“Italy is just a stone’s throw across the Adriatic Sea from Greece via New York City and Utah,” advised General Kalipetsis. “Italians and Greeks probably came across the Atlantic in the same boats, and went West in the same wagon trains from St. Louis.”
“What is he talking about?” asked the spider commander, suspicious. “Is he really Italian? Tell me it is not true.”
“Now, see here,” said General Kalipetsis. “We cannot intern a large segment of an American city just because you can’t catch a few insurgents blowing up your post offices. How would you like it if I suggested we round up all your Green spiders just because we suspect them of banker’s fraud or currency manipulation? How would you like that?”
“I would say good riddance to the money-grubbing Greens,” said the spider commander. “But that is a final solution for another day. We need to stay focused on the current problem of a growing Mafia financed narco-insurgency in our midst.”
“I can have the New Memphis Sheriff make a list of known Mafia associates,” I suggested, feeling it was time to conclude this quibbling. “Then a joint military task force can make arrests under State of Emergency powers ordered by the American Governor – that’s General Kalipetsis – and you, the spider Governor of the North Territory. Can we all agree on that?”
“I like it,” said the spider governor. “It is a simple plan that would not interrupt the upcoming tourist season. I say do it.”
“Which reminds me,” said General Kalipetsis, “are you all going to the grand opening of Harrah’s Hotel and Casino Resort’s first casino in New Memphis? I got some great casino comps in the mail.”
“Me too,” said the spider governor. “Great idea. I’ll see to it both our staff entourages are comped as well.”
“New Memphis sounds a lot like Vegas, baby!” exclaimed Valerie, standing invisibly beside me. “Are we going to party in New Memphis? Wait until you see me in heels!”
“You better believe we are going to party,” I said. “We’re going to party big-time.”
I drew a few stares, but most of my staff were getting used to it. I figured talking to myself would keep those around me on edge, wondering whether it would be safe to ruffle my feathers. Being crazy – or perceived as crazy – has its advantages.
* * * * *
There were three districts in New Memphis. First was the busy port district, where all oil and gold from the North was shipped through New Memphis to the New Mississippi River. Second was the downtown district with all the casino-hotel resorts. Casino towers and their bright lights dominated the river skyline. Third, past downtown was a vast residential district. Elvis Boulevard looped in a large circle through all three districts. Tonight all I cared about was the casino district.
I was comped a suite at Harrah’s Hotel Resort Casino. Valerie loved the luxury of it all. Harrah’s always did pay attention to detail, from a solitary rose set by my bed and candy on my pillow, to the crossed gold-tipped elephant tusks mounted in front of my room’s large plate-glass window overlooking the river. Harrah’s remembered my obnoxious demand for gold-tipped elephant tusks years ago when I first joined the Legion back on Mars.
I slipped into the standup hot tub to enjoy a delightful evening with Valerie. Good times. She seemed so real. Much later, downstairs, I played blackjack. Valerie followed me down. She even seemed content.
“Do you like my heels?” asked Valerie. “Do you think I look sexy?”
“The heels are great,” I said. “But blackjack is serious business. You are a distraction. I’m trying to count cards.”
“Little old me a distraction?” said Valerie, caressing my neck. “I’m sorry.”
“Perhaps you could put some clothes on,” I suggested.
“You didn’t complain before, in our suite,” cooed Valerie. “I’m still wearing my heels just like you wanted. Besides, it’s not like anyone can see me.”
“There is a time and place for naked bodies,” I said. “But now, I’m trying to win money.”
“You don’t seem to be very good at it,” Valerie observed with a laugh. “I can see the dealer’s cards as they are dealt. Might that be helpful information to you, sweetie?”
“Very,” I said, as I drew another bust card. “Are you serious?”
“The dealer holds a six under that queen up,” said Valerie, observing the next hand.
I doubled down on my soft seventeen, drew a nine, and let the dealer bust with an eight. It went that way all night long. I made tens of thousands of dollars before casino security told me to leave the card tables.
