Hard Luck Hank Screw the Galaxy(75)

I should have been a drug dealer.



It was pretty late at night and I had just watched some animal fights at Lodaire deLon’s place. He was a boss who would train the strangest animals in the galaxy to fight one another in front of betting crowds. It was considered high culture by many on the station.

I wasn’t sure if I was going to stay in a hotel tonight or go back to my apartment and sleep next to a robot.

As I was deciding, a petite woman with a bob haircut and businesslike manner approached me.

“Are you Hank?” she asked in a squeaky voice that made her sound pubescent.

“Yeah,” I said.

“I’m Two Clem’s assistant,” she said, shaking my hand.

There were various kinds of celebrities on Belvaille. Everyone that lived here knew Garm. Many criminals probably at least knew of me. There were some fairly famous galactic-wide crooks in hiding here. And then there were a handful of genuine celebrities, people famous outside the tiny confines of Belvaille for acts that weren’t even illegal.

Two Clem was a real celebrity. He did…all the celebrity stuff. Music. Acting. Clothes. His own brand of pet. I don’t know. Things celebrities did.

I wasn’t sure why he was here, but if he was on Belvaille it probably wasn’t entirely by choice. It might have been as simple as tax reasons.

“Two Clem would like to speak to you,” she said.

It was either this or go play footsy with Delovoa and his pal.

“Sounds great,” I said.

There aren’t any mansions or anything on Belvaille. But if you had enough money, you could get a posh spot in the northeast. That was where the assistant took me, driving me in a small car. Two Clem had his own building, which is more than most gang bosses had. Not a house, but an actual apartment building all to himself.

There were liveried servants all over. The entire first floor was just security.

The little assistant took me up quietly. She still hadn’t told me her name or even looked at me after our initial hello. It seemed a foregone conclusion to her that I would be thrilled to follow and meet her benefactor.

The next floor was filled with videos and sculptures and pictures of Two Clem. Basically every kind of physical, audible, and visual representation of him was on display. Whole artist colonies must have been raised from destitution.

The next floor looked like a normal set of apartments, yet was lavishly appointed. Perhaps guest rooms?

The top floor was pretty impressive. It’s not easy to remodel on Belvaille. Not without explosives. But somehow the entire floor had been stripped of its inner walls. What was once maybe four different apartments was now a single open room of warehouse proportions.

It was eye-assaultingly bright in its color scheme. The carpet was literally inches thick so you felt like you were walking on a low-gravity planet. Both crude and absurdly technical artwork was all over, contrasting loudly.

As we topped the stairs I saw a lone figure in a gold cape and tight shorts standing across the room, his black hair spiked out in three-foot prongs. He seemed to be admiring the wall opposite us, which was blank.

The assistant picked up a tiny mallet and chimed a bell. I almost laughed.

The celebrity turned and held out his arms.

The assistant walked up to him and hugged him about the waist, bending over as she did so, like a young girl still shy of her budding body. I noticed Two Clem wore boots with one-foot platform heels.

This was weird.

I heard the celebrity whisper and the assistant turned back to me.

“You may come forward,” she said.

I looked back towards the stairs. I really didn’t feel like walking down again. And I didn’t feel like going home. This would make a funny story at the Gentleman’s Club if nothing else.

I walked towards them. If he expected me to curtsy though, I was leaving.

The celebrity smiled. I guess he was a handsome guy. He had that unusualness that celebrities have. He didn’t look quite normal, but not enough to be odd. If he talked, no matter what he sounded like, it wouldn’t match his face.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, his voice not matching his face.

“No prob.”

“It’s said you are the best at what you do in this place,” Two Clem stated, taking a few steps to the side. He said “place” with no small amount of dislike.

“I do okay,” I shrugged.

“But are you the best?” He scrutinized me and his nostrils and eyes flared. This was a performance.

He was frozen in his intense stare and I got the perverted desire to see how long he would hold it. So I waited. I pretended to be thinking. I scratched my ear. I looked up. Put my finger to my lips. Breathed out deeply. Shuffled my feet. Crossed my arms.

He did not move one muscle. I don’t even think he blinked. He was pretty good.