Phule's Paradise Part 9

Turning back to the reporter as the junior officers started off, he forced a smile.

"I suppose I could spare a few minutes," he said.

"Great!" the reporter beamed. "Hey, guys! Over here! Start shooting. Now!"

He leaned into the microphone, showing an impressive number of teeth.

"We're here today with Willard Phule, or, as he's known in the secretive s.p.a.ce Legion, Captain Jester. He and his famous elite force of Legionnaires have just arrived on Lorelei. Tell me, Captain, are you and your force here for business or pleasure?"

Of course, I have no way of telling how the interview upon our arrival was received by the viewers, as it went out on stellarwide broadcast and, as I've mentioned before, I am not omnipresent.

From subsequent events, however, I feel I am able to project with some accuracy how it was viewed in at least two locations: back on Haskin's Planet and here on Lorelei.

"Hey, Jennie! Come here a sec! I think you'll want to see this!" Annoyed at the interruption, Jennie Higgens glanced up from the notes she was reviewing for that night's broadcast.

"What is it? I'm kinda busy here."

"Your boyfriend's being interviewed on interstellar, and Jake the Jerk's got him."

"Really?"

Jennie decided the notes could wait a little longer and joined the small cl.u.s.ter of newsroom staff crowding around the monitor bank. Due to the multiscreen nature of their business, they had the monitors set to display the broadcasts on flat screens to avoid the chaos of multiple projections.

"It's a bit of an experiment," Phule was saying, "a test to see if the s.p.a.ce Legion can be effective in more commonplace, civilian security roles. Of course, being stationed here on Lorelei is a real treat for my force. It really is a spectacular place. Can your cameras pick up some of the light displays behind us?"

Unnoticed by her fellow reporters, Jennie narrowed her eyes a bit at this. She had barely seen Phule in the weeks before his force's departure from Haskin's, and then only hurriedly-supposedly due to the pressures of preparing for their new a.s.signment. So this was the tough duty he had been so engrossed in, eh?

"But don't you feel that the rather ma.s.sive firepower of a s.p.a.ce Legion company is unnecessary for normal security duty?" the interviewer pressed, ignoring Phule's attempts to divert the interview from his force to the casino light displays.

"Oh, we won't be carrying our normal weapons on duty in the casino, Jake." Phule laughed easily. "But I've always found it's easier not to use equipment you have than to use equipment you don't have, if you know what I mean." For the briefest second, his eyes flickered from the interviewer to look directly into the camera, as if he were speaking personally to one of the viewers.

"I've got to admit, your boy gives good interviews," one of the reporters commented to Jennie. "He's giving the impression of being just plain folks, but still managing to come across as someone you wouldn't want to tangle with. Nothing to scare the tourists off there."

"Yeah, but look at some of the plug-uglies in his crew, though. They scare me just looking at them."

"Those aren't the really mean ones," Jennie put in. "Wait until you see ..."

Her voice trailed off to silence as she stared at the monitor, focusing now on the figures in the formation behind Phule rather than on the commander himself. As if reading her thoughts, the camera did a slow pan of the force, showing the formation from one end to the other.

A small frown appeared on the reporter's forehead as she studied each face in turn. Something was wrong here. While she was interviewing them, not to mention while she was dating their company commander, she had gotten to recognize many of the Legionnaires on sight-and there were faces missing in the formation!

Where was Chocolate Harry? He would stand out in any crowd. And the woman standing next to Tusk-anini was small, but she wasn't Super Gnat. For that matter, where was Brandy? The company's top sergeant should be standing prominently in front of the formation, yet she was nowhere to be seen.

"Are you taping this?" Jennie asked, not taking her eyes from the screen.

"Yeah, I figure it might have some local interest if we want to replay it here. Why?"

"Oh, nothing." Jennie was suddenly all smiles and innocence. "I just forgot to ask Willard for a picture before he left, and this might make a nice remembrance until we see each other again. Can you make me a copy when it's over?"

"You got it."

As the technician turned his attention to the screen once more, however, Jennie's smile vanished and she edged backward out of the group.

