by Mike Resnick
Hootowl Jacobs loved his life, all right, and he certainly was a bigamist from time to time, but therein lay the rub: Hootowl tended to fall in love only with ladies of property, and since he was aware that he wouldn't be awarded that property in a typical divorce proceeding, he "divorced" his wives in his own unique way: with a serrated hunting knife across their windpipes.
No one knew how many wives he had taken, though there were doubtless records of it somewhere. No one knew how many he had dispatched either, but he came to the attention of Dimitrios of the Three Burners when the total reached double digits.
Dimitrios was nothing if not thorough—it was the best way to keep alive in his line of work—so he began checking up on Jacobs. The man had killed women on Sirius V and Spica VI in the Democracy, on Silverblue out on the Rim, and on Binder X, Roosevelt III, Greenveldt, and at least four other worlds of the Inner Frontier.
His method was always the same. He'd show up on a world, a well-to-do widower (as indeed he was), and because of his economic and social station he tended to meet more than his share of well- to-do widows. He wasn't all that much to look at, and his manners weren't the type that would sweep a woman off her feet . . . but he would stress what they had in common, which was money and loneliness, and it wasn't long before wedding bells would be ringing and Hootowl Jacobs (who, after the deaths of his first three wives, never used his own name again) was a husband again.
He never rushed into his "divorces". The fastest was five months, the slowest almost three years. But sooner or later it was inevitable. A distraught, hysterical Jacobs would seek out the authorities, claiming some passing stranger had killed his wife. She was always missing some jewelry, so the motive was apparent. The legalities were usually concluded in two or three weeks—a new John Doe warrant, and a quick property settlement in favor of the grieving widower.
Hootowl Jacobs was not just the kind of man that Dimitrios longed to catch, he was the kind that the bounty hunter wanted to kill slowly and painfully with his bare hands. He knew that he was unlikely to get the opportunity, but he could hope.
It took two days for Dimitrios and Matilda to get to Innisfree II. She had wanted to question him further about potential Santiagos, but he had his own priorities and preferred to go into Deepsleep, which would eventually extend his life by two days provided he beat the odds and lived to an old age. And as he explained, "If I didn't plan to live my full span of years, I wouldn't be in this business to begin with."
To which she thought, the hell you wouldn't—but had enough tact to keep her mouth shut, and after reading the opening chapters of an exceptionally unthrilling thriller she climbed into her own Deepsleep pod, awakening when the ship went into orbit around Innisfree II.
"Get up," said Dimitrios, who was already awake and alert.
"I'm starving!" said Matilda.
"Of course you are. You haven't eaten in two days. We'll eat when we land."
She climbed out of the pod, amazed at how stiff her joints could become in just two days.
"Any messages for me?" she asked.
"Yeah. The ballet doesn't need a prima ballerina, stripping is outlawed on Innisfree, but if you can dance the Flamenco, whatever that is, there's a joint that can give you four days' work." He paused. "Four days is plenty. If Jacobs is here, I'll find him in less time than that."
"Okay, I'll take it."
"Don't tell me," said Dimitrios. "Send a message to them."
"I will," she said. "Give me a minute to wake up."
"All right," he said. "I've booked two rooms for us at a hotel in the center of what seems to pass for the planet's only city."
"Fine. I hope they have a restaurant."
"I hope Hootowl Jacobs is staying there."
"You act like it's a personal vendetta," said Matilda. "Have you ever met him?"
"No. He deserves to die; that's all I need to know."
"How many women has he killed?"
"Too many."
"You know," she said, "I could represent myself as a wealthy widow, or an heiress . . ."
"Forget it. There's a price on his head. We don't need to set him up."
"I thought it might draw him out."
"If he can find a wealthy widow on Innesfree before I find him, then it's time for me to retire."
"Do you even know what he looks like?" asked Matilda.
"Computer, show me Hootowl Jacobs," ordered Dimitrios.
