F Paul Wilson - LaNague 02 (8 page)

           
“How about
lunch?”

           
“Sure.” He
drained his third glass of wine. “Sell them breakfast and even dinner if
there’s enough of them wanting it.”

           
“Would you
let them sit here and eat just as I’m doing?”

           
Peck paused
in mid-pour at this thought, then sloshed the glass full.

           
“I don’t
know about that. Vaneks and Terrans don’t usually eat together in these parts.
Might hurt my business.”

           
“I doubt
it. Where else is anybody in Zarico going to go? To Danzer?”

           
Peck nodded
slowly. “I see what you mean.”

           
“And even
if you did lose a few customers, I’m going to bring you one Vanek for every
Terran customer you’ve got!” Junior smiled as Peck took a wide-eyed swallow.
“That’s right. I can double your present business if you’ll let the Vanek eat
lunch here in the store.”

           
“How’re
y’gonna get ’em here?” The wine was starting to take effect.

           
“You must
have something around here you use for transportation.”

           
“Sure. I
got an ol’ lorry out back. It’s a wheeled job but it gets around.”

           
“Good. If
you let me use that every day, I’ll be able to double your profits.”

           
Peck shook
his head. “No – no. Won’t work. Cause trouble.”

           
“Why?”
Junior asked, deciding that now was the time to get aggressive. “Is Bill
Jeffers a friend of yours or something?”

           
“Never met
him.”

           
“Then let
me give it a try!”

           
“No. People
aroun’ here won’ like it.”

           
Junior
pounded his fist on the table with a ferocity that made the now half-empty wine
jug jump. “Who owns this store, anyway?” he shouted. “You gonna let other
people tell you how to run your own store?”

           
Peck
straightened his spine and slammed his own fist on the table. “Hell no!”

           
“Good!”
Junior said. He grabbed the jug and filled both glasses to the brim. “Give me a
week, and if I can’t double your profits in that time, then we’ll call the
whole thing off.”

           
“I’ll drink
to that!” said Peck.

           
THE PLAN
WORKED WELL for the first week – profits were not quite doubled but the
increase was significant – and Peck extended the trial period. Twice a day,
early morning and early afternoon, Junior would squeeze a dozen hesitant Danzer
Vanek into the lorry, then ferry them to Zarico. He would return the first
group at
noon
and the second later in
the afternoon, then return the lorry to Zarico, where he’d spend the night.
Peck had set up living quarters for him in the back of the store.

           
Things went
quite smoothly until the end of the second week. It was twilight and Junior was
about to enter the lorry for the trip back to Zarico when someone grabbed his
arms from behind and pinned them there. Then he was spun around. Before his
eyes could focus on his assailants, a fist was driven into his abdomen and then
into his face. This procedure was repeated until Junior lost consciousness. The
last thing he remembered was being dragged along the ground, then nothing.

           
NEARLY A
WEEK AFTER their first meeting, and Old Pete was in good spirits as he entered
Jo’s office suite. He had renewed a few old acquaintances around town and had
allowed the deBloise matter to slip toward the back of his mind. Jo looked up
from her desk as he entered. There was a here-he-is-again sourness in her
expression but he didn’t let it bother him. She was learning to tolerate his presence
– she didn’t enjoy it, but put up with it as a necessary and temporary evil.

           
 
“You know,” he told her, “I just saw a fellow
walking down the hall with a rat perched on his shoulder. You taking animal
acts under your wing, too?”

           
 
“That’s no act, and that was no ordinary rat.
That man – name’s Sam Orzechowski – has managed to tame rattus interstellus–”

           
 
“Don’t try and tell me that was a space rat!
Those things can’t be trained. If that were a real space rat, it would’ve
swallowed the guy’s ear long ago!”

           
 
“I checked his background and I can assure you
he’s all he says he is. Now I have to find some commercial use for the rats.
But that’s not why I called you here. We’ve got some information on what’s
going on with deBloise and Dil.”

           
Old Pete
took a seat. “What’ve you found?”

           
 
“Don’t know just yet. I put one of the best
investigators in the business on the job. He called to say that he’s got some
interesting news.”

           
“But he
didn’t say what it was?”

           
“He never
says anything of interest when there’s the possibility that the wrong ears
might hear it.”

           
Something
in her voice told Old Pete that there might be more than a professional
relationship between Jo and this investigator.

           
“When does
he arrive?”