"Sidney?" she murmured, drawing one of the photographers aside with her. "Have you still got those shots you took when we were doing the big spread on this crew while they were stationed here? All of them, not just the ones we used."

"Sure. Why?"

"Get them and see if you can find the tapes from their compet.i.tion with the Red Eagles. Then meet me in viewing room two-p.r.o.nto."

"What's up?"

"I'm not sure"-she smiled darkly-"but unless my intuition is failing me completely, I think there's a story brewing on Lorelei."

In a large penthouse, discreetly screened from the light shows in one of Lorelei's lesser casinos, the holo-images of the Omega Mob were arrayed across the sunken living room like so many ghostly specters.

Watching them with her characteristically frozen stare, Laverna sat on one end of the sofa, so rigidly immobile she might have been taken for a part of the room's furnishings. Specifically she almost reminded one of a floor lamp, as her skin was very nearly the color of the black baked enamel so often found on those appliances, and her long body was thin almost to the point of being skeletal. Still, there was an easy, elegant grace to her movement as she rose and walked to the closed bedroom door and rapped on it sharply with her knuckle.

"Maxie?" she said, raising her voice slightly to be heard through the door. "You'd better come out here."

"What?" came the m.u.f.fled response from within.

"It's important," Laverna said shortly.

Her message delivered, she returned to her seat without waiting for additional discussion or comment. She had voiced her opinion, and her opinions were rarely challenged.

Scant seconds later, the bedroom door opened and Maxine Pruet emerged into view wrapped in a housecoat. She was a small woman in her early fifties, with high, angular cheekbones that might have been called "striking" when she was young, but now, combined with her piercing eyes and silver-streaked hair, could only be referred to as "severe." Because of the timelessness of life on Lorelei, she, like many of those who dwelt here, had no regular sleep patterns, sleeping only occasionally and briefly as fatigue demanded. Despite her years, however, Maxine was still very energetic and active, setting a demanding pace for those who worked for her.

"What is it, Laverna?" she said without rancor.

"The new security force has just arrived," Laverna said flatly. "I thought you should take a look at them."

"I see."

Maxine stepped down into the sunken living room, walking, through several of the images as she did so as if they weren't there, which, of course, they weren't, and joined her a.s.sistant on the sofa, studying the figures in silence like a prim aunt watching children at a piano recital as the interview rattled on.

"So. Our Mr. Rafael's called in the Army," she said at last. "I'm not sure I understand why you feel this is important. The security force has a minor impact, at best, on my plans. Uniformed guards are little more than a decorative deterrent."

"Take another look at their commander," Laverna instructed. "The one being interviewed."

Maxine obediently turned and peered at the lean figure in black.

"What about him? He's not much older than Mr. Rafael himself."

"That's Willard Phule," Laverna said. "Probably the youngest megamillionaire in the galaxy. You may not know it, but he's a bit of a legend in financial circles-a real tiger when it comes to corporate infighting and takeovers."

"How very interesting," Maxine said, studying the figure with a new respect. "Forgive me, Laverna, but I'm still tired and sleepy, and my mind is a little slow right now. What is it exactly that you're trying to tell me here?"

Now it was Laverna's turn to shrug.

"To me, this changes the game," she said. "Whether he knows it or not, Rafael just hired himself some real heavyweight help. I thought you might want to reconsider your whole idea of taking over the casino."

While Maxine might give the appearance of being someone's grandmother or, perhaps, a maiden aunt, this impression couldn't be further from the truth. Locally she was known simply as "Max" or "the Max." She had married into organized crime while still young, and surprised everyone by successfully stepping into her late husband's shoes after his untimely demise during a shoot-out with unsympathetic authorities. She had sold off most of the "business interests" her husband had maintained, focusing her entire energies and resources on one specialty-casinos.

Max liked casinos, officially because of their money-laundering capacity, which earned her a steady income providing that service for other crime families, but, in actuality, because she liked the glittery life-style that prevailed at those establishments. She was a common fixture at the tables around Lorelei, though she rarely placed a bet for more than the table minimum. The tourists who gambled beside her never realized that she held controlling interest in nearly every casino on the s.p.a.ce station, but the permanent residents knew who she was and treated her with appropriate deference.

