The Detective (The Galactic Football League Novellas)

by Matt Wallace

  Brobst frowned. “Even if you don’t kill me, this is damn embarrassing.”

  “You owe me,” Fred said. “You know I could waste you right now. I’m not going to do that. So you owe me.”

  Bobby looked up. “You’re assuming that even if I agree, my word is worth something.”

  Fred shrugged. “Hope springs eternal. Only time will tell. Throw in another platitude if you like, but maybe we’ll never find out. But you’re not getting out of this with nothing, big fella.”

  Fred whipped the pistol in a sideways arc, slamming the butt into Bobby’s temple. Bobby’s head rocked back. He stiffened, then sagged, unconscious.

  Fred taped Bobby’s mouth shut. He left the man strapped to the chair, grabbed his bag, thumbed the “do not disturb” icon and pulled the door shut. Bobby would be there a day, two at the most, before someone came in to clean the room for the next guest. By then, Fred would be on his way to Micovi.

  He’d have that same day, maybe two, before any message from Bobby could reach Micovi. Hopefully, that was all the time Fred needed to find Carney, get some answers, then get the hell off that piece of crap mining colony before Gredok sent more trouble.

  V: MICOVI

  Chapter 19: Stedmar

  This time Fred opted for more expensive digs. He’d done the low-rent hotels on Micovi and stayed out of sight, but to use another low-rent facility would be to create a pattern. In his line of work, patterns were bad. So — just for the sake of the job, mind you — he picked a four-star place to clean up and gather his thoughts before he went after Carney.

  Four-star facilities meant nannite showers. Most Micovians wanted cleaning facilities that used real water. Just another indicator of how primitive and backwater this culture could be. Fred stood in the nannite stall, raising his arms, turning his body this way and that to let the tiny machines work every area of his skin and his scalp. He even opened his mouth, letting them swarm on his tongue, his teeth, his gums and the inside of his cheeks. In an hour, maybe less, he’d go to the mines and see if Carney was still there. Hopefully the man would be — tracking someone down on Micovi wasn’t impossible, but it wasn’t much fun, and Fred wanted to be done with this business before any message from Bobby Brobst could arrive via punch-drive relays.

  But what was Carney’s game? Why had such a nice kid sent Fred to his possible death? Odds were Carney had no idea what was going on. Gredok must have gotten to him. If not Gredok, then Stedmar Osborne, crime lord of Micovi and Gredok’s underling. Maybe they put pressure on Carney to betray Fred. Maybe Carney had no idea what was going on, or — more likely — they’d offered the kid a ton of money to deliver the note and the story. Fred couldn’t blame Carn if that was the case; Gredok’s pocket change was likely more than Carney could make in a decade.

  The nannite bin let out a beep: Fred was as scrubbed as scrubbed could be. The fog of tiny machines filtered back into the bin, leaving Fred naked and spotless.

  He stepped out of the stall and into the bathroom. What disguise would he use this time? An old man? Maybe a woman? He’d give that some thought, but first he needed to eat. Once he went after Carney, there was no telling if he’d have time to stop for a bite.

  Fred opened the bathroom door, then stared, stunned.

  “Hello, Mister Gonzaga.”

  The two Human men standing outside the bathroom door filled Fred with the urge to slam the door, dive for cover and grab the nearest weapon. He didn’t do any of those things, of course. That was just his fight or flight instinct being triggered. There were two of them. They were huge. They wore tailored suits that probably had weapons hidden inside the jackets. He was naked. If they’d wanted him dead, they would have come in and killed him. They wanted to talk. If he attacked them, that could change quite quickly.

  His false identity hadn’t drawn any suspicion at the Micovi shuttle port. He hadn’t used that identity before, at least not on Micovi. How had they found him? And who were they?

  What worried him most of all, though, was their demeanor. These guys were gangland thugs. They knew how to fight. Two on one, unarmed, Fred didn’t stand a chance.

  “Hi,” Fred said. “If you guys are waiting to take a dump, I’m all done in here.”

  The one on the right smiled. He had white-pink skin, black hair and a neck that was as thick as Fred’s waist. The one on the left didn’t smile. He had black skin, deep black, with tight, curly black hair that looked coated with oil. His right eye was a sheen of wet steel.

