Starship Rogue series Box Set

by Chris Turner

  Yoe was a shallow lake and a bunch of entrepreneurs had got together and formed the novel idea of setting their gambling houses up on the water. A flotilla of fun. Dancing, music, the works, house games like Monster, Juju, Bluewrack, and names like Barney J’s Lil’ Ole Boathouse and Iggy’s Pop, and my favorite—Popcorn. Goofy names, but Zanzadeer was a goofy place. Disarm the sheep, separate them of their money. Only moneyed folk could afford these floating mini-palaces, but they were here in this town, as I had discovered early on in my prior visits. The organized crime leaders, the ones with the private guards and the refitted space yachts all dressed in mahogany and marble complete with private bars and waitresses, made it a dangerous arena, but a lucrative one for the clever artist. I’d overcome my fears of fencing with the big boys long ago. All a matter of confidence, a mind over matter thing. If I stripped every vibe of doubt and radiated confidence, there was nothing I couldn’t do. Such a mindset overrode fear mechanisms which got even the best cons killed. Even in the toughest situations I could worm my way out. I used to get juiced up on Myscol before a swindle in my younger years, to build up enough nerve, but I got over that kid’s ploy when I realized it was a losing battle, a battle of addiction that I’d never win. So, I sucked it up, took a deep breath, visualized how it was all going to go down and practiced my affirmation, and my mantras. Most importantly, tried to work with competent players in the game. Now TK and Wren were untested, and I assumed had no experience with real scams, though that Wren was a mean one on her feet, but so far they had shown promise. Let’s hope my instincts were correct about them.

  After scrutinizing several games on various boats, TK the mathematician, ran the numbers and figured out a workable system. We put our heads together to select the best possible outcomes.

  The house had rigged Juju, so that was out of the question. But Bluewrack and Monster had potential. They were group, not house games and promise for some tidy profit. Of course, we’d need a point-scout. That’s where TK came in who’d agreed to devise hand signals.

  The ten-sided dice were new to me, geared to throw off sharks who had already polished their scams.

  “Seed the aces,” TK said. “Half the die are loaded. We insert our own in play. At drop fifteen we play full out and win, then drop back, lose a little so they don’t get suspicious.”

  “Okay, old man, we play one against the other. I’ll engineer a way to signal so nobody figures it out and pulls the alarm on us. As I see it, the house will always win in the long run, but short term gains are possible. The more players, the more likelihood of a gain. It’s a matter of getting out at the right time.”

  “We’re on board then. Let’s establish a coordinated plan of exit.”

  “Right.”

  “How’s your Bluewrack?” I grinned at Wren.

  She shrugged. “Never played it, but I became proficient at something like it back when I used to trounce my brothers.”

  “Oh, yeah? It’ll have to do. I needn’t remind you that the stakes are high here—broken legs and fingers are not uncommon. Fates get worse than that for cheaters.”

  “Don’t sweat it, I’ve got it under control.”

  I didn’t like the nonchalance in her voice, considering the stakes of the enterprise; it could get ugly very quickly.

  We practiced several rounds on the bridge with my own weighted die and marked cards. I coached Wren on the finer points of the game, when to toss and when to roll a losing hand and when to go for the jugular. She learned fast. Like she said, she seemed to have experience with the game before.

  “Throw them without getting intimidated. Get them to land a certain way. You dig your nail in the three-spot on the heavy side and the magnets kick in and the dice’ll fall the other way.”

  “Not bad, Rusco. Some clever rigging here.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve used these scams before, engineered a way to peer in on other’s hands, putting a reflective strip of polyeselon, a reflective bit of glass, on the opposite wall where I sat and kept chatting to divert my opponents.”

  TK shook his head. “Risky. If they caught you—”

  “They’re not looking for it, don’t you see?” I said. “Without a point man or some nondescript posing as an innocent spectator, they’re looking for other things.”

  “I don’t know,” said TK. “The strip sounds easy for a roving eye to pick up.”

  “What I did was photograph the wall pattern prior to playing and mock up some reflecto-pad to follow its blend. I’d brush against the wall, elbow the pad sticky side out when no one was looking. Voila. Stuck there like an invisible stamp. The thing’s thin, so there’s no visible evidence, and it’s slightly convex to show a wide view.”

