The sweep of the Jix’s neck curved gracefully. She didn’t push Craze away. In fact, Gattar moved her chair so she practically sat on top of him, encouraging his attention. He obliged, sliding an arm around her, flattening his palm against her stomach, splaying his fingers wide.
“So you need me in your negotiatin’?” he asked, using his experiences in scamming for Bast to keep the keen interest out of his tone and expression.
The rhythm of her breathing changed and she nestled in against his side. Craze suppressed an urge to gloat. She was putty in his hands, which meant more chips would be coming
his way soon, and perhaps a heftier sum if he kept the Jix happy and purring.
“I need a big, strong man,” Gattar said.
Ah, now she played him back. His potential fortune shrank again. For now he’d let her think she had him, to lure her in deeper.
“That takes no effort on my part,” he said.
“Good.” Her fingers curled over his, tracing the valleys and joints. Then she suddenly broke away, pushing his hands off and her chair back to its side of the table. “Go ‘n get us more drink. Huh?” Gattar slid the empty pitcher at Craze.
From the corner of his eye he glanced behind him, noting three figures draped in black making their way toward the table he shared with the Jix. They swaggered, pushing around the rough bar patrons as they passed by them, flashing peeks of weaponry concealed in their clothing. The air became more fouled with trouble.
Shit. Craze could use a good nip to steel his nerves for the contest about to start, but he couldn’t drink any more of that crappy beer. “Do you mind if I upgrade?” he asked the Jix.
“I still want ale ‘n that’s my favorite one.” Her fingers drummed and her shoulders stiffened, ramping up her game to deal with the shadowy trio. Hardness stole over her features, a side Craze hadn’t seen yet. Oily she was, oilier than a leaky valve. As quickly as her mettle showed, she tucked it away. With a big exhale, Gattar donned the smile of a coquette and blew Craze a kiss, giggling like a twit.
The change in her moods could disorient a whirligig. Craze knew he didn’t want to be involved with her past one good transaction, which would put more chips in his fund. Nope. Beyond that would be utter foolishness.
The dark-clad people reinforced his decision. The kind of profit they might proffer, well, it had to be as shadowy as their clothes. Black market, illicit channels, secret trade, dripped off
their hems like dew in the evenings on the ganya trees. They might as well have worn lit-up signs saying so on their heads.
Craze would have to be careful not to jump like a Croakman after freshly hatched ricklits. Eagerness would cost him in this venture. A mere percentage playing the Jix’s patsy was hardly worth the risk. No, he wanted a bigger payoff and he knew if he could figure it out, the opportunity had just walked in.
For now, he followed Gattar’s lead, playfully catching her kiss, holding it against his heart. “Ale it is for you, Sweets.”
He only had to stand and take a half step to the left to lean over the bar and summon the barkeep. Placing Gattar’s empty pitcher on the counter, he said, “Refill, please.” He pulled out his tab, punching in the saloon’s pay code that was painted several times in neon on the wall behind the bartender. “How much?”
“Two chips.” The tank of a woman grabbed hold of the handle and settled the ewer under the nozzle, drawing the tap.
The beer gurgled out, glunking and sputtering in an uneven flow. Craze’s stomach bucked, but he sent her the payment.
Head bent, he glanced sideways. The shady figures surrounded Gattar. She maneuvered her chair so her back faced none of them. She had some smarts. Craze couldn’t deny that. He wasn’t so sure about his own, standing deep in a den of cons slicker than Bast. He hoped his skills were up to this challenge.
“What you got in single malt?” he asked the barkeep.
She set two bottles on the bar. One would leech all the color off of the composites making up the furniture and fixtures in here. He pointed at the other in a round bottle that would still kick his belly, but it was at least drinkable.
“How much?” He hated paying for booze when better bottles lay in his bag, but it was rude to bring liquor to a bar. And in a place like this, it could get him stomped until he
became part of the sticky crap on the floor.
The bartender set the full pitcher down before him, then patted the top of the malt. “Ten.”
He nodded and considered the folks chatting with Gattar. Their clothes didn’t have tears or patches. They weren’t worn at all either. Along with the scent of trouble, Craze detected money. A lot of it. He hoped they were of a mind to share, and he would get the idea going by offering them some malt. It was a manipulation that had often worked for him on Siegna—give to get.
“Five cups with the bottle, please.” He pinged tank woman the cost and a tip. Not tipping here would be as poor of a decision as drinking from the bottles in his pack, especially with opportunity so close.
He set the pitcher in front of Gattar and the bottle and cups in the center of the table, greeting the three folks in black with a thrust of his chin. Craze poured himself a hefty serving. It was a far cry from Bast’s magic carpet, but steps above the rubbish the Jix drank. Then he gestured between the three strangers and the bottle. “Thirsty? There’s a cup for you, too,” he said to Gattar.
She shook her head, opening her throat, gulping down more of the house horror ale. That she could drink so much of it, like it, and not get sick baffled Craze. Perhaps it was one of the modifications her race’s DNA had been given when it was spliced and diced up by the Foreworlders back on the fabled Earth.
He pulled at the smoky warmth in his cup, wincing at the sharp, bitter notes, notes that had no business in malt. The Jix and her shady friends had better make this up to him and his taste buds. Otherwise, this was the second worst hour of his life after the most recent one spent with Bast.
One of the gloom-clad things fidgeted, the drape of fabric rustling. “Yo still up for this, Gattar?” The words grated as if
sifted through rocks.
So they knew each other and the Jix already knew what opportunity these mystery people offered. Craze wondered when he’d be let in on it.
The gravelly voice had to belong to a male. No telling what race of Backworlder he was though. Gravel Voice set a small bar, about the size of Craze’s thumb, down on the table. It was wrapped in gold foil and a fancy red-gelatin casing that sealed in whatever it was. Such protection hinted at great value.
Gravel voice’s thumb flicked in Craze’s direction. “This yo new partner?”
Gattar arched her brows at Craze, indicating he should answer. Craze understood she had set him up, but he didn’t know for what. Bending over, he sniffed at the wrapped bar on the table. The preservative casing held in any identifying scent, but he recognized the mark on the foil. He had seen it only once before in one of Bast’s blown deals.
“Yes,” he said without hesitation, because if that bar was part of a shipment of chocolate, he was about to become the richest Verkinn that ever lived.