I cashed in my chips, filling a backpack with $750,000. Then I wandered over to the craps table. It can be a bit disconcerting having a beautiful naked lady in heels hanging on your arm while playing craps, but I had a few drinks and was getting into it. Suddenly Valerie pinched my arm.
“Watch your back!” warned Valerie, agitated, and now fully clothed in old-school USMC combat fatigues. She kept her heels.
I turned around and was confronted by a short but wiry spider flanked by two larger spiders. All wore wraparound sunglasses on their smug faces. It was Desert Claw. I reached for my concealed pistol.
“Welcome to New Memphis,” said Desert Claw. “Do not go for your gun. You won’t stand a chance against my henchmen.”
“Henchmen?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Desert Claw. “Now that I am a respected drug dealer, I have henchmen instead of terrorists.”
“You are a leader of narco-insurgency terrorists,” I accused. “Nothing has changed.”
“That is what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Desert Claw. “How about a truce? I will stop planting roadside bombs and blowing up government buildings if the Legion backs off a bit. I could even put you on the payroll if you think we can do business.”
“No way. I hate drug dealers almost as much as I do terrorists.”
“Think of me as an undocumented pharmacist. I am just filling a public need. I’m just trying to be reasonable.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said. “I would like to see a truce last at least six months. We can go forward from there, if it lasts. How do I know you will keep the truce?”
“Ever since you killed David Torres, the human pestilence side of the insurgency has fallen apart,” explained Desert Claw. “Quite frankly, the money in peddling blue powder is so good, I have lost interest in bush fighting. The insurgency is for schmucks.”
“You are ending the insurgency?” I asked. “I doubt that.”
“Oh, I am sure there will be a few die-hards who will fight on,” said Desert Claw. “To show my good faith, I will tip you off from time to time on their location and plans. That will make you look good. I see general’s stars in your future.”
“I’ll have Captain Lopez coordinate that with you,” I said. “I think maybe we can do business after all.”
“So, no hard feelings about roughing you up in the tunnels under New Gobi?” asked Desert Claw. “I apologize for that. I was just trying to impress the new recruits.”
“Your apology is accepted,” I said. “To be truthful, I was hoping you were among the dead at the Miranda homestead. But since you seem to have a knack for survival, a trait I respect, I guess I’m stuck with you.” We shook hands and claws.
“You aren’t serious about taking payoffs from that cretin are you?” asked Valerie. “If so, I have sorely overestimated your character.”
“I am drunk, out-numbered, and out-gunned,” I explained, as we left. “I would have told Desert Claw anything he wanted to hear, just to get out of a tight spot.”
“So you will not be bought off?” asked Valerie. “That’s quite a relief, sweetie.”
“It’s not that simple, dear,” I said. “There are a lot of factors to be considered. First, I have to discuss the matter with Captain Lopez.”
I punched a button on my communications pad. Valerie disappeared. The process reminded me of putting a genie back into its bottle. I went outside
for fresh air. The sun was already coming up to begin a new day. I spotted a real estate office across the street, and decided to give them my business.
“May I help you, sir?” asked an attractive realtor, Monica Moore.
“I am interested in cemetery plots,” I said. “How does one buy cemetery plots in volume?”
“Are you expecting another war?” asked Monica, alarmed.
“I hope not,” I said. “War is bad for tourists.”
“I am sorry, sir, but this is a boutique realty,” said Monica. “We deal in high-end properties and conduct businesses by appointment only. If you want to buy cemetery plots, I suggest you contact a mortuary.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “I do not want to just buy a few plots. I want to buy whole cemeteries. I might even buy a string of cemeteries across New Colorado and the galaxy. But for now, I just want to buy one upscale cemetery in New Memphis that uses the latest memorial brain imprint technology. It’s the rage on Old Earth, and I think the technology can catch on here on New Colorado. What would it cost to get into the cemetery business?”
