Crimson Waters by James Axler

trouper, that girl; Ryan had to give her that.
    The expression on her face like a rain squall on the ocean, the black-haired, jade-eyed server approached. “I need another rum,” Lumpy declared, as if suspecting she was keeping one from him.
    She nodded and turned away. “And I need some of that, too,” he said, and grabbed her left ass cheek.
    She froze. All the color drained out of her face. She seemed unsure what was actually happening.
    The bar went dead still. The piano player turned into a statue with her hands hovering over the keys. McDugus Fish’s face went red, then white.
    The door opened. The belligerent female Monitor strode back inside, followed closely by a heavily muscled black Monitor an inch or so shorter than she was. She stopped dead. A smile winched its way across her sharp features.
    “So,” she said, not loudly, but the gaudy had gone so still she might as well have shouted. “What do we got here?”
    “Oh, shit!” Lumpy gulped. His face went puce. He let go the server’s rump and tried to jump to his feet, but booze had addled his coordination as much as his sense. His legs tangled with those of the chair and they both went down in a clatter and a tangle.
    He disengaged and jumped quickly. Moving like a striking mongoose, the female Monitor flowed across the floor. She was right on top of him when he reared upright.
    Lumpy faced the back door, which led to the latrines out back. That meant his back was to her—and the truncheon that slammed into his skull.
    Ryan heard a moist, muffled crunch. Where Lumpy had looked like a half-filled burlap sack sitting in his alcoholic torpor a few moments before, now he hit the floor like an empty sack dropped from the ceiling. He lay on his face gurgling and making vague swimming motions in the sawdust with his arms and hands.
    Ryan realized that he and his companions were the only ones staring at Lumpy, or what remained of him. The rest of the patrons and McDugus Fish were all looking studiously someplace else. Except for the server, who stood looking at the twitching Lumpy with vindictive glee.
    The black male Monitor enthusiastically put the boot in. Mildred winced as ribs cracked audibly.
    The fallen man didn’t react to repeated kicks, or a couple of experimental whacks cross the shoulders with the woman’s stick. The female Monitor straightened.
    “Get this trash hauled out to the curb pronto, Fish,” she snapped at the barkeep. “We got strict regulations in this town.”
    McDugus Fish turned and bawled something at the open door behind the bar. A couple of men in aprons and, to Ryan’s surprise, hairnets bustled out. They were both short and dark, one stocky, one wiry.
    “They do have strict health regs in this ville,” Mildred said, sounding bemused.
    “It’s like why a dog licks himself,” J.B. explained. “Because they can.”
    She glared at him a moment, then wordlessly shook her head.
    The two helpers from the back—cooks, Ryan thought—hurried up, grabbed Lumpy by the shoulders and dragged him out the door. His head hung limp, drawing a furrow in the sawdust along with his feet and hanging arms. He didn’t seem to be moving or making noises any longer. Ryan wouldn’t be surprised if the poor bastard had taken the last train west.
    “How can we just sit here and watch?” Mildred hissed, as the Monitors walked to an unoccupied table on the far wall.
    Ryan looked at her. It took him a moment to catch her drift.
    “Nor our deal,” he reminded her. “And I reckon we got everything that poor simp had to give.”
    The door opened, and two more Monitors, both males, swung in. They located their comrades, then moved purposefully to their table. They perched on the edges of their chairs, leaning forward to talk earnestly. The other two nodded.
    Once again the door swung open. A fresh wave of ganja smoke rolled in on the humid gust from outdoors, and with it the noise of a half-dozen outlandishly dressed and dreadlocked