Hard Luck Hank: Basketful of Crap (6 page)

I was in
Deadsouth laying low.

Well, not too
low since I was walking around the streets barefoot with an autocannon on my
back. I wasn’t sure if the corporation would be unhappy I destroyed their APC.
I wasn’t even sure I destroyed it. But I didn’t want to take chances.

My eye and toe hurt
and I had a general throb along my whole body from the hundred or so bullets
that had nailed me.

Deadsouth was
still Deadsouth despite the changes Belvaille had gone through. Belvaille used
to have street names based on numbers and letters but after we became
independent, every little boss and corporation wanted their own blocks. Even I
got my own. But no one bothered to rename Deadsouth. I was on 84
^th
and V Block.

The inhabitants
and area looked the same. The lowest of the low. The addicts and alcoholics and
mental cases and those who just stopped caring.

“Damn, boy!
Well ain’t you just a meat-fed so-and-so!”

A tall,
youngish, handsome man with blonde hair stood next to me. He had a beatific
smile that went from ear-to-ear and probably tied with a ribbon at the back of
his head.

“You look like
you could lift a pulsar and stop it pulsing.” He said it like it was the most fantastically
important thing in his life. He felt my bicep and recoiled in shock. “Goldor’s
crooked teeth, what are you made of, iron?”

“No,” I stated.
I looked around to see if this was a set-up, but I couldn’t figure out what the
punch line could be.

“What’s your
name, son?” He put out his hand.

“Hank.” I
shook.

“Hank. Just
Hank?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what I
like about this part of the Confederation. All straight talk. Yes, sir. No
ma’am. Corned beef and ham. Don’t break my hand! Woo! My name is Bronze Badel
Bardel. Say that three times fast and you get a prize. Up to a three credit
value,” he said, holding his hand up by his mouth conspiratorially. “Yeah, my
parents had a sense of humor. How long you been around here? I’m new myself.”

“You mean in
Deadsouth or Belvaille?” I asked. Bronze was a jovial person. He just oozed it.
I found myself grinning just listening to him and I had very recently been
worked over by a bunch of heavy machine guns.

“Whatever you
want to tell me,” he responded. He put his hands in his pants pockets then
quickly took them out. As if he couldn’t stand still that long.

“I’ve been on
Belvaille maybe 140 years or—” I started.

“Wow!” He said,
and pretended to keep his hat from blowing off his head from that information,
but he wasn’t wearing a hat. “Hey, I need you to show me around. This place is
so confusing. One minute you’re on 22
^nd
Street then you take three
steps and it’s Jagnope’s Nosesocket Avenue. I feel like I’ve been walking in
circles but they say that’s impossible because the city is a square. Figures
I’d even screw that up.”

“I need to
clean up a bit and I have to stick around here a while.” I didn’t want to tell
too much to this stranger and he got that.

“Sure! Sure! I
don’t mean to pry. If you want, you can step into my pad right over there and
you can do what you need. I got a few credits to my name and I’ll buy you a
drink.”

I had been
planning on basically breaking into one of the many abandoned apartments in
this area and using the facilities. But I might as well have some company.

“That sounds
great Bronze, uh,” I had forgotten all his name. He spoke so fast.

“Just call me
Bronze. Or Badel. Or Bardel. Whatever it is, I’ve been called worse.”

We walked a few
blocks. People literally were lying on the sidewalks and in the street. No
vehicles drove around here. There was no reason. The people here probably
didn’t know Belvaille had changed at all.

We went into a
building and headed up the stairs. Bronze took them three at a time, but I was
not a fast stair-climber. I was even slower carrying an autocannon and tired
from my ordeals.

At the first
landing, Bronze stopped and looked back. I had gone up maybe four steps. He
chuckled and then watched me for a few moments as I struggled on.

“I thought you
were pulling my leg there, Hank. But I guess a guy as big as you can’t also be
quick on his feet. I’d say take the elevator, but it’s broke. And I’d offer to
give you a hand but I think you’d pull me down the stairs.”

