FRENCHY

by George Olney

  FRENCHY

  BY

  G. W. OLNEY

  To Nevada Gal, the lady that made sure Frenchy was a lady.

  Copyright 2013 by the author. All rights reserved.

  Cover art by Al Sirois.

  PROLOGUE

  The tall, heavily-muscled man flattened himself against the wall, willing his body to total immobilization as he listened tensely for any sound alien to the night. As carefully as he listened, it was still difficult for him to hear the shallow breathing of the woman next to him.

  He allowed himself the luxury of a brief moment of pride. The woman was a part of him in a way that was not understandable outside his culture. She was literally the other half of his being. She had no training in this sort of thing prior to their bonding, but now she was as good any Agent

  They both better be good tonight.

  Their lives depended on it.

  Somnolent. It paralyzed the will and created a pliable automaton out of any form of intelligent life. Victims were unable to do the most basic tasks without orders, including eating or drinking. Without those orders, they died slowly.

  Somnolent was once used to accomplish the worst case of planetary piracy in history. A megalomaniac of frightening ability named Mohs managed to dose the water system on Derwell. The drug created millions of starving and dehydrating sleepwalkers, incapable of resistance as their homes and businesses were looted. By the time help arrived, over a billion people were either dead or too far gone to save. It took years, but Mohs and every one of his accomplices were hunted down by the Enforcement Arm. Because of that, Somnolent was forever banned.

  Now smugglers were bringing Somnolent into Galactic worlds in population-destroying quantities once again and the Arm was going to stop it. The two of them were here tonight, drifting down the dark alley like fluttering paper blown by the wind as part of that mission.

  The soft scuff of a shoe on the pavement jerked his thoughts back to the task at hand. It was a smuggler. No friendlies around here tonight. He shifted his grip on the knife hilt slightly as the old familiar thrill tingled his nerves. There was an explosion of almost soundless action as they were jumped. It was a group of them. Ambush!

  No guns, just knives and clubs. This was an attempt at capture.

  Silently, blades flashed in the dark as he felled the first one and the woman dropped the second. There were just too many. They had to break contact and get out.

  His concentration on the battle broke for a second as he saw the woman go down. He screamed something and jumped toward her, ignoring anything else. A sunburst of pain exploded in his head as someone's blade slashed his face, ruining his left eye.

  As he slipped into unconsciousness, he was wishing death for both the woman and himself.

  #####

  The man slowly clawed his way back to reality. His first feeling was the throbbing pain in his face. His fingers gingerly discovered the crusted blood surrounding the ruined eye socket. A further examination revealed the eye was gone, but no other injuries. So, okay, he was out an eye.

  He'd had worse in the past and still finished a mission.

  He would finish this one.

  Stoically ignoring the pain, he closely examined the poorly worked jagged grey stone walls of the room in which he found himself. At least he was alive and he was due to be here for a while if the plastic bucket in the corner, pot of water, and bowl of some nondescript gruel were any indication.

  So he was a prisoner. He was more worried about his bondsmate.

  #####

  Days flowed into weeks, or so he thought. It was hard to tell time using only bodily functions and the irregular arrival of food and water. The latter was shoved through a small trap door, the bucket replaced the same way, so he never came in contact with his jailers. Following long tribal custom, he was silent and so, for their part, were they. The only good thing about this period was it gave his body time to knit, time to get used to the loss of binocular vision that went with losing one eye.

  Finally, the door opened.

  Framed in the doorway was a powerfully built man in expensive robes. On closer examination, he decided his heavyset visitor was in decline. The sharp edges of his visitor's features were beginning to blur. The man gave him an arrogant, confident look that bordered on a sneer. "Just came for a look-see," he said. "Always want to find out what my new help looks like."

  The leader laughed with an unpleasant grating sound. He was probably the top man in the smuggler organization. That made him the one he'd been sent to find and eliminate. Well, he'd found him. "So that's what you look like," the smuggler said. "You'll work for me with a will. She already is."

  These last words made the one-eyed man freeze. A sudden suspicion dawned in his mind and he was terrified. He did his best not to show it, but the smuggler chief seemed to be able to read his mind. "I have friends that can make you do it. Millions on millions of microscopic friends. It was easy to have them go to work on her. In fact it was fun."

  Just to reinforce his meaning, the chief added with a broad leer, "That was a good piece you were keeping to yourself, you know that? She yelled and fought a lot. Took three guys to hold her down for me."

  The one eyed man ignored these taunts. There was a brief horrified vision of his bondsmate, the other half of his soul, being brutally raped. He put it to the back of his mind. Training and his nature took over, forcing him to keep a clear head. There would be time for all things, he promised, including the death of this smuggler and all with him.

  He had to struggle with another, vastly more terrifying thought. A word kept running through his mind like a broken record.

  Escetepus.

  It was the one thing that could panic any intelligent being in the galaxy. Fiercely, showing no sign of the struggle, he fought back his own fears, rational and irrational.

  Under control again, he calmly surveyed the chief, visualizing what he would do to him if he had a dull knife.

