Leeny was located centrally in the station, just outside of Garm’s offices. He owned a lot of the hotels and represented nearly all the men and women who worked as prostitutes. It was said Leeny had the most valuable database on Belvaille, as it had every citizen and their sexual proclivities and experiences.
Not all Colmarian Confederation mutations worked out so well. Most were fairly benign, but Leeny looked like someone took two ugly people, threw them in a blender, picked out the most hideous bits, and stitched up a new person. It was almost amazing he could speak out of the mismatched jigsaw puzzle that was his face.
But he had a great personality. I suppose you had to, looking like that. And from what I heard he treated his workers well. You’d think with access to all those girls he might be a real Lothario, but if he was, he never played it up.
Leeny’s office was sparse except for quite a few chairs and abstract sculptures. The room was modern and artsy. The chairs were curved and uncomfortable and didn’t seem designed for sitting in. His desk was slanted and stylish and completely unusable as a desk. Leeny nonetheless sat behind it, his knees probably squished. He had a horn of graying hair sitting lopsided atop his head and an electronic suit with geometric patterns. You couldn’t tell if he had wrinkles or that was just how his face creased.
Also inside the room, sitting down and not facing me, was what looked like a ball of fur inside an oversized suit that fit like a tent. His eyes were only barely visible past facial hair that merged with his eyebrows and fluffy mane. He had so many layers of clothing it would probably take hours to frisk him.
I knew him by appearance to be a bookkeeper.
I don’t know much about finances, but the various bosses all employed bookkeepers. Just like family members, they were considered off-limits when it came to conflict. I think simply because no one knew what they did and they were too valuable to lose. They all basically looked like this furry man.
“Hank,” Leeny said, smiling his twisted smile. “Glad you could come. Not too busy fighting aliens, I see.” He didn’t stand up, probably because he was wedged under his silly desk.
“No, I thought I’d go back to harassing little old ladies,” I said truthfully. “Much safer.”
“You haven’t tangled with my mother, then,” he warned. “Have a seat, please. Care for a drink?”
I sat down and the chair tilted dangerously. The bookkeeper kept his eyes staring at nothing. His legs were together and his hands folded in his lap.
“Sure, whatever you got.”
Leeny clicked a button on his desk.
“Three drinks,” he said into a microphone.
He caught me looking at some of his statues, which were spirally and odd.
“I like those because they look like me,” he said with a booming laugh.
I smiled.
“So, Hank, Belvaille’s going crazy. Garm wants me to purge all my records and we got the military getting ready to set up shop. I had to turn over a hotel for ‘official use.’”
“We’re all scrambling. I hope it works out.”
“Me too. Me too,” Leeny said thoughtfully.
Just then his secretary entered carrying a tray of drinks. She was nearly naked, with an incredible body, and had such an exaggerated walk it hurt my groin to watch. She handed us all our drinks and left.
“Sweet girl,” Leeny said after she exited. “She was actually born on Belvaille. A rare native. Mother died in the line of business, you know.”
“Hmm,” I said, sipping my drink.
“Right. To the point. Hank, I want to thank you for taking care of Ddewn. I know it’s not proper to speak ill of the dead, but the guy was psychotic.”
“No problem. Like you said, we’re cleaning house.”
“Exactly. And, do you know my bookkeeper?” He indicated the hair bush, who was holding his glass of alcohol disdainfully.
“I think we’ve met briefly,” I hazarded.
“You were covered in blood,” the bookkeeper said with a thick accent.
“Sounds like Hank,” Leeny joked. “The point is, when the military gets here, they aren’t just going to be checking for drugs and whatever. They’re going to be checking us out as individuals. Is your money in order?”
“My what?” I asked.
“Your books. You presumably have some wealth, right?”
“Sure,” I said uneasily.
“Well, I’m lending you my bookkeeper. He can help you stash your money, clean it up, sift it out, so that when he’s done, you’ll look like the most respectable person on Belvaille.”
“Oh.” I didn’t really know what to think or where to begin. I had never really thought about people looking at my bank statements.