“It’s fine,” I
huffed. “Please tell me you’re not on the top floor.”

“Just one more
flight,” he said congenially.

I finally got
up, sweating and my back tired.

He opened the
door to his apartment and I noticed absently he didn’t use a key or code. He
held the door for me and I went in first.

Inside it was
spare, with barely any furniture and only some small boxes on the floor.

There was a man
inside hurriedly digging through the boxes while on his knees. He had long orange
hair, a torn black synth coat, and a long scraggly beard. He looked up at our
entrance and his eyes bugged out in panic.

Bronze slipped
by me at the door.

“Hey, brother,
what can I help you with?” Bronze asked the man in good humor.

The man didn’t
answer. He looked at Bronze and looked at me. Particularly me.

“We were about
to fix ourselves something to drink, you want anything?” Bronze continued.

No reply.

“Do you know
him?” I asked Bronze.

“Nope.”

Bronze walked
into his kitchen and I heard him clanging around with what sounded like cups
and bottles and cabinets.

I was blocking
the door and the man in the room seemed acutely aware of that.

I took my
autocannon off my back and swung it around to my front, holding it like I meant
business. Every gun means business, that’s what they’re for. Laugh all you want
at a little .22, you get shot by one you’re not laughing. But an autocannon
that hurls a grenade four or eight or whatever miles, takes business to a whole
other level. It was an advanced degree in business.

I motioned with
my head to the door and stepped aside.

The guy who had
been going through Bronze’s things took the hint and in one motion got to his
feet and ran past me without looking back.

Bronze entered the
room with three cups of mismatched colors and sizes. He seemed surprised it was
just us.

“Where did that
other guy go?”

“I don’t know,”
I said, closing the door. “Bronze, you’re in Deadsouth now. You need to lock
your door.”

“What for? I
don’t have nothing to steal. I don’t even pay rent here, doesn’t seem right I
should be barricading the place.”

“Someone could
slit your throat while you’re sleeping,” I explained.

“Seems like an
awful hassle to get some dirty socks. Bathroom is through there. Take a swig of
this. It’s not good, mind you.”

I disconnected
my autocannon and put it on the ground. It was so nice to be free from its bulk.
I thought it was pretty cool that Bronze hadn’t even mentioned it.

I drank from
the cup as Bronze pounded his.

I might not be
the richest guy in the galaxy any more, but I was used to drinking good booze.
I could hardly swallow this and when I did I coughed and got some in my nasal
passages which was probably worse than a machine gun bullet to the eye.

“Yeah, not the
best, I know,” he said.

I tried to
recover and make conversation, but my nose burned and I was on the verge of
sneezing.

“Wh-what do you
do here on Belvaille?” I finally got out.

“Mostly I’m
avoiding twelve ex-wives,” he laughed. “Or thirteen depending on who you’re
going to believe. I heard there was good jobs here and no one bothered you.”

“Good jobs? Who
said that?” I asked skeptically. I can’t think of any time when Belvaille was exactly
a boomtown.

“Hey, I got
this nice apartment. I got all the water I can drink, all the showers I can
take, and I got free food,” he said, like Deadsouth was paradise.

“Where do you
get free food?” Food was probably my greatest expense.

“I work at
restaurants here and there. Do the dishes. Scrub the bathrooms. Man, you guys
sure do a number on the toilets. It’s all that space food, I think.”

“That work
doesn’t bother you?” I asked.

“Hank, I was a
hard rock digger for ten years on three different planets,” he said. Then he
flashed those wonderful teeth again. “Belvaille is a sweet slab of honey. You
got a space station, not even orbiting a star, a million billion trillion miles
from anything and it’s not only working, it’s luxurious. You got people
sleeping in the streets without a care. Perfect temperature day or night. You
got casinos! You know how many planets would die for a city this nice? And any
time I want work I just go out and sniff around for clogged urinals.”

“Speaking of, let
me go use your bathroom if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, sure,
sure. I’ll fix us some more drinks. I got two bottles.”