  Again, the chief seemed able to read his mind. This time, what he saw was not to his liking. "My men’ll be here for you soon," he snarled, then slammed the door to his cell.

  They were coming for him.

  Good. That was the only way out.

  He had to be careful. Lack of contact had kept him free of the disease, or so he hoped. He didn’t believe the smuggler was close enough for the disease to infect him by aerosol methods, but escetepus was nothing to take lightly. Smugglers had handled the door. Unlikely as it was, it might be contaminated. Gingerly avoiding the doorway, he worked his way around his cell to the corner nearest the door, turning so his back was to the joining of the walls. Using hands and bare feet, he was able to get a purchase on the roughhewn, slightly jagged surface and began to inch his way up, stopping after about six feet. Then he dropped back to the floor.

  He could do it. Now to wait.

  #####

  When the two men came for him, they were expecting almost any trick except the one he used. He launched himself from the upper corner near the ceiling, grabbing the back of their heads before they could do more than glance in the cell. Two snapped necks, and he had a bolt pistol in his hands and was gone down the corridor and up the only staircase visible, running as fast as possible.

  Speed was the only thing on his side. Get out of here before they realized he was free.

  He was sure he was beginning to carry escetepus, given the time he was in the cell. If he was still in the city, he might make it to decontamination before the disease got fully established in his system.

  Might make it.

  If not, the Arm would give him a painless death.

  As he ran, he saw an open office with windows on its wall. He charged in, racing for the windows. The smuggler chief was there. Other men.

  An
d so was she.

  Barely stopping, he fired. His bolt smashed the chief.

  As fast as he was, she was nearly as fast. Her draw slowed her and saved his life, because her return bolt just missed his dodging figure. He wasted a shot, but she was down under cover. The others were also beginning to fire back.

  He had no time for a gunfight. He couldn’t win it, anyhow. Keep moving. He dashed for the window and dived through the static field without worrying about how high up he was.

  He was fortunate. It was a ground floor window on a crowded city street, and one near the local Arm office. He stood a chance of getting away.

  As he sprinted down the street, he knew he was leaving a task undone.

  Now that the disease had her, he was going to have to kill her. It was the only act of love left to him.

  Once she was dead, then he would be free. He could kill himself.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was just another night, another dance, another dive into the bottle.

  Looking past the smoky glare of stage lights, she surveyed the upraised faces of her audience with half-shut eyes. She wasn't getting the detached look strippers usually got, not in this booze induced fantasy world of hers. Softened by the haze of her alcoholic buzz, the intent men looked appreciative as she slowly gyrated before them. She noticed the big guy with the pony tail and eye patch was down in the pit again.

  How long had he been coming to the club? Weeks, or months?

  Not months, she couldn't remember that long any more.

  Shrugging her G-string past hips getting a bit too wide, she spun on the pole slowly, a false smile fixed on her face. Without seeming to, she scanned the room, looking for someone willing to buy her a drink. That was important. Not only was it free booze, but the club paid her for each one she caged.

  Watching the sea of male eyes, she enjoyed one of the few pleasures she got from stripping: control. She owned these men. She had all of their attention. She was their fantasy but none of them could have her. If she wanted a man, she chose him herself and used him, like they all wanted to use her. It was the only good thing about this job and she enjoyed teasing, then denying, the desire she saw so plainly their faces.

  The man with the eye patch, she noticed, showed nothing. He simply watched her and occasionally hit his drink.

  She finished her set, picked up her G-string and pulled her tips from the garter on her left thigh. Then she headed for the little dressing room she shared with five other girls without bothering to dress, such as it was. She could feel eyes following her, but it didn't matter. Who cared?

  She shut the door and sat on a folding chair for a few minutes, too depressed to even bother putting her G-string back on. She glanced at the face looking back at her from the spotted mirror. Perking up and smiling like she did in her professional photos, she decided the mature woman in the mirror with the shoulder-length mane of wavy bleached blonde hair, blue eyes and regular features was still a knock out. She looked again, knew with brutal self-criticism where each tiny wrinkle lined her face, and slumped back down.

  The mirror showed a half-drunk bottle blonde, tall, big boned with a spectacular figure to match. That figure could still make some of the second class skin magazines and sites, but the extra pounds were obvious, especially to the camera. Those pounds were the result of too much booze and not much real dancing. Mostly, she just moved around like the other girls did. Neither the camera nor the mirror was kind to her any longer.

  She tried to flatter herself that she looked worldly, not worn down by alcohol and life. Brutally, she decided the worldly image was pure bullshit. Things were starting to go and she wondered how long she had left in the business. She was getting old. She said she was twenty-nine, and passed for that sometimes. She was really nearing thirty-six and forty was banging on the door. She might have lasted longer if she was still on the legitimate stage, but she was getting too old for a stripper.

  No going back to the stage, either. Not now.

  She thought briefly of the seventeen year old ninth grade dropout that got off the Hollywood bus with youthful dreams and a deadly serious adult determination to get what she wanted. Finding LeRoy was a godsend. He got her extra and walk-on parts in B movies, then helped her make enough to get dancing lessons and discover an ability that still consumed her dreams when she let it. Lots of jobs for a while after that, always in the chorus, never the lead. She didn't have the right connections for star status, just a couple of friends, but it was a decent life.

