thought you’d be more, well, impressive.”

He chafed under her stare and had a mind to grab his crotch and tell her he had something impressive for her. “Could have picked someone else.”

“You come highly recommended.” She looked him up and down. “Though it is difficult to see why.”

“A toilet ain’t particularly pretty,” he smirked, brushing away dust just to annoy her, “but it gets the job done.”

The analogy sounded much better in his head.

Madame Pie stood. She was a frail woman. She held onto the chair for balance. “I don’t like you Mister Angry or Jasper. You are a low creature; crude and filthy.”

“On good days.”

“Putrid and vulgar and disgu…”

He cut her off. “Make it a whole lot easier to handle your insults if I knew how much you’re willing to pay.”

Madame Pie almost seemed shocked by his callousness. “And that’s all this is you, money. Isn’t that right?”

“Well, I was hoping you and I would hit it off. Maybe I could swing by for weekends, golf on the green, supper by the pool. I might even let you paint my toenails while we told secrets about the other girls.”

Her jaw tightened. Madame Pie was never one to tolerate insolent servants. “Money is of no concern.”

“Money is of great concern to me.”
“No doubt,” she grimaced. “I imagine it helps to keep you in swill and low women.”
Jazz smirked. “Sure helps.”

“I’ll get to the point, so we can minimize the mutual suffering of each other’s company. My husband had business on Earth. My son accompanied him. They were shot down over rebel territory yesterday. I have reason to believe my son is still alive. I want him returned to me.”

“What about your husband.”

“He was well insured.”

“Bet you’re a riot in the sack.”
“Not your type I’m afraid. I don’t have fleas.” He started to reply, but she cut him off with a curt wave of her long thing pale hand. “I have reason to believe he is being held by the rebels.”

Jazz scoffed. “It’s a suicide mission!”

“I’m prepared to pay one hundred thousand credits. Half now, and half when my child is safely returned.”

“Earth. Rebels. Death. I wouldn’t go down there to piss on your kid if his head was on fire for a hundred thousand.”

“That’s more money that you’re likely to see in a lifetime in your life of work.”

“Dead men don’t need money.”

“Might use it to,” she looked him up and down again, “bathe, for a start.”

“Think I’ll be doing this forever?” Jazz shot back. He’d had just about enough of her condescending attitude. “I got dreams, lady. I got plans, and they don’t include going on a suicide mission to save your brat!”

Truth was, jazz didn’t have any dreams, not that he could recall anyway. He might have hoped once that he and Katy would be together, with some dream job like flying freighters around the solar system. Now, he was just trying not to die completely broke, and keep busy enough to put off thinking about his sad, sad life for too long.

Madame Pie laughed spitefully. “Oh, how the poor cling so dearly to dreams and pale hopes. Pathetic creatures so robbed of hope they hold to trinkets and the dulcet commiseration of fellow pathetiques. Blessed are those who fight our wars and clean our toilets. Sad, sad, Mister Jasper.”

“If that’s all then, I’ll be going.” Jazz started for the door.

“Two hundred thousand,” she said.”

“Good luck to you,” he replied without looking back.

“Three hundred thousand.”

Jazz stopped dead in his tracks. He swung around and tugged at the collors of his jacket, straightening them.

“I’ll start tomorrow.”

Jazz pulled the door open and paused. There was one more thing.

“How will I recognize…”

“Trust me, Mister Jazz, there will be no mistaking my son.”