by L.H. Thomson
***
We were still a few hours out of G’Farg when the Sat Com buzzed an incoming call from the NTC.
I hit the link. “Yeah?”
“Bob, my boy, did you forget about me?”
The ever-ingratiating, cloying tone of Fesker Munch, intergalactic loan shark and “legitimate businessman.”
“Fesker…Hey there, Fesker. I was just talking to Jayde about you. We were discussing your generous nature.”
“Yes…quite.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Nonetheless, if I recall our agreement you owe me at least 2,500 creds by today. And that’s just the vigorish, my little slice for providing you with this essential service. There’s still the matter of the outstanding balance and the agreed interest rate. One more week and you’ll owe a nice round 20,000 creds. That might be getting a little out of your league, Bob.”
“Your concern’s duly noted, Fesker, but as we speak, my associate is transferring your 2,500 creds. We’re just a little ways out the edge of the system, so give it a few minutes.”
“Hmmph.” He almost sounded disappointed. “You know, Bob, you do worry your stepfather so with this nonsense and he’s been a key man for me. I do rather wish you would get your financial house in order.”
“Yeah? So forgive the rest of the loan. Poof, no more financial problems.”
He chuckled then coughed. He was probably smoking those terrible cohiba cigars again, the ones Harrison had picked him up from a market stall on Kel.
“Yes, very amusing, Bob. Of course, the precedent would be far too damaging to consider it even in jest. But what I can do is make sure I call you again personally at this same time, next week.
“You’re all heart, Fesker,” I said, acutely aware he had three. It was one of the reasons his competitors had so much damn trouble killing him.
“Hmmm? Quite. Same time next week, Bob.”