           
 
“He doesn’t,” Jo replied with a quick shake of
her head. “He never comes to this building. IBA uses his services on a regular
basis and frequent visits would give away the relationship. We meet him in a
few hours in the casino.”

           
 
“That’s hardly what I’d call a secluded
meeting place. It’s crowded day and night.”

           
 
“It’s really an excellent place for exchanging
information, if you lay the proper groundwork. I make it a practice to visit
the casino once a week and he stops in whenever he’s in town. That way, no one
thinks it strange when we run into each other now and then especially since
we’re both avid pokochess players.”

           
“Really? So
am I. And I haven’t had a good game with another human in a long time; playing
against a machine keeps you sharp but lacks something when you win.”

           
 
“It must get lonely on that island.”

           
 
“Only once or twice a year do I crave the
company of others; but I’m never alone – I have me. Fortunately, I’m not one of
those people who, when left alone, is faced with the unpleasant realization
that there’s no one there.”

           
The
conversation ranged over various topics without direction until Jo brought it
around to one of the trouble spots in her mind.

           
 
“Did IBA do any investigating into my father’s
death?”

           
Old Pete
nodded slowly. “Yes. On two occasions. Neither came up with anything useful. It
seems that the head man around the town – I think his name was Heber, or Hever,
or something like that – anyway, he seemed to have a genuine regard for Junior
and made sure that our people had access to everything they needed for the
investigation. He had done a pretty thorough job himself before word even got
back to IBA that Junior was dead.”

           
 
“Those aliens murdered him then?”

           
 
“That’s what all the evidence says. I still can’t
quite believe it, though. They’ve got a special marker for his grave and the
vid recording of his funeral that was brought back–”

           
 
“I know. I’ve seen it.”

           
 
“Then you know that they thought of him
practically as a demigod. It makes no sense.”

           
 
“But you left his body there. Why? Not that I
have any morbid need to see my father’s remains interred on Ragna; I’m just
curious as to why you didn’t bring them back.”

           
Old Pete
shrugged. “Because his body belonged in that Vanek graveyard more than anywhere
else.”

           
Jo made no
reply. She made a mental note to look up the copy of her father’s autopsy
report, then her thoughts slipped back to the day her aunt told her that her
daddy wouldn’t be coming back; that he’d had an accident on a faraway planet
and had died. She remembered trying to hold back the anguish and fear and loss
by smothering it with denial, but that didn’t work. It was true, she knew. Jo
cried then, harder and longer than she had ever cried before. Her aunt held her
for a long time, now and then joining her in tears. She was never that close to
her aunt again. She could not really remember over crying again since then,
either.

           
Bringing
herself back to the present with a start, she rose to her feet. “Time to go.
I’ll drive.”

           
As the
flitter rose from the IBA roof, Old Pete sought to keep the conversation away
from Junior.

           
 
“I happened to see some of the figures on the
currency exchange you started. Not exactly what IBA was intended for, but very
impressive.”

           
 
“Quite the contrary,” she said, relishing the
chance to correct him. “It’s a natural outgrowth of the company’s activities.
In the course of investigating new markets for clients, we have to keep tabs on
the political and economic climates. The monetary policies of local governments
are of prime importance, as you well know, so we began indexing rates of
inflation, growth of the money supplies, et cetera, for each trade sector. I
used some of that data to do a little personal currency speculation a few years
ago and did quite well. If a novice like me could make a nice percentage with
IBA’s index, I figured a currency expert working full time on it could open a
new service to our clients. So we hired a couple and we’re doing all right.”

           
“You keep
much of your own money in that fund?”

           
Jo shook
her head. “I only participate on occasions when I can make a short term gain.
If they tell me the Nolevetol krona is overvalued, I’ll sell them short; if the
Derby
pound is undervalued, I’ll
buy a few bundles and wait. Otherwise my money sits in a vault as Tolivian
certificates of deposit.”

           
Old Pete
nodded approval and said no more. His savings had also been converted to
Tolivian CDs long ago. The banks of Tolive were considered an anachronism in
many financial circles because they insisted on backing their currency 100 per
cent with precious metals. The only coins the issued were 0.999 fine gold or
silver, and a “certificate of deposit” meant just that: a given amount of gold
or silver was on deposit at that particular bank and was payable on demand. The
nominal government of Tolive had only one law concerning monetary policy: all
currency must be fully backed by a precious metal; any deviation from that
policy was considered fraud and punishable by public flogging.