Instantly a life-sized holographic image appeared. It was a man with bulging blue eyes, a widow's peak of brown hair, an aquiline nose, medium height, medium weight, dressed expensively.
"That's him," said Dimitrios.
"He's certainly distinctive," she said.
"If you mean easy to spot, yes, he is."
"I gather he's inherited a number of fortunes," said Matilda. "What the hell is a man with that kind of money doing on a little backwater world like Innesfree II?"
He shrugged. "Who cares? It's enough that he's here—if he is."
"If I were you, I'd care. He might have hired a small army."
"What for? He's never killed anyone but middle-aged women."
"Aren't you even curious?"
He shook his head. "Not a bit."
Santiago would be curious, she thought. And cautious. He'd want to know what business Hootowl Jacobs had on this world. You're so intent on killing him that you're not even interested in what makes him tick, and yet that knowledge could be the advantage you need. I know, I know, all he kills are his wives, but you still should look for any edge you can get. This is life and death, after all.
She began to appreciate the problem of finding Santiago. He was one tiny needle in the haystack of the Inner Frontier, and he probably had no idea of who and what he was to become. Just finding him could take a few lifetimes; convincing him to fulfill his destiny could take almost as long.
She was still considering her problems when the ship touched down. Shortly thereafter they passed through Customs—they had to purchase one-month visas for fifty credits apiece—and Dimitrios rented an aircar, which skimmed a foot above the ground and got them from the spaceport to the city in a matter of a few minutes.
"Here we are," said Dimitrios, deactivating the aircar. "The Shaka Zulu Hotel."
"Who or what was Shaka Zulu?" asked Matilda.
"Who knows? Probably some politician or poet." He paused. "Let's check it out before we unload our luggage."
The doors faded into nothingness as they approached the entrance, and a moment later a small, rotund purple alien was escorting them to their rooms. He stopped when he reached the end of the corridor. For a moment Matilda thought he had forgotten where to take them, but then Dimitrios flipped him a coin, which he caught in his mouth, and he toddled away.
"I'd have asked him if Jacobs was here, but I don't think he speaks Terran," said the bounty hunter.
"Why not ask at the front desk?"
"Clerks don't keep their jobs long if they reveal their guest lists to bounty hunters." He smiled. "Some of them don't live long, either."
She turned to the doors. "Which is mine?"
"Whichever you want. Just let it read your handprint and retina once, and it'll be programmed for you for the next four days."
"I don't know which one I want until I see them both."
"They're identical."
"Okay, this one is fine then," said Matilda, letting the security system scan her readings. The door dilated a moment later and she passed through it. "Not bad," she said. "Larger than I expected."
"Space isn't at a premium on Innesfree," remarked Dimitrios.
She walked back out into the corridor. "It'll do. Now I have to pop over to El Gran Senor and see about a job."
"I'll come with you," he said.
"Why don't you just stay here and relax? I'll be back in a few minutes."
"I didn't come here to rest."
They walked back to the front of the hotel, where Dimitrios brought their luggage in from the ai
rcar and tossed another coin into another blue alien's mouth after telling him their room numbers.
"I hope he understood," she said as the walked out onto the street.
"They wouldn't let an alien hang around the lobby and collect tips if he couldn't."
They walked two blocks north to El Gran Senor. It was closed for the afternoon, but a doorman let them in. The interior was starkly decorated, with a bar in one corner, a number of tables with uncomfortable-looking chairs, and a small stage. A second, even smaller stage, held a single stool, obviously for the guitarist.
"Good afternoon," said a balding, pudgy man with a reddish face. "My name's Manolete. You must be my new dancer."
"Matilda," she said, extending her hand.
"Got a last name?" he asked as he took her hand and shook it.
"Not lately," said Matilda with a smile.
"No problem. Just need something for our records."
"Pay me in cash and use any last name you like."
"Done." He turned to Dimitrios. "You're sure as hell no dancer," he said, starting at the bounty hunter's weaponry.
