The card players were involved in some version of Texas Hold ’em. Each player had two down cards, and there were five cards face-up in front of the dealer. Only two men were still in the hand. An older, scruffy-looking man turned over his cards—a full house, three tens and two queens. The other man cursed.
I recognized Ferantis as one of the men who’d already dropped out of the hand.
“Damn, Sloan, that’s four straight hands. If I didn’t know you ain’t clever enough to cheat, that’s what I’d think you were doing.”
The man who’d lost at cards had red hair. I looked closer and thought I could make out two parallel scars on his face.
“No reason to cheat when playing opposite you, Yode. Just sitting is sufficient.”
Thank you, Mr. Sloan! I thought. Now we had both men identified. We could have shot both men right then, but I was still uneasy about an execution, no matter what Millen argued or the townspeople endorsed.
Ferantis noticed us standing there and raised an eyebrow.
Millen took the lead. “Barkeep says you men work for Cherkoff. We’re just in from Oslo and start work tomorrow, but a guy that checked us in at a ranch suggested we relax and pointed us this way. We’re supposed to meet Cherkoff tomorrow to find out what we’ll be doing. I’m Ed Stiller, and this is Ev Jole.”
We kept our names similar enough so that if either of us slipped, we could pass it off as poor hearing or speaking.
“Just in, huh?” said the man we now believed was Neliseranda. “Where will you be living? At the main ranch or one of the others?”
“No idea,” said Millen. “They said to go away for a couple of hours, and someone will have it straightened out later.”
“Typical,” said the fourth man. “Cherkoff leaves such details to Andersov, and half the time he’s got his head up his ass. He and Cherkoff must go way back to keep him on.”
“Mind if we sit in on the game?” I asked. “Looks like seven card poker or Texas Hold ’em. Don’t know what it’s called here.”
“Usually just seven card,” said Ferantis, “though we had a guy here for a year that called it something like ‘five-downs.’ I can’t remember exactly. But sit on down. Always good to get some fresh blood and new money.”
We sat, me next to Ferantis and Millen between Sloan and the unnamed fourth.
“How do you handle the chips?” asked Millen.
Sloan reached to the floor and brought up a chip holder. “We’ll start you off with five hundred credits’ worth of chips. You can always get more. Everything is settled up when you check out.”
I did a rough estimation of the seriousness of the game. Not too steep. More than a casual game, but not serious enough you could lose big.
I stacked my chips in front of me. “Just so we know what game we’re playing, two cards face-down. Bet. Three up. Bet. One more down. Bet. Fifth one down. Bet. Suits the usual order. Winning hands straight flush, four-of-a-kind, full house, flush, straight, three of a kind, two pair, one pair, high. Sound about right?”
“Close,” said Sloan. “Dealer’s choice if we use two jokers. I consider it a child’s game to do that, but Yode insists when it’s his turn to deal.”
We played for thirty minutes. I lost a few, won a few, and was slightly ahead. However, I couldn’t have cared less. It was time to move on. Millen read my body language.
“Say, we’re told there’s a temporary hold on going into Justice unless necessary, but after that’s lifted, what do you do around here for women?”
“Freda’s place in Justice has some reasonable girls, and the prices aren’t bad,” said the fourth man. “I’ve tried most of them but usually like Bella. She’s a little hefty but compensates by really knowing her trade.”
Millen let several minutes pass, while the four Cherkoff men compared notes on the only brothel in Justice.
“How about local women?” I asked. “I’m kind of partial to non-professionals myself.”
“Hit and miss,” said Ferantis. “Used to be better, but since Cherkoff started making major moves, the women in Justice are harder to hit on.”
“Too bad,” I said. “We had a couple of hours to waste while waiting for someone to pick us up, so we wandered around town. Spotted a few pretty good lookers.”
“Especially in that store,” added Millen.
“You mean the black-haired woman with the big tits?” said Neliseranda.
“Sounds like her,” I said in as naïve a voice as I could manage. “You ever met her?”
