Steven Campbell - Hard Luck Hank - Screw the Galaxy

But the kind-of-truthness registered on my face and Garm knew her hands were tied.

“You got this covered? You’re sure?”

“Yes,” I said uneasily.

I think Garm’s mind wasn’t ready to handle the lie part of my response, so she put her gun down. We stood there quietly a while.

“I won’t allow it to happen again,” I said a little more resolutely.

Now that I knew people had died, if he got out of hand, I would kill Jyonal. Though technically, if he got out of hand, he’d probably be killing me.

“How am I going to explain this?” Garm said.

“Electrical,” I said, continuing my half-truth streak.

Garm probably thought I was covering for some technical folks who’d accidentally run current through the sidewalks or something. That was a story she could sell, as no one would doubt Belvaille incompetence.

“Hey,” I said, “there are some bosses who want to carry out a hit. It seems Ddewn was setting up some back channel—”

“Argh!” Garm screamed in frustration. “I have to locate and dismantle fifty years’ worth of contraband across an entire city that specializes in contraband. You handle it. Unless,” she said, cooling rapidly, “you handling it would jeopardize you handling the other thing.”

“No,” I said with conviction. “I’ll get it done.”

Garm walked to my bedroom door to leave. I saw her hand was still tight on her pistol.

“If we get out of this alive, and I’m not in prison or executed, I’ll make sure you get whatever pay you want, Hank.”

“I don’t really need anything.”

She looked like she wanted to shoot me again, but only if it did damage. So instead she just walked out of my apartment.

I made a call to one of Ddewn’s clubs the next day. It was more a restaurant, but it had a little spot for sports gambling. I think mostly so he could call it a casino, which carried more prestige than a club and certainly more than a restaurant.

The manager told me he would tele for his boss and I should take a seat. Ddewn hired some of the roughest people on Belvaille. It bred loyalty and made him a bad guy to fight.

I figured I was just going to ask it straight. There was no point in me trying to figure out his labyrinth of schemes. We were at a point on the station where that stuff didn’t matter.

Business was good in the restaurant. Lots of people. Kind of a middle-of-the-line clientele. I think they were all slumming it or the prices were low because the casino was shabby even by Belvaille standards, with third-hand games and mismatched furniture.

The carpet had huge swaths that were different shades of the same color. The walls had paintings with rings around them from years of collected dust blown from the vents. There was even a bent banister. Really, how much effort does it take to straighten a railing?

The manager came back and told me Ddewn wasn’t around but I could wait. He wasn’t being very friendly.

I waited. The bartender wasn’t friendly either. I was sitting practically right on his lap and he just stood there washing glasses like I wasn’t there. I actually had to reach for a drink for him to finally take notice.

I got a cocktail and this jerk charged me at least twice as much as standard. And to be even pettier, when he filled it, he stopped about two inches from the rim.

Okay, I’m not the brightest star, but it was clear these guys didn’t like me.

After an hour I asked for the manager again. He left me sitting there for about thirty minutes before he finally graced me with his presence.

“Can you call Ddewn again? It’s very important. Tell him Hank needs to talk to him right away,” I said, trying to stay polite.

“I gave him the message already,” he answered simply. “He’s a busy man.”

“Yeah,” I agreed slowly.

Then I reached into my jacket, pulled out my shotgun, and pointed it at the poor guy drinking next to me at the bar.

“You need to leave, sir. The restaurant is closed.”

As the guy hurried away and before the manager could react, I got off my stool and fired a shot into the ceiling.

“Calm down everyone. Calm down. The restaurant is now closed. Please leave in an orderly fashion through the front.”

People left through the front. The side. The back. And it wasn’t entirely orderly. But it worked.

“What are you doing?” the manager asked angrily.

I sat back at the counter, my hand still on my shotgun, the barrels pointed somewhat in the direction of the bartender.

“Hey, pour me another drink. This time a full one. And then leave.”

The bartender did as he was told, though he had an awful big scowl on his face for someone with a four-barreled shotgun angled at him. Definitely a rough crowd—and he’s just the bartender.

The manager was fuming, waiting for me to explain. I took a sip of my drink and reloaded my gun, throwing the spent shell over my shoulder.

“Tell Ddewn, he needs to get here in…thirty minutes, or I’m going to burn this place down. And then I’m going to go to another of his joints and burn that down. And I’ll keep going until he finally decides it’s worth his time to come talk to me.”

The manager left to do it and I could see he wore a perverse grin, which didn’t bode well for me.

Wasn’t I intimidating not two weeks ago? I wonder if it’s these fake teeth. I still haven’t gotten used to them and now with my real teeth pushing out, I think I’m talking worse and worse. There’s going to be a point when no one takes me seriously because every sentence is a spray of saliva.

I drank my drink and reached over the bar and grabbed another. I had a feeling I might need it. I didn’t even bother carrying my broken Ontakian pistol anymore, but I felt this was probably an organization that wouldn’t be scared anyhow.

After thirty minutes on the dot, Ddewn came in with twenty of his men openly carrying their weapons. More telling, a lot of them carried hand-to-hand arms and not guns.

I didn’t recognize many of his boys. The ones I did recognize, I didn’t have a high regard for.

Ddewn was hard to tell apart from his men in appearance. He was muscular, tall, and wore dirty old combat synth clothes left open at the chest. He carried a very compact submachine gun that had a lot of ammunition and was known for its accuracy. Not a flashy weapon, but one a skilled marksman would choose.

He looked around his empty restaurant and wore a phony smile. I could tell he was stewing.

“The famous Hank. The savior of Belvaille. You know,” he started as he paced around his men, “people talk about you an awful lot. I think you got them all conned. ‘He killed that Dredel Led,’ they say. No, Wallow did. And put you in the hospital for months eating out of tubes. ‘Oh, he’s bulletproof, you can’t hurt him,’” he said in a mock-scared voice. “Bullets aren’t the only tools in the galaxy. If we hold you down, put a bag on your head, you’ll suffocate just like anyone else. The way I see—”

Boom!

Ddewn landed on his back.

I got off my stool, the smoke wafting from my shotgun.

“Man, I can’t even remember what I came in here for,” I said.

His men sprung to attention, their weapons at the ready. They were alternating looking at me and at Ddewn, who was cursing on the ground quite colorfully.

I slowly walked towards him. I knew the alpha was down and this pack of wolves was only as strong as its leader. That was the problem with their type.

“He’s right,” I said. “I didn’t kill that robot and I certainly didn’t beat up Wallow. But I fought that Dredel Led across half the city and went a round with a Therezian and got shot by artillery. And I’m still here. If you think you can do what they can’t, feel free to try.”