Despite her years of experience in behind-the-scenes casino work, however, Maxine had a lot of respect for Laverna, which was why the black woman was in her current, favored position of being Max's main advisor and confidante. Not only did Laverna have advanced degrees in both business and law, she was by far the coldest a.n.a.lyst of risks and odds Max had ever met. Maxine, though she prided herself on her levelheadedness, still might be swayed by feelings of anger, vengeance, or ego, but Laverna was as emotionless as a computer, weighing all pluses and minuses of any endeavor before bluntly stating her opinion, however unpopular. The others in the organization called her "the Ice b.i.t.c.h," or just "Ice," but there was always an undercurrent of respect in the t.i.tle. If Laverna said this uniformed gentleman could affect their plans, Maxine would be foolish not to give her words serious consideration. Still, Max was a gambler.

"No," she said finally, shaking her head. "I want this casino. This Mr. Phule may know numbers and corporations, but I know casinos. If anything, it adds a bit of spice to the challenge. We're going to take this enterprise right out from under his nose, and if he gets in our way, we'll just have to persuade him to stand aside."

Laverna glanced at her employer sharply, then looked away again. Max's casual mention of "persuasion" was, of course, a reference to violence-the one point the two women disagreed on. What was more, it was far from an empty threat.

Maxine had proven herself to be a more than competent general for her troops on the occasions when other crime factions had thought her territory easy pickings and tried to move in. Nor was she averse to getting personally involved in the bloodshed.

The sleeves of Max's housecoat were loose, as were the sleeves of all her clothes. This was to accommodate the custom pistol and spring holster that she always wore. It was a very small caliber, .177 to be exact, the same size as a BB, and the sound it made when firing was no louder than a man snapping his fingers. The small size of the hollow-point bullets meant that she could fit twenty-five of them into a magazine no larger than a matchbox, yet they were deadly if they hit a vital organ, and Max was a crack shot who could hit anything she could see.

Laverna knew this, and while she acknowledged the constant potential for violence in their profession, she didn't approve of it.

"Suit yourself," she said, shrugging again. "You pay me for my opinions, and you've heard my thoughts on this one. By the way, if you're seriously thinking of leaning on that child, remember he has a couple hundred troops of his own backing him. What's more, that isn't the Regular Army, that's the s.p.a.ce Legion, and it's my understanding they aren't big on playing by the rules."

"Oh?" Maxine said, raising one eyebrow. "Well, neither are we. See if you can locate Mr. Stilman, and tell him I want to see him in about an hour. I'm still a little tired. Not getting any younger, you know."

Her decision made, Max retreated back into the bedroom, leaving Laverna to stare at the holo-images alone again.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Journal #212.

Even as the company was settling into their new quarters and beginning to stand duty, their undercover colleagues were filtering into the s.p.a.ce station.

I have endeavored to keep these events as sequential as possible to avoid confusion. This effort has been hampered, however, by the sketchy nature by which the facts have been reported to me-directly or indirectly-as well as by the previously noted timelessness of life in the casinos. Much of the difficulty in chronicling the company's arrival on Lorelei is due to the fact that its undercover members were traveling as individuals by a wide variety of transports independent of the "official" group, and were establishing their presence both before and after the company's formal, publicized entrance.

Often, my only clue as to "what happened when" is by chance pa.s.sing reference to an event known to me, or which, by simple logic, would have had to take place prior to an event which I was aware of.

Such was the case regarding Chocolate Harry's arrival ...

Although Lorelei was known mostly for its famous Strip, which ran down the center of the station for its entire circ.u.mference, there were back streets as well. These housed the businesses necessary to keep the casinos operating, such as laundries and warehouses, as well as the hole-in-the-wall hotels where the minimum-wage employees made their homes. Also found here were the mini-hospitals and p.a.w.nshops, carefully hidden away to avoid reminding the s.p.a.ce station's visitors of the less frivolous side of life on Lorelei. This off-Strip area, though lighted adequately by normal standards, always seemed dark in comparison to the gaudy light displays along the Strip proper, and tourists needed no warnings to give it wide berth, clinging instead to the better-traveled areas which clamored for their attention and money.