  “My name is Frankie,” said the man on the left. He nodded at the other one. “This is Sammy.”

  The names made Fred realize just how much trouble he was in. He had never seen these men, but he had heard of them and suddenly knew how much trouble he was in.

  “Frankie and Sammy,” Fred said. “Where’s Dean?”

  “Busy,” Frankie said. “Very busy. Mister Osborne would like a word with you.”

  Frankie, Sammy and Dean, the three primary bodyguards/hitters/knucklebreakers of one Stedmar Osborne. “No-Neck” Frankie was obviously the talker of the two. Sammy’s one good eye looked out with the blank stare of a sociopath.

  “You should get dressed,” Frankie said.

  “You guys gonna watch? Usually people like to see me take it all off, not put it all on.”

  Frankie smiled. “I’ve heard that you always have something funny to say. And here I am, so well known for my ability to listen to other people’s jokes.”

  Somehow, Fred doubted that.

  Sammy crossed his huge arms over his chest. “If you don’t want to get dressed, I can bring you in just like that.”

  Fred held up a hand. “No, that’s okay. I’ll just throw on a little something.”

  Frankie gestured to the bedroom, where Fred’s clothes were.

  “Quicker is better than slower,” he said.

  Fred walked into the bedroom and started to get dressed. Both men stood in the doorway, watching. That didn’t mean they were perverts, it meant they were professionals. If they’d left Fred alone, he could have found a way out or found a stashed weapon. If just one watched him, there was a chance Fred could try his luck, hoping to take out one and even the odds. But both of them together? It kept things calm and predictable.

  Fred held up a black T-shirt. “Should I wear black? If I’m not coming back from this meeting, I might as well look the part.”

  Frankie shrugged. “That’s not up to me,” he said. “But you seem like you’ve been around, Mister Gonzaga. If Mister Osborne wanted you in the ground, you’d already be there.”

  Sammy nodded.

  Fred dressed. How had they found him? Had Gredok somehow got word to his lieutenant? If Bobby had gotten out quick, his message would still be routing through various punch-space relays.

  Whatever the reason, whatever the plan, Frankie and Sammy had him now. All Fred could do was play it out.

  •••

  Osborne’s office was almost tasteful, but the man obviously enjoyed opulence. Fred spotted items that must have been imported from over a dozen different systems at great cost.

  The limo ride over had been uneventful. Fred found himself wanting to question Frankie about his background, but he didn’t. Mostly because Sammy sat beside him the whole way, never taking his eye off of Fred. He couldn’t decide if the cycloptic killer was merely being vigilant or if he was actively hoping for an excuse to break Fred’s neck.

  When they led Fred through the ornate double doors, he found Stedmar Osborne sitting behind a slab of a desk made out of a polished version of the stone at which the miners of Micovi spent their days hacking away. Another gigantic man in a suit stood behind him — Dean, most likely.

  Osborne had the poker face of a consummate businessman, and he was wearing it now. Fred imagined he was a hell of a negotiator.

  “He cause any trouble?” Osborne said to Frankie.

  “No, Mister Osborne,” Frankie said. “He seems like a smart one.”

  “Goo
d,” Stedmar said. “Smart, I like. Saves time.”

  Frankie ushered Fred into one of the guest chairs on the opposite side of Osborne’s desk. Fred settled in. He found his fear had subsided, replaced by a deep curiosity about where all of this was going.

  Meanwhile, Frankie and Sammy took up positions behind him, flanking him closely.

  Osborne leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “You want a drink?”

  A drink? Well, this was downright hospitable.

  “Scotch. Neat.”

  “Dean, get the man a scotch,” Osborne said. “No ice. And get me a limoncello, will ya?”

  Dean nodded and walked over to the bar, where he set about using his thick, scarred hands to fix the drinks.

  Frankie and Sammy remained stationed, unmovable, behind Fred.

  “You haven’t asked who I am, so I assume you know,” Osborne said.

