Star Wars: Double-Blind
Posted: 2007-04-26 10:44pm
(Thanks to LadyTevar for a couple of the names)Raj Ahten wrote:A random thought, how about a Star Wars noir type story? You got a bounty hunter filling in the role of the private detective, hut gangsters to be investigated, and strong arm imperial lawmen pressuring the hero.
It's raining. Of course it's raining. Sithspit it's a horrible day. Of course, when you're two weeks behind on the rent and you've got just enough creds in the bank to buy yourself a blaster to put yourself out of your misery, every day is a horrible day.
So when some dame walks into my office and drops a wad of cash thicker than my thumb on my desk, it's safe to say she's got my undivided attention.
In hindsight, I should've known she'd be trouble. Nobody throws around that kind of bait unless they've got something nasty waiting for whatever fish is dumb enough to snap at it.
But I'm a sucker for blondes.
She looks at me with those big brown eyes and says she had a job for me. I take my feet off the desk and make a show of counting the money she'd handed up. A thousand credits. Nice, crisp flimsy bills. You don't see that kind of old-fashioned cash anymore. I set the stack down when I'm done and tell her to keep going.
She plunks herself down in one of the piece-of-crap chairs in front of the desk. She tells me that she's Sheren Sulnim, and she's being followed by some guy. He's making her real scared, classic stalker case. She wants me to bodyguard for awhile. I'd guard that body anytime she wanted. Of course I don't say that, I don't want to lose the job. Instead I soothe her, tell her no problem, I can start tomorrow, deal with that scumbag, the whole nine yards. I don't do 'soothing' too well, but the dame's in so bad for a hero figure that she's putty by the time I'm done. She gives me an address and saunters out.
I withdraw a couple bills, stuff the rest of the cash in my desk drawer and withdraw my firearm: a Merr-Sonn Peacemaker 220. Twenty shots, optimum range fifty meters, max range a hundred and twenty. They called 'em Peacemakers 'cause once you fire, you got some nice peace and quiet on your hands. This one in particular has the word 'Spike' etched on the side of the barrel.
Normally I ain't one to name a gun like some of the thickheads out there. One blaster's as good as another, and I ain't some kinda freak who thinks his gun is his best friend in the universe. But Spike's a special one. First time I carried the sucker, a fight broke out at the Blackheart. I drew the gun to blast some scumsucker but someone batted it out of my hand right before I pulled the trigger and it went flying into a pitcher of lum. A couple seconds later Torri grabbed the pitcher to beat my new friend over the head and when the pitcher shattered, the damn gun went off and blew a hole in the guy's shoulder.
Torri thought it was hilarious and we left with her giggling, "you must'a really spiked that drink hard, Deggy." Next morning I found the gun with the name carved into the side and the legend of Spike was born.
I stuff the blaster into the holster under my coat and walk out, locking the door behind me. A hallway and a couple flights of stairs later and I'm outside. The rain is coming down something fierce and my bum leg is acting up. Kriff, but I hate rainy days. Lucky for me the Blackheart is just a block down the street.
For a couple hours, life ain't too bad. I drink myself stupid and actually manage to pay my tab for once, which means Kol is my best buddy now.
No fights for once. Unusual night for the Blackheart.
I wake up with a right nice hangover. Sithspawn, I'd almost forgotten what they felt like.
Some medication and a couple of overdone eggs later and I'm heading out towards the Brick. Yeah, Torri named that one too. The Ubrikkian H-46. Looks like a brick and handles like one too. I think it used to be green. Fourth try starts it up and I'm off like the wind.
Chooder's. Nice diner. Bright. Cheerful. Two blocks from the precinct. Sheren's there, with a smile on her face. I smile back and slide into the booth across the table. She says hi, how are you, the usual chatter. Then she leans forward and whispers for me to look over her shoulder. I'm more interested in looking down her blouse but hey, I've got a job to do. She directs me to a booth across the room where some scummy-looking Gran is sitting hunched over a cup of caf. So that's the guy. Looks like a real piece of work if you ask me. Greasy type. He's carrying; I can see the bulge of the gun under his jacket. Shit. That rules out the "go over the scare the bejeezus out of him" plan. I'm not dumb enough to try and play scare tactics against a nutball with a blaster Instead I look back and Sheren – not a bad thing – and watch him out of the corner of my eye. Yep, he's sneaking glances at her. Gran ain't good at sneaking glances, what with those eyestalks they've got.
So I sit there and pretend to stir a cup of caf while I work my holdout out of my sleeve. The camera's the size of my fingertip, but it's perfect for this range and it's fully functional. All I have to do is hold it like a utensil and squeeze it between thumb and forefinger. I snap maybe ten, twelve shots before I slip the cam back into my sleeve so nobody's the wiser. Then I bid Sheren goodbye with a smile and head back out to the Brick.
Two hours to get the pics scanned. I pass the time with a good mug of lomin-ale.
The Imperial Precinct smells like acid, like the scour the first two millimeters off the floor when they clean it. Knowing the Imps I wouldn't put it past 'em, especially with Lieutenant Murder in charge. Okay, his name's Pilon Marter, but he always looks like he's ready to off someone so I call him Murder. Drives him up the wall too, which is a nice plus.
"Punk," he says by way of greeting.
"It's Pukown, Lieutenant Murder." I drop into a chair.
"What are you here to waste my time with today?" he growls, taking off his uniform cap and dropping it on his desk.
I pull out the sheaf of pictures and hand them over. "Need a ID run."
He takes the picture and feeds it to the droid computer. "What are you up to your neck in now, Punk?"
