Do-Wop grinned. “Well, yeah, that’s why they made us partners, ain’t it? Thing is, that consigliere …”
“You mean the concierge?”
“Hey, you say it in your language, I say it in mine,” said Do-Wop. Together they strolled casually over to the rack where they’d parked the tandem bike they’d come on. “Anyways, I seen that sucker before, in another hotel. And guess where?”
“We’ve been in a few hotels together,” said Sushi, trying to think back to the various places Phule had quartered Omega Company since taking command. “I can’t say I remember him from any of them, though.”
“Well, here’s a hint,” Do-Wop said, mounting the tandem bike behind Sushi. “It was back on Lorelei—that help any?”
“Not exactly,” said Sushi. “I stuck my nose into a lot of places there, dropped a few bucks … Wait a minute. Was it by any chance one of the mob-owned hotels?”
“Got it in one,” said Do-Wop. “Course, that covers pretty near all the hotels on Lorelei.”
“Huh,” said Sushi. “That’s very interesting, even if it could be just a coincidence. The guy’s entitled to get a job in the same line of work he’s been in—and you can’t just assume that everybody working for a gangster is crooked themselves …”
“Nope, but it’s where the smart money’s gonna be. And you know what else I’m thinkin’?”
Sushi grunted, starting to pedal the bike. “Maybe. Do you mean it hits you as a little bit fishy that the mob boss’s old secretary—now known as Nightingale—is running around the same planet as this guy?”
“Naah, I was thinkin’ I’d like a sandwich …” Do-Wop put his feet down, bringing the bike to a halt. Sushi just managed to keep from flying headfirst over the handlebars. “Wait a minute, do you really think that?” said Do-Wop. “But she’s part of the Omega Mob now. She wouldn’t sell out the captain, would she?”
“She sold out her old boss—or seemed to,” said Sushi. “And her old boss is likely to be holding a really serious grudge against the captain. What if running away with Beeker was just a way to get herself some credibility so she could spy on the captain? What if she’s brought Beeker—and the captain—here so the mob can get another shot at them?”
“Geez, Soosh, that’s a really scary idea,” said Do-Wop. “You think the captain’s in trouble?”
“I think maybe we’re all in trouble,” said Sushi. He turned around on the bicycle seat and grinned. “Not that that’s anything new, is it? Come on, let’s see if we can figure out what our next move’s going to be and make it before the bad guys realize that they’re in even worse trouble than we are!”
* * *
“Oh my God, the captain’s dead!” shouted Brick, who’d been caddying for General Blitzkrieg. She dropped the general’s golf bag and rushed over to the prostrate robot simulacrum of Phule, which lay, apparently lifeless, on the ground.
Armstrong was already there, kneeling to feel the robot’s wrist in search of a pulse. Does an Andromatic robot have a pulse? he wondered idly. Then he decided it didn’t matter; checking the pulse was what he’d have done if the robot had been the real captain, and for the moment, at least, he figured it was best to keep up the pretense that this was the real Captain Jester.
Meanwhile, General Blitzkrieg had rushed over to his golf bag and was examining it for grass stains. For his part, Flight Leftenant Qual stood watching with lively curiosity, perhaps taking mental notes on human behavior for the Zenobian intelligence service.
“Captain! Speak to me!” said Armstrong.
There was a long and disconcerting silence from the robot. Armstrong had a sudden flash of terror, realizing that there might well be no one in Omega Company capable of repairing the robot if some component had been jarred loose when the golf ball struck it. They could hardly send it back to the factory—not with the general on base. As much as Blitzkrieg appeared to be enjoying the golf, he was beyond any doubt still ready to jump on any excuse to break up the Omega Mob and drum the captain out of the Legion—or at least to send him someplace where he would never again have the opportunity to use his unique talents to overthrow military discipline.
Armstrong was ready to order the caddies to load the robot onto a golf cart and take it—where? Omega Company’s new medic, Nightingale, had gone off-planet, taking along Beeker, and the captain had followed them, which was why they were in this fix to begin with. All of a sudden, the robot opened its eyes and said, “Hell of a way to wake a fellow up. What can I do for you?”
