Star Risk - 02 Scoundrel Worlds (18 page)

"Let's say, oh, ten thousand credits a day for being interviewed."

Ardwell jerked up. "Ten thousand is a lot of money. Just for talking."

"It is," Goodnight agreed.

"Interviewed where? Some prison or something?"

"Not unless you call this place a prison."

"I don't know," Hopea said doubtfully.

"Plus, of course, there's meals," Goodnight said. "And maybe some credits to go gambling with, and somebody to take you dancing."

"You're no cop!" Ardwell said firmly. "Cops don't think like that."

"I told you that already. And did I mention that we'll pick up your bill here?"

"I've been here almost two months."

"I know," Goodnight said.

"What do you want me to talk about?"

"I'd like you to tell me about working in Ha. No details about anything that was classified. I just need to get an idea of what it was like, from the time you came in� no, from the time you left your apartment, until you got home at night."

"Will I have to testify? I mean, like in court."

"I don't think so," Goodnight said. "If someone wants you to be a witness, they'll have to clear it with me, and I'll not let anyone at you."

Ardwell thought hard, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.

"I always kind of liked Maen," she said. "I don't know why, I'm sure. Maybe because I couldn't believe anyone could be that tight-butted.

"I mean, I knew he was a Jilanis, and I've read the tabs about what they do in their services. I even got him to invite me to one of them once, thinking that might be kicksey, and he said his wife would be real happy to go with us.

"That wasn't what I wanted, if you know what I mean."

"I'm sure I do," Goodnight said, uncapping a tube of tanning oil. "Or maybe I don't. Would you like some of this fine ointment?"

Ardwell looked at him kittenishly. "Would you put it on? I mean, I can't really get my back and the backs of my legs."

"Delighted," Goodnight purred, and Ardwell rolled onto her stomach. Chas set to work.

"Isn't it funny," Ardwell said, "that I'd sort of like somebody who's a real meterstick, and when somebody else tries to come on, I'd tell him to forget it."

"Somebody else?"

"Never mind," Ardwell said. "Nothing happened."

"Somebody else," Goodnight persisted. "Could his name be Caranis?"

"What made you think of him?"

"Something Sufyerd said about his boss not being exactly the most honorable man," Goodnight said, adding, tactfully, "and I got the idea from Maen that Caranis had romantic thoughts about some of his people."

"Romantic?" Ardwell snorted. "If you think trying for a knee-wobbler against the back of his damned lifter is romantic�which he figured he was due because he bought me a couple of drinks. What did he think I was? I mean, am?"

"Is he rich?"

"Not a chance," Ardwell said. "He'd like you to think he is, with that lifter, and his clothes, and the way he tries to put on.

"But when he slips, he uses slang like any other worker, like I did, until I taught myself better."

"Interesting," Goodnight said. "You'd think that someone living a lie� or a pretense, anyway� would get looked at by the DIB."

"Those idiots," Ardwell said. "They think that because they've got truth machines and a whole flock of people trying to follow you around that they know everything. Show you how stupid they are, they think poor Maen's guilty, and they're going to kill him."

"You don't think he's guilty?"

"I know better."

Goodnight held back his reaction.

"Might I ask how you know?"

"I just know� I have a feeling for people."

Goodnight's hopes sank. "So who do you think is the traitor?"

"Nobody in our cell, that's for certain," Ardwell said firmly.

"Caranis?"

Ardwell hesitated. "I don't know," she said, her voice deliberately neutral.

"But you wouldn't mind too much if he was?"

"I'm thirsty," Hopea said. "Will you buy me a drink?"

"I'd be delighted."

Goodnight got up lithely, held out a hand, and pulled Hopea to her feet.

"What's that little tiny bulge at your back, just below your waistline?" she asked. "A gun?"

It was the small battery powering Goodnight's bester powers, at the base of his spine.

"You've got a good eye," Chas said.

"Maybe. But I like looking at men's butts," Ardwell said.

"You shameless creature!" Goodnight said, pretending shock.

Ardwell giggled.

"Now, start by telling me about your day."

"After I see your credits, Chas."