“I repeat, sir, I don’t think I can help you,” said Monica. “What business are you in now?”
“I’m a colonel in the Legion,” I said, placing my backpack on her desk. “And I make more money than you can spend. This backpack contains three quarters of a million in cash. Cash is as good as money, and I have more where that came from. I want you to find me an upscale cemetery.”
“I’ll put your money in our safe until the accountants can sort through it,” promised Monica, now more friendly. “And I’ll talk to my associates. Maybe I can help you after all. I have always felt New Colorado should upgrade its tacky frontier cemeteries. Perhaps we can discuss this over dinner? You can tell me more about your business plans.”
“It’s a date,” I said. “I would love to have you for dinner. I’m staying in an executive suite atop Harrah’s Casino Resort Hotel. You should see the view. It’s fantastic. I’ll show you my tusks. We can order dinner and breakfast from room service so we can discuss all my plans. You like to hot tub?”
* * * * *
“Laika Barker must die,” said Sir Babloo Srivastava VII. He sat uncomfortably, nursing a broken arm, broken leg, and broken ribs. “My cartel stands to lose about two hundred million dollars if Barker lives five more months.”
“Why are you telling us your problems?” asked Saviano Juardo. “I’m no longer into gambling. Gambling is addictive and evil. Drugs are much better.”
“I thought you would be interested in Barker because Barker used to be a business associate of your late Uncle Rudy,” replied Babloo. “Rumors persist that Barker played a role in your uncle’s death at the hands of the Legion.”
“The New Gobi Desert is a dangerous place,” said Juardo with a sigh. “She swallows up many. I don’t hold grudges.”
“That’s unusual for an Italian,” commented Babloo. “Barker double-crossed your uncle. I would think that would make it personal. I came to you because you have the only muscle in the New Gobi that can touch Barker. I need you.”
“There will be no vendetta,” replied Juardo. “Vendettas are old-fashioned and bad for business.”
“We have a truce with the Legion,” added Desert Claw, not wanting to be excluded from this conversation between human pestilence. “Even though Barker lost his rank and is just a private, he cannot be harmed by us without violating the truce.”
“I heard you know Barker personally,” responded Babloo. “Does that factor into your decision not to help me with my problem?”
“Barker is a dangerous man,” said Desert Claw. “I would not call him a friend, but I do not have anything against him either.”
“Who do you think set you up at the Miranda homestead?” asked Babloo. “You walked into a trap. That’s the same place Rudy Juardo died, too. It was all Barker’s doing.”
“I can understand your dislike for Barker,” said Desert Claw. “I heard Barker was the one who recently dropped a nasty surprise on your office.”
“Yes,” said Babloo. “I was talking to Barker on the phone when it happened. He was complaining about the betting action on his life when the Legion’s Space Weapons Platform T. Roosevelt bombed my office building. Only luck allowed me to survive. The blast threw me out a large plate-glass window. Now, I hobble along in this body cast on crutches with my arm in a sling!”
“And you want us to draw that kind of heat?” asked Juardo. “No! It would be bad for business. I can’t go back on my word by breaking the truce. That would be bad for business, too.”
“I’ll pay five million dollars for Barker’s timely death,” offered Babloo. “That’s a very generous contract.”
“Fifteen million dollars would be more generous,” countered Desert Claw. “We have to be compensated for the risk.”
“Ten million dollars is as high as I can go,” said Babloo. “Please allow me some profit.”
“Okay, I will kill Barker for ten million,” agreed Desert Claw. “But only because you are a good friend and business associate.”
“Wait!” said Juardo. “This is bullshit. You are willing to incur the wrath of the Legion and jeopardize my whole operation? No way. We have a good thing going here. Our growth potential in the New Gobi is unlimited. I’m not risking that for chump change.”
“Colonel Czerinski will hit us sooner or later, anyway,” said Desert Claw. “Ten million dollars is not chump change. Besides, I control what happens in the New Gobi. You worry about New Memphis.”
