[Legacy Of The Force] - 05(34)

“Maybe I’ll just ask nicely,” said Fett. “Right now I need to walk into the Tekshar and have a chat with Fraig. That might be a little inconvenient for him.”

The Tekshar Falls was one of those feats of architectural near impossibility at which the Kuati excelled. Other establishments in the galaxy had impressive water features, but the Tekshar was a waterfall, a raging, hammering torrent from a river diverted at vast expense into the entertainment center of the city. It provided its own hydroelectric

power, which was just as well given the ferocious array of lights that pierced the curtains of water. The casino was set within the waterfall itself, part construction, part natural stone, with turrets jutting through the water like tree fungi. To get to the entrance, gamblers had to walk through water plummeting five hundred meters.

“Pity, I’ve just had my hair done,” Mirta said, solidly encased in armor from head to toe. “Is this how they stop the riffraff from coming in?”

“We are the riffraff,” said Fett. “And we’re going in.”

He paused to hack into the Kuat police database from his HUD system. They wouldn’t mind. He was just contributing to law and order around here. Images of scumbags, petty villains, and serious bad boys—and girls—scrolled down the display inside his helmet. He waited, and shortly FRAIG, L., appeared. For gangland vermin, Fraig looked remarkably respectable: fresh-faced and framed with gold curls that would have made a mother weep. Fett suspected that if Fraig still had a mother, he’d have sold her to a Hutt by now.

“So you’re just going to stroll in,” said Mirta.

“I only want to ask him a question.”

“It’s never that easy, is it?”

“We’ll see.” Fett strode down the tree-lined boulevard that led to the foot of the falls and forked around it. Only the stupidly wealthy had the time to gamble this early. It said a lot for Fraig’s business acumen. “There’s no reason for him to get upset. Just check that your jet pack’s primed.”

“We might be leaving rapidly, then … ,” Mirta said, keeping up with him without apparent effort, a reminder that he was slowing down. “Will they make a fuss about letting us in dressed like this?”

“It’s all about making an entrance.” Fett wiped the windborne spray from his visor. “People usually find my dress acceptable. Sooner or later.”

He walked straight across the bridge at the wall of roaring water and churning white foam. The falls parted like a curtain to create a wide portal. Behind, the casino was a vividly lit—and completely dry—haven.

“Very impressive,” said Mirta.

It was a nice trick played by automated force fields triggered by a

motion sensor. But it was, as he often thought, all about presentation. A little theater. It always helped.

“Keep up,” he said.

The lobby of the casino was a study in opulence, as if someone had taken a bet on how many credits they could spend on each square meter. It was everything Fett didn’t care for: flocked wall coverings, gilding, mirrors, and low-level lighting, all the trappings of illusion, and hard to clean, too. The lobby parted into two sections, one leading to the restaurant and the other to the gaming tables. Fett consulted his investment portfolio via his HUD. He noted TIRUAL CONSTRUCTION HOLDINGS.

“Let’s not do too much damage,” he said. “I think I have shares in this place.”

There was a steward at the front desk and a few very large assistants—humans, Trandoshans, and Gran—walking in slow, considered circles around the thick purple carpet that dragged at Fett’s boots like tar. He’d never seen a Trandoshan in a formal suit before, and wondered what poor old Bossk would have made of that. It was also unusual to see a Gran in this line of work. It was clear none of them was there to help diners make informed choices from the wine list.

The steward was scanning a screen in his desk, probably matching Fett’s image to the database of guests he needed to recognize for one reason or another. Judging by his sudden flinch, he’d found FETT.

“Do you have proof of identity, sir?”

Fett touched his blaster. “This used to do nicely.”

The steward—human, male, utterly ugly—was doing a very good job of not wetting his pants. Fett had to hand it to him. “Ah … haven’t seen you here in a long time, sir.”

“I’ve come to visit someone.” Fett indicated Mirta with a thumb gesture. “With my associate.”

“Will that seeing require repairs afterward?”

Fett flicked a very large-denomination credit chip onto the desk. “Keep the change in case it does. Where’s Fraig?”