  Fred nodded. He took in the infinity symbol tattooed on Osborne’s forehead. That meant the man was a confirmed member of the Purist Church, yet he wore a suit instead of blue robes. Although Fred was sure the man was more interested in how that status could aid his criminal enterprise, the symbol still filled Fred with a blind and familiar rage.

  Sammy brought the drinks. Fred resisted the urge to down his in one gulp. Instead he sipped, casually.

  Stedmar sipped his own drink and studied Fred. “Ya know... I can’t tell if you’re scared out of your mind or if you’re as diamond-hard as I’ve heard.”

  Fred offered him nothing.

  Osborne looked above Fred’s right shoulder. “What do you think, Frankie?”

  “Hard doesn’t mean as much as most people think,” said Frankie from behind Fred’s back.

  “We could find out,” said Sammy. “I volunteer.”

  Osborne nodded, as if to say that could still be on the agenda. He set his drink down.

  “Not just yet,” he said. He folded his hands atop his desk. His eyes bore into Fred, then, and for the first time, Stedmar Osborne looked very dangerous.

  “You broke into my stadium,” he began, and it wasn’t a question. “You stole from me. That much I know. We’ve also got a dead city worker and two charred Quyth Warriors out in the dunes. Now, a dead citizen is bad enough, but two alien corpses on Micovi? On Purist Nation soil? Where no member of the Satanic races are ever supposed to set foot? Do you have a single shuckin’ clue how much heat I’m taking from the Holy Men? And the bats, they’re doing fly-bys outside my damn window every hour, on the hour.”

  Fred did his best to stay still, to not show any emotion. Stedmar had tracked him down because of the stadium, because of everything else? Maybe he didn’t know about Bobby Brobst. If he didn’t, how long until he did? How long until a message from Gredok arrived on Micovi, a message that said kill Frederico Esteban Giuseppe Gonzaga the moment you see him?

  What that really meant, though, was that Fred had a chance. If he could finish up here and get back on the streets before any such message arrived, he could live. Stedmar was obviously no dummy — when dealing with a smart man, don’t try to talk him out of what he already knows.

  “I acknowledge that everything you’ve just said is true,” Fred said.

  To his surprise, Osborne laughed. “I think you’re right, Frankie. He is hard.”

  Osborne handed Dean his empty glass and the hulking, dim-looking thug took it back to the bar for a refill.

  “You know, Fred... may I call you Fred?” Osborne didn’t wait for a response before speaking on. “Fred, the only reason I haven’t had my boys ventilate your skull is because Frankie there seems to think you haven’t really done anything to hurt or insult me — nothing that you can’t buy your way out of, I mean — and you might have information that’s of use to me. Those Quyth you torched in the old shipyard? Not mine. That means someone else is working my territory, and I want to know who it is. If you can tell me that, maybe it’s worth your life. Maybe. Tell me what you’re doing in my mining colony, Fred.”

  Fred’s expression didn’t change, didn’t even waver, but Stedmar’s words changed the game. The man was part of Gredok’s syndicate. He was a high-ranking player, as far as Fred knew. If Gredok wanted to get at Fred while he was on Micovi, Osborne was the logical choice to tap for that job. But he hadn’t tapped Stedmar. Why? Why send non-Human hitters to Micovi instead of using Frankie and Sammy and Dean?

  There was only one conclusion to draw: Gredok didn’t want his Human lieutenant to know about the operation or its nature. He didn’t want Osborne to gain access to the information on Quentin Barnes that was at the heart of this thing.

  Whether that was because Gredok simply didn’t trust Osborne, or whether it had to do with Barnes specifically, Fred couldn’t know. But it might be the only chip he had to play.

  “I’m a private investigator,” Fred began carefully, still going over all the angles in his head. “I’m here on behalf of a client. The nature of the job is confidential, but I can assure you what I’m looking for has nothing to do with you or your business.”

  Osborne frowned. “Do you like baseball?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Baseball,” Osborne said. “The old Earth sport.”

  What was the man getting at? “I’m familiar with it but not really a fan.”

  “So you know how the game works?”

  Fred nodded.

