Nightside 08 - The Unnatural Inquirer

a rattlesnake at forty paces. He seemed bright and cheerful enough, in an irredeemably seedy sort of way. He wore a good suit badly, and had a diamond tie-pin big enough to be classed as an offensive weapon.
    “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” I said innocently to Bettie.
    She sniffed loudly. “John, darling, this particular gusset stain is Rick Aday, reporter for the Night Times.”
    “Investigative reporter,” he corrected her easily, flashing perfect but somewhat yellow teeth in a big smile. He put out a hand for me to shake. I looked at it, and he took it back again. “You must have seen my by-line, Mr. Taylor, I’ve written lots of stories about you: Rick Aday; Trouble Is My Middle Name.”
    “No it isn’t,” Bettie said briskly. “It’s Cedric.”
    Aday shot her a venomous glare. “Better than yours, Delilah.”
    “Lick my scabs!”
    “They used to date,” another of the reporters confided quietly to me. I nodded. I’d already guessed that.
    “I’ve been hot on the trail of the Afterlife Recording for some time now,” Aday said loftily. “Pursuing several quite credible leads, actually. Just waiting for a phone call from one of my extremely clued-in informants, then I’ll be off to make Mr. Donavon a generous offer for his DVD.”
    “You can’t!” Bettie snapped immediately. “My paper has a legitimate contract with Pen Donavon, granting us exclusive rights to his material!”
    Aday just grinned at her. “Finders keepers, losers read about it in the Night Times.”
    “I suppose all’s fair in love and publishing,” I said, and Bettie actually hissed at me.
    I moved away, to allow Bettie and her old flame to exchange harsh words in private. I’d noticed that the nearby wall boasted a whole series of framed cartoons and caricatures of noted Nightside personalities. Good likenesses, if often harsh, exaggerated, and downright cruel. They were all signed with a name I recognised. Bozie’s work was well-known in the Nightside, appearing in all the best papers and magazines. He excelled at bringing out a subject’s worst attributes and qualities, making them seem monstrous and laughable at the same time. Those depicted usually gritted their teeth and smiled as best they could, because you weren’t anybody in the Nightside unless you’d been caricatured by Bozie.
    There were rumours that Bozie had been known to accept quite large sums of money to kill a particular creation of his before the public got to see it. No-one mentioned blackmail, of course. Thus are reputations made in the Nightside.
    I’ve never approved of needless cruelty. You should save it for when it’s really necessary.
    I moved slowly along the wall, checking out the various pen-and-ink creations in their softwood frames. All the usual suspects were there. Walker, of course, looking very sinister with more than a hint of in-breeding. Julien Advent, impossibly noble, complete with halo and stigmata. The Sonic Assassin, in his sixties greatcoat, gnawing on a human thigh-bone while making a rude gesture at the viewer. And…Shotgun Suzie. My Suzie. I stopped before the caricature and studied it impassively. Bozie had made her look like a monster. All fetishy black leathers and unfeasibly big breasts, with a face like an axe murderer. He’d exaggerated every detail of her looks to make her seem ugly and crazy. This wasn’t just a caricature; it was an assault on her character. It was an insult.
    “Like it?” said a lazy voice at my side. I looked round, and there was the artist himself—the famous or more properly infamous Bozie. A tall, gangling sort, in scruffy blue jeans and a T-shirt bearing an idealised image of his own face. He had long, floppy hair, dark, intense eyes, and an openly mocking smile. He gestured languidly at Suzie’s caricature. “It is for sale, you know. If you want it?”
    I had a feeling I knew how this was going to play out, but I went along with it. “All right,” I said. “How much?”
    “Oh, for you…Let’s say a round hundred thousand pounds.” He giggled suddenly. “A bargain at the price. Or you can leave it here, for all the world to see. Who knows how many papers and magazines might want to run it?”
    “I’ve got a better idea,” I said.
    “Oh, do tell.”
    I hit the glass covering the caricature with my fist, and it shattered immediately, jagged pieces falling out of the frame. Bozie stepped quickly backwards, his hands held protectively out before him. I tore