Gangsters, he thought. Criminals. And how many robberies a day? He shuddered, and teleported.
He blinked.
He stared.
He gaped.
He had begun to materialize in a locker room. He had of course been in locker rooms before. But never in ladies' locker rooms.
And this was very definitely a ladies' locker room.
Heck heard the hiss and roar of showers, heard the talk of many girls. He saw them, too, in the aisles between the lockers. Some were dressed in mufti. Some were dressed in a kind of uniform with the letters HF stitched across the left breast. Some were dressed in fractions of each, or either. Some were in undies. Some were in towels. Some were not dressed at all. And every girl in the locker room was a beauty, sleek and well-formed and lovely to look at except that with all of them there, Heck thought, it was something like a man dying of thirst in the middle of the Sahara being thrust suddenly head first into a vat of beer. He'd want to drink a lot but he couldn't drink that fast and if he didn't watch out he might even go—in seconds—from dying of thirst to drowning.
Heck flushed, and decided to teleport. Before he could, however, a woman wearing a towel and a lot of wet skin grabbed his arm. "Stick around, honey," she said. "You're the boss, aren't you?"
"That's right, Miss. I—"