  “Good,” Osborne said, “because that’s strike one. I asked you a question, you didn’t answer. If it goes down on Micovi, it has to do with me.” Osborne voice rose with anger. “You crapped all over my house! No one dies on Micovi without my permission!”

  Fred thought of mentioning the stacks of corpses in Grim Tyrant Valley, but that probably wasn’t a good idea.

  “I’m sorry about that, Mister Osborne.”

  “Piss on your sorry,” Osborne said. “Strike one. You do not want to reach strike three.”

  “But those bodies, they aren’t on me,” Fred said. “They were trying to kill me! I just defended myself.”

  Osborne held up two fingers. “And there’s your second strike. For the last time, Fred — if those bodies aren’t on you, who do I put them on?”

  Osborne was forcing the issue. Fred had to take his shot. One way or another, Fred’s next words were the checkmate. If the apparent rift between Osborne and Gredok wasn’t what he hoped, if Osborne was just one more sycophantic gangster looking to curry favor with the boss, then Fred was about to give him all the reason he needed to cut Fred’s head off and mail it special delivery to the owner of The Bootleg Arms.

  It was Fred’s turn to lean forward and deadeye Stedmar Osborne as he said, “Gredok the Splithead.”

  It definitely had the impact Fred was hoping it would. What reaction that impact might cause was still a mystery.

  Either way, Osborne was quiet for a long time, his eyes and his mind searching madly, before he looked at Fred again and asked, “Those were Gredok’s guys out in the dunes?”

  Fred nodded.

  “You’re a liar.”

  “Of course, I am,” Fred said. “That’s my job, to lie. But this is the truth. Who else has the juice and the balls... metaphorically speaking, of course... to land Quyth Warriors armed to the teeth on your Purist Nation paradise right under your nose and without asking permission?”

  Osborne’s next question was inevitable, and it would determine whether divulging Gredok’s involvement saved Fred’s life or ended it.

  “All right, Fred. Why?”

  “He and I are both looking for the same thing.”

  “What does Gredok want? What are you after?”

  “I can’t tell you that. It’s privileged information.”

  Osborne didn’t say a word, didn’t give any visible signal, but in the next moment Fred’s right ear was numb, the space between his temples was burning, and blood began to seep into his vision. He also found, much to his surprise, he was now lying on the floor and couldn’t quite remember how he’d come to be there.

&nb
sp; Then he looked up and saw Sammy standing above him. He was holding a pistol in his hand, the butt of which contained Fred’s blood and several strands of his hair.

  Fred hadn’t been aware of Sammy drawing the weapon, nor had he sensed the blow coming. Through the pain and disorientation, Fred was glad he hadn’t taken on Frankie and Sammy back at the hotel.

  “I wanna know what Gredok wants with your client!” Osborne demanded from somewhere that seemed very far away.

  Fred tried to get to his hands and knees but found that task required more coordination than he currently possessed. He let himself sag back down.

  “It’s my client’s business,” he said with as much finality as he could project while bleeding on someone’s floor. “It isn’t yours or that furry butcher’s! That’s all I can tell you.”

  Two sets of hands lifted Fred up like he was no more than a toddler, then sat him hard back in the chair.

  Osborne looked at Frankie. He seemed to be asking the man a question without speaking.

  Frankie stared down at Fred. Again, that thoughtful shrug.

  “Sammy could probably get it out of him. But by the time we broke him down enough to spill it, his brain would be jelly. Counter-productive.”

  “Diamond-hard?” Osborne asked Frankie, his every pore filled with frustration.

  “Diamond-hard,” Frankie confirmed with no emotion.

  Osborne leaned back in his chair. He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a white handkerchief, which he tossed to Fred. Fred wondered how many handkerchiefs Osborne had in that drawer. Fred pressed the fabric to his wounded scalp.

  Osborne itched his nose. He stared. “Well, Fred. If I can’t have whatever this hot item is, then I guess you’re the only currency I’ve got. Gredok seems to want you pretty bad.”

  “And you can give me to him,” Fred agreed. “If helping to make him even more powerful is what you want.”

  Osborne’s eyes grew deadly again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. Why didn’t he tap you to begin with? Why didn’t we have this conversation the last time I was on Micovi?”