“You will be held here,” Phule said, “incommunicado.”
As he spoke, he nodded at the Legionnaires, who responded by moving through the suite and pulling the phone in each room out of the wall.
“Once the opening is over,” the commander continued, “you’ll be free to go. Your employment here is, to say the least, terminated.”
“You can’t do that,” the manager said, shaking his head. “I have a contract that guarantees me due notice as well as a share of the casino.”
Phule scowled and shot a sidelong glance at the casino owner.
“Do you have a copy of that contract?” he said. “I’d like to see it.”
Huey produced the document from a drawer in his desk and passed it to the commander, who moved closer to a light to study it.
“Why did you do it, Huey?” Gunther said, the hurt showing in his voice. “Wasn’t the deal we had between us enough for you?”
“Hey, nothing personal, kid,” the manager said. “It’s just that my mom raised me greedy. The way it was, it looked like I could collect on our deal and from Max, and by my addition, two paychecks are better than one. Like I say, nothing personal.”
“Excuse me,” Phule interrupted, turning back to the conversation, “but I don’t find anything in here about termination notice or about your having a share in the casino.”
“Of course it’s there,” Huey said, snatching the contract back. “Look, I’ll show you. It’s right …”
He began paging through the document, then scowled and flipped back a few pages to study it closer.
“I don’t understand,” he murmured. “I know they’re in here.”
“Believe me, Mr. Martin,” the commander said, “I just reviewed the contract, and they’re not.”
An image flashed across the manager’s mind. The image of Phule turning away to look at the contract.
“You switched it!” he accused with sudden realization. “This isn’t the contract I handed you!”
“Nonsense,” Phule said. “That’s your signature on the last page, isn’t it?”
Huey barely glanced at the indicated page.
“It may be … More likely a forgery,” he spat. “Either that or you pulled the last page and attached it to a new contract. Don’t think you’re going to get away with this!”
“That’s an interesting accusation,” the commander said, unruffled. “Though I suspect it would be hard to prove in court. Of course, if you did try to take this to court, we’d be forced to make our tapes a part of the public record to defend the position that you were fired with cause. That might make it a little hard for you to find another position, since I doubt the media would let the story die until they had broadcast the footage several dozen times.”
The room seemed to reel around the manager as he had a sudden vision of his face and misdeeds being publicized stellarwide.
“You … you wouldn’t,” he said.
“We wouldn’t unless we felt it was necessary to protect our interests,” Phule corrected. “Personally, I’d suggest you take the more salvageable alternative of a quiet dismissal. Then again, perhaps you can convince Mr. Gunther here to reinstate you. After the opening, of course.”
“Is … is there any chance of that?” Huey said, looking to the casino owner.
Gunther shrugged. “Maybe. But only if—how did you put that again, Willie?”
“Only if you succeeded in convincing Mr. Rafael that your loyalties were now properly aligned,” the commander supplied.
“How could I do that?”
“Well, for starters you could tell us everything you know about Max’s plans, beginning with the ‘special guests’ that have been invited to the grand opening,” Phule said. “If nothing else, that should burn the bridge between you and your old cronies. By the way, you might as well tell us directly. We’ve pieced together enough on our own that I’m afraid Max will assume you’ve sold her out, whether you do or not. I suggest you use what information is left to bargain for some protection.”
* * *
“Here’s your key, Mr. Shuman—room 2339—and welcome to the Fat Chance Casino. Front!”
With the deftness born from many years’ practice, the clerk slapped the small bell on the registration desk, summoning a valet before the guests could stop him.
“Elevators are this way, sir,” the valet said, materializing between the elderly couple and their only piece of luggage.
Snatching up the bag with ease, he led the way, leaving the twosome to trail along behind him.
“Well, Mother, we’re here!” the portly gentleman declared, giving his wife a hug with one arm as they walked.
“Henry … how old would you say that young man at the front desk is?” the frumpy woman at his side inquired.
“Oh, I don’t know,” the man said, glancing back. “Late twenties, early thirties, I’d guess. It’s hard to tell with kids these days. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” his wife said with a shrug. “He struck me as being a bit young to be wearing a hearing aid.”
Shuman had also noticed the device in the desk clerk’s ear, although, at the time, he had tried to convince himself it was inconsequential.
“I don’t think it was a hearing aid,” he said. “More likely some kind of paging radio or a hookup with the phones. I haven’t been keeping up with all the electronic gizmos they’ve developed lately.”
“I suppose you’re right,” the woman said, then returned his hug as if he had just given it. “It is hard to believe we’re here, isn’t it? After all these years?”
Though the implication was that the couple had been working and saving for years planning for a once-in-a-lifetime vacation, the real truth was hidden in this statement.
In actuality, they had been banned from nearly all casinos for close to five years now. Their guise of retired, unsophisticated grandparents was as complete as it was disarming, allowing them to pull off numerous forms of cheating requiring anything from sleight of hand to complex systems which, to the casual eye, would be assumed to be well beyond their abilities. They had, in fact, relieved most of the major gambling centers of sizable amounts of money before the casinos managed to compare notes and realized that they were not the harmless tourists they seemed to be.