           
Old Pete
liked the idea of hard money, always had. So did Jo. Apparently she had more in
common with him than she cared to admit–

           
–or with
Junior. He was more used to her appearance now. At first sight of her last
week, even with her hair darkened toward black, Jo had looked so much like Junior
that he had been struck dumb for a moment. But the similarities went beyond
mere physical appearance. There was an ambiance about her that reeked of
Junior. Anyone who had known the man well would see it in her. He had, of
course, expected that, but not to such a degree.

           
The
differences were equally startling.

           
So like
Junior, he thought, and yet so unlike him. I really shouldn’t be surprised.
After all, their developmental environments were so different. And don’t forget
the opposing sexual orientation.

           
As his
thoughts began to wander into forbidden ground, he was called back to the
present by the sound of Jo’s voice.

           
“There it
is,” she said, and banked the flitter to the right. “By the way, if you like
filet of chispen, they’ve got a restaurant in the casino that does a superb job
on it.”

           
The casino
glowed below them like a luminescent fish of prey lurking on an inky sea
bottom. Alighting from the flitter onto the roof, they were greeted by an
elaborately costumed doorman to whom Jo was obviously a familiar figure. He
bowed them through the arched entrance.

           
The casino
consisted of five large rooms arranged in a circular fashion. The elevators
from the roof deposited you in the hub and from there you were given free
choice as to the manner in which you wished to lose money. Jo headed directly
for the pokochess parlor. This was her favorite game, a game of chance and
skill in which each player was “dealt” a king, three pawns, and five more
pieces randomly chosen from the twelve remaining possibilities. The two players
could bet as each new piece was dealt and were allowed to raise the ante
whenever a piece was taken during the course of the game.

           
Pokochess
was not too popular with the casino because the house could make a profit only
when a guest played one of the house professionals. But the game was the
current rage on Ragna and a pokochess parlor in the casino proved to be a good
draw. Patrons could use the house tables for a small hourly fee.

           
Jo stopped
at the entrance to the pokochess section and ran her gaze over the room. It
came to rest on a nondescript man in his middle thirties sitting alone at a
table in a far corner. A shorter, darker man had just left his side and was
headed in the direction of the bar.

           
 
“There he is,” Jo said, a smile lighting her
face. She started forward but Old Pete grabbed her elbow.

           
 
“That’s the man you have working for you?” he
asked in a startled tone.

           
 
“Yes – Larry Easly. Why?”

           
Old Pete
broke into a laugh. “Because that fellow moving away from him has been working
for me – and he’s Easly’s partner!”

           
 
“Really?” They started to make their way
toward the corner where Easly sat. “Small galaxy, isn’t it?”

           
Old Pete
nodded. “Wheels within wheels, bendreth.”

           
 
“What’s that mean?”

           
 
“Oh, just an old, old expression that means
pretty much what you want it to mean.” He threw her a sidelong glance. “You
mean you never heard it before?”

           
 
“Doesn’t sound familiar… where’d it
originate?”

           
 
“Never mind.” He didn’t want to bring that up
again.

           
Easly
spotted them then, rose from his seat, and came forward. He and Jo clasped
hands briefly, formally, but their eyes locked and held on after the hands had
parted. Had he wished it, Larry Easly could have been a distinguished-looking
man, but the nature of his work demanded that he downplay any striking
features. So he made certain that his posture and the cut of his clothes hid
his muscular build, that his complexion and the cut of his dark blond hair
invited anonymity.

           
Easly’s
hazel eyes had a certain squinting quality, almost as if the light hurt them.
But Old Pete noted that they were constantly roving under cover of that squint,
missing nothing.

           
Larry Easly
extended his hand. “We meet at last, Mr. Paxton.”

           
 
“I knew we would eventually,” Old Pete said,
“but this is quite a surprise.”

           
Andrew
Tella returned then with a drink-laden waiter in tow. After shaking hands with
Old Pete and being introduced to Jo, he handed out drinks – scotch to the
former, a glass of cold
Moselle
to the latter – and they
all sat down around a pokochess table.

           
 
“You can’t be as surprised as Andy and I were
when we discovered we’d both been requested to investigate the same thing,”
Easly said with a trace of a smile. His features were soft, gentle-looking, not
at all what Old Pete had expected. “But we guessed what had happened and, since
Andy got the assignment first, he had the honor of completing it.”