The Widowmaker: Volume 1 in the Widowmaker Trilogy (18 page)

Suddenly a huge smile spread across the Marquis’ face. “I like you!” he exclaimed.

"Why shouldn't you?” asked Father Christmas. “I'm very likeable."

"I think we can reach an agreement,” continued the Marquis.

"Give me safe passage and asylum and I'll give you twenty percent,” said Father Christmas.

The Marquis shoved Malloy out of his chair and sat down on it. “Take a walk,” he said. “We're about to talk business."

Malloy, obviously feeling insulted, got up and left the table.

The Marquis turned back to Father Christmas. “Twenty percent isn't even worth talking about,” he said. “Now, here's my proposal, my friend. You tell me what worlds you plan to hit. I'll supply you with all the firepower you need, and I'll give you safe haven on any world within my sphere of influence, for, shall we say, half?"

"I thought half was your criminal extortion rate, not your very best offer to possible partners,” said Father Christmas. “I'll agree to it for, shall we say, a quarter?"

The Marquis turned to Nighthawk. “You brought back a good man, Jefferson Nighthawk. I
really
like him.” He stared at Father Christmas. “In fact, I like you so much I'll do it for a third."

"Like me a little less and take thirty percent,” said Father Christmas with a grin.

"What the hell, why not?” said the Marquis, sticking out his huge hand and shaking Father Christmas's much smaller one. “You've got a deal."

"Well, it's nice to be in business with you,” said Father Christmas. “I think this calls for a little celebration. I'll treat for a bottle of your finest Cygnian cognac."

"I'll go get some from the bar,” said the Marquis, getting up.

The Marquis of Queensbury returned a moment later with the bottle and some oddly-shaped glasses on a glowing tray. He opened the bottle with a flourish, and carelessly filled each of their glasses, splashing some of the expensive cognac onto the tray and table.

"To friendship, partnership, and success,” he said in a loud voice.

"To friendship, partnership, and success,” echoed Father Christmas.

"And to death,” added Nighthawk.

"Death?” repeated the Marquis curiously.

"In our business, how else will you know you've succeeded?” asked Nighthawk.

"True,” agreed the Marquis after a moment's thought. “To death."

"May it visit our enemies first, and ourselves not at all,” intoned Father Christmas.

If I work it right,
thought Nighthawk,
that toast just may come true.

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Nighthawk sat at the bar, next to Lizard Malloy, staring at the Pearl of Maracaibo in rapt fascination. His drink was untouched, his thin cigar had gone out. The Holy Roller sat motionless on the bar, an inch from his left hand.

Father Christmas walked into the casino, spotted him, and walked over. He looked up at the undulating, nearly-nude blue-skinned girl with a bored expression, ordered a drink, and turned to Nighthawk.

"Close your mouth,” he said. “You never know what might fly into it."

"Shut up,” said Nighthawk, never taking his eyes off the dancing girl.

"Just trying to be helpful,” said Father Christmas with a shrug. He nodded a greeting to Malloy, waited for his drink to arrive, took a sip, and reached out to pet the Roller, which allowed him to touch it but displayed neither interest nor pleasure, refusing to purr or move closer to him.

Finally the performance was over and Melisande vanished backstage.

"Never interrupt me when I'm watching her,” said Nighthawk, finally turning to Father Christmas.

"She won't vanish if you take the time to say hello to a friend,” replied Father Christmas. He got to his feet. “Come on over to a booth. It's more comfortable, and I'm an old man with all kinds of aches and pains."

Nighthawk and Malloy picked up their drinks and followed him. The Roller chirped twice, then bounced to the floor and soon caught up with them. When they reached a booth and sat down, it came to rest on the toe of Nighthawk's boot.

"You spend a lot of time watching her,” noted Father Christmas.

"What's it to you?"

"He's in love,” said Malloy with a smirk.

"Have either of you got anything useful to say?” demanded Nighthawk irritably.

"As a matter of fact, I have,” replied Father Christmas. “You know, you'd be immature even if you were as old as you look, and I happen to know you're a good deal younger than that."

"Get to the point."