"Hey, I've got a paying customer for once. Nice, clean girl, too."
He snorts. "Deggren Pukown with an honest customer. You know, the last time you told me you had an honest customer, eight people ended up getting shot."
"I didn't say it was an honest customer, I said she was a paying one."
"Good point." The droid makes a churning noise and spits out a whole stream of numbers, letters, and who-knows-what. Murder somehow makes sense of it. "No record. Facial pattern doesn't match anything. Kriffing aliens. Go shoot him."
"Is that an official Imperial license?" Now THAT would make my job a lot easier.
"Shut up, Pukown," he grumbles as he shoves the pics back into my lap. "Now get out before I arrest you for possession of an illegal firearm."
"I got papers."
"And I'm sure they're real nice papers too, make a nice lining for my trash can."
Bastard.
I leave. It's afternoon now. Sheren's gonna be waiting for me. Time to earn my pay. I meet her at the grocer's and she leads me to her car. Convertible. Nice. If I hadn't seen her throw all those creds around last night I'd know she was money now. We leave the Brick behind and head out. Five minutes later and I know we're being tailed. Tagge model 407. Middle of the road son of a bitch, not fancy but nice and economical. Except it's twenty years old. Guess our greasy friend's in the same tax bracket as I am. The one marked 'Lowest'.
He follows us to Sheren's neighborhood and then turns off. Guess he's giving up. Then she tells me there's only one way in or out of the division. Guess he must be setting up camp. Creep. We drop off her stuff and start heading back to where I left my speeder. Sure enough, he picks us up again once we're back on the main thoroughfare. Persistent kriffer.
We go back and pick up the Brick, then leave and head in different directions. For one block. Then I circle around and come find her. Greaseball's still tailing her, but he doesn't notice me slipping in about twenty meters behind him. Good. More power to me.
I trail him back to the neighborhood and pull into a little restaurant while he pulls into the alley behind the building across the street. I kick back and set up shop. Hours pass. Night falls and I decide to make a move. Spike's fully charged. I leave the Brick and walk across the street. I creep towards where he's parked but I shouldn't have bothered Greasy's passed out in the driver's seat and snoring like a busted piece of equipment dragging on the road. I draw Spike and point him through the open window.
One thing I gotta say about this guy, he ain't as heavy a sleeper as he seems. As soon as Spike's muzzle touches his head he stops snoring and looks up at me. "Graff," he mutters. Sounds like a curse. Nice and slow, he opens up the door and stands up, hands up over his head. "Well, what now?"
"Now," I say, "you're gonna be a good little slimeball and leave the nice lady alone. Sound good?"
He makes a weird sound. Sounds like a goat braying. Is this slimeball laughing? "Oh, you don't know the half of things, pal," he says.
"Shut up."
"Listen. Buddy. You're mixed up somewhere you don't belong. I got six hundred creds. Ready cash. Walk away from this right now. It'll be safer that way."
"Bite me, you goat-faced kriffer," I snarl. "Only one of us is walking away from this and it ain't me. Got it?"
"You got that right." Then he starts to spin around. Throne of the Sith but he's fast! He goes for his blaster but Spike's on a hair trigger already and all I need to do is twitch.
The bang of the blaster sounds as loud as a thunderclap and goes echoing up the walls. Greaseball staggers and falls against the side of his speeder, a big hole in the side of his head. Then he slumps to the ground. I holster Spike. This ain't the first time I've blown a hole in someone's head.
I search his car. I find another gun in the glove compartment, a camera on the front seat, a whole load of empty food containers on the floor, and a folder on the back seat. I tuck the gun into my pocket, leave the camera where it is, and I'm about to open it up where Sheren shows up, on the verge of hysteria. She's all frantic, saying that she heard the shot and came running. I calm her down some, let her know the bad guy's not coming after her any more, and like a nice guy, offer to walk her home.
Should've known something was up.
Somewhere between the driveway and the front door, the clothes start coming off. Normally I don't make a habit of sleeping with my customers, but like I said, I'm a sucker for blondes.
I keep busy for a couple hours.
I get up out of bed and start getting my stuff together so I can leave. I don't wanna be here in the morning. Then I find Greaseball's folder. Purely out of curiosity, I flip it open.
There's a seismic charge inside.
"Greaseball" is actually Imperial Intelligence Agent Marrawk. And "Sheren Sulnim" is really Trysandrena Tilmada. THE Tilmada. The Widow of Toria. Kriff, I thought she was dead! Forty-five confirmed contract kills, most of 'em from the Hutts. And she's on her forty-sixth. The governor. It's all here, spelled out in nice little block letters. I feel like I've been struck by lightning.
"Shouldn't have read that," I hear her say behind me.
I let the folder drop and raise my hands. "You crazy bitch. You arranged all of this."
She makes a noise of affirmation. "It was easy. Drop enough credits and everything opens up for you. You're not that bad of a guy, Deggren. Sorry it had to be you."
Click. She pulls the trigger.
"Good thing I took the power cell out," I say. Then I spin around and Spike puts one right through her pretty head. Good thing she tried shooting me with Marrawk's gun. I noticed her sliding it out of my pants when she was taking them off, and if that doesn't set and alarm bell off, I don't know what does.
I gather up Marrawk's folder and leave the house, walking back towards the Brick. I've got a good few hours ahead of me. Turning the info over to Murder. Explaining how the Widow killed an Imperial agent. Explaining how she tried to frame me for it, even used my own gun.
My bad leg aches. It's gonna rain tomorrow.
I hate rain.