Ferantis laughed. “Met her! Hell. Me and Yode did more than that! Caught her by herself in that store late one night. Acted uppity and tried to shoo us out. Taught her a lesson.”
Neliseranda took on a dreamy look, as if reliving a pleasant memory. “Oh, she fought at first, but a few slaps and she relaxed. Hell, for all I know she liked it and just didn’t want to admit it.”
“And no one entered the store?” asked Millen.
“Agh! Some dopey older guy came in while Niko was still busy with the woman. The guy just stared dumbfounded when I stuck him.”
I looked at Millen and nodded. I’d heard enough. Both of us laid down our current hand, rose, and stepped back from the table. Millen pulled out a sheet of paper that he unfolded.
In a voice loud enough to be heard throughout the bar, he began reading. “Niko Ferantis and Yode Neliseranda, you have been tried by a jury in Justice and found guilty of murder, rape, and assault with intent to kill. By order of the court, you are sentenced to death.”
Even though I thought I was committed, I hesitated until out of the corner of my eye I saw Millen reach under his armpit. I whipped my hand to the pistol in my back. Millen shot first, hitting Neliseranda in the forehead, but I followed a fraction of a second later, taking Ferantis in the upper chest. He gaped at me, astounded. Blood spread across his shirt. One hand flopped toward the pistol at his side. I shot again, this time hitting him just under his nose. He and his chair fell backward to the floor. He didn’t move. I looked at Neliseranda. He was dead sitting up in this chair, a vacant expression testifying to the unexpected event.
The gunshots were followed by stunned silence for four or five seconds. Then pandemonium broke out, as people yelled, ducked under tables, ran for doors. The other two Cherkoff men slid hands toward their pistols.
“Nobody do anything stupid,” Millen called out, keeping his pistol pointed between the two men. “This was none of your business, so keep your hands where we can see them.”
Millen hovered menacingly over the table, while I stared pointedly at a man at the bar putting a hand inside his coat. After evidently reconsidering involvement, he slowly brought his hand out empty. I noticed the bartender. He had a comm to his mouth and, by the movement of his lips, was talking as fast as he could.
“Security will be showing up. Everett, stand over to the other side of the room. I’ll stay here and discuss the situation with the Lamoa brothers.”
With the initial shock past, no one remaining in the bar seemed inclined to move, much less pull a gun. I stood with my pistol against my leg to help blend in with the other patrons. Less than a minute later, two large men thundered into the room, pistols drawn. They had to be descendants from Samoa, Tonga, or some other Polynesian island. My childhood friend Manny Polamowana could have been a brother or a cousin to the two wide-bodied men surveying room. My deductive reasoning skills made it highly probable these were the Lamoa brothers.
It didn’t take long for them to zero in on two dead men at a table and a man holding up both arms, one hand brandishing a marshal’s badge and the other a piece of paper.
“Over here, gentleman,” said Millen. “I’m Marshal Edgar Millen from Justice.” The hand holding the badge rocked back and forth to get their attention. “I have here a Writ of Execution from the legitimate court in Justice. The two men just shot were convicted of murder and rape, and the sentence of death was handed down and passed on to me and my deputy to carry out.”
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br /> One of the brothers was a tad brighter than the other, as evidenced by his head swiveling as he tried to locate that deputy. I acted as innocuous as I could, which seemed to work because his gaze passed over me without stopping.
The Lamoas walked over cautiously to examine the bodies; neither needed medical confirmation of their deceased nature.
“What happened?” asked the smaller of the two brothers, though “smaller” with these two would be better used in comparison to trucks, rather than humans.
I stifled the temptation to speak out and say we had been target shooting, and the two men had jumped in front of our bullets to keep them from damaging the room’s décor. I know . . . a fatuous temptation, but years ago I’d accepted my retreat to macabre humor when I came down from an adrenaline rush.
