Wagers of Sin

by Robert Asprin

  As he faced his agents, eyes alight with a martial glow that struck terror into their collective hearts, he said, "The time has come for you to start living up to those uniforms you wear. This station has hemmed us in, crowded us into a corner, prevented us from doing much more than searching luggage and levying taxes on the few items that actually get transported uptime. Meanwhile, we sit by and watch while out-and-out crooks scam fortunes under our very noses."

  Shoe leather creaked in the silence as he paced the front of the room. He turned to glare at the nearest agents. "Enough!"

  With brisk movements, he switched on a slide projector and clicked controls. Goldie Morran's pinched countenance filled a ten-foot wall.

  "This is Goldie Morran. Gems and rare coin dealer, money changer, currency expert, and con artist." Slides clicked in the silence. "This is smiling Skeeter Jackson. I don't think I have to tell you what kind of rapscallion this two-bit thief is." He cleared his throat deliberately, pinning the nearest agent with a baleful green stare. "I also know that every one of you has heard by now about their little bet."

  Not a single agent in the room dared crack a smile; not with the boss pacing three feet away. A few began to sweat profusely into their stiff black uniforms, wondering if their side bets on the outcome of "the wager" had been discovered.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he folded his hands behind his back and stood in the center of the projected image of Skeeter Jackson, so that the colors from the slide wavered across his uniform and face like stained glass taken from a madhouse, "we are going to let these two have enough rope to hang themselves. I have had a bellyful of watching these 'eighty-sixers hoodwink their way through life, as though the sacred laws which we have been hired to uphold didn't even exist. We may not be able to deport them all and close down this station, but by God, we can catch these two! And I intend to do just that. By the end of the week, I want Goldie Morran and Skeeter Jackson in custody for fraud, theft, and anything else we can think up and make stick. I want them deported uptime to jail where they belong, or I'll have the reasons why a crack troop of ATF agents is incompetent to catch two smalltime crooks in a closed environment. Is that understood?"

  Nobody said a word. Hardly anybody breathed. Many kissed pensions goodbye. Without exception, they cursed the fate that had landed them in this career, on this station, under this boss.

  "Very good. Consider yourselves warriors in a timeless battle of good against evil. I want undercover teams combing this station, looking for anyone who might testify against either of those two. I want other undercover teams to set up sting operations. If we can't catch them in a fair scam, we'll by God entrap them in one of our own making. And if I hear of anyone betting on the outcome of this wager, I'll have pensions, so help me! Now move it! We have work to do!"

  Agents in black fled the room to receive assignments from their captains and lieutenants and sergeants. Montgomery Wilkes remained behind in the empty ready room and gazed cold-eyed at the projected visage of smiling Skeeter Jackson. "I'll get you," he said softly to the colored light on the blank, ten-foot wall. "I will by God get you. And it's about time Bull Morgan understood just who the law around here really is."

  He stalked out onto the Commons on course for the station manager's office.

  Chapter Eight

  Like most time terminals, TT-86 attracted gifted scholars from around the world, many of them the very best at what they did. Robert Li was no exception. As an antiquarian, he was sought out by private collectors and museums alike as a consultant and had been instrumental in identifying numerous quality forgeries.

  There was good reason for this: no one excelled Robert Li at producing forgeries of the genuine article. His work was—usually—strictly legal. Tourists and museum reps often brought items uptime to his studio to be reproduced in exquisite detail, which were then exported to museums around the world as legal replicas bearing the Li trademark. Occasionally, however, like most other 'eighty-sixers, Robert Li would get a bellyful of ATF's high-handed tactics.

  He had an exceptionally strong—if unique—sense of right and wrong. The closer Montgomery Wilkes' people watched his operation, the more ire he swallowed until, inevitably, it broke out in such indignant expressions as assisting thieves smuggle out their wares! (Of course, only after he'd charged them a substantial amount of cash to reproduce the item.)

