Tuning William - Fuzzy Bones

Though technically illegal, Laporte's gambling operations were no particular secret. If one went past the end of the bar, down the wide corridor, and through the double doors, one would be admitted to almost every game of chance ever invented-from electronic probability betting to cards and dice; and on all of them a seven percent guaranteed profit for the house built in.

All the gambling equipment was leased from Spike Heenan-honorable thieves never infringed on each other's specialties. By the same token, the entertainment in the front portion was booked through one of Ivan Bowlby's entertainment agencies; musicians and female vocalists, mostly, like the group that now occupied the low stage at one end of the main lounge.

Four instrumentalists were backing a fragile-looking blonde who was singing in a reedy voice that sounded as delicate as she looked.

"Well, it could have been worse," Jim Spelvin said. "The Major, you know-he could have cut a stripe off you, too."

Diehl nodded without enthusiasm. He wanted to change the subject. "Who's the new singer down there?" he asked.

"Why, that's Gwen," Spelvin said. "You remember Gwennie."

"Yeah?" Diehl said, squinting through the cloudy air, "I thought she was at

'Pandora's Box'."

"She's been over here for two-three weeks, now," Spelvin said with some surprise.

"I've been in barracks for a month," Diehl growled.

"Oh, yeah. I forgot," Spelvin said. "Y'know, now that she's working over here, do you suppose she's Laporte's private stock?"

Diehl started to answer, but Spelvin tugged at his sleeve and nodded toward the man moving in their direction through the smoky, crowded beer hall.

Raul Laporte was a tall, swarthy man, with a black handlebar mustache. His black hair was worn long on one side in a single braid that lay close to his scalp and ran down behind his left ear, then fell loose onto his shoulder and was tied off with a dirty ribbon. The braid was rumored to cover a large, ugly scar, but no one ever asked Laporte if this was true. He had the look of a man who would cut your throat just for the fun of it.

Laporte spun a chair around backwards and sat down facing the two Marines. He took a small notebook from his shirt pocket and looked at them. He said nothing.

Diehl and Spelvin each produced some folded currency and pushed the bills across the table, smiling nervously. "Good afternoon, Mr. Laporte," Spelvin said. "Business sure looks good today. Nice crowd."

Laporte's mouth smiled at them. His eyes did not. He leafed through the notebook, then fingered the two sheaves of bills. "You 're ten sols short," he said to Spelvin, then turned to Diehl. "You're five short."

The Marines both squirmed slightly in their seats. "I sure am sorry about that, Mr. Laporte," Diehl said. "But, y'see I was on restriction to barracks and I didn't get to rotate to Xerxes this month. Y'see there's a guy on Xerxes what owes me some money, and just as soon as I get up there to get it, I'll get it to you."

"Not my problem," Laporte said. "Suppose you was to win some money from me playing Double-O, or Gombjuli, or something, and I said, 'Gosh, Corporal, I just can't pay off right now. How about next week?' You wouldn't like that much, would you?"

Diehl looked uncomfortable, then took a sudden and great interest in a raveling on his jacket cuff.

"Well?" Laporte said in a slightly louder voice. "Would you?"

"No, sir," Diehl mumbled.

"What?" Laporte said. "I can't hear you."

Diehl gave him a pained look. "I don't guess I'd like it. No, sir." Then, he quickly added, "But I'm sure I can get it to you by next week."

Laporte said nothing. He stared at Diehl for a moment with expressionless, cold eyes, then turned toward Spelvin, swiveling the chair slightly as he reached into his hip pocket. He brought out a large clasp knife, opened it up, and began cleaning his nails. "What about you?" he said to Spelvin without looking up.

"I can get it to you by then, too," Spelvin said. "I 'm sure of it. See, they been workin' us pretty hard and nobody's had much chance to get around and-"

"I don't like bein' short-changed," Laporte said in a quiet voice.

"I ain't trying to short-change you, Mr. Laporte. I just don't have all the money," Spelvin said.

Diehl tugged at his buddy's elbow. "Jim," he said, "maybe Mr. Laporte would like to hear what we saw in the valley up there." Laporte looked up, mildly interested. "What valley?"

"Up on north Beta," Spelvin said. "See, we been flying patrol up there and doin' survey mapping at the same time."

"Our platoon is attached to the Native Protection outfit," Diehl chimed in,

"an* they got this reservation on north Beta for the Fuzzies-"

"I'm well aware of that." Laporte cut him off in mid-sentence. "What did you see? I can't know whether I care a damn about the information until you tell me what you saw."

"Why, in this big valley up there," Diehl said. "There's some hutments up there-little lean-tos, like-and what looks like fields-not really regular, but like they'd been- uh-cultivated. There ain't nothing growin' in them right now, but you can see where there used to be."

Laporte laughed-genuinely this time. "Why you dumb jarheads," he said. "You tryin' to tell me there's tilled ground on north Beta?"

"Well, that's what we saw," Spelvin protested.

"Nobody but Fuzzies live on north Beta," Laporte said. "And everybody knows Fuzzies ain't farmers."

Spelvin looked scared, but he answered. "Well, we seen it," he said, "plain as anything."

Diehl shook his head. "We wouldn' lie to you, Mr. Laporte. We know what we saw."

Laporte relaxed. "All right," he said, "I can't call you liars because I haven't been there myself, but this wouldn't be the first time you've lied to me. Now, get this straight, your 'information' isn't worth a pinch of snot.

But I 'm going to tell my bartender to give you a beer apiece-just because I wanna meet you more than halfway. And you let me hear about you buying a beer anywhere else in this town,"-he waved the clasp knife, presumably to include all of Mallorysport-"before you square up accounts with me, and I '11 take enough skin off your backs-with this-to get my money back from the tannery.

You hear me good?"

"Yessir," Diehl said.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Laporte," Spelvin chimed in.

After Laporte had given the highsign to the bartender to lavish two large beers on the Marines, he shook his head and put away the knife. Blunderers, he thought. Can't do anything for themselves-not without somebody leaning on them all the time. Well, if I keep them on the hook, they'll sooner-or-later come up with some information that's worth a couple of sols.

The Right Reverend Father Thomas Aquinas Gordon snorted in disgust. "Mr.

O'Gorman, "he said, "this place is a damned disgrace. I don't know why I'm bothering to waste my time looking at it."

The object of his displeasure raised both hands heavenward in a placating gesture. Mr. O 'Gorman was an incongruous Mr. O'Gorman. His little black shoe-button eyes were closely set above a magnificent nose which flourished over much of his olive-skinned face. His full name was Hiram Mustaphah O'Gorman, and he was a rental agent and real-estate broker in Junktown.

"I am a parish priest," The Rev said, "looking for a place to set up a

neighborhood mission. Now why have you brought me to this decaying firetrap?"

O'Gorman winced. "Economy, Father, economy. You stated the need for economy."

The conversation was taking place in the large, high-ceilinged main workroom of what had once been a bakery. "Economy is one thing, Mr. O'Gorman," The Rev said. ' "This-this cistern is something else." He carefully stepped around a puddle of rainwater, which had entered through the hole in the roof.