I was walking
to the bathroom when I thought:

“Hey, Bronze, I
eat space food too. I mean, I can use a bathroom in another apartment, mine is
kind of broken right now.”

“Don’t worry
about it. It’ll give me practice.”

In his bathroom
I looked at myself in the mirror and the area around my eye was all puffy and I
had broken some blood vessels. I had welts all over my face and far more on my
body. I thought it was a testament to Bronze that he hadn’t brought it up. I’m
sure I would have asked, “Hey, how’d you hurt your eye?” Just kind of a normal
conversation thing to ask.

Back in his
living room we talked and drank. He offered me the only chair but I knew it was
too flimsy for me so I parked on the floor. Bronze had quite a few stories and
we sat trading them.

I had stories
too, but mostly they were on the same theme: I beat up someone or someone beat
me up.

Bronze Badel
Bardel had been across the galaxy and back. Just about every one of his stories
was…bad. Bad for him. But he just seemed to find it all funny.

After a while I
felt like I was imposing. I had been hanging out drinking and chatting with
Bronze for about five hours.

He was adamant
about seeing me out.

I strapped my
autocannon back on and headed to the stairs.

In the stairway
we bumped into one if his neighbors coming up. He was surprised to see us.

“Yeepl,” Bronze
shouted, “have you met my friend Hank?”

“Everyone knows
Hank,” the man responded without a smile and clearly not as a compliment.

“Oh! Have I
been partying with someone famous?”

Yeepl walked
past us on the stairs.

“Bronze, let me
pay you a bit for the booze,” I said. I felt guilty that he was so…poor and had
been showing me such hospitality.

“No way! I
should be paying you. You told me a lot of great things about this place.”

“Let me just
beam you some credits.”

“I don’t have a
tele,” he said, seeming proud.

“You…” I had
never heard of anyone not having a tele. They were government issued. They were
free to replace. Our whole Confederation ran on them. It just boggled my mind
anyone could exist without using a tele. How did he do anything?

“Tell you what,
though, if you find some good jobs, let me know. I can do anything. As long as
it doesn’t require brains,” he laughed.

“Sure,” I said.
“Are you going to be here?”

“Until they
kick me out.”

Being kicked out
of Belvaille’s Deadsouth was an oxymoron. It’s where you got kicked to.

At City Hall I
scanned more videos until I was bored silly. Watching tapes of people shuffle
in line from every different angle was absolutely excruciating. I wasn’t making
much progress.

I headed to the
Belvaille Gentleman’s Club.

The club had
been around at least as long as I had. It and its cousin, the Belvaille
Athletic Club, were two permanent fixtures on the space station. The Gentleman’s
Club was where all the thugs who worked for the gangs hung out. It was a place
to relax and watch sports and not worry if the guy sitting next to you was
going to kill you tomorrow.

After a few
hundred years of hosting the toughest guys in the galaxy, it was a very smelly
establishment. It stank. It wasn’t even something discernable like foot odor or
sweat. I think the metal walls themselves had become infected. I was used to
it.

Inside the
club, I began to unbuckle my autocannon.

“I’m not taking
that,” Krample said.

The man was
maybe a million years old. Or at least he looked like it. He had been coat
check in the Gentleman’s Club since as long as I can remember. If his skeleton
weighed fifty pounds and his organs weighed ten, he had to weigh maybe sixty-one
pounds total. He was just a tiny old man.

“But,” I began,
“no guns allowed inside, right?”

“Where the hell
do you think I’m going to put that?” he asked me.

“Can I just leave
it here in the hallway?”

“People will
trip on it. Take it with you.” He turned and that was the end of the
discussion.

I had never,
not once, seen someone carry a gun in the club.

I walked
upstairs to the cafeteria and looked around to see what was going on. There
were about twenty people in the room, assorted hitmen and enforcers. They all
noticed my autocannon, but no one said anything.

“Hank,” someone
yelled from across the room.

“Yeah,” I
answered, ready to defend my autocannon-toting.

