“Perfect!” cried the cop. “I’ll arrest every Fizzdust dealer within twenty klicks of the spaceport!”
“No you won’t,” replied Pepper.
“I won’t?”
“No. Although the Malarchy officially frowns on Fizzdust, they unofficially encourage its use by citizens of subjugated planets. Keeps them docile. If you start arresting Fizzdust dealers, you risk getting ‘accidentally’ shot by a Malarchian peacekeeper.”
The cop finished his drink and stared dejectedly at the empty glass. “Well, that’s it, then. There aren’t any illegal drugs left for me to crack down on.”
“Sure there are,” said Pepper. “Sam Suharu’s Hair Regrowth Tonic, for one.”
“Who the hell is Sam Suharu?”
“Local businessman. Nice guy. Developed this stuff in his basement. Overnight cure for baldness.”
“So he’s some kind of quack? A snake oil salesman?”
“Oh, no. Probably the most honest guy you’ll ever meet. And the stuff really works. I know a guy who used it. Grew six inches of hair in one night.”
“There must be side effects, then.”
Pepper nodded. “Cleared his acne right up.”
“If this stuff is so great, why is it illegal?”
“He sells it for half the price of the leading baldness remedy, sold by Orion Pharmaceuticals. He refuses to cut a deal with the mob, and because he manufactures the stuff locally, the Malarchy doesn’t get a cut.”
“What about the police? What do they have against him?”
“Nothing, but they’ve got to arrest somebody or it looks like they aren’t doing their jobs. And as you’ve noted, they don’t have a lot of other options.”
The cop frowned. “Well, I guess I have to start somewhere,” he said. “Do you know where the dealers of this hair tonic hang out?”
“Dealers?” said Pepper. “There are no dealers. It’s just Sam. He comes in for a drink most afternoons, if you want to wait for him. He likes to sit right over there and read the newspaper.”
“What does he look like?”
“You can’t miss him. He’s a little guy, about sixty years old. He has a bad knee, so he uses a cane.”
“Does he have bodyguards or anything?”
Pepper laughed. “Sam? No. I don’t think anybody’s ever tried to hurt him. Why would they? He’s the nicest guy you’ll ever meet. Reminds me of my grandpa.”
The cop nodded dumbly. Pepper saw the conflict in his eyes.
“You want another drink?” she asked.
He nodded and she poured him another. As he raised it to his lips, the door to the bar opened. A small, slightly slumped figure was silhouetted against the sunlight.
“Sam!” yelled Pepper cheerily. “Speak of the devil. You want the usual?”
Sam entered the bar, slowly moving his cane forward with his left hand, his feet shuffling after. He raised his hand toward Pepper in a perfunctory greeting, mumbled something, and gradually made his way to the table Pepper had indicated earlier. The cop watched him coldly, his right hand patting something under his jacket. Sam lowered himself into a chair, pulled a newspaper from under his arm, and began to read.
“Here, I’ll introduce you,” said Pepper. She had poured a drink and began walking toward Sam.
The cop downed his drink, took a deep breath and stood up. He followed Pepper toward the old man.
“Here you go, Sam,” said Pepper, setting the drink on the table. Sam looked up at the man next to her. “Sam, this is…” Pepper began. “Actually, I don’t know your name.”
“Blaine,” said the cop, whose nervousness had returned, but it no longer seemed to be an act. “Blaine Caswell.”
“New bartender?” asked Sam, looking over Blaine skeptically.
“Blaine’s a customer,” said Pepper. “He wants to buy some of your hair tonic.”
Sam grunted, gave a small nod, and reached into his jacket.
Blaine’s hand shot inside his jacket. A split-second later he had a lazegun trained on Sam. His hand shook and he was blinking away the sweat pouring down his brow.
“Relax, sonny,” said Sam irritably, pulling a small rectangular box from inside his jacket. “It’s just a sample case.” He set the box down on the table in front of him.
Blaine sighed in relief and slid his gun back in its holster.
Sam opened the case and pulled out a snub-nosed stungun. “Here’s your free sample,” he said, and shot Blaine in the chest. The cop gave a startled squeak and slumped to the ground, unconscious. None of the other patrons looked up.
Sam put the gun back in its case and slipped it inside his jacket. “Hair tonic?” he asked Pepper.