  “Don’t see how that would show you anything.”

  “I wore a kind of contact lens to pick up the faint reflection.”

  TK shook his head. “I’m just glad we’re not using a scam like that. I can blend in easy enough, a sad alcoholic wanting a piece of the action but no yols to play.”

  “Good, simpler’s better. BJ’s is busy, lots of players there. Small timers too, so it won’t be as hot.”

  “Any idea of how long we’ll be out on the floor?”

  “As long as the tables are dealing, we work up some stash, then we skip to the next boat. Or I give you the signal to cut for the night.”

  I saw TK’s hesitation. “Any hint of anything going sour, we bail, agreed?”

  Grumbles. Shrugs. Looked as if we were on track.

  Chapter 11

  We were finally ready to deal and I picked BJ’s to start. The place was popular, busy, a buzz of pleasant excitement in the air. Bright lights lit up the back that hurt the eyes, made you feel tired and radiated a lot of heat, leaving a lot of hot sweaty residue on the skin. Geared to get you to make impulsive moves to release that excess discomfort, blow your money while munching complimentary nuts and salted tidbits at the tables so you’d feel thirstier and drink more of the local brew. Slot machines jingled to the side; group games progressed toward the front. Live band at the back, playing an upbeat techno-jazz with juicy electro frills unfamiliar to my ear. The clink of glasses caught my attention, the titter of women’s voices as they watched the big players toss glittering die or spread fan-colored cards in front of their faces, hoping for the big win. The hustlers latched on to the winners, blinked in derision at the losers.

  Wren and I wended our way to the happening section while TK stayed back. The alpha dog at the head table of four had at least two guys working for him, or watching out for him. I could tell by the subtle eye movements and stiffening of shoulders. I earmarked that information.

  We sat down at the Bluewrack table, in between two of the foremost gamblers, Wren as Emmie, all smiles and giggles, looking a little tipsy, but as sober as a shark, me on her other side. I was a different story, not so easily able to fake drunkenness, despite the local juice giving me a flushed face and a fuzzy skull. I had an uncanny knack of keeping my thoughts coherent, even though my body language might show the influence of drink.

  Sitting aside Wren, I gave the players my most disarming smile and nod. I’d slicked back my long hair like an old hipster and had it knotted in a ponytail so it didn’t look so beatnik. That look wasn’t going to fly at these highbrow tables. I’d lost most of the purple tint but let a few of the violet traces show through, figured it might make me look more like a groovy, middle-aged trendster, momma’s rich boy, making his second attempt at life with a new bride swinging on his arm.

  The game was a combo of dice and cards, iridescent pieces which showed up like magic tricks, and danger to boot, dazzling the eyes.

  We’d rehearsed our signals. Blink twice for a move to up the ante. Once, plus a pause to fold. We’d switch it up to a parting of lips and scratch of jowl, then back to the double-blink when TK’d take a swig of his local liquor and lick his chops.

  The boats or overhauled barges were packed really close together along the shore and lit up with brig
ht neon. Red, yellow and white light streamed across the dark waters. Fireworks arched across the lake—faraway festivities were in the works.

  Other pleasure boats plied the water like gaudy floating birthday cakes. The waters were dense with salts and minerals and gave greater buoyancy to the gambling houses. The draw on these flat-bottomed boats was a whopping twenty-six inches. Not much speed. They could pull in at three knots, slow as turtles, but why go fast when you’re making yols by the minute? Better to keep the fat fish aboard slapping their chips onto the tables.

  All the while I kept a wary eye out for trouble. Those hard faces around us, laughing and wisecracking, were the faces of killers. Violent repercussions could be the result of one failed gambit, should one be caught. We’d be thrown to the monster moonrays, feral eels that haunted the salty waters. Heard horror stories of cons weighted at the ankles and thrust into the deeper water, while the gangsters watched the disappearing act from the comfort of their yachts, eating surf and turf and sipping martinis.

  Wren, who looked less suspicious, would clock up most of the wins, while I’d sit back on my thumbs and tank hands and blame it on wifey. Wife and Hubby team. Rich and spoiled from moneyed families who had struck out on the ill-fated expedition of marriage, then made the naïve mistake of wasting their yols on these nice gentlemen.