Millen, with more composure than I felt at the moment, calmly reframed his previous statement. “I’m Marshal Edgar Millen from Justice and have served this Writ of Execution on Niko Ferantis and Yode Neliseranda after they were convicted in a trial for murder and rape. The sentence was death. Sorry for the mess here, but I suggest you send for Karl Schlottner so we can clear this up.”
“Keep your hands up or we’ll shoot,” said the denser of the brothers.
“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” said Millen, in a friendly, yet chiding voice, “since my deputy behind you would take that very badly.
Both brothers looked around to find me holding a pistol pointed in their direction.
“See what I mean?” said Millen.
When the Lamoas looked back to Millen, he had his pistol at waist level and pointed their way. My friend Manny had been one of smartest kids in school. Clearly, these two were from a different branch of the Samoan, Tongan, or whatever family tree.
“Now, I’m going to put my pistol away in a sign of good faith and so nothing happens that we all regret. I’ll also sit here at the next table and wait while you fetch Schlottner. I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to interfere with the town of Justice’s law enforcement. When he gets here, it’ll all be straightened out.”
After five seconds of silence, the smarter Lamoa said something to the other one and nodded toward the door they had charged through. The brother raced away. For a second, I thought he wasn’t going to bother opening the door.
A buzz of conversation slowly rose from the patrons and the staff. When a couple tried to edge out of the room, the remaining Lamoa barked at them to stay where they were until Schlottner said they could go. Sloan and the other Cherkoff man had remained frozen, whether from shock or out of a desire not to draw Millen’s attention, I didn’t know. It was probably a wise decision on their part.
Three minutes later, the back door opened, and four men cautiously walked in. First in was the other Lamoa brother, then two men looking disheveled, as if just roused from bed. A fourth man was in his fifties, tall and trim, with neat gray hair and an expression that yelled, “Now what the fuck has happened!”
The first three men had drawn pistols. I thought Bossev had said there were only two Lamoa brothers as security. Bad intelligence can get you killed.
“Ah, Mr. Schlottner,” Millen called out. “Thank you for coming so quickly. I’m Marshal Edgar Millen from Justice. If we could sit and talk, I’m sure you will come to understand tonight’s unfortunate events.”
The two new men had noticed me and my pistol. One of the unexpected men turned to face me, while the other focused on Millen.
“First thing that’ll happen is you’ll both put your pistols on the floor.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” said Millen. “We’re the official law enforcers in Justice and the surrounding territory, which includes this mining complex. We have authority here and not you.”
Millen and the man facing him stared at each other for several seconds before Schlottner spoke.
“Let’s all calm down, now. I need to know what the hell happened here. Who are you people?”
“Please, Karl . . . may I call you Karl? You can call me Edgar.” Millen waved to the second chair at his table. “If you’ll have a seat, we can have a civilized discussion to resolve all this.”
One new man turned his head slightly and whispered something I couldn’t hear, but his eyes never left Millen.
Schlottner obviously wasn’t happy but gingerly bypassed the bodies and sat facing Millen. “Okay, here I am. You claim to be Justice’s marshal. What happened to Dayton Wilton?”
“He was never the official law enforcer in Justice but merely someone Makon Cherkoff put in that position. There has been a change in circumstances, and Mr. Cherkoff no longer holds sway in this area. I’m surprised you haven’t heard any of the news.”
Schlottner drummed fingers of both hands on the table. “I heard there were a couple of shootings of Cherkoff men. A couple of strangers showed up trying to take over from Cherkoff. I assume you’re those two strangers.”
“That’s us. Edgar Millen, and my associate over there is Everett Cole. However, we’re not around to replace Mr. Cherkoff but to return civic control to the local residents. The shooting you refer to involved us stopping Cherkoff’s men from robbing the Starsumal Research people and then thwarting an attempt to kill Mr. Cole and me by ambush at night. As a result, two of Cherkoff’s men are dead, three more wounded to different degrees, and two more are sitting in cells in Justice until their dispensation is determined. Actually, I suppose I should say that four of Cherkoff’s men are dead if we add the two here.”