They had been lured from “retirement” by a promise that they would not be recognized at this particular casino, as well as by a hefty bankroll to fund their charade. Though they were excited at the possibility of once more being able to dust off their long-practiced performance, they still had to fight off the nervousness that at any moment they might be recognized.
“This place really is something, isn’t it?” Henry said, making a show of rubbernecking around as they were escorted into one of the elevators.
“Hold the elevator!”
The bellman caught the door with his hand in response to the call, and a broad-shouldered, chisel-featured young man in a black uniform burst into the car.
“Sorry for the inconvenience,” he announced in an offhand tone that didn’t sound apologetic at all, “but I have to commandeer the elevator for a moment.”
As he spoke, he used a key to override the control panel and punched a button. The door closed, and the car began to move—downward instead of up.
Shuman suppressed a quick feeling of irritation, fearing that to protest would be out of character.
“Is something wrong?” he said instead.
“No. Everything’s under control,” the man assured him, sparing him only the briefest of glances before returning his gaze to the floor indicator.
“I didn’t know this place had a basement,” his wife said, tightening her grip on Henry’s arm slightly. “Aren’t we on a space station?”
Realizing she was making small talk to cover her nervousness, Henry nonetheless played along.
“I imagine it’s some kind of storage area,” he said. “All the rooms are …”
He broke off as the elevator stopped an
d the doors slid open. Framed in the doorway was another black-garbed figure, an older man with a bald head and a theatric handlebar moustache.
“Got two more for you, Sergeant,” their fellow passenger announced, nodding at the bellman, who unceremoniously tossed their bag out of the elevator.
“Very good, sahr!” the bald man said, barely sparing the couple a glance as he consulted the clipboard he was holding. “Let’s see, you would be Henry and Louise Shuman … or should I call you Mr. and Mrs. Welling?”
The use of their correct names eliminated any hope Henry might have had of bluffing their way out of the situation with bewildered indignation.
“Whatever,” he said, taking his wife’s arm and ushering her out of the elevator with as much dignity as he could muster as the doors slid shut behind them.
“I don’t suppose you’re hard of hearing, are you, Sergeant?” his wife asked their captor.
“Excuse me, mum? Oh, you mean this?” Moustache tapped the device he was wearing in his ear. “No, this is a direct hookup with the folks at the front desk. Mr. Bascom has one, too. He’s watching on a closed-circuit camera, and when he spots a familiar face, he tells the clerk and they get relayed down here to us.”
“Bascom?” Henry frowned. “You mean Tullie Bascom? I thought he retired.”
“That’s right, sir,” the sergeant confirmed. “Seems you two aren’t the only old warhorses being reactivated for this skirmish.”
“I see,” Henry said. “Well, tell him we said hello, if you get the chance.”
“I’ll do that, sir,” Moustache said, flashing a quick smile. “Now, if you’ll both join the others, it shouldn’t be long now.”
As he spoke, he gestured toward a cluster of chairs and sofas which had been set up in the service corridor. There was an unusual assortment of individuals sprawled across the furnishings, ranging in appearance from businessmen to young married couples to little old ladies and obvious blue-collar workers. While Henry did not recognize any of them, the studied casualness of their postures and the uniform flat, noncommittal looks that were directed at himself and his wife marked them all as being cut from the same bolt of cloth. These were grifters and con artists who, like the Wellings, had been caught in the security net. While the setting was pleasant enough considering the situation, and there was no indication of rough treatment among the captives, Henry could not escape the momentary illusion of a prisoner-of-war compound, possibly due to the black-uniformed, armed guards spaced pointedly along the wall.
“What are you going to do with us, Sergeant?” Henry said, eyeing the assemblage.
“Nothing to worry about, sir,” Moustache said, flashing another quick smile. “After we’ve collected a few more, you’ll all be loaded into a shuttle bus and given a lift back to the space terminal.”
“You mean, we’re being forcibly deported?”
“Not at all,” the sergeant said. “It’s more a courtesy service … assuming, of course, that you’re planning to leave. If you’d prefer to stay on Lorelei, that’s your prerogative. As long as you stay out of the Fat Chance.”
A vision flashed through Henry’s mind, of he and his wife accepting tickets and seed money from Maxine Pruet, then trying to work their scams at one of her casinos instead of the one they had been instructed to hit. He quickly brought the mental picture to a halt before it reached its graphically unpleasant conclusion.
“No, we’ll take the ride,” he said hastily. “I suspect our reception at the other casinos would be roughly the same as here … except, perhaps, less polite. My compliments, by the way. Of all the times we’ve been barred from or asked to leave a casino, this is far and away the most civilized handling of an awkward situation we’ve encountered … wouldn’t you say, dear?”
His wife nodded brusquely, but failed to smile or otherwise join him in his enthusiasm.
“It’s the captain’s idea, really,” Moustache said, “but I’ll be sure to tell him you appreciate it. Now, if you’ll just have a seat. There are drinks and doughnuts available while you wait, or, if you’re interested, there’s a blackjack table set up in back so you can at least do a little playing before you go.”