  It was important to give the right cues, not to set anyone’s suspicions off. I was reading these guys as best I could while Emmie chattered on about nothing. She was doing well; one would never know the woman was a cold-blooded killer. Fatty, directly opposite me, with the dimpled cheeks and airbrushed hair, was all smiles amid peanut eating and shell cracking. Munching away with his quail-ass grin while he won hand after hand. Pissed me off. But it was part of the act.

  Patience, Rusco. Keep losing.

  The skinny one with the black suit and dour looks paid me no heed but managed a nod and grunt from time to time to his crony. No less crafty, I could tell. The older one was harder to read. Salt and pepper hair, serious type but not so serious. A blank, bulldog face with strong lines on the upper cheeks, sometimes crinkling in a smug grimace; other times he’d drop a line of philosophic rhetoric straight from Goethe. Because he was the boss, he was the most dangerous of the lot. They called him Elmer. What kind of jackleg name was that? Either it was a gag, or I was missing something. Still, I gave Elmer his due respect and played the happy hubby, drinking more than my share, wincing with every gasp of the local swamp water laced with distilled spirits, twice as potent as normal alcohol. I let the flush rise to my cheeks, a healthy pink—the gambler’s flush they called it—pulled at the sweaty fabric on my collar, made a half-hearted smile and little coo at my beloved wife—who the others seemed to dig, despite the horrid wig job. Amused me, while my brain worked overtime trying to figure out how to stall the game and lose some more.

  TK was doing his part, wandering about to different tables, chatting, letting us play out our tricks and hands, so it didn’t look as if he was feeding us any information. Also letting us lose a lot while he was there, to create a negative association with his presence. A clever diversion.

  That tingling feeling between my shoulder blades told me that our window of opportunity was closing fast. Time to cash out. Emmie had accumulated a good stash on the last hand. I’d lost the next round deliberately, and badly, though I had put in small bids.

  “I told you not to lead with that flush!” I yelled at her.

  “Sorry,” she giggled. “I’m not thinking straight, dearie. Must be these highballs. They’re stronger than what I’m used to.”

  Layering it on a little thick perhaps, but it got some chuckles from our card crew. Husband and wife team, wife stricken with a case of the tipsy giggles and an excess of yols.

  I threw down the dice in a huff of disgust. “Emmie, I’m out, need a break. You’d better come too. You’ve won quite a bit.”

  “Nothing doing, Hamber, I’m just warming up.”

  “Beginner’s luck,” I grumbled at her with unfeigned jealousy. “We’re not inexhaustible, you know.”

  “Hush, dear,” she cooed, “I’m just getting into the game! Don’t be a prig. I’m sure these nice gentlemen’ll go easy on me—if I start to lose.”

  One of the shark eyes leaned in with an oily, but genial tip of the head. “To keep your charm in the game, madam, is our modest pleasure. It’s Lemmy here you have to worry about.” He nudged the man next to him in the ribs and gave a harsh guffaw. “We still have to earn back some of the yols you’ve taken from us.”

  Real rib ticklers, these sharks.

  The faint, seaweedy smell continued to ooze off the dark water, drifting in the window, making me feel slightly ill.

  When Wren played coy at leaving the game, I made a scene, pretending to get in a drunken huff and stalked off to the bar.

  Weaving a little as I walked, for effect, I could hear Wren murmur some gracious, bubble-headed words, giving a whole spiel of effusive apologies for her disgruntled husband whom she felt compelled to nursemaid from his griefs—the big sullen, drunken baby—while promising to return to the game asap. TK edged slowly toward the other games in progress closer to the exit.

  Good girl, cash out your chips, hit the ladies’ room, then make a beeline to the back door while those sods await your return.

  Drink in hand, I pushed through the double doors and hit the deck, glad of the fresh air. The sky was dark, starless; the air cool and musky. The shots of the local spirits, clouds of nicotine and the bebop beat had started to eat away at my skull.

  I counted the moments, listening to the laughter and the revelry and disco beats carry on across the water from the other boats. Wren came out, her cheeks flushed.

  “You got the yols?” I grunted.

  “Nice job, Rusco. Seems your scheme worked.”