Millen pushed the writ toward Schlottner, who leaned forward and read, then whistled. “Bossev and Felzoni? They actually signed this? These are their real signatures?”
“You can check with them, but yes, the signatures are genuine.”
“And a trial? Does that mean a jury and all the trappings?”
“It wasn’t a full-blown trial, but the essential niceties were observed. Testimony by witnesses, discussion of the evidence among jurors and a judge, then the decision of guilty on all charges, leading to imposition of the death penalty on Niko Ferantis and Yode Neliseranda. Mr. Cole and I were charged by the court and Mayor Bossev to carry out the sentence.”
Schlottner sat back in his chair and stared at Millen for ten, fifteen seconds. “You realize Cherkoff isn’t going to stand for this. I’m surprised you two are alive as it is. I’m more than surprised—shocked is more like it—that Bossev and the others got up the nerve for this. I wouldn’t like to be them now. Cherkoff’s as ruthless as they come.”
“Yet you’ve managed to come to some kind of arrangement with him,” said Millen.
“If you want to call it that. My job is to keep this mining operation running smoothly. I have no responsibility for Justice or its people. As long as Cherkoff leaves VLK alone, my bosses are unconcerned about anything else. If anything, it’s you who are upsetting the status quo. If it did come to a serious conflict, my job would become much harder.”
What an ass, I thought. Willing to sit back and watch Cherkoff screw over everyone but his workers, as long as his quotas get filled.
The question was whether Schlottner would stay “hands off” if Cherkoff were on the way out, the same way he did with Cherkoff on the way in. We had enough problems without VLK putting a finger or a foot on the scales. Millen read my mind.
“I’m hoping we can count on VLK remaining an observer to local changes in circumstances. There’s no reason to directly impact your site’s operations. It wouldn’t be good for anyone if that were to happen.”
Did Millen just make a veiled threat?
If he had, and if Schlottner recognized it, he was good at not showing a reaction.
“Something we can agree on. However, in the future I would expect unpleasantness to be handled away from the Apex or the mine complex.”
Millen held out his hand. “I assure you that would be my fervent wish.”
The VLK manager inspected the hand, as if reassuring himself it held no gun or knife, then put out his own hand and shook.<
br />
I guess a treaty was just signed. What do they call this kind? A mutual non-aggression pact?
Schlottner waved his four men down, and they put away their pistols. Thankful, I did the same with mine. The manager also started ordering a cleanup and was about to leave when Millen stopped him.
“Mr. Schlottner, we appreciate your position but have one request. It would help if you could hold on to the two Cherkoff men we didn’t shoot until the morning. We’d like Cherkoff not to hear about all this as long as possible to give us more time before he responds.”
“Three men,” I said. “The man in the baggy pants at the end of the bar made like he was going for a gun before I discouraged him.”
Schlottner glanced at another of the men he’d come in with. “Chang, you recognize him?”
The security man confirmed my suspicion. “Yeah. Named Shultz, Sholtz, or something like that.”
Schlottner tapped the fingers of his left hand against his leg for fifteen to twenty seconds. “All right. Mr. Chang, I believe we’ll need to keep the three Cherkoff men here, while I consult with the main office in Oslo. It’s too late to talk to anyone there now, so it’ll have to wait until morning. Oh, and confiscate their comms until I hear back from Oslo. Given the time differential and the company’s usual need to check with everyone, including the janitors, before making a decision, it’ll probably be noon before I hear back.
“Let’s also gather the rest of the patrons. I think they’re all VLK workers. I’ll let them know—forcefully—I expect them to forget anything they saw tonight.”
Chang nodded, then winked at Millen and me, as he turned to the Lamoa brothers.
I used my comm to take images to confirm that the writ’s sentence had been carried out. I leaned over to Millen’s ear. “In case anyone questions whether the guilty parties paid their debt to society—or whatever. Also, I’ll show them to Landa. I think he’ll want to see them, and he can decide whether to show them to his wife.”
A Tangled Road to Justice Page 19