  Taking the amateur night strip contest on a dare led to job offers and more money than she ever made before on the legitimate stage. There were still movie jobs between stripping gigs, but they slowly became body double substitutions for nude scenes or bikini-in-the-background things. Nobody had called her for a part in the last couple of years.

  She wondered where that seventeen year old girl and her dreams had gone. LeRoy was gone too, dead now. A little misty-eyed, she silently wished him well, wherever he was.

  The thought left her wallowing in that familiar feeling, depression. Here she was, mid-thirties, no formal education worth a damn, no skill except dancing and her only asset, her body, was headed downhill. She was still the star of the show, but she could feel the slide begin, gravity gaining on her. Men still wanted to buy her drinks, but the crowd was getting rougher and the places she worked were getting sleazier. She felt like crying.

  To hell with it! Just get another drink and forget it until tomorrow. The genie in the bottle could help her make it through another twenty-four hours.

  One of these days she was going to kill herself. She was too much of a coward to do it now. Hope was for Pollyannas, not her.

  "Hey, Frenchy! Stop sittin' on that fat ass of yours. Get out there and hustle it if you want this job." The brutal voice belonged to Rocco, the club bouncer, and the face matched the voice. He was the floor boss to the girls in the club, a fat, disgusting slob that openly bragged of the "meat show" on the stage and the girls at his disposal. He was also looking around the door at her.

  "All right, keep your shirt on," she snarled at him. "I'm comin' now."

  "Just so you take yours off," he guffawed as he slammed the dressing room door.

  "And my name's JoAnn, damn it!" she screamed at the closed door. For some reason, his use of her nickname irritated her. It was as if he was using something of hers without her permission. As she put her G-string on and topped it with a filmy shirt, she made a disgusted face at the thought of that slobbering, bullying bastard and every other jerk that came to the club. God, she hated men!

  Finally, she took a deep breath and walked back into the main room. A few more drinks and she'd be in another world. She ignored Sandi’s look. She hated men and most strippers with that attitude turned to women, but Sandi's promise held no appeal for her.

  She wandered through the room, being fairly successful in conning drinks from the customers. She even managed to look reasonably sober for her sets. At some point, she found herself settled at the table with the man with the eye patch. There was something about him that made her keep coming back. He didn't say much, just eyed her and bought her drinks. He had a quiet, dry voice that didn't convey much emotion, but she found it soothing in an odd way. Neither the tone nor the words he used demanded more than minimal replies. That suited her. She didn't feel like doing much talking anyhow.

  #####

  Later, outside the club, weaving from the booze and standing alone in the parking lot, she heard a gruff voice call to her from the shadows. "Hey, baby."

  She stiffened for a second. Even through the alcohol fog, the fear of rape sent an ugly thrill through her body. Then she relaxed. The voice was Rocco's.

  "You're beginnin' to slip, baby," he continued, his rough voice triumphant and demanding. "One more night like tonight and you're done here. Ought to lay off the sauce, Frenchy. Messes up your mind, screws up your strippin'. Screw up any more and you'll be lookin' for friends. Like me."

 
Suddenly, the fear returned. As quickly as it came, it was washed away by anger. There was a limit to what she was going to take and he was pushing her past it. Rape frightened her, but this bastard disgusted her more. Her quick temper took over as she shouted an obscenity and swung drunkenly at his shadowy figure with her heavy purse, staggering off balance when she missed.

  Laughing, Rocco dodged easily and advanced on her. Snarling and holding her purse high, she backed away. She was fighting mad and ready stop the bastard any way she could.

  "Break off, lard ass." The new voice was low and quiet, but held an edge that broke the tension like an ax through plate glass. She glanced wildly over her shoulder as she recognized who it was.

  The man with the eye patch stepped partially out of the shadows and into the edge of the bright cone of a security light. He just stood there with an easy relaxed pose, in just enough light for Rocco to see him, but with the aura of an experienced fighter ready to move in any direction. Rocco glared at him in anger for a moment, ready to fight, then his expression slowly changed. The man with the eye patch had done nothing, but the bouncer slowly backed away from him as he would from a dangerous animal. Rocco dropped his hands and glared at both of them, snarled something and turned, walking quickly off into the night. As she watched the bouncer's ugly silhouette hurriedly retreat, alcohol finally took command and her legs buckled under her. The man with the eye patch jumped over and caught her just before she hit the sidewalk.

  Looking down at the drunken unconscious woman in his arms, he briefly wondered what to do with her. Custom now allowed him to bind her, since she was unattached and he had saved her from danger. His if he wanted her. But did he want her? Did he want a woman in his life right now, even temporarily?

  Looking at her again, he considered. She wasn’t the most comely woman he’d seen on this planet, but attractive in her own way. There was something about her that called to him, the reason he kept coming back to watch her after an impulsive visit to the club that first night. She was certainly in need of more help than just being rescued from that thug of a bouncer. He couldn’t just leave her passed out in a darkened parking lot, not in this neighborhood, not at this hour.