It startled the barkeep long enough for Fett to land a left hook straight in his face. He fell back against the glasses stacked behind him, and a couple smashed on the tiles. Fett caught the disruptor as it clattered onto the counter; Mirta instinctively covered his back, but none of the customers moved. She was starting to feel comfortable doing this double act. The sense of camaraderiea long way short of family bondhad crept up on her.
Fett examined the disruptor and jammed the safety catch on hard, one-handed. “Rememberno disintegrations.”
The bartender staggered upright, cupping one hand under his nose to catch the dripping blood. “The last Mando who came in here wrecked this place. You’re all the kriffing same, and I don’t want you in here, so why don’t you”
Mirta realized she must have missed some fun and games after she’d left the gray clone to his hunting. “That was a long-lost relative,” she said. “We’re looking for him.”
“Well, when you have your family reunion , I want him to pay for the damage from last time.”
The man didn’t seem to recognize Ba’buir, but then Fett wouldn’t have taken a contract from this low down the food chain. Senators, crime lords, and the wealthy who could afford him knew his armor. Barkeeps tended not to.
“Time we shared some reminiscences about my wayward kin,” said Fett, tapping his forefinger impatiently against the trigger guard of his blaster. “I’m not as careful as him. My name’s Fett.”
The barkeeper’s face drained of what blood there was left in it. Mirta actually watched his color change to a pasty gray. She’d never seen physical fear like that before. The man’s eyes scanned Fett’s visor, and the revelation was almost comic.
“It was awhile ago …”
“Mandalorian in gray armor with gray gloves. Called Skirata.” If the bartender was expecting some credits to be slapped on the counter to jog his memory, Fett wasn’t playing. “What do you know?”
“Okay, he killed a guy here. Lot of damage. Lot of attention from security, too.” The barkeeper stared at Mirta now, and he was evidently piecing things together. “Yeah, you were with him, weren’t you?”
“Not for long,” said Mirta. She’d moved out of the clone’s way fastinto a different cantina, in fact. “Who did he kill?”
“Gang boss called Cherit. It made the local holonews, even.”
Obviously most shoot-outs here didn’t warrant a headline. Mirta made a mental note to check the archives. “What do you know about Cherit that didn’t make the news?”
“Nothing.”
“I realize a blow to the face can affect your memory.” Fett still hadn’t lowered his blaster. “Try again.”
“Okay, Cherit’s outfit supplied rak, lxetallic, and Twi’lek girls to some minor Kuati nobs. He was doing his deals here for a while. Maybe he was muscling in on your relative’s turf.”
“Doesn’t sound like our line of work.”
Fett stood facing the man for a long, long time. The barkeeper looked like he was grasping for something else to say to fill the silence. Eventually Fett leaned his blaster against his shoulder, muzzle up in the safety position, and seemed appeased.
“If you see him again, tell him little Boba wants to see him about a job.”
“How’s he going to get in touch with you?”
“Mandalore. Right turn off the Hydian Way. Can’t miss it.”
“Okay
“And where does Cherit’s gang hang out now?”
The barkeeper turned to the shelves behind him and fumbled frantically in a pile of flimsi sheets. “Don’t tell Fraig I gave you this.” It was a napkin embossed with a logo that said THE TEKSHAR FALLS CASINO. “You’ll find Fraig there most afternoons at the sabacc tables. Kuat City. Fraig took over from Cherit.”
Fett pocketed the napkin and strode out. Mirta followed him, backing through the doors more from habit than fear of attack.
“You reckon Fraig paid the clone for a change of management?” she said, scrambling astride the speeder behind him. “That’s what I’m thinking.”
“If he did, he’ll know how to find him.”
The speeder bike swooped over the rougher parts of Bunar and headed back to Slave I. “Do you play sabacc?” Fett asked.
Mirta knew without asking that her grandfather wasn’t a recreational gambler. “No.”
“Plan B, then.”
“What Plan B?”
“I’ll tell you when I’ve worked it out.”
“What was Plan A?”
“Dress you up nice, send you in to play a hand or two, and wheedle something out of Fraig.”