  “Where?”

  “Right here.” She tapped the inside of her thigh where she had taped it.

  “Peachy.”

  A good act, but maybe not good enough. The door flapped opened.

  Elmer tripped over with a grim smile. “Hey, girlie, game’s still rolling. Well, what’s this? Hubby and dollface taking a little timeout by the water? Charming.” Elmer, with a smile that’d kill a grouper, slapped an arm around my shoulder.

  “Just came out for some fresh air, Elmer. Be back in in a sec when I get my second wind.”

  “Don’t rush. You don’t look so good, Hamber.”

  “Think I ate some bad fish.”

  His head bobbed as he smiled. “You know what, I think you guys are a bunch of shamsters. Funny how I take a dislike to scammers, on account that I live here. Own a legitimate business, have some genuine friends. Makes me and my chums look bad. All the stories you jokers’d tell of how you conned a couple of the local fish.” He laughed and TK took the unfortunate moment to breeze out of the swinging doors and give a gasping breath. Catching wind of the little gathering, he turned to hustle back in.

  “Wait up, gramps.” Elmer snapped his fingers. A couple of his thugs, all murder and glares, intercepted and pushed TK back to the rail in our direction. Elmer moved over to TK and threw an arm over his shoulder, as he had done to me. “I like you, gramps. Very slick of you in there, giving signals like that as if you were swatting away flies. Nice gig. These two I don’t like, especially Hammy here with all his glib talk.” His boot shot out and kicked me in the bad knee, as if he’d known it was my weak spot. I went down, crouching in agony. “Smarts, doesn’t it, Hammy?” He laughed. “Suck it up, you pussy. Doesn’t look good in front of the missus.” He grabbed Wren by the hair and pulled her down to his crotch with his other hand rubbing his knuckles hard across her wig. The piece dropped off to show her skin head.

  “My, my, surprises by the minute. Didn’t know you went in for baldies, Hammy.”

  I was groaning, cursing myself for my stupidity. Fucker’d taken me by surprise. Innocent old uncle Elmer, a thug who’d whack you with a tire iron before you could blink and
you’d still be wondering what hit you.

  “Don’t want no trouble here,” TK stammered, looking as if he’d seen a ghost and was going to piss his pants.

  “Oh, no trouble, gramps, just a small misunderstanding. See, we’re going to go back into the gambling house and continue our game. We’ll let you join for free.”

  I got to my feet, swaying, pretending a show of drunken bravado, as Wren struggled in Elmer’s grip and I took a half-assed swing at Grease Hair to his side, making it easy for him to block. He gave a clown’s laugh and pushed me into his henchmen while I flailed away like a jackass. He thought I was an easy takedown and grabbed the cuff of my sportman’s jacket. Mistake #1. Never leave yourself open to attack, against even the dorkiest, most ham-handed drunk. One small tap on the throat or other sensitive area and the stars are spinning in your head. Then up comes the knee into the nose, pushing back the bone and cartilage into the brain. Then it’s lights out…which is exactly what happened. One step inside the left leg and I was all over Lemmy with a chop to the neck for added measure.

  I heaved the limp body over the rail, wincing at the splashing and flapping going on as something large and gurgling did their work. Elmer grimaced and licked his chops. Luckily the music was loud, or there’d be more fuss. But scattered couples were coming out to catch the next houseboat and watch the free show. I like putting on a show as much as the next wiseass, but all facts considered, things were not looking too good for us. We were in poor disguise and on a foreign world. Anything could escalate into bloodshed.

  Wren gurgled out a throaty cry and kicked Elmer in the groin while I sprang to toe-tangle with the other fellow. She dropped to grab her concealed gun taped on the inside of her black-skirted thigh as TK pushed through the gathering crowd to get to the boarding dock. Wise and heroic move, TK. Leave your team behind while you make your escape.

  I stumbled after the old coward, cursing and grumbling and hopped the rail as he did, making a flying leap over to the next boat, but my midriff struck hard against the hull, knocking the wind out of me. Meanwhile feral critters thrashed below. The alcohol gurgled up in my throat. TK was spryer than I imagined, the wispy-haired codger, fingers clutching the varnished wood just as Wren vaulted over and grasped at a higher point along the rail.