  Even so, far more frequent were the times when scouts had returned "stolen" items to their original times when he felt an item shouldn't go missing—although, again, he usually reproduced it, first. And occasionally, an item crossed his counter that was so breathtaking, so unique that he simply couldn't resist. He could wax rhapsodic about Ming porcelain, but Greek bronzes threw him into utter fits. Unknown to ATF—or anyone else, for that matter—Robert Li kept a private safe the size of his bedroom, where he stored his most precious belongings. His collection of ancient bronzes rivalled that of the Louvre and surpassed that of uptime collectors with far more money than he had.

  Some things, one simply did not sell.

  Greek bronzes were one; friends were another.

  Goldie Morran was, at heart, a cheating scoundrel who would've sold her own teeth, if they'd been worth enough, but she was also a friend and one of the few people in the world whose knowledge of rare coins and gems approached his own. Goldie had done him a favor or two over the years, obtaining items here and there which his heart had coveted, and he harbored a secret admiration for her skills.

  Unlike Kit Carson, he never tried to best her at billiards or pool, knowing his own limitations as fully as his strengths. Normally Goldie would've respected his lack of desire to wager against her. He was equally aware, however, that with Goldie's livelihood on the line, she would consider nothing sacred. So when she entered his studio, Robert Li buttoned his pockets, locked the cases and cabinets he could reach, and put on his best smile.

  "Why, Goldie, what a surprise to see you."

  She nodded and placed a carbuncle with ornate carving across its upper surface on a velvet pad left lying on the countertop.

  "What do you think of it?"

  He eyed her speculatively, then picked up the gem and a jeweler's loupe. "Mmm . . . very nice. The depiction of the statuary on the spine of the Circus Maximus is excellent and I've never seen a better representation of the turning posts. Who forged it for you?"

  Goldie sniffed, eyes flashing irritation and disappointment. "Bastard. How'd you know?"

  He just gave her a sorrowful look from under his brows.

  Goldie sniffed again. "All right, but would it fool most people? Even a discerning collector?"

  "Oh, without a doubt. Unless," he smiled, "they hired someone like me to authenticate it."

  "Double what I said before. Triple it. How much?"

  Robert laughed quietly. "To keep quiet? Or provide authentication papers?"

  "Both, you conniving—"

  "Goldie." The reproach in his voice was that of a lover wounded by his lady's mistrust.

  "Robert, you owe me a few. I'm desperate."

  "ATF's watching me like a hawk. Word's out: Monty's planning to nail you and Skeeter, send you both packing to an uptime jail."

  Goldie could swear more creatively than anyone Robert Li knew—and he knew all the time scouts operating out of TT-86.

  Robert knew better than to pat her hand, but sympathy seemed called for. "Well, I suppose you could always poison Wilkes, but I think it would be easier to steer clear of anyone you don't know for the next few days. This place is crawling with undercover agents."

  Goldie's eyes, sharper than ever, flashed dangerously. "Bull know about that? If ATF's undercover, they're way outside their jurisdiction and Montgomery Wilkes for damn sure knows it."

  Before Robert could answer, Kit Carson entered the shop, sauntering over in a gait calculated to appear lazy, but which covered ground with astonishing speed. "Hi. Heard the news?"

  "Which news?" Goldie demanded, exasperation coloring her voice.
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  Kit chuckled and winked at Robert. "Reliable eye-witnesses said the shouting could be heard through the soundproofing."

  "Bull and Monty?" Robert asked eagerly. "Ten says Monty stepped over the line just a tad too far this time."

  "No bet," Kit laughed. "You'll never guess what Bull's done now."

  Goldie, carefully covering the carved carbuncle with her hand, asked, "Bull 'fishpond him'?"—referring to the time Margo had taken offense at being mauled by a multibillionaire with a thing for nubile redheads. Margo had thrown him into the fishpond.

  Kit laughed heartily. Robert Li was sure Goldie had intended, with careful calculation, to remind Kit of that particular incident. And such a ruckus the dripping-wet old goat had raised, too, threatening to sue everything and everyone he could.

  Fortunately, Bull Morgan had pointed out that said goat would have to file suit in the jurisdiction where the assault had taken place, then explained that no lawyers at all were permitted to hang their shingles anywhere inside TT-86. Better that way for everyone.

  Of course, the way Margo looked and moved . . .

