Hard Luck Hank Screw the Galaxy(10)

I thanked him and said I would take care of the sailors. Once paid, Zadeck dismissed me like I was a household servant. That’s fine, everyone has their quirks.

Outside the office, the bouncers walked with me and I filled them in. They had gossiped like mad after I arrived, as news of the shipment was already circulating. I chewed the fat a bit and took my leave.

I decided to wait until tomorrow to break the news to the sailors. By that time they would have had a chance to celebrate being off-ship for a while. The way I figured it, they’d party a bit then head back home after they were sick of the place—Belvaille was not exactly a premier tourist attraction.

Outside I was pleased to not see Wallow. I had nearly exited the block when I heard him behind me.

“You! Hank! Don’t come back.”

Not sure how something that big could move so fast—I certainly couldn’t—but out of nowhere he was suddenly looming overhead.

“I’ll go where I please,” I said, quite tired of this whole block and its residents.

I opened my eyes and saw a fruity-looking man with a gem-studded eye patch kneeling over me. His name was Gastolionep, and he used to be station muscle until he got his eye shot out and now he was a butler for some rich guy.

“Hank. Hank. You okay?” he asked with concern.

I looked around and saw I was no longer in Zadeck’s block and that I was lying on my back.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Wallow,” he began with trepidation. “He kicked you.”





CHAPTER 5


I was icing my spinning head after being punted, but I had a fat load of credits in my pocket, which can make the worst bludgeoning not feel so bad. I took the train downtown and decided to hit the casinos.

The Astrone was the best of the bunch. Had the prettiest dealers and waitresses, high stakes, good booze, and usually no one died.

“Hank, good to see you,” one of the doormen exclaimed. I shook his hand and pressed him a few credits.

“Let the good times roll,” I said with a grin.

The casino interior was lavish. It had fantastic items from across the Confederation: there was a visual strobe device that assaulted your eyes by tricking your pupils opened and closed and left you feeling disoriented; it had displays of sex clothes from a hundred planets, the point being that most looked pretty hilarious; and the owner of this club liked smells, so a scent symphony played across my nasal passages; and it had chairs to accommodate every type of physiology.

Gamblers, their security in tow, did their best to forget they were exiled on the furthest known Colmarian inhabitation. Inside I talked up Zadeck to everyone. Said he was now a player and guys should keep a look out for him. This was the kind of information that really interested folks.

After about eight hours of this I was pretty damn tired and drunk. I get drunk like anyone else, but I don’t get sloppy. I hate it when people turn into some other person when they drink or do drugs. To me that says they got something to hide, they don’t like themselves enough to show off their real skin when they’re sober.

I’m exactly the same person wasted as sober. I just sweat a lot more and spit when I talk.

My table was crowded because I had been buying drinks and drugs all night, paying courtesans to sit next to me and look pretty, and listening to guys tell their latest exploits of daring-do. I liked listening to people’s stories and that’s good, because people love telling them. There’s almost nothing folks like more than talking about themselves.

While there wasn’t a star or planet Belvaille orbited, and thus no designated night and day, for convenience and maybe just to avoid plain loneliness, most people stuck to the same clock and it was indeed very late. The playful banter was gone and nothing was left but the dead stares of hardcore gamblers and my own thoughts to keep me company.

I had wasted enough money so I passed a few credits to the dealer and waved good-bye. People came and shook my hand, said they’d tele me later, got some chaste kisses on the cheek. I was just tired and feeling a bit down.

One of the casino owner’s private guards came by as I was nearing the door.

“Hey, if you got a minute, the boss would like a word.”

If Tamshius qua-Froyeled asks if you got a minute, you usually give it. He was the biggest of the big bosses on the station and one of my most regular employers. I can’t count the number of jobs I had done for him over the decades.

“Sure,” I said, swinging over gamely to follow the guard.

He took me down a dark corridor I had walked many times before. It was extremely narrow and long. The purpose was that if the casino was ever attacked, his assailants would have to line up single file and be easy targets for fifty yards.