It was along one of these back streets that Harry tooled his hover cycle, enjoying anew the freedom from his normal Legion duties. Though he genuinely liked the uniforms Phule had provided for the company, it felt good to be back in his denims, threadbare but velvet soft from years of hard wear.

His arrival on Lorelei had been surprisingly easy, especially considering his current, disreputable appearance. The only difficulty he had encountered was in off-loading his beloved hover cycle. The s.p.a.ceport officials were noticeably reluctant to allow it in the s.p.a.ce station, and he had had to spend several hours filling out forms, initialing tersely phrased lists of rules and regulations, and, finally, paying several rounds of fees, duty charges, and deposits before they grudgingly cleared it for admission.

It didn't take a genius to realize that much of the ordeal was specifically designed to frustrate the applicant to a point where he would be willing to simply store the vehicle until his departure, but Harry had used every trick in the book, as well as a few new ones, to keep his hover cycle while he was in the Legion, and he wasn't about to pa.s.s using it now that he was back in civilian garb.

The reason for this "screening" was quickly apparent. All the air on Lorelei was recycled, and while the support systems were efficient enough to handle the monoxide generated by the people on the station, excessive engine use would have taxed it severely. Consequently there were few vehicles on Lorelei aside from the electric carts that shuttled gamblers back and forth along the Strip. The formula was simple: The limited air supply could support people or vehicles-and vehicles didn't lose money at the tables.

Despite his apparent nonchalance, Harry knew exactly where he was going. In fact, he had known since before he left the ship. His information had come in the form of a warning from one of the ship's porters.

"Goin' to Lorelei, huh?" the man said as they were talking one night. "Let me tell you, brother, you keep yourself out of a place there called the Starlight Lounge. Hear? Bad enough to lose your money at those places where they smile and call you 'sir' while they rake in your chips. There's bad folks hang out at the Starlight. More trouble than the likes of us can afford."

Casual pressure had yielded no more details, as the man was apparently pa.s.sing along hearsay rather than firsthand experience. Still, it told Harry what he needed to know.

The Starlight Lounge itself looked harmless enough as Harry parked his cycle in front and pushed through the door. If anything, it seemed to be several cuts above the average neighborhood bar. Rather than being disappointed, he was heartened by the place's appearance. It was only in the holo-movies that criminal hangouts looked like an opium den in a bad cartoon strip. In real life, those who successfully worked the nonlegal side of the street had money and preferred to do their drinking and eating in fairly upscale surroundings.

"Gimme a draft," he said, sliding onto a stool at the bar.

The bartender hesitated, running an appraising eye over Harry's clothes until the Legionnaire-in-disguise produced a thick wad of bills from his pocket, peeled one off, and tossed it casually on the bar. The bill was of sufficiently high denomination that it would have been noticeable most places in the galaxy, but this was Lorelei, where gamblers often preferred to make their wagers in cash, and the barman barely gave it a glance before going off to fetch his drink.

The drink appeared and the bill vanished in the same motion, only to be replaced a few moments later by a stack of bills and change. Harry carefully separated a bill from the stack before pocketing the rest, pushing it forward on the bar as a tip. The bait worked, and the barman materialized again to claim the perk.

"Excuse me, my man," Harry drawled before the man could retreat again. "I was wonderin' if maybe you could help me out?"

"Depends on what you need," the bartender said, his eyes wary, but he didn't leave.

Moving slowly, Harry withdrew a wrist.w.a.tch from his pocket and laid it gently on the bar.

"What can you give me on this?"

Shooting a quick glance around the bar, the man picked up the watch and examined it, front and back.

"This came from off station, right?" he said.

"Does it make a difference?"

The bartender looked at him hard.

"Yeah, it does," he said, and tapped a finger on an inscription on the watch's back. "I figure you aren't Captain Anderson or his grateful crew. If you picked it up here on Lorelei, I'm holding trouble in my hand. They come down hard on pickpockets and muggers up here-bad for the tourists."

Harry held up both hands with the fingers spread like a magician accused of cheating at cards.