"The point, my young friend, is that you're in the throes of first love. You're not going to want to hear this, but trust me: you'll get over it."

"I don't want to get over it."

Malloy grinned. “They never do."

"Now, I know you won't believe this,” said Father Christmas, “but girls like her are a credit a crate. Any Tradertown has a hundred just like her."

"There's no one like her!” snapped Nighthawk.

"She's the two T's, kid—trouble and trash."

"Be careful what you say,” replied Nighthawk ominously. “You may be a friend, but there's a limit to what I'll let even a friend say about her."

"Listen to him,” urged Malloy, enjoying Nighthawk's discomfort. “You don't know it yet, but there are a lot of women who look even better."

"And a handful who are even less trustworthy,” added Father Christmas.

"What do you mean—less trustworthy?"

"I've seen her type,” said Father Christmas. “They're drawn to power the way you're drawn to a good-looking girl."

"So I'll prove I'm more powerful than
he
is."

"You don't understand. I said
power
, not physical prowess. If it's not the Marquis, it'll be some millionaire or politician or something. Never an outsider like you or me."

"You're wrong,” said Nighthawk stubbornly. “I can
make
her care for me."

"How? By killing her protector?"

"Oh, she'd love that,” said Malloy sardonically.

"If it's a protector she wants,
I
can protect her better than
he
can."

"From outlaws, yes. From economic recessions, I doubt it.” Father Christmas paused. “Let her go, Jefferson. All she is, all she'll ever be, is bad news. Believe me; I'm not an involved party."

"You don't understand,” said Nighthawk. “I love her."

"You've been alive four months, and you've found the only woman in the galaxy that you can love?” chuckled Malloy.

"Doesn't that seem just a little far-fetched, even to you?” added Father Christmas.

"She's what I want."

"I know. I'm just suggesting that
you
are not what
she
wants."

"What do either of you know about it?” demanded Nighthawk. “He's a repulsive little freak, and you're a wrinkled old man! When did you ever love anyone?"

"You think being old and gray-haired and wrinkled stops you from falling in love?” asked Father Christmas with a chuckle. “Just because you don't appeal to nubile 20-year-old women any more doesn't mean
they
don't appeal to
you
.” He paused. “But if age has made you any wiser, you realize that there's a big difference between
wanting
them, which is acceptable, and
loving
them, which must be done with judgment and discretion. Especially when you have as many enemies as I do, or as you will if you live to be my age."

"Did you come all the way over here from the hotel just to give me a lecture on women?"

"No, though it's obvious you need one,” said Father Christmas. He paused and stared at Malloy. “I think it's time we considered our next career move."

Nighthawk turned to Malloy. “Go to the bar. The drink's on me."

"Damn it!” snapped Malloy. “I'm sick of everyone always trying to get rid of me!"

"I've got business to discuss with Father Christmas,” said Nighthawk.

"You think this place isn't wired for sight and sound?” demanded Malloy. “Or that it's not making a permanent record of everything you say so that the Marquis can watch and listen to it later?"

"Go away."

"Some fucking friend you are!” muttered Malloy.

Nighthawk stared at him coldly. “You are no longer under my protection. We owe each other nothing from this moment on."

"Big deal! He gives me back my life. Hallelujah.” Malloy glared at him. “I don't
want
the goddamned thing back! As long as it belonged to you, people left me alone and I got to stay alive. If word gets out that I'm not beholden to you any more, my life expectancy is about three hours, tops."

"Just go away,” said Nighthawk. “You make my head hurt with all your convoluted reasoning."

"But am I still under your protection?” persisted Malloy, holding his ground.

"Whatever makes you happy."

"
That
does."

"Fine,” said Nighthawk. “Now beat it."

"But if I belong to you, you shouldn't have any secrets from me."

Nighthawk whipped out a pistol and pointed it at the tip of Malloy's leathery nose.

"See?” said Malloy accusingly. “See? I
knew
you replaced me with the Roller!"

"The Roller always keeps its mouth shut and doesn't give me unwanted advice,” said Nighthawk. “That's more than I can say for
some
half-pint gamblers."