"Just looking for a friend," said Dimitrios.
"Well, I'm as friendly as they come," said Manolete. "What can I do for you?"
"You're not the friend I'm looking for," said Dimitrios. "I hear that Hootowl Jacobs is on Innesfree."
"Could be," said Manolete. "What do you want with him?"
"I'm his attorney, here to deliver an inheritance."
"I hear tell he's had his share of them."
Dimitrios nodded. "Poor fellow does seem unlucky," he agreed.
"Not as bad as his luck is now, Dimitrios of the Three Burners," said Manolete with a grin. "I've heard about you. They say you're one of the best."
"So is he on Innesfree?"
"He is."
Dimitrios stared coldly at Manolete. "You wouldn't be so silly as to warn him?"
"Me?" laughed Manolete. "Hell, no! I want you to take him out right here in El Gran Senor! We can use the publicity. Maybe I'll even catch it on my holo cameras." He outlined the entertainment with his hands. "Last show each night. For an extra 200 credits, watch the fabled Dimitrios of the Three Burners take out that notorious ladykiller Hootowl Jacobs! Now, why the hell would I warn him away?"
Dimitrios was silent for a long moment. Finally he spoke: "Draw up a contract."
"A contract?" repeated Manolete. "What for?"
"If Hootowl Jacobs shows up here, and if I kill him, and if you capture it on your holo cameras, and if you start charging customers to watch it, then I want 50% of the gross to go to these two charities." He wrote the names down on a counter, then looked up. "Is it a deal?"
Manolete sighed. "Okay, I'll have a contract ready tonight."
"If I should ever find out that you were cheating my charities," said Dimitrios, "I would be seriously displeased with you. Do we understand each other?"
Manolete nodded, and Dimitrios turned and walked back out into the street. The club owner turned to Matilda.
"Nice company you keep."
"We get along."
"I hope Jacobs kills him!" said Manolete passionately. "Hootowl would never charge me half just for showing holos of it." He paused. "Where does he get off, charging me for showing holos of what happens in my own club?"
"It hasn't happened yet."
"It will."
"Probably," agreed Matilda. "Killing's his job. Mine is dancing. Where's my costume?"
"In your dressing room," said Manolete, getting to his feet. "Come on, I'll show you." He escorted her backstage. "We haven't got time to teach you a number. I hope you can improvise."
"I usually do."
"We've got a Borillian playing the guitar," continued Manolete.
"A Borillian?" she repeated. "Why?"
"It's a 14-string guitar, and he's got seven fingers on each hand. You won't believe the music he can make."
"As long as it's Flamenco, we won't have a problem."
"Here we are," he said as they reached a small dressing room. "Usually we have two or three women backing up the lead male, but that asshole went and got himself shot last week."
"And the other women?"
He shrugged. "You know how women are."
"No," said Matilda. "How are we?"
"Easy come, easy go."
"Right," she said. "We're so flighty we don't hold still long enough to get shot like your male dancers."
He glared at her, but made no reply. She looked around the room, checked out the costumes to make sure they'd fit her, examined the vanity, and finally nodded. "All right, I've seen it. When do you need me?"
"We're pretty informal here. Show up after you've digested your dinner. You'll do three shows, maybe four." He paused. "Don't you want to try on the shoes?"
"I'll wear my own."
"They won't match."
"But they'll fit."
"You know," said Manolete, "you're as disagreeable as he is."
"I'm not here to be agreeable," said Matilda. "You wanted a dancer. You've got one."
"As long as you're hired, I'd better tell you the rules."
"There's only one rule," said Matilda. "No one enters my dressing room when I'm in it."
"There's no drinking, no drugging, no—"
"You'll get your money's worth," she said, walking to the exit. "I'll see you later."
Before he could say a word, she'd shut the door in his face and headed out to the street. Once she was outside she looked around for Dimitrios, couldn't spot him, and walked back to the hotel. She checked the bar before going to her room, and saw him sitting there, the only customer in the place in midafternoon, a tall cold drink on the table in front of him.