  A man could hardly be blamed for trying. Malcolm Moore was one lucky son if she said yes.

  Kit leaned forward conspiratorially. "Good guess, but nope, you're way off the mark."

  Kit's little audience leaned forward, unaware they did so. Kit grinned. "Bull Morgan had Mike Benson place dear old Monty under arrest. Threw him into the brig with seventeen boozers, half-a-dozen brawlers, and three flea-bitten thieves clumsy enough to get caught."

  "WHAT?"

  The demand came out in stereo, Goldie's screech hitting soprano.

  Kit's grin lit his thin, mustachioed face like an evil jack-o-lantern. "Yep. Seems like during their, er, meeting over jurisdiction up in Bull's office, Monty's sense of outrage and diligence to the letter of the law prompted him to, um, an assault."

  Robert Li gasped. "Monty hit Bull? And he's still alive?"

  "Oh, no," Kit laughed, eyes twinkling. "Much better than that. Monty assaulted Bull's prize porcelain of the Everlasting Elvis. You know the one, sat on his desk like some serene Buddha for years after he, er, borrowed it from that cathouse in New Orleans."

  Goldie's eyes went as round as the carbuncle she'd tried to hide from Kit's sharp-eyed gaze. "He broke Bull's Elvis?"

  "They're still digging pieces out of the wall. And ceiling. And carpet."

  "Oh, dear God," Robert said hoarsely, covering his eyes. "You know what this means?"

  "Oh, do I ever. Open season on ATF agents and station security alike. The fights—and they're getting dirty, fast—have already started. Just thought I'd warn you. Things are likely to get hot around here for a while. Oh, one last thing."

  He winked at Robert. "That carbuncle you're trying to hide, Goldie? Forget selling it to that sweet young thing who asked if you could find her one. She's the newest narc on Monty's payroll."

  Goldie's mouth dropped open. Robert grinned. Kit rarely had the pleasure of catching her so completely off guard. Goldie very primly closed her mouth. Then, with as much dignity as she could muster, she said, "I am not even going to ask. Good day, gentlemen."

  She took her carbuncle and left.

  Robert glanced curiously at Kit. "This girl you're talking about. Is she really Monty's?"

  Kit chuckled. "Hell if I know. But she walks and talks like ATF, for all the lace and perfume and goo-goo eyes she's been making at Skeeter Jackson. He hides every time she comes near. And I've never known that boy's instincts about undercover cops to fail."

  "She sounds guilty to me," Robert chuckled. "Poor Skeeter. Poor Goldie. What terrible, tangled webs."

  Kit grinned. "Yeah, well, hey, they wove 'em all by themselves, didn't they? I just don't like the idea of ATF throwing its weight around where it's got no real jurisdiction. They mind their checkpoints, we mind our business. Problems like Goldie and Skeeter, we handle internally."

  Robert Li laughed aloud, recalling just how Kit had "handled" his own family "problem" with Skeeter. The youngster was still gun-shy whenever Kit was around.

  "When's Margo due in?" he couldn't resist asking.

  Kit's world-famous grin flickered into existence. "Next time Primary cycles. Malcolm's taking her to Denver."

  "So I heard."

  "Is nothing secret around here?"

  Robert Li chuckled. "In La-La Land? Get real. Whoops, here comes a customer."

  Kit wandered out past a young woman who wandered in. Kit paused in the doorway, giving Robert the high sign that this girl was trouble, then left whistling jauntily. Robert Li watched the tourist narrowly as she paused to look at antique furniture brought uptime from London, then glanced appreciatively at a cabinet filled with jade jaguar gods.

  "Is there anything in particular I could help you with?" Robert asked politely.

  "Hi. I was wondering if you could help me out? I'm interested in buying something for my Dad's birthday and he's crazy about Roman antiquities. And he's a sports nut, too. So when this gems dealer showed me a gorgeous stone with a carving of the Circus Maximus on it . . ." She batted eyelashes a half-inch long and let the sentence trail off. She was all lace and perfume and goo-goo eyes. And her voice would've liquefied thousand-year-old honey. But Kit was right: this kid walked like a trained agent and despite the melt-in-your-mouth patter, her voice held a burr that told Robert, Monty's riding 'em hard, all right. This kid's out for blood. Robert Li folded his hands into the sleeves of the Chinese-style Mandarin's robe he affected while in his studio and waited for her to continue. Having a Chinese maternal grandfather gave him certain physical attributes that came through despite his mother's Scandinavian heritage; it also gave him an excuse to go inscrutable on demand. The tactic, so effective with other customers, even threw her off-stride. She floundered visibly for a moment, then recovered.