Uh-oh, thought Armstrong. That wasn’t an encouraging response. “You just got beaned by a golf ball, Captain,” he explained, hoping to reorient the robot. “Do you feel all right?”
“I think so,” said the robot. “Let me try to get up.” Somewhat shakily, with Armstrong and Brick each holding on to one arm, the robot rose to its feet. “There, I think I’m fine—at least, there’s nothing wrong a good drink won’t fix. Who’s tending bar?”
“Uh—I guess I am, Captain,” said Brick. Timidly, she added, “How about a cold drink of water until you figure out whether anything’s wrong?”
“Legionnaire, are you presuming to tell your CO he’s had enough to drink?” growled General Blitzkrieg.
“Uh, no, sir, General Blitzkrieg, sir,” said Brick. It was undoubtedly the most “sirs” she’d gotten into one sentence since joining the Legion. Omega Company didn’t encourage ostentatious military etiquette.
“Not to worry, General,” said the robot, grinning broadly. “Let’s just play out the hole—as long as I can hit the ball straight, I guess I’m all right.”
“If you insist, Captain,” said Armstrong. “Uh, you’re away.”
“That’s right, Lieutenant,” said the robot Captain Jester. He stepped up to the ball, which had rebounded off his forehead and ended up perhaps six feet in front of the tee. “And that reminds me, General—I owe you ten dollars. Want to make it double or nothing I can’t outdrive Armstrong from where I lie?”
“You’re on!” said the general, sensing an easy win. Without a tee under the ball, it would be even harder for Jester to get the kind of distance he needed to best Armstrong’s tee shot. “I like a man who’s not afraid to put his money on the line!” In fact, the latter statement was true only if the fellow putting his money on the line then proceeded to lose it to the general. But for the moment, Blitzkrieg felt a glow of appreciation for his gallant, if foolhardy, opponent.
“All right, then,” said the robot, stepping up to the ball and waggling the driving iron. “Now I’ll show you how the goddamn game’s supposed to be played!”
There was something really wrong with that remark, thought Armstrong. But before he could place it, the robot had taken a mighty swing. The bystanders heard the distinctive ping of a ball caught precisely in the sweet spot of the club head. It took off straight as a laser beam down the middle of the fairway. When it finally came to rest, it was in the center of the green—some seventy yards past Armstrong’s tee shot.
“Wow, some shot,” said Brick. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with you, Captain.”
“A fine shot indeed,” said the general. “However, he does lie two. If our short game’s up to scratch, we’ve still got a fair chance to win the hole, eh, Lieutenant Armstrong?”
“I don’t plan to concede the hole, General,” said Armstrong, remembering whose partner he was supposed to be. He grabbed a short iron from his bag, and the foursome set off down the course.
Armstrong was still trying to figure out what had bothered him when they got to the green and it became obvious to everyone—except perhaps the general—that something had gone seriously haywire.
* * *
Phule’s instincts all told him something was wrong—very wrong. He found an empty bench in the garden of La Retraite Rustique, sat down, and began trying to piece together what was bothering him.
First of all, he knew that Beeker and Nightingale were on the planet, probably even in the close neighborhood. He
even had a pretty good idea what they were here for—unlike Cut ’N’ Shoot, where he hadn’t learned about the main tourist attraction until the last day of his visit. He still didn’t have any idea what had possessed them to spend any of their vacation days on Rot’n’art, one of the least interesting places he’d ever visited.
Here, at least, the Floribunda Festival was clearly the magnet drawing tourists from around the galaxy, although he couldn’t quite picture Beeker getting excited about flowers. Maybe Nightingale was the flower fancier. It didn’t seem like her, but how well did he know her anyway?
But even knowing why they’d come to Hix’s World, he hadn’t managed to find them—not counting the one glimpse he’d gotten of Nightingale from his hotel window. Was it just bad luck, or was something else going on?