She shrugged. “I had to get your attention somehow. How much can I get for him?”
He regarded the unconscious cop dubiously. “He’s barely out of the academy. Not much good to us.”
“Never hurts to have another cop on the payroll. Do your standard number on him, strip him to his skivvies and take a few photos of him surrounded by hookers snorting fizzdust…”
Sam chuckled. “My hookers have better things to do with their time than entertain greenhorn cops. And I did most of the work. I’ll give you twenty credits for him.”
“Twenty credits!” cried Pepper in disbelief. “Come on, Sam. Work with me here. The way you guys are squeezing me, you could at least compensate me fairly when I hand a narco to you. By the way, you should have heard all the nice things I said about you. I said you reminded me of my grandpa.”
Sam smiled and shook his head. “You’re charming, Pepper, but flattery will only get you so far. I’ll give you forty credits for the rookie, if you help me carry him to my car. But you’re still four hundred credits short this month.” Blaine Caswell groaned, and his head lolled from left to right. “Better hurry.”
Pepper nodded and removed the rookie’s lazegun, setting it down on the table in front of Sam, and then grabbed the young man under his arms. Sam took his feet, and together they carried him to Sam’s vehicle, a shiny red Scaramouche 8000 hovercar. Sam popped the trunk and they dumped the limp rookie inside. Sam slammed the trunk shut and wiped his damp brow with a handkerchief. “I should be charging you for making me work so hard,” Sam muttered.
“You are charging me, Sam. A thousand credits a month, in case it slipped your mind. And while I appreciate the ‘protection’ your organization provides, I have to wonder—”
A dull thumping sounded from inside the trunk.
“Shut up!” Sam yelled, pounding the hovercar with his fist. “Don’t make me stun you again.”
The thumping stopped.
Sam put the handkerchief in his pocket and went back inside the bar. Pepper followed, taking a moment to regard the neon sign above the entry that marked the establishment’s name. The sign read The Wobbly Monolith, and next to the letters was an ominous black slab outlined in red. The red rectangle flickered between nearly vertical and a twenty degree slant in a way that suggested—at least to the very imaginative and very drunk—a slab of stone that was about to fall over. Pepper noted that two of the letters on the sign had now gone dark, so that the establishment’s name appeared to be The W_bbly Mon_lith. Pepper sighed, making a mental note to call the sign repairman as soon as she had paid the rent and her monthly dues to Sam. She followed Sam back into the bar.
Sam had returned to his seat and picked up the newspaper. Pepper walked to the table, trying to get up the courage to broach the subject of the monthly dues with Sam again. As she stood there, considering the best approach to take, she noticed a headline on the back page of the newspaper that read:
Emerald of Sobalt Prime to Be Displayed at City Museum
Pepper let out an involuntary whistle. The Emerald of Sobalt Prime was the most famous gem in the galaxy. It was officially considered “priceless,” but Pepper figured the black market value was somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred million credits. She found herself wondering why the owners—an interstellar je
welry consortium—risked putting it on display in a shady place like Yanthus Prime City. She shook her head and forced her thoughts back to her present circumstances.
“As I was saying, Sam,” Pepper said, “while I appreciate the services the Ursa Minor Mafia provides…”
“Good!” snapped Sam. “You appreciate it, you pay for it. Glad we understand each other, Pepper.”
“Come on, Sam. Help me out here.”
“I’ve suggested ways to supplement your income in the past, Pepper. You always turn up your nose.” His eyes scanned Pepper’s figure.
Pepper glared at Sam. “You’re not seriously suggesting I go to work at one of your cathouses.”
“Space, no,” said Sam. “You’re a smart girl, with a lot of talents. I could find a legitimate place for you in my organization. Although, since you mention it, a pretty girl like you—”
“No, Sam. I’m not a hooker, and I’m a lousy employee. I like being in charge of my own life.”
Sam shrugged and went back to his newspaper. “In that case, get me a drink.”
Pepper gritted her teeth and walked back to the bar. She swatted at another of the buzzing insects. The whole spaceport area was plagued by these damn bugs. No matter what Pepper did, they managed to get inside. They annoyed the customers and hurt business. Lately she’d been spending nearly as much on exterminators as she’d been paying to Sam, to similar effect.
