Steven Campbell - Hard Luck Hank - Basketful of Crap

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?”