Shadowboxer Read Online Free PDF Page A

phrase it as a question. “Eighty-thousand nuyen. Half now, half upon completion. Satisfactory?”
    Mentally, Two Bears whistled. Not bad. “Sounds good, my man. By when?”
    “Asap.”
    Oh, in a rush, eh? “As-soon-as-possible costs extra, Mr. Johnson.”
    There wasn’t a flicker or a pause, as if his caller was expecting a little bargaining. It didn’t matter what the cobbler looked like, Two Bears knew there were VR programs to make a man look like a woman over a telecom, turn an elf into a dwarf, or even a motherfragging dragon into a mermaid. Hard as it was to believe that anybody could be as handsome as a dwarf! And by the way this Johnson was throwing nuyen around, he figured there was probably a corp involved.
    “One hundred and twenty then,” said the Mr. Johnson. “But no more.”
    Inspecting his fingernails for a tick, Two Bears managed to conceal his elation with a poker face honed by years of pretending his four acres and a bullet were complete drek. One hundred and twenty kay? Oh, momma!
    “Accepted,” he said. “Scheduled reports?”
    “Call when you have something.” Or don’t report at all, was the implied message. And that was chill with Two Bears. Nothing he hated worse than offering a customer a fistful of nothing.
    “How can I get in touch?” he asked.
    A number scrolled along the bottom of the telecom screen. “Got that logged?”
    That particular circuit was out of order on the old telecom, had been for months, so Two Bears just nodded yes while constantly repeating the number to himself.
    “Goodbye then,” said Johnson. “I expect to hear from you soon.”
    Looking stoic, Two Bears nodded and bowed formally, and as soon as the screen was clear, he hurriedly jotted the telecom code down in his pocket secretary. Then he leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling and ruminating. Hmm, IronHell. Could be anything, the name of a ship, the tag of some street samurai, the title of a bookchip, model of a European car—hell, where to start? Hey, amigo, he told himself. The best place is always to start simple.
    Pressing a button on his desk, Two Bears heard his words echo over the soft jazz playing for the skaters. “Louie to the office, please. Louie to the office.”
    Moments later, an old dwarf poked his lumpy head through the door. His distorted features were more lumpy than even dwarfs thought attractive. With shoulders' like a troll and fists large as anvils, Louie had been a former heavyweight champ until losing four matches in a row via brutal knockouts. Maybe the bouts were fixed, maybe not. Two Bears had never been able to find out one way or the other. So now Louie was retired and sometimes didn’t show for work because he plain forgot where the place was. Two Bears tolerated such lapses from Blue Lou the Miami Mauler even though he wasn’t a relative, because the guy was such a hard worker when he eventually got here. Besides, the kids loved to hear his tales of the ring. Most of them true.
    “Somet’ing wrong, boss?” mumbled the champ. He didn’t appear frightened or nervous. Just curious.
    A smile. “Nah, nothing like that, Lou. Just a question.”
    “Sure, Mr. Two Bears. What?”
    “You ever hear of something, or some guy, named IronHell?”
    Rheumy eyes blinked in confusion, old synapses firing wildly to access biological data banks battered and abused. “That da southpaw from Hialeah?”
    Two Bears forces a cough to hide his laugh. “Don’t think it’s a boxer, killer.”
    Grimacing from the effort, Louie’s face brightened. “Oh, yeah. I scan it now. Dat’s a secret pirate base ’n da Caribbean! My gramma useta tell us stories about it.”
    Oh, for the love of drek. The old guy was off on another magical mystery tour again. Pirates were the bane of Miami’s existence, preying on both tourist and merchant craft. But what would Louie, much less his grandmother, know about them? “Great! Thanks, Louie. Go grab a soykaf and take ten.”
    “Tanks,