It occurred to the thug that he should stop the unloading, or at least call it to Stilman's attention, but he was loath to intrude on the verbal brawl or take individual action while the headman was right there. Fortunately the decision was taken out of his hands. The laden figure passed close by the two arguing men on his way back to the kitchen, and Stilman spotted him.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" the headman demanded, breaking off the debate.
The little man stopped and turned to face him, regarding him levelly with dark eyes.
"Must get meat inside," he said. "Not good to leave out here. Too warm. Might go bad."
"Maybe you didn't get the drift of what I was saying," Stilman challenged, moving closer. "You can't unload that stuff while we're around."
The little man bobbed his head.
"Good. You take."
With that, he half tossed, half thrust the meat at Stilman, shoving it forward as the balance came off his shoulder. The headman was unprepared for the weighty mass suddenly launched at him, but he managed to catch it-more from surprise than intent.
The little man ignored Stilman's reaction, stepping past him to address the stunned thugs.
"You ... and you," he said, stabbing a finger at the two largest musclemen. "Get meat from there and follow me."
At this point, Stilman recovered his wits.
"To hell with this!" he roared, throwing the meat down and brushing at the front of his suit.
With his back turned, he couldn't see what happened next, much less have a chance to counter it. Kong was facing in the right direction, but even he had trouble later describing exactly what happened.
With a pantherlike bound the little man was close behind Stilman. There was a flash of metal, which resolved itself into a long butcher's knife-only visible when it came to rest pressed against the headman's throat.
"You do not throw meat on the ground!" the little man hissed, eyes slit in anger. "Now it ruined! No good! Understand?"
Kong and the other thugs stood rooted to the ground in frozen tableau. They could see that the knife was pressed against Stilman's neck so tightly that the flesh was indented, and knew without being told that the slightest move from the knife or Stilman would lay his throat open.
"Please do not move, gentlemen."
Their attention was drawn to a new figure who had entered the scene.
"What the hell is that?" one of the thugs said, though he echoed the thoughts of the entire group.
"Do not be fooled by my appearance, gentlemen," the singsong, musical voice continued, though they could see now that the sound was actually coming from a mechanical box hung around the neck of the intruder. "I assure you that though my form is not the human standard you are accustomed to, I am a member of the casino security force and authorized to deal with disturbances as I see fit."
The speaker was a sluglike creature with spindly arms and eyestalks. Balanced on a kid's glide board and encased in a tube of black fabric which suggested rather than imitated the familiar Space Legion uniforms, the creature looked more like some bizarre advertising display than an authority figure.
"No, I meant what is that you're holding?" the thug corrected. "That doesn't look like a tranquilizer gun."
The Sinthian had a sinister-looking mechanism tucked under his arm. The tubelike barrel, which was pointing at the thugs, appeared to be a good inch in diameter, though they knew from experience that the muzzle of a weapon always looks bigger when it's pointed at you.
"This?" the Legionnaire chirped, bending one eyestalk to look at his implement. "You are correct that it is a weapon. It is magazine-loaded, however, which enables me to change the loads depending on the situation at hand."
He suddenly pointed the weapon at the fallen side of beef, and it erupted with a soft stutter of air.
The thugs could see a line of impacts on the meat, but no appreciable damage. Then they noticed the surface start to bubble, and a sharp hiss reached their ears.
"As you can see," the Sinthian was saying, "I neglected to bring my tranquilizer darts on duty with me today, an omission which will surely earn me a reprimand if reported. All I have with me are acid balls-and, of course, a few high explosives."
He realigned the weapon with the motionless men.
"Now, if your curiosity is settled, gentlemen, I suggest you begin unloading the van as requested. I'm afraid it may ruin your clothes, but you should have come dressed for the occasion."
The thugs glanced at Stilman.
"Do as he says," the headman croaked, still under the knife.
"And pay for ruined meat before you go," his captor added.
"But I didn't ..."
"You throw meat on the ground, you pay for it!" the little man growled, tightening his grip. "Yes?"
"Okay, okay!" Stilman gasped. "Pay the man ... Now!"
In my privileged position, l was able to hear not one, but two accounts of the loading dock incident: the one which constituted the official report, and the one passed among the Legionnaires over drinks and coffee. As such, I could not help but note that in the account rendered to my employer, both Escrima's role and the use of the acid balls were diplomatically omitted.
Far more important to me, however, was the evidence of growing bad blood between the forces led by my employer and those reporting to Laverna's employer. This concerned me since, to the best of my knowledge, both leaders seemed unaware of the tensions building in the levels under them.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Journal #234
There is much made of the satisfaction felt by a commander when a plan comes together.
Obviously I cannot comment on the conduct of all, or even the majority of, military commanders under these circumstances, but the behavior of my employer on the opening day of the Fat Chance Casino showed little of this passive enjoyment. Rather, he was more like an insecure party hostess, hurrying here and there and busying himself with countless details, dealing with both important and minor chores with equal intensity.
Huey Martin was in the middle of getting dressed when he was interrupted by an insistent hammering on the door of his suite. This was both annoying and puzzling, as people rarely visited his room, and never without calling in advance.
"Who is it?" he called, hurrying to button his shirt.
Instead of an answer, he heard the sound of a key in his lock. Before he could protest, the door slammed open and the commander of the casino's security force strode into the room, followed closely by two guards ... and Gunther Rafael himself!
A sudden pang of fear stabbed at the casino manager's gut, but gambler's reflex kept him from showing his emotions openly.
"What's going on?" he demanded indignantly. "I'm trying to get ready for the opening."
"That won't be necessary," the commander, said levelly. "You're being relieved of your duties. Effective immediately."
"I ... I don't understand," Huey said, looking at the casino owner in feigned bewilderment.
"It won't work, Huey," Gunther said tersely. "We know all about your working for Max and about the dealers you've been hiring."
"We have some interesting tapes from the eye-in-the-sky cameras," Phule said. "Your pet dealers have provided us with a catalog of skims and scams, often while you were standing on camera watching them. They're being met as they report for duty, incidentally. We felt it was best that they not work the opening. In fact, they're being given the entire week off without pay. After that, we'll interview them again to see if they're willing to work for us without the skims and perks."
"But that won't leave you with enough dealers to open!" the manager said, then realized he was admitting the extent of his treachery.
The commander smiled humorlessly. "That would be true if we hadn't arranged in advance for replacements for them ... and you."
Huey was stunned by the admission that this action against him was not spontaneous, but rather the result of foreknowledge and substantial planning.
"So what does this mean for me?" he said, both from curiosity and to cover his confusion.
Gunther looked at the commander.
"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 and 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 war-horses 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.
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