"Very well," Goodnight said. "Then let's adjourn to the lobby bar, and I'll go up to the suite, and bring down the first payment."

"Will I have to sign for it?"

"You don't have to do anything� other than start talking."

"This could be the easiest ten thousand I've ever seen," Ardwell said, and greed underlined her words.

Once started, it was impossible for Goodnight to stop Hopea Ardwell from delivering her part of the bargain.

Through the day, through cocktails, through dinner, and through dancing, Goodnight learned everything there was to know about being a junior analyst, barely more than a secretary, with Dampier's Strategic Intelligence.

It was just as dull as he'd always envisioned any intelligence post beyond field duties.

In spite of his excellent memory, Goodnight was grateful that he had a tiny mike in his watch ring, transmitting to a recorder in his suite, and thence on to Star Risk's mansion in Tuletia.

At least Hopea Ardwell didn't talk in bed. Not in coherent sentences, at any rate.

Hopea was delighted not only with being with the best-looking man at the resort, but also with Goodnight's continuing the contract for three days, making her go over and over her routine.

He also asked about the way the cell had been dissolved, learned that it had been at the orders of Caranis, found the supposed reason was to give everyone who was innocent a chance to start over.

"Start over," she said. "With the government? Hah! As if nobody would know where you'd worked, and they'd be forever picking at you, wanting to know what it was like to be a spy or to be around a traitor.

"And you'd best not shatter their little ideas by saying you knew Maen Sufyerd was innocent."

On the third day, she was droning on about the problems her cell always had getting proper supplies when requisitioned, when he stopped her in mid-sentence.

"What?"

They were lying naked on the deck of his suite.

"Go back, love," Goodnight said. "About the mailboy."

"Oh him. Not worth talking about. He came to us from some government program. If brains was power, he couldn't blow his nose."

"Who was he?"

"Some little yerk who was always looking at himself in any mirror or anything shiny, like he was as good-looking as� as you are. Thought he was just the best-looking little flasher ever ever. But he could never get anything right, and was forever giving me Maen's mail or memos, and forgetting to give poor Balkis Faadi his directives. A useless little tweep if ever there was one."

"What was his name?"

"Runo Kismayu."

"When they broke up the cell, what happened to him?"

"I don't know," Hopea said. "Nothing, I guess, since he wasn't part of our team, our cell. Knowing how the government works, they probably promoted him to something or other."

She yawned. "I think I want to take a nap. But come over here first. My throat's dry, and I need some mouthwash."

"Ah, the conquering hero returns," Riss said. "Are your lustful impulses satisfied for the moment?"

"As a matter of fact," Goodnight said, "they are. Gad, but it's hard being a honey trap."

"But you volunteered," Riss said.

"Dumb me. Why do people who love to run at the mouth always have annoying voices?" Goodnight asked.

"She does have that," King said. "Thank heaven for automatic voice transcripts. Although I kind of wanted to listen to the dirty parts."

"I'm going to be celibate forever and ever," Goodnight said mournfully. "If she wasn't talking, she wanted to screw.

"I'll take my pain out on the bottle� and maybe by becoming a thief again. I've got an idea that needs cogitatin' on."

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THIRTY-SEVEN � ^ � Chas Goodnight eased through the door of the dingy shop, smiled at the tiny, bald man behind the dusty counter.

"Help you?" the man asked without returning the smile.

"Looking to pick up some tools," Goodnight said.

"Like what?"

"A good reader, a jumper, an earpiece, some full-size picks, a lighted glass, a jimmy and brace, and if you happen to have any night eyes, I could use them," Goodnight said, slipping easily into thieves' cant.

"You a locksmith?" the old man asked, playing it straight.

"You have me spotted," Goodnight said, going along with the game and wondering if the stories he'd picked up in a couple of seedy bars about this man could be lies.

"Happen to have your license about?"

"Afraid I went and left it in my other pants."

"Can't sell to you without a license."

"That's a problem," Goodnight said. "My other pants are on Capella Seven." He dug in his pocket, took out a high-credit bill, creased it, and sat it on the counter.