“At normal house odds?” the wife snapped, breaking her silence. “Don’t be silly, young man. We aren’t gamblers. Do we look stupid?”
“No, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”
* * *
“Lieutenant Armstrong!”
Emerging from the elevator, Armstrong glanced around at the hail to find the company commander walking toward him. Without hesitation, he snapped into a stiff, parade-ground position of attention and fired off his best salute.
“Yes, sir!”
When the captain had taken over the company, one of his main projects had been to get Armstrong to “loosen up” a little, to be more human and less a recruiting-poster caricature. Now it had become a standing joke between the two men. This time, however, the commander seemed distracted, simply returning the salute with a vague wave rather than either smiling or rolling his eyes as had become the norm.
“Anything to report?” he said, scanning the lobby uneasily. “How is everything going so far?”
“No problems, sir,” the lieutenant said, relaxing on his own now that his attempt at humor had been ignored. “We’ve sent four busloads back to the space terminal so far and are just about ready to wave goodbye to a fifth.”
“Good,” Phule said, walking slowly with his head canted slightly down, staring at the floor as he concentrated on his junior officer’s report. “How about the showroom? Should I be expecting another visit from Ms. Watkins?”
“The first show went off without a hitch,” Armstrong said, falling in step beside his captain. “In fact, word is she got a standing ovation and three encores.”
“No problems at all, then,” the commander said. “That’s a relief.”
“Well … not with the show itself, anyway.”
Phule’s head came up with a snap.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he challenged.
The lieutenant swallowed nervously.
“Umm … there was one report that concerned me a bit,” he said. “It seems that during one of the curtain calls, Dee Dee dragged Lex out of the wings and introduced him to the audience as the show’s stage manager and an old friend of hers from her theater days, now on temporary duty with the Space Legion.”
“Oh, swell,” the commander growled. “As if I didn’t already have enough to worry about.”
“To be fair, sir, we can’t really say it was her fault. Nobody told her not to put the spotlight on our decoy associates.”
“It never occurred to me that she might do it,” Phule said. “Oh well … it’s done now, and we can’t change it. Let’s just hope none of the opposition was at the first show … or that if they were, they don’t find it unusual that we have an actor in our company. Pass the word to Lex, though, to ask her not to do it again.”
“I’ll do that,” Armstrong said.
“Just a moment, Lieutenant …”
The commander veered slightly to pass by the hotel’s registration desk.
“Mr. Bombest,” he called, beckoning the manager over for a quick consultation. “I hear things are going fine. Do you have enough rooms now?”
“Yes, Mr. Phule.” Bombest looked a bit haggard, but managed to rally enough to smile at his benefactor. “The winnowing of the guest list should provide the rooms necessary. I’ve got a few people I’ve had to delay check-in for until some of the ‘special guests’ who arrived early can be evicted from their rooms, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“Good … good,” Phule said, and started to turn away. “Lieutenant Armstrong has told me you’re doing a fine job. Just keep up the good work and we’ll get through this opening yet.”
The manager beamed. “Thank you, Mr. Phule. I trust my handling of the reporter was satisfactory?”
The commander paused and cocked his head curiously. “The what?”
> “The reporter,” Bombest repeated. “The one from Haskin’s Planet that you used to date when you were stationed there.”
“Jennie Higgens? She’s here?”
Phule’s interest was no longer casual.
“Why, yes … I thought you knew,” the manager said. “I recognized her when she was checking in along with her cameraman, and it occurred to me that she could identify some of your troops—the ones under cover, I mean—so I reported it to your communications person with my wrist communicator. I … I assumed you had been informed.”
“No … but I think I’m about to be,” the commander said grimly, looking hard at Armstrong, who was avoiding meeting his eye. “Lieutenant Armstrong … if I might have a word with you?”
“Is there something wrong?” Bombest said in a worried tone.
“Not that I know of.” Phule smiled. “Why do you ask?”
“Well … for a moment there, you seemed upset … and I thought I had done something wrong.”
“Quite the contrary,” the commander insisted, his smile growing even broader. “I couldn’t be happier with your work. Lieutenant, why don’t you tell Mr. Bombest what a fine job he’s doing?”
“You’re doing a fine job, Mr. Bombest,” Armstrong recited obediently. “In fact, the whole company owes you a debt for what you’ve done.”
The manager frowned. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t think you were quite clear enough on that last part, Lieutenant,” Phule observed.
“A debt of gratitude,” the Legionnaire corrected. “We wouldn’t be where we are now if it weren’t for you.”
“Oh. Uh … thank you,” Bombest said with a hesitant smile.
“Now that that’s taken care of, Lieutenant,” Phule said, the grin still on his face, “I believe we were about to have a little talk?”
“Umm … actually, sir, I thought I’d …”
“Now, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir!”
With the eager step of a man on his way to the gallows, Armstrong followed his commander into one of the lobby’s more secluded nooks.
“Now then, Lieutenant,” Phule said with a tight smile, “it seems there’s at least one item that was omitted in your ‘no problems’ report. What do you know about this reporter thing?”
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 42