"Don't drink too many of those," she said, sitting down opposite him. "I've got a feeling Jacobs will show up tonight."
"There's no alcohol in it," he replied. "I don't indulge when I'm working. You want one?"
"Sure. What is it?"
"I don't know what it's called. It's a mixture of three or four citrus fruits native to Innesfree. Nice tang to it."
She signaled the bartender, yet another rotund blue alien. "I'll have one of those," she said, pointing to Dimitrios' glass.
"Yes, Missy," growled the alien.
"Are those creatures the original inhabitants of Innesfree?" she asked. "They seem to be omnipresent."
"Only in the hotel," answered Dimitrios. "They're native to Halcyon II. The ones you see are indentured servants, working off their debts."
"How do you know that?"
"I've been to Halcyon II, and I know the policy of the corporation that owns this chain of hotels."
"And you put up with it?"
"It's not up to me," said Dimitrios. "They sign the papers, they work off their debts. It's the law."
"Didn't you ever want to break a bad law?"
"Lady, I represent the law out here. If you don't break it, you'll never have a problem with me."
"And good or bad law, it makes no difference to you?" she persisted.
"You're looking for Santiago," he said. "I've got my own priorities."
"I know," said Matilda. The alien arrived with her drink, set it down, and scuttled away. "Strange little beasts, aren't they?"
"Not to a lady Halcyoni," said Dimitrios.
"Point taken." She sipped the drink. "It's very good."
"Most fruit drinks are," he said. "I don't know why, but the human body seems to metabolize alien fruits and vegetables easier than alien protein."
"Are you saying you're a vegetarian?"
"No, I like meat. But I try not to eat it on days that I'm likely to work. Wouldn't want to get stomach cramps or worse at the wrong time."
"You keep saying it so impersonally: 'Days that you're going to work.'"
"You can't humanize these bastards," answered Dimitrios. "You can't ever do anything that'll make you pause, or hesitate, or listen to a plea or an explanation or an excuse. They killed the innocent and the hel
pless; they have to die."
"Do you ever have second thoughts, or regrets?"
He shook his head. "I might have, about a man who killed another man in a fair fight. Or a man who robbed a bank and killed a guard who was trying to kill him. Or about you. But not about the men I go after."
"So you never feel remorse, or regret?"
"Only satisfaction." He paused. "Why do you care?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. I'm trying to make a list of traits I need to find in Santiago."
He laughed softly.
"What's so funny?" she asked.
"If you get close enough to ask 'em, he's probably not Santiago."
They spent the rest of the afternoon in the bar, sipping fruit drinks and waiting for night to fall. When it had been dark for more than an hour, she got up and made her way back to El Gran Senor.
"You're early," said Manolete. "I like that in a performer."
"Not much to do in this town," she replied.
"And I like that in a town," he said. "This is the only excitement there is." He paused. "We should be full all night long. Everyone knows Dimitrios of the Three Burners plans to kill Hootowl Jacobs here tonight."
"Just how many people did you tell?"
"Enough."
"If word reaches Jacobs, you'll be in for a disappointing evening."
"You don't know the Hootowl," said Manolete. "He doesn't back down from anything."
"I thought all he didn't back down from were middle-aged wives who trusted him."
"That's because you've been listening to Dimitrios."
She considered sending a warning to Dimitrios, then changed her mind. His rejection of her offer hadn't discouraged her, but failure to take Hootowl Jacobs would decide it once and for all: if he couldn't kill Jacobs, then he could never be Santiago.
She changed into her costume, put on her make-up, then sent for the Borillian guitarist. His name could not be pronounced by any human, so she decided to call him Jose. He seemed friendly enough, and spoke in tinkling chimes, which his t-pack translated into a dull monotone. After learning the extent of his repertoire, she felt confident that she could improvise to anything he chose to play.