That brought him to the question of who’d been asking about him in the hotel. One way to figure out who was following him might be to let them catch up … but then, they might just turn out to be somebody he really was much better off not letting catch him. It was silly to pretend that he didn’t have enemies. He could think of several people who thought they had some reason or another to stick their noses into his business—some of them even had pretty legitimate reasons, if you granted their particular point of view.
Most likely, the people looking for him were just local newstapers who’d learned he was on-planet and wanted an interview. Not that he was going to give one and reveal his location to various people who would use the information for their advantage. General Blitzkrieg, for one, would consider Phule’s being away from his company’s base nothing short of a capital offense. Or whoever was currently in charge of the Lorelei crime syndicate might see this as an opportunity to eliminate their main competitor in the casino business. At least Phule’s hotel had turned away the mysterious visitors … if only for the time being.
Phule stood up and stretched his muscles. In the absence of any real danger signs, his best bet was to go about his business, keeping an eye open for any suspicious characters in the vicinity. Considering that he was already keeping an eye open for Beeker and one open for Nightingale, that was going to be a strain on his eyesight. But he’d cope. He always had.
Suspicious characters or not, it was important to keep his priorities straight. His main business was still finding Beeker, and that meant figuring out where the butler was likely to be the next day or so—after that, the Floribunda Festival was over, and most of the tourists would be leaving Hix’s World. Beeker and Nightingale would probably be among them. Chasing them to still another backwater planet was not Phule’s idea of fun, but neither was going into an induced catatonic state, which was what would probably happen if he gave up the chase. If he could just get Beeker’s Port-a-Brain, the entire problem would be solved. He could return to Zenobia, the butler and medic could continue to enjoy their vacation, and that would be that.
He reached in his pocket and brought out the Festival schedule he’d gotten in his tourist information packet at the spaceport. This afternoon’s big attraction was a “floral ballet,” whatever that was, in the Festival Pavilion. A map showed the Pavilion at the edge of town, not far from La Retraite Rustique. He didn’t know for certain that Beeker would be there, but if the butler had come all this way for the Floribunda Festival, it was just a good bet he—or Nightingale—would want to see the floral ballet as well.
Phule double-checked the map, returned it to his pocket, and set off in the direction of the Pavilion. It was a long shot, but at the moment it was still the best shot he had.
* * *
Do-Wop and Sushi sat on the ground in the shade of a hedge a short distance from the entrance to La Retraite Rustique. Their bicycle was propped up next to them. The day had turned hot, and they both felt a certain dissatisfaction that their mission remained unfinished. Even Do-Wop, a firm believer that “If at first you don’t succeed, it’s a good time to quit,” was trying to find alternative strategies.
“What we need to do is sneak back in the joint,” said Do-Wop. “Then we can figure out what room the captain’s in and put a message under the door.”
Sushi shrugged. “It could work,” he said. “That concierge, Robert, could cause a lot of trouble, though. How do we know when he’s going to be away without sticking our faces in?”
“Uglypuss Robert has to eat sometime,” said Do-Wop. “My cousin Louise, she useta be a waitress, told me the staff always eats before they start serving the customers. I bet that’s when this guy eats, too—before the dining room opens for lunch.”
Sushi checked the time. “If you’re right, that’d be in maybe half an hour. But there’ll be somebody covering for him—you can bet he’s going to warn them about us. What are we going to do about that?”
Do-Wop grinned and pointed a finger at Sushi. “We go in disguise!” he said.
Sushi rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure. It’d be really triff if we had a whole kit full of different costumes and fake beards and all the other stuff. Except we don’t. Tell me when you come up with a real idea.”
“No, Soosh, this’ll work,” said Do-Wop. “Like, if we sneak in the employees’ entrance while everybody’s eatin’, we can pop into the locker room and snag ourselves some hotel uniforms—janitor’s coveralls or maybe a bellhop jacket. Then we just zip right into the main part of the hotel without anybody battin’ an eyeball. You got the right uniform, you can go anyplace you want.”
“How do you know they have a locker room?” said Sushi. “This isn’t that big a place, you know …”
“If that happens, we go straight to Plan B,” said Do-Wop nonchalantly.