“At least make it look like an accident,” suggested Juardo. “You owe me that.”
“Fine,” said Desert Claw. “Maybe I will kill Colonel Czerinski, too.”
“Just make sure you kill him on the first attempt,” warned Juardo. “I’ve heard Czerinski has nine lives and is very vindictive.”
“I have heard that, too,” said Desert Claw. “Don’t worry.”
“If you draw heat on my operation, I will cut you loose,” threatened Juardo. “Understand?”
“Whatever,” said Desert Claw. “Yadda, yadda, yadda,” he added, trying to use hip Old Earth New York Italian lingo.
* * * * *
Desert Claw approached the town of Redrock with a delivery of blue powder for the local cassiterite miners. Cassiterite was a rare derivative of tin used in electronics and computers. The miners made good pay for incredibly boring work, and could not buy enough blue powder for recreational use. Business was good.
Up ahead, a lone human carrying a backpack walked along the dusty highway. Desert Claw stopped to talk. “A human pestilence should know better than to be walking alone out here,” commented Desert Claw. “Are you not worried about bandits? Or are you just crazy?”
“No one in this story would dare harm me,” scoffed the human. He was tall, good-looking, and distinguished. “I cannot be touched by the likes of you.”
“Who are you, to be so arrogant?” asked Desert Claw, unslinging his assault rifle. “Do I know you?”
“My name is Walt. To you I am God.”
“If you are God, then you have nothing to fear from my bullets,” commented Desert Claw. “Shall we try an experiment to determine the matter?”
“With one stroke of my pen, lightning bolts will strike you down, Mr. Claw,” threatened Walt as he scribbled on a notepad. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. “Don’t you know the pen is mightier than the sword?”
“You had better be more careful about running your mouth,” warned Desert Claw. “I do not care for that tone of disrespect in your human pestilence voice. I do not have a sword, but this rifle will ruin your day just fine.”
“I liked you better as a swashbuckling insurgent leader roaming the desert one step ahead of the Legion,” commented Walt. “The lowlife drug dealer you have become disgusts me. You have been painted into a corner. Go back to the rock you crawled out from under.”
“That does it!” yelled Desert Claw, aiming his rifle
and pulling the trigger. Miraculously, all the bullets missed.
“You won’t last long!” exclaimed Walt, as the dust cleared. “I am going to erase you from this story quicker than the time it takes to fire my literary agent. My only dilemma is whether your death will be slow and painful, or fast and painful!”
Desert Claw fumbled to slide another magazine into his assault rifle.
Walt winked. “I’m just having a little fun messing with you, Claw. You’re an ogre and such an easy target. Oh – and if I ever get my novel published, I want it printed on acid-free paper.” He shrugged. “I have no idea what that means, but it seems important somehow.”
A sudden dust storm swept over them, obscuring all vision past ten feet. After the dust storm passed, the charismatic and handsome Walt was gone.
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Chapter 14
Desert Claw called the spider commander of New Gobi by phone, insisting he had vital information. Finally the receptionist transferred the call.
“If what you have to say is so important, feel free to come by my office in person,” suggested the spider commander. “My door will never be closed to you.”
“And face arrest?” asked Desert Claw. “I do not think so.”
“Stop wasting my time,” said the spider commander. “What do you want? This had better not be another bomb threat. I’m not evacuating any more post offices.”
“Insurgents dressed in marine uniforms are going to use shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles to shoot down the Royal Shuttle when the Emperor and Queen Rainbow land at the Capital Spaceport for the Queen’s birthday celebration,” said Desert Claw. “Insurgents will be parked in military trucks just outside the Spaceport perimeter fence.”
“How do you know this?” asked the spider commander.
“I planned the attack,” said Desert Claw. “But I am getting out of the insurgency racket. I am a respected businessman now.”
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 5: Insurgency Page 9