"All right, I'm going, I'm going!” said Malloy bitterly. “But someday you'll wish you'd been nicer to me."

"I saved your life,” responded Nighthawk. “How much nicer do I have to be?"

"You'll see,” muttered Malloy, stalking off to the bar.

"He's right, you know,” said Father Christmas.

"You told me to dump
her
,” said Nighthawk irritably. “Now you're going to tell me to be nice to
him
?"

"No,” answered Father Christmas. “I mean that he's almost certainly right about the place being wired."

"Do you want to go outside and talk?"

Father Christmas considered it for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I think anything we have to say can be said in front of the Marquis."

"Okay,” said Nighthawk. “Shoot."

"We have to have a serious discussion about the future, Jefferson,” said the older man.

"I thought we had one on the way back from Aladdin."

"That was then, this is now."

"What's changed?” asked Nighthawk.

"I've got a bad feeling,” replied Father Christmas. “The Marquis was too willing to forgive you for not doing what he sent you to do."

"I brought you back,” said Nighthawk. “That was even better."

"I know you have your whole life ahead of you, but trust me: outlaws live for the moment. He might ultimately be willing to deal with me, but it doesn't make sense that he wouldn't try to grab the gold and the Moritas first. That's hardly the mark of a criminal kingpin. It makes sense for me to deal with him; it makes less for
him
to deal with
me
."

"But you had the hatch rigged."

"That's another thing,” continued Father Christmas. “He can't stay in power long if he lets people challenge his authority like that. Hell, it practically invites his henchmen to protect what they've stolen by booby-trapping the loot and then renegotiating terms with him.
I
would never allow it; neither should
he
."

"But he did."

"That's what makes me very uneasy."

"What do you think his motive is?"

"I can't spot it. Except I know that it has nothing to do with me."

"Why not?” asked Nighthawk.

"Because my plans were fixed before I met him, and I haven't changed them one iota."

"If it has nothing to do with you, then who—?"

"You, of course,” said Father Christmas. “You disobeyed his orders, and if you didn't kill his spy, you at least didn't go out of your way to save him. So I have to ask myself: why are you still alive? He's not afraid of you; a man like the Marquis can snuff you out in an instant. He's not being altruistic, because altruism is totally alien to a man like that. He hasn't forgiven your infraction; he's chosen to ignore it. Why? Why is a 4-month-old clone suddenly his second-in-command?"

Nighthawk considered what the older man had said. “I don't know,” he admitted at last.

"Neither do I,” said Father Christmas. “But there
must
be a reason.” He paused. “Why are you here?"

"I told you."

"All right, it's part of a mission. Who sent you here?"

"Marcus Dinnisen—the Widowmaker's lawyer, back on Deluros VIII,” answered Nighthawk.

"He sent you to Tundra?"

"No. He sent me to the Inner Frontier. A man named Hernandez, the Chief of Security on Solio II, sent me here."

"What's his connection to you?"

"He's the one who arranged for me to be created."

"Interesting."

"Is it?"

"And frustrating,” said Father Christmas. “We don't know enough. Or if we do, I can't see it yet."

"You're the guy with the bad feeling,” answered Nighthawk. “I still don't know what's got you so bothered."

"There's something going on here, something that reaches at least to Solio II, and maybe all the way back to Deluros,” said Father Christmas. “I think we'd be well advised to get the hell out while the getting's good. There are too many things going on here that I don't like."

Nighthawk looked around, his gaze coming to rest on Malloy, who sat at the bar, and he remembered what the leathery little man had said. “Are you sure you want to be saying all this where the Marquis can probably overhear you?"

"What difference does it make?” shot back Father Christmas. “If you agree to come with me, we'll be out of here before he can stop us. If you stay here, he'll know that my best arguments couldn't make you leave him."

"What if
I
stay and
you
leave?” asked Nighthawk. “Won't that bother him?"

"Probably. That's why it won't happen."

"I don't follow you."

"Malloy is no fool,” said Father Christmas. “The only thing keeping him alive is you. I plan to put myself under your protection as well."

"That's the silliest thing I ever heard,” said Nighthawk. “Why would you do something like that?"