She fixed Sam his usual, a Scotch and soda, and returned to his table, setting the glass down without a word. She began to walk away.
“Oh, come now, Pepper,” said Sam. “Don’t be that way. You know it’s just business. I thought we were friends. Didn’t you just say I reminded you of your grandfather?”
Pepper sighed, staring out the bar’s window at the people on the streets of Yanthus Prime City rushing past. I tried, she thought. I really tried. But it was starting to seem like “going straight” on a planet like Yanthus Prime was a fool’s gambit. There were no legitimate businesspeople on Yanthus Prime. There were, in fact, only two types of people: criminals and suckers. Pepper was getting very tired of being among the latter. Sam Suharu wasn’t a bad guy; he was just a businessman who had adapted to the legally and ethically ambiguous culture of Yanthus Prime. Sam’s employer, the Ursa Minor Mafia, was no more or less corrupt than any other major player on this planet. Every bar in the city had to pay protection money. It was just business.
“Hey, Pepper,” said Sam quietly, putting down his paper. “You’re a million miles away. What are you thinking about?”
“Hm?” said Pepper, her ruminations cut short. She turned to face Sam. “I was just thinking about what a Glark turd my grandfather was.”
Chapter Two
After she locked the doors of the bar, Pepper spent a few hours going over her finances. No matter how she massaged the numbers, there was no escaping the bottom line: she wasn’t going to be able to pay her suppliers, her landlord, and the Ursa Minor Mafia this month—and that meant closing the Wobbly Monolith. But shutting down the bar would cut off her only income stream, eliminating the possibility of ever paying off her creditors. She could dodge the suppliers and the collection agencies, but the Ursa Minor Mafia would find her. Going bankrupt was no excuse for missing a payment, and not all the Mafia’s agents were as easygoing as Sam Suharu.
Pepper grimly assessed her options. If she could scrape together the fare, she could flee offworld, but the Mafia’s reach extended across the Galaxy. She could go to Sam and explain the situation, but she knew where that would lead: the Ursa Minor Mafia would make her a lowball offer for the Wobbly Monolith that she wouldn’t be able to refuse. She’d be lucky to remain on as an employee of the Mafia, working sixteen hours a day at a mob bar for the rest of her life. No, there had to be another way.
As she wiped down the bar, her eyes fell to the newspaper Sam Suharu had left behind. She grabbed a pen, walked to the table and sat down, hoping that Sam hadn’t done the crossword puzzle. After struggling absent-mindedly with the puzzle for a few minutes, she folded up the paper to swat one of the ubiquitous insects, which had landed on the table in front of her. The damn thing was too quick for her, though, and it buzzed away to some dark corner of the bar.
It was only in the past few months that the insects—little green things about the size of houseflies—had become a problem. Every business in the area was having trouble with them. The insects didn’t bite, but they had an irritating tendency to buzz around customers’ ears, as if they were being deliberately annoying. Pepper wasn’t much for entomology, but the plague of insects had forced her to take an interest, so she had done a little research a few weeks back.
The formal name for the insects was “Yanthusian swamp fly.” Apparently they were swamp dwellers who had until recently been confined to a low-lying marsh a couple of kilometers from the spaceport. The original settlers of Yanthus Prime had left the marshes alone, partly because of the intrinsic undesirability of the land and partly out of a superstitious fear of the insects. Although the flies had been declared non-sentient by the Malarchy’s Native Species Identification and Protection Bureau, a belief persisted among a small tribe of human squatters on the swampy land that the insects possessed a basic sort of consciousness at the swarm level. The squatters even claimed to be able to communicate in a rudimentary way with the swarms. Supposedly the squatters had been granted permission to build houses and farms on the insects’ land in exchange for the settlers digging ruts in neighboring tracts to make the land more amenable to the insects.
Whatever agreement the squatters may have had with the insects went out the window when the developers bulldozed the houses and filled in the marshes to build the spaceport. The remaining marshes around the spaceport were gradually filled in over the course of the next several years as demand for real estate in the area grew. The last few acres had been filled in last year, and the surviving insects fled to nearby neighborhoods. The developers had expected the swamp flies to die off after a few weeks, but the insects’ stubborn refusal to fully relinquish their former territory gave credence to the hypothesis, posited by a local scientist a few months earlier, that they were acting out of spite.