The old man picked up the bill. "You realize it's illegal to sell anything resembling burglar tools here on Montrois," the old man said. "Illegal anywhere in the Dampier System, in fact."

"That's hard," Goodnight said. "Keeping a man from his chosen trade." He put another bill next to the first.

The old man moved very fast. A small, deadly, if a bit old-fashioned pistol was in his hand.

"I think you might want to stand very easy," the old man said. "Some friends of mine might want to meet you."

"I do hope they're not policemen," Goodnight said.

The old man seemed to find this amusing. "They're not. Oh, they're not," he chortled.

Goodnight sat down in a rickety chair, keeping his hands in plain view. The old man kept his eyes� and gun� on Chas while he punched numbers into a com, picked up a whisper mike, and spoke into it briefly.

Goodnight waited. He was pretty sure that if he triggered bester, he could get across the room before the man could pull the trigger.

Pretty sure.

Besides, he was curious to see what his request would produce.

Things weren't working out as smoothly as he'd planned, but he had hopes that the old man might be tied in with some nicely corrupt cops that he could further corrupt to be on his side.

He wondered why he'd been stupid enough to leave his burglar's tools back on Trimalchio. Goodnight had known this would be a city job, and since when could you do anything in a city without some sedate thieving and robbing?

Half an hour later, a rather large bruiser swaggered into the shop. On the other side of the street an equally large sort looked for Goodnight's backup, couldn't find any, came into the shop himself.

Goodnight's hopes sank. He was pretty sure what these two represented, not at all what he wanted.

They shook Goodnight down, found one of the small pistols he had hidden on his person.

"Who're you," one of them growled, "to be trying to operate without permission of the Thieves' Guild?"

"Bring on your King of Thieves, who I assume's crouching outside the door, and I'll explain everything," Goodnight said tiredly.

The thug glowered, but went to the door. "It's copa, boss."

A very fat man waddled into the shop.

"M' name's Guayacurus. I run all thievin' in Tuletia," he announced. "You must be from offworld, not comin' to me for permission to work yer prowls."

Goodnight shook his head sadly. "I'm Chas Goodnight, and yeah, I'm from offworld. But I'm no cherry-boy to listen to your jeffin'."

"You can't�" one of the goons started, reaching for Goodnight.

But Chas had already triggered into bester. The closest heavy went pinwheeling through the outer window. The old man pulled the trigger of his gun, but Goodnight wasn't occupying that space anymore. Instead, the projectile put a smallish, but fatal, hole in the middle of the second bodyguard's chest.

Goodnight reached across the counter, a gray blur, watching the gun's action slowly cycle. He plucked the pistol from the old man's hand, snapped his wrist, and pushed the old man back into a tray full of sharp tools. The man's mouth was opening into a scream as Goodnight turned away to see the fat "king's" hand reaching into his gaudy, somewhat unclean, tunic.

Goodnight pulled the man's hand clear,�accidentally, more or less, breaking his forearm�took his gun, and came out of bester.

Fatty was gaping, the old man was screaming, and the two thugs lay still. Outside, a couple of people passed, and ostentatiously paid no attention to the body on the sidewalk. It was that kind of district.

"I should have just killed you," Goodnight said. "Don't you think I'm cereb enough to know every frigging city on every frigging planet's got at least one, generally ten Kings of Thieves, all hustlin' their asses to convince the marks they're for real?"

The fat man started crying.

"Stop leaking," Goodnight ordered. "I was hoping you'd be somebody else, but I'll settle for the name of your best fence, in trade for your sorry fat ass stayin' intactico. I may need to move some swag before I move on.

"And I'll need to know where you plug from, in case you double-deal me, in which case I'll hunt you down like a dog and blip you on to your next life."

The man muttered names, locations.

Goodnight quickly went through the man's pockets, found a knife, another, very tiny gun, and a large collection of credits, all of which he appropriated.

"Now, I'll just get the tools I came here for, and leave you to clean up the remains. I figure I just paid my entry fee and a year's worth of dues into your Guild."

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THIRTY-EIGHT � ^ � Yes," Elder Bracken admitted, "I do know where the Sufyerd family is. They are quite safe with us, however.