“Ginland
glocken in two hours. Facing Nedle’s Nibash. What can I put you down for?”

Glocken was a
sport. Ginland was the state we lived in, where Belvaille was. The team, The
Reskin Sleepers, had never won in its history. It was the longest uninterrupted
losing streak of any professional team of any kind. Nedle’s was a private team owned
by some rich guy, not even a state team. I liked watching Ginland’s team
because they were so horrible. They just made me feel better about myself.

“What is
Nedle’s by twelve going to get me?”

“Even money. If
you go by fifteen it’s five-to-three odds.”

Most games had
scores of around seven max.

“Is Tommiah
starting?”

“I don’t know,
Hank. I think you’re the only person that follows that team.”

“Give me a bit,
I want to check the sports page.”

I had to do
some research. Even in Ginland they didn’t cover the home team very well. I sat
down and ordered some food as I looked through obscure sports sections on my
tele.

I could only
find one person covering the game and I thought it might be a little kid. He
described the players as “great” or “really great” or “super great” and didn’t
seem to have a thorough understanding of the game.

“Hey, what odds
will you give me that Ginland only loses by eight?” I asked.

Bookies are
supposed to be poker-faced and consult their shifting array of odds, but he
looked surprised and said without even thinking:

“Ten-to-one.”

“Fine. Put me
down for a hundred.” It wasn’t going to break me. Besides, the day I stop
betting long shots on Ginland is the day I’ve given up all hope completely.

A roughneck sat
down next to me and looked a bit upset. I stopped him before he started.

“Krample said
bring it up. Wasn’t my idea.”

“Hank, you got
any work?”

“Oh. Well, you
know I got fired when Yeolenz Flame got bombed.”

“Yeah, but
people said you might be working on some other stuff. Something considerable.”
He kept his voice down and his eyes scanned the club.

“Where did you
hear that?” I asked.

“Just around.”

I might as well
put out more feelers.

“I’m looking
for an item. For some clients. Big time weapon.”

“Is it for the
Navy?” he asked.

“Why would you
say that?”

“You worked for
them, right? An Oberhoffman?”

Man, this guy
knew an awful lot about me.

“Doesn’t
matter. It’s just hot and there’s a big reward.”

“How big a
reward?”

“Big enough for
me to call it ‘big,’” I said.

He didn’t seem
to like that answer very much.

“Look,” I
began, “they can’t ship it off station. They can’t talk about it or sell it or
I’ll find them and just take it from them. They might as well get some money
for it, no questions asked.”

“What about for
the middle man?” he asked.

“Ten percent.”

“Ten percent of
‘big’?” he asked skeptically.

“It’s a lot.
Trust me. Someone is going to get rich. Also, maybe you can give me some ideas.
I’m looking for a woman—”

“Aren’t we
all,” he cut in.

“I know about
when she came on station and I’m looking through check-in and quarantine. What
else should I be trying?”

“What’s she
look like?”

“Disguised,
maybe.”

“What’s her
line of work?”

“I don’t know
if she’s working at all. Maybe an assassin. Maybe nothing.”

“She got any
money of her own?”

“I don’t know.”

“How much does
it pay to find her? As much as the other one?”

“Not even
close.”

“Then I say you
better find another job. It’s a big city. Especially since the corporations
have cut the city into pieces. You can’t search those areas easily. And she
could be lying in the bathtub in some flop in Deadsouth and no one would ever
know.”

“Yeah.” It did
seem like a hopeless assignment when put that way.

Just then we
heard some shouting and scuffling and then a full-on fight broke out behind us.
Fists flying and noses breaking. Must have been eight guys going at it.

I had never
seen a real fight in the Gentleman’s Club. This was where people came to get
away from fights. The food was bad and expensive and it cannot be overstated
how poorly the place smelled.

This was the
last refuge of the gangs. The corporation soldiers didn’t come here. They were
too good for this place.

I watched the
guys fight and couldn’t help but think it looked like a bunch of wild animals
fighting over the last scraps of food after they had lost their natural
habitat.