Having failed to kill the insect, Pepper set down the paper. Her eyes alighted on the article about the Emerald of Sobalt Prime, and she gave in to the temptation to read it. Apparently the jewelry consortium that owned the emerald had put it on a twenty-seven planet promotional tour. Yanthus Prime seemed like an odd choice for a tour stop, as it was known as a hotbed of crime and corruption.
Pepper found herself daydreaming, and when she snapped out of it she realized she’d drawn a map of the featured exhibit wing of the city museum on the newspaper from memory. She sighed and shook her head. I swore I was never going back to that life. But it didn’t seem she had much choice. It was either go back to thieving or spend the rest of her life as an indentured servant to the mob. As it was, her efforts to “go straight” had hardly been a rousing success on the legal front, having resulted in her becoming an accomplice to the kidnappings of several police officers in the service of the Ursa Minor Mob. Sam always released the cops after thoroughly humiliating and incriminating them, but kidnapping was kidnapping. It was hard to feel bad for the wide-eyed rookies who came into her bar looking to bust a helpless old man just to jumpstart their own careers in law enforcement, but the fact was that she’d fallen back into a life of crime without meaning to—and the worst sort of crime, at that: the low-paying kind. If she allowed the Ursa Minor Mafia to take over the Wobbly Monolith, there was no telling what sorts of shenanigans they’d expect her to take part in.
The options, then, were to schlepp along in some way or other as a bottom-rung mob lackey or to make a conscious choice to dive back into a life of crime. Pepper was never one for schlepping.
Stealing the Emerald of Sobalt Prime would be a challenge, but Pepper was no stranger to museum heists. She had, in fact, stolen an original work by the famous Barashavian sculptor Sh
aashavaslabt, from the very same museum where the emerald was going to be showcased—which was why she had the museum’s layout committed to memory. The Shaashavaslabt theft had been a challenge because the sculpture—a bronze likeness of the Malarchian Primate himself—weighed nearly four hundred kilos and was the size of a small hovercar. She’d had to hire an antigrav crane to remove the statue from the museum and locate a safe place to stash the statue until she could unload it. Pepper had counted on a big payday to compensate her for these expenses; the statue of the Primate was supposedly worth nearly ten million credits because it was the last work Shaashavaslabt ever produced.
Pepper found out the reason for this only after completing the heist: Shaashavaslabt had been executed for the crime of “creating an unflattering likeness of the Malarchian Primate.” Apparently Shaashavaslabt had made the mistake of rendering the Primate’s proportions with scrupulous exactitude, and word had reached the Primate’s office on Sardonik Five. The statue itself was ordered destroyed; the Primate sent his chief enforcer, Heinous Vlaak, to Yanthus Prime to oversee its destruction.
For weeks, Yanthus Prime City was overrun with Malarchian Marines looking for the statue. Malarchian Marines weren’t known for being particularly clever, but they were persistent, and their sheer numbers made it virtually impossible for Pepper to move the statue. It was clear Vlaak and his minions weren’t going to leave until they’d found it. Finally Pepper had been forced to call in an anonymous tip, informing the Malarchy where she’d stashed the sculpture. Heinous Vlaak’s Marines melted the statue with their lazeguns and were gone the next day. Pepper lost her life savings on the job.
But the Emerald of Sobalt Prime was different. Yes, it would be under tighter security than the Shaashavaslabt sculpture, but once she boosted it, it would be easy to hide and move, assuming that she could avoid getting her legs broken by Sam’s thugs in the meantime. If she could get even a tenth of the stone’s reputed value, she’d be able to pay off the Ursa Minor Mafia and keep the bar open indefinitely. But as she thought this, she realized it was never going to happen. If she managed to steal the Emerald of Sobalt Prime, she could never go back to a normal life—both because the cops would never leave her alone, and because the taste of a score like that would ruin her for civilian life forever. It was hard enough to get out of the life the first time. No, she wouldn’t be sticking around to keep the Wobbly Monolith running. If she did this job, she’d jump at her first chance to get off-planet.
Aye, Robot (A Rex Nihilo Adventure) (Starship Grifters Book 2) Page 21