[Bounty Hunter Wars] - 01(114)

Right now he wasn’t aware of anyone looking for him; he wasn’t that important. Though that might change all too rapidly, when word got out of his being hooked up with Boba Fett. An alliance with the galaxy’s top bounty hunter brought a lot of less-than-desirable baggage with it: other creatures’ schemes and grudges, all of which they might figure could be advanced by either going through or eliminating anyone as close to Fett as Dengar had become. The bombing raid had proved that Boba Fett had some determined enemies. If those parties found out that a minor-rank bounty hunter had made himself useful to

the object of their furious wrath, they might eliminate the individual in question just on general principle.



Those and other disquieting speculations scurried around inside Dengar’s skull as he made his way through Mos Eisley’s less pleasant-and less frequented-byways. A pack of sleek, glittering-eyed garbage rats scurried at his approach, diving into their warrens among the alley’s noisome strata of decaying rubbish, then chattering shrill abuse and brandishing their primitive, sharp-edged digging tools at his back. The rats, at least, wouldn’t report his presence in the spaceport to anyone; they kept to themselves for the most part, with a supercilious atti tude toward larger creatures’ affairs.



Dengar halted his steps, in order to peer around a corner. From this point, he had a clear view of Mos Eisley’s central open space. He saw nothing more ominous than a couple of Imperial stormtroopers on low-level security patrol, prodding the muzzles of their blaster rifles through an incensed Jawa’s merchandise bales. Bits of salvaged droids-disconnected limbs and head units with optical sensors still blinking and vocal units moaning from the shock of disconnected circuits-bounced out of the cart and clattered on the ground as the Jawa shook its fist, hidden in the bulky sleeve of its robe, and yammered

its

grievances against the white-helmeted figures.



No one crossing or idling in the plaza regarded the confrontation with more than mild curiosity, except for a pair of empty-saddled dewbacks tethered nearby; they grizzled and snarled, drawing away from the noisy Jawa with instinctive aversion. The stormtroopers caused no concern for Dengar, either. He was more worried about those who might be on the other side of the law, the various scoundrels and sharpies who would be more likely to have heard the latest scuttlebutt and be looking to profit from it.



Dengar drew his head back from the building’s corner. There was a fine line between being too paranoid and being just paranoid enough. Too paranoid slowed you down, but not enough got you killed. He’d already decided to err, if necessary, on the side of caution.



Keeping close to the building’s crumbling

white walls, Dengar found the rear entrance to the cantina. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he slid into the familiar

darkness and threaded his way among

the establishment’s patrons. A few eyes and other sensory organs turned in his direction, then swung back to discreetly murmured business conversations.



He rested both elbows on the bar. “I’m looking for Codeq Santhananan. He been in lately?”



The

same ugly bartender, familiar from all

of Dengar’s previous visits, shook his head. “That barve got drilled a coupla months ago. Right outside the door. I had a pair of rehab droids scrubbing the burn mark for two whole standard time periods, and it still didn’t come out.” The bartender remembered Dengar’s usual, a tall water-and-isothane, heavy on the water, and set it down in front of him. The scars on the bartender’s face shifted formation as one eye narrowed, peering at Dengar. “He owe you credits?”



Dengar let himself take a sip; he had gotten seri ously dehydrated, riding the damaged swoop across the Dune Sea. “He might.”



“Well, he owed me,” growled the bartender. “I don’t appreciate it when my customers get themselves killed and I’m the one that gets stiffed.” He furiously swabbed out a glass with a stained towel. “Creatures in these parts oughta think of somebody besides themselves for

a change.”



Listening

to

the bartender’s complaints

wasn’t accomplishing anything. Dengar drained half the glass and pushed it away. “Put it on my tab.”



He worked his way into the shadow-filled center of the cantina’s space, gazing around as best he could without making direct eye contact with anyone. Some of the more hot-tempered cantina habitues were known to take violent offense over such indiscretions; even if he didn’t wind up being the one laid out on the damp floor, Dengar didn’t want to draw that kind of attention to himself.