“Which is?”
“Run like hell and try to think of somethin’ else,” said Do-Wop with a wink. “C’mon, Soosh, have a little faith in your buddy.”
“I guess I don’t have any better ideas,” said Sushi. “Besides which, if this goes sour, I can outrun you. When the bad guys catch you, they’ll probably forget about me.” He stood up. “We might as well go try it.”
They left the rented bike behind a privet hedge bordering the back garden of La Retraite Rustique, then worked their way through the gardens, dodging behind trees and other bits of greenery just as they’d been taught in basic training—Brandy would’ve been proud of them. She’d have been even prouder if there’d been anybody in the gardens for them to hide from.
The two legionnaires stopped outside the back door, which bore a sign reading service entrance. They exchanged a glance, as if to ask whether they were still going through with it. Then Do-Wop shrugged, pushed the door open, and they went inside.
They were in a hallway with a pair of swinging doors in front of them and closed doors to either side saying men and women. From directly ahead came the low buzz of talk and the clatter of utensils—the kitchen, most likely. Do-Wop poked Sushi to get his attention, pointed to the door marked men, and they quickly slipped through it. As anticipated, they found themselves in a locker room with showers and toilet facilities visible through an opening at the far end. For the moment, at least, no one else was in the area.
“OK, look for somethin’ we can use as a disguise,” said Do-Wop. “Long as it covers up the Legion uniform, it oughta work.”
“What makes you so sure?” said Sushi. “Don’t you think the bosses know who works here and who doesn’t?”
“Sure, when they stop and think about it,” said Do-Wop. “But most of the time, they’re not payin’ attention, doin’ something else, y’know. If you act like you know what you’re doin’ and where you’re goin’, you can walk right past ’em and they don’t even notice. There’s always new guys on the job. My cousin Rufo useta pull this trick all the time when he was stealin’ stuff.” He walked over to some shelves, where jackets, aprons, and other items of employee apparel were laid out. “Maybe one of these will fit,” he said, tossing a jacket at Sushi. It was lavender with gold trim.
“What happened to your cousin Rufo?” said Sushi, slipping the jacket over his uniform. It
was a loose fit, but close enough to pass.
“He got nailed,” said Do-Wop, putting on a jacket of his own. “Shit happens, y’know.”
“Just what I wanted to hear,” said Sushi, rolling his eyes. “Guess there’s nothing to do but give it a try, though. Let’s go …”
* * *
Wearing uniforms taken from the employee locker room, the two legionnaires stepped into the hallway. For the moment, at least, they were alone. But there were clearly people in the kitchen, where the sound of conversation and food preparation was audible. Unfortunately, the path into the rest of the hotel led through the kitchen.
Leaning against the wall on one side were a push broom and a dustpan. Do-Wop picked them up and handed them to Sushi with a wink, then brandished a roll of paper towels he’d taken from the locker room. “Just like the Legion,” he said. “Look like you’re workin’, and they leave you alone.”
Sushi pointed the broom handle toward the swinging doors into the next room, as if to say, “After you.” Do-Wop shrugged, then strode forward as if he had every right in the world to be where he was. After a moment, Sushi followed.
The kitchen was small but well lit, and full of wonderful odors—definitely in a league with Mess Sergeant Escrima’s back at Zenobia Base, Sushi thought. The three men busy with food preparation had their backs to the two legionnaires, who moved past quietly. At the other end of the kitchen, several employees sat at two long tables, eating and talking. None of them spared more than a glance at Sushi and Do-Wop as the two walked briskly through the room, doing their best to appear that they were on the way to some job. This was going almost too smoothly, Sushi thought to himself.
Then a door opened in front of them, and Sushi’s heart leapt into his throat as the concierge came into the kitchen, walking directly toward them, a scowl on his face. But Do-Wop dodged back against the wall to let him pass, and a frightened Sushi followed his lead. To his enormous relief, Robert strode past them with no sign of recognition. Without saying a word, Do-Wop continued out the doors.
Phule's Errand Page 19
