Starhustler

by Chris Turner

  “They aren’t there.” I curled up my lip. It might have been a legitimate story but I thought not. TK was slier than he looked. Seemed he had pulled up some info on the free data stream via holo net. Kits which included diagrams, well-marked-up color-coded map, step-by-step instructions with two young, vivacious birdies giving a servicing tutorial on the finer points of Barenium and handling fresh product in vacuum sealed canisters. Nice girls. Pretty looking, but it looked much like a cute trick to sidestep me, and a feint to cover his real intentions.

  “Bridge is off limits while I’m not here,” I muttered in a cold voice.

  “I thought you said to make ourselves—”

  “I said no bridge access. New rules.” I’d have to make a point of moving that strongbox with the phaso to a more secure location. The last hungry look I saw on the old man’s face had that wild, eager edge that stuck in my mind. The phaso was already hidden well in the forward bulkhead, but one could never be too sure.

  * * *

  We skipped Beleron and docked at Zanzadeer, known for its mech shops and abundant ship parts. Also gambling houses, party houseboats, rave depots, plenty to placate the varied vices of humankind: sex sports, needle games, you name it, they had it. I opted to kill two birds with one stone, repairs and profit. Not the best place to dock for a leisurely layover. Lots of mishaps reported on Zanzadeer: missing bodies, child abductions, random blast attacks, but we couldn’t be choosy with Starrunner acting up as she was.

  The repairs were complex, items that even TK couldn’t fix, despite his protestations to the contrary. Without a proper garage, his skills were limited. But he said he’d look over the mechanics’ work after they were done to check for shoddy service. I nodded, muting my skepticism of honest-dealers. Meanwhile, we needed funds. I was sadly lacking, after shelling out for the supplies, and it was not as if any of the hangers-on aboard, my new crew, had a yol to share between them.

  “We need to go out on the town and rustle up some coin.”

  “Anything in mind?” asked Wren.

  I nodded, worried my lip. “We work the gaming boats on Lake Yoe first. Follow my lead, stay low and alert, and you two may learn something.”

  “Yes, Captain Ruskie,” said Wren with a cynical salute.

  No mention of the phase-distorter from TK, though I knew it was on his mind. Billy was useless to us so he stayed back on the ship. I just hoped the halfwit wouldn’t trash the place. I’d disabled all the controls, and left him with some crude magazines to pore over, unbeknownst to TK, but one couldn’t be too sure.

  After scanning the ship’s database for loopholes in the Zanzadeer gambling systems, I discovered we needed some updated props; new games were in play on the boats. I went to work on some loaded die and some fancy cards. Been a while since I’d been to this planet so I had to refresh my memory. My mind worked over the endless scams I could pitch: the spinners, the loopers, the big sting. In that way my brain was like a computer. I could soak up cons like sponges water: spin a mark’s mind up so tight, he’s wanting to get scammed. Or, the big lie, the loopers, the ones almost impossible to believe, but the reward so high that the mark can’t resist.

  A simple con came to mind: Me and Wren’d work the game houses along the wharf, a husband-wife team, ‘Emmie and Hamber’, newly-weds, playing the amorous duffers.

  Wren, determined and proficient, played the part a little closer to the mark than I expected, but if it earned us credence among the big players, I was game. All the flighty little moves she contrived, the touches, the pets and kisses, pecks on the cheek at the right moment, seemed credible enough. Been five years since I’d worked that scam. Did it with my ex-girl, Katie, back on Kalsinar, but that had ended on a bad note when she got roughed up; it’d soured any attempt on my part to revive it. I was superstitious that way—no raising of old ghosts. But now was not the time for superstition, or to sabotage this venture, seeing as we needed funds so I could get Starrunner back in space.

  I was surprised to see Wren wearing a black skirt, tight-pressed that showed her upper curves well, all dolled up, very sexy; she cleaned up well, in my opinion. She must have bought that garment back at the station. The butchy, skinhead look would never fly, so I pulled out the wig and plopped it on her head. “There, black, just as you like.” I patted it down roughly. “Matches everything else on your hide.”

  She groused about it, but only a little. I turned her to the mirror and told her she looked beautiful. With a reluctant grunt, she accepted the wig.

  With my last instructions to the mechanics, telling them we’d pay them later, we took a tram from the service garage into the glitter and glitz of centertown. The place made Hoath look like a complete scumhole. But the crumbled buildings, gang-graffiti and blackened, shell-torn smokestacks rising beyond the old quarters demonstrated otherwise and still lurked around the edges as we got closer. Much was hidden in Zanzadeer city.

  We scouted out several joints, me and TK in disguise, and separately, so as not to attract any outriders by association. We came up with a system, different than others, for the games had changed as I had remembered them, and so had the management. One thing about the con business, never make any assumptions. Do your research, check your facts, figures, plans, and recheck them at least three times before committing. Something I’d failed badly at back in Hoath, trusting Marty with the particulars, and almost getting the two of us killed.

  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 made sharp noises to the side; group games progressed toward the front. Live band at the back, playing an upbeat techno-jazz with juicy electro frills that were alien 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 body language he put out. 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, for I had an uncanny knack of keeping my thoughts coherent, even though my body language might show the influence of drink.

  I took a seat beside Wren and nodded at the players with my most disarming smile. 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 yawn 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 bright 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 galore and gave great 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 who could conceal her ruthlessness to a T. 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. 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 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, 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.”