Wagers of Sin: Time Scout II (25 page)

Profit, here I cone!

Happy Jack's bore an enormous wooden sign over the entrance, of dancing, dueling cowboys shooting at one another's feet. A large glass window was painted in bright Frontier Town colors, as well, proclaiming the bar's name in red, blue, and garish gold. Skeeter pushed open the Hollywood-style saloon doors and entered the raucous establishment, where a piano player was already busy pounding out tunes popular in Denver-the lyrics of which would've given the NAACP a collective fit of apoplexy. Many of those popular old tunes, heard and bellowed in dance halls and saloons from New York to San Francisco during the 1880s, were not flattering to the darker races.

There was a running war between uptime delegations and Frontier Tar owners over the playing of those songs, but no resolution was in sight. So the pianists played on, accustoming patrons to what they'd actually hear downtime-shocking, crude, racist, and all. Skeeter figured it beat having some uptime type throw a fit in the real downtime Denver, were more modern attitudes publicly and forcefully expressed would get a tourist into hot water fast.

Skeeter shook his head. Some folks just didn't get it. Human beings weren't nice, given half a chance not to be. If crusaders with legitimate gripes wanted to fix things, getting into legal wrangles with station bar owners wasn't the way to do it. Couldn't change the past, no matter what you did, and the bar keepers were just doing their part to acclimatize customers, after all. Crusaders needed to stay uptime and pour their resources into causes that might actually do some good: like raising the level of education for uptimers of all colors and breeds of human being. Same went for those enviro-nuts who wanted to go downtime and save the environment. Besides, it was plain wrong to murder a bunch of downtime commercial hunters and loggers for doing what their time thought perfectly normal.

For a half-wild, adopted Yakka Mongol, Skeeter just couldn't figure out what was so horrible about taking a good, long, clear-eyed look at one's past and facing whatever one found in it. Making up the past to fit whatever idea some politically correct group wanted to pass off as reality this week seemed a lot more dangerous to him than facing brutal facts, but then, he was just a half-wild, adopted Yakka Mongol in his innermost heart. What did he know from social theory and uptime politics?

Chuck Farley was there ahead of him, sitting at a table near the front and sipping whiskey. Skeeter smiled his best and slid into a chair. Above the roar of piano and human voices, he said, "Evenin' pardner."

Chuck smiled slowly. "Evenin'. Have a drink with me?"

"Don't mind if I do."

Farley signaled the waiter. A moment later, Skeeter was sipping some fine whiskey. Ahh ... "Now. You wanted to plan a trip to Denver?"

Farley nodded. "What I really need is an experienced time guide to set up my trip and show me the ropes before I go through the gate."

"Well sir, then I'm your man. But my fee is high."

Farley reached into a coat pocket and extracted a bulging envelope. "Half of this is yours before we leave, half when we get back."

"You realize, sir, that tickets to the Denver Gate go quickly; we'll need to purchase them right away." Skeeter half hoped that Farley would hand over the money right then.

Instead, Farley put the envelope back and said, with the air of a man relieved not to have to bother with petty details, "I'll leave it to you, who knows the ropes, to make arrangements, then."

Skeeter grinned philosophically. "Sure thing. Where and when shall we meet next?" If this envelope was only a fraction of what Farley carried in that undeclared money belt, Skeeter would soon be a rich man.

Farley named a spot off the Commons in a quiet corridor near the Epicurean Delight. "We'll meet there in, say, an hour?" Farley added.

"I'll be there." Skeeter smiled.

"I'll be lookin' for you, pardner." Farley lifted his glass. "To adventure."

Skeeter clinked glasses and drained his whiskey. "To adventure. See you in an hour." Perfect, he gloated. Just where I want him. Goldie's gone for good.

He strolled out of the saloon and headed straight to the nearest money machine. He regretted having to front the ticket money himself, but he figured he needed to bait his hook with high-class worms to catch a rich fish. He then made his way to the Wild West Gate Time Tours ticket booth. "Hi, I'd like two spots on the Denver trip two weeks from now."

"Sure, plenty of tickets left." The woman behind the glass-who knew Skeeter as well as any long-time 'eighty-sixer-frowned and said, "But let's see the cash, Jackson."

He grinned, producing it with a flourish. The woman groaned. "Poor sucker. I pity him-or her. All right, here are your tickets."

She stamped generic tickets for the correct departure date and handed them over. "Don't forget to tell your rube he'll need his time card with him," she added sarcastically.

Clearly, she didn't expect Skeeter's supposed victim to make it anywhere near the Wild West Gate. Skeeter cheerfully blew her a kiss, then headed for the assignation with Farley behind the Delight. He whistled as he walked, tickets in his pockets, along with a little remaining cash of his own to buy supper with. He chuckled midwhistle. After he got possession of that money-belt, the little bit of his own money he carried would be insignificant by comparison.

Dinner at the Delight would be a welcome change from frozen soy patties with "seared-in" so-called grill patterns to look like beef After the diet he'd grown accustomed to as a boy, they made him want to gag, but they kept body and soul together and just now, with the wager on, he couldn't afford luxuries like real beef in his freezer.

The corridor behind the Delight was long and deserted at the moment. Bins and chutes leading to composting rooms and incinerators in the bowels of the station lined the walls. Skeeter propped his back and the sole of one foot