“Your boys want ale?” Qibbu indicated a jar of pickled gorg on the bar. “Snacks?”
“No thanks.” Sev and Scorch were a chorus, eyes fixed on the jar of very dead amphibians. “Couldn’t manage another thing.”
“Okay, you and I talk, then, Ka-a-al.”
“I take it you haven’t got ready currency?”
“Not that much. Give me time, and-“
“Let me make it easy for both of us.” Skirata pulled up a stool and sat down to bring himself level with the Hutt’s eyes. “I’m a tourist. Can my boys take a look at your rooms? If we like what we see, we’ll stay for a while.”
Skirata indicated the turbolift. Sev and Scorch drew their blasters and disappeared for a recce. Ordo locked the main doors again and paced slowly around the bar, probably committing the layout and every detail to memory. A right little holorecorder, Ordo: another superb advantage of perfect recall.
“So … you have a project in hand, Ka-a-al?”
“I might have.”
“Does it involve … dead people?”
“Not this time. I just need a place where my colleagues and I can relax and not be bothered for a while.”
Qibbu’s yellow slit-pupiled eyes followed Ordo around the bar. Skirata could never see yellow eyes now without thinking of Kaminoans.
“Your colleagues are soldiers.”
“Yes. They like to make the most of their leave. They don’t get much.”
“So they do little … jobs for you,” Qibbu said.
“Yes, and none of those jobs need inconvenience you. You won’t’ get any visits from CSF, because my boys behave themselves.”
“You just want … peace and quiet for them to do those little jobs for you.”
You have no idea how much, Slug-Breath. “Yes.”
“In exchange, you write off that small sum I owe you?”
“I might.” It was five hundred thousand credits plus interest. He didn’t need it now. There was a time when he would have risked his life and that of anyone who got in the way to pick up a fee like that. He’d been a successful debt enforcer for a brief time, but it wasn’t proper soldiering. “I might also bring some trade your way, because there could be a lot of troopers in town who want to visit somewhere relaxing.”
“You offer me more than I owe you. There is a catch.”
“The catch,” Skirata said, feeling the negotiation slipping away from him, “is that you’ll guarantee no trouble here. And my definition of trouble is quite exacting.”
“No unwanted attention.”
“And no nonsense from your usual lowlife clientele. No taking advantage of my soldier boys. As much food as they want-fresh and properly cooked, please-and clean rooms. They don’t drink much but they do tend to like a lot of caf and sweet beverages.”
Qibbu blinked slowly, still apparently distracted by Ordo, who was taking an interest in the kitchen.
“Mind if I do a food hygiene inspection?” Ordo said, and disappeared into the kitchens without waiting for a reply.
Qibbu’s gaze slid toward the kitchen and then back to Skirata. “You ask for a lot for your shiny boys.”
Skirata closed his hand around the end of the chain in his pocket. The slug needed to learn who had the upper hand in this negotiation. “That’s because they deserve a lot, you owe me a lot, and if you mess me about you’ll have a lot more trouble than you could possibly imagine-“
Skirata’s buildup to giving Qibbu a serious smacking was suddenly interrupted by a stifled shriek from the kitchens. A young Twi’lek female came rushing out the doors. He realized Ordo must have startled her. It might have been the twin blasters.
“And only respectable females allowed in the bar,” Skirata added. But the Twi’lek looked terrified in a way that said she was used to being that way, and he didn’t like that at all. He knew Qibbu only too well. “She doesn’t look like your usual … kitchen staff.”
The girl huddled against the far wall, staring at Ordo, who merely walked out and holstered his blaster with an exaggerated gesture. He didn’t do reassuring very well at the best of times, let alone with women. It was time to teach him more social graces when carrying firearms.
The Hutt gurgled a laugh. “Females … you know how they are-“
Enough. Skirata pulled his durasteel chain out in one movement and whipped it around Qibbu’s neck, twisting it in his fist as he wrenched the quivering bulk toward him. The metal cut into the creature’s soft fat, leaving a white margin where the blood could no longer circulate.
“Listen, shag,” Skirata said, feeling his anger tightening his throat muscles. There was no worse insult for a Hutt than slave. “I like Twi’lek females. Honest ones, the sort that don’t thieve, or worse. So no mistreating the staff or I might discover what a trade union activist I can be. Just look after any of my boys who pass this way. Eniki? You step out of line and there’ll be a new batch of fresh blubber products at the market first thing in the morning.” He twisted the chain a little tighter. “J’hagwa na yoka, Fatboy. No trouble.”