Ron Goulart - Suicide, Inc

“I can’t even do a dinky three-minute spot on the news about it,” mentioned Jazz, folding her arms under her breasts.

“One million trubux for each of the surviving Horizon Kids and a pro rata share of half the profits?” said Smith.

“They agreed so swiftly, I’m thinking we well might have persuaded them to put up a larger sum in front.”

“The deal’s okay as it stands.”

Rubbing at his metal hand, Cruz said, “You should have your money within a month. That puts you in an entirely different status position, old chum. What do you intend to-”

“Not sure. I’m going back to the Barnum System for awhile. Haven’t figured what’ll happen beyond that.”

Cruz stood. “This has been a gratifying association, and not merely because of the bonus all you Horizon House grads are bestowing on Saint and myself.” He held out his right hand. “Should you want me for any further adventures, you can reach me here on Zegundo.”

“Don’t go offering him any jobs that are going to get him killed,” cautioned Jazz.

Smith and Cruz shook hands.

The pixphone buzzed at a few moments beyond three in the afternoon.

“Might be Jennifer,” Smith told himself, striding to the phone alcove in the suite living room. “Hello?”

Saint’s green face popped onto the screen. “Jove, you look deuced glum for a chap who’s just become rich for life.”

“I always look glum on phone screens,” Smith told him. “Nothing more than an electronic trick. How are you?”

“Quite content,” Saint answered. “As soon as I collect the handsome bonus you tots have bestowed, I’ll be embarking for Terzero.”

“A job?”

“A baroness. This time, however, a quite lovely lady in her late thirties. She once suggested that should I ever give up my shameful life of crime, she’d like to see more of me.”

“Are you reforming?”

“Until the current influx of fortune runs out, at least,” Saint said. “Take care and should you ever again have need of an accomplished, not to mention charming, telek, do contact me. I can be reached at the Villa Splendide on Terzero.”

“Okay, and good luck.”

He returned to his chair and sat watching the ocean far below.

“Hangdog look defined.” The floating Whistler terminal materialized a few feet in front of him.

“Move. You’re blocking the splendid view.”

Staying where it was, the terminal said, “You’re not going to go back to wallowing in gutters, are you?”

“Not on my agenda, no.”

“Good. You do have a certain potential and you may eventually live up to it.”

“Your glowing compliments are always appreciated in this quarter.”

“I’ve come to inform you that there are no hard feelings,” said Whistler. “You held up our clients for a bundle, but you also solved the case and did what we were hired to do. So the Whistler organization isn’t going to be fuddyduddy about this.”

Smith said, “If everybody’d leveled with us from the start, we-”

“No matter. The point is, the outfit is satisfied with you, and your crew. It’s possible that in the future we’ll call on you again. Interested?”

“Might be. Working for Suicide, Inc. has been great fun.”

“We’ll meet again.” Whistler vanished.

An hour later the pixphone sounded again.

“She’ll probably call, if only to say goodbye.”

This time it was Deac Constiner. “Hello, nitwit,” the Trinidad Law Bureau agent commenced.

“You’re very cordial. Do many people compliment you on that qualit-”

“I don’t have any proof of this,” said Constiner. “But I think you and your goons have sabotaged me and done me physical harm all along the way. Since you’re now fleeing the planet, I also assume you’ve rounded up the remaining Horizon Kids and sold them to your client.”

“Did you say you had proof? I didn’t quite catch-”

“No, you dimwit, I don’t have proof.” Constiner’s leathery face looked like it was rapidly becoming drier. “If I did, your arse would be reposing in the hoosegow at this very moment. Should I ever come up with so much as a scrap, beware.”

“I’ll be on Barnum for a spell. Can you extradite me from-”

“I’ll extradite you from the furthest little pissant planet in the remotest galaxy in this nitwit universe. I’ll…and, another thing, Smith. I don’t believe that flap-doodle about Benton Arloff.”

“Which flapdoodle is that, Deac?”

“That he was accidentally killed while hunting.”

“Sounds plausible to me. I know the guy was a real gun enthusiast.”

“What I don’t understand is how come you didn’t end up in the sack with the widow.”

Smith grinned thinly. “Because I’m a decent, law-abiding fellow.” He hung up.

He went back to his chair.

It seemed likely that Jennifer would get in touch with him. He’d been right about her husband, about what had been going on. She ought to realize that by now. He didn’t expect an apology, but at least a thank you, a goodbye.

He sat in the room the rest of the day, watching the sea go dark.

But she never called.