  "I was hoping you could give me an appraisal, you know, so I'd be sure I was paying a fair price for it."

  "I am an antiquities dealer," Robert said humbly, "with some small knowledge of furniture and a slight interest in South American jades, but I do not presume to claim expertise in valuing gemstones."

  "There's an IFARTS sign in your window," she challenged, as perfectly well aware as he what was required to become an IFARTS official representative.

  "Dear lady, I fear my consultation fee would be a complete waste of your money."

  "Consultation fee?"

  "A trifling charge for my time and services. It is not against IFARTS rules and one does have to make a living." He smiled politely. "I fear a thousand dollars to tell you, 'I don't know' would be a great strain on the budget of someone as sensible as I perceive you to be. Surely you could go to one of the gems dealers on the station for such an appraisal?"

  Her eyes narrowed in dawning suspicion. "Everyone recommended you."

  "I would, of course, be happy to do my best, but there is also my reputation to consider. Think what damage I would do if I valued such a thing wrongly. You would be cheated, the current owner of the gem would be cheated and possibly greatly offended, and no one would trust my judgment again. I know my limits, dear lady, and my reputation will not stand such a strain as you ask."

  She compressed her lips. He could all but see the thoughts seething behind her eyes: You're in on it, you bastard, you're all in on it and I'll never prove a thing on her. . . .

  "Thank you," she said curtly. All trace of sweetness and goo-goo eyes had vanished. "I hope you have a pleasant day."

  The hell you do, girlie. Robert smiled anyway. "And a pleasant day to you. And your father. May his day of birth be blessed with the freedom in life he so earnestly desires."

  Robert thought for a moment she would actually break cover and scream at him that Montgomery Wilkes wouldn't be in jail long, by God!—but she didn't. She just marched out of his studio as though she were on parade ground. She's young, Robert sighed, and that idiot Wilkes is ruining her already. What a tight-fisted, anal-retentive fool. Then Robert reminded h
imself that the ATF—no matter how attractively packaged—was the enemy and busied himself placing a few phone calls. There were friends who deserved fair warning before that little number came to call.

  Clearly, she was out for Goldie's blood.

  Robert Li sold many things, for many prices.

  But he had never sold a friend. Not even a snake of a friend like Goldie Morran. Just because she'd sell him out at a moment's notice didn't mean he needed to reciprocate her lack of morals, never mind plain bad manners. And that was something ATF agents just didn't seem to comprehend. Not the ones trained by Montgomery Wilkes, anyway. Sometimes Robert wondered what drove the man so. Whatever it was, it boded ill for many an 'eighty-sixer before this business with The Wager was finished.

  He dialed a number from memory.

  A voice on the other end of the phone said, "Hello?"

  "There's a sweet young thing on Monty Wilkes' staff making the rounds, trying to sting Goldie, and maybe you in the process. She just left here and she's goddamned good. All honey and goo-goo eyes until she realizes she can't have what she wants. Can't miss her. Just thought you ought to know."

  "Huh. Thanks. I'll start passing around word, myself. You wanna take A to M or N to Z?"

  "I'll finish in the group where I started. A to M."

  "N to Z it is. Thanks for the tip-off."

  The line went dead.

  Robert grinned. Then punched another set of numbers.

  "Your attention, please. Gate One is due to open in five minutes. All departures, be advised that if you have not cleared Station Medical, you will not be permitted to pass Primary. Please have your baggage ready for customs inspection by agents of the Bureau of Access Time Functions, who will assess your taxes due on downtime acquisitions . . ."

  Malcolm Moore leaned over to Kit and said, "I wouldn't want to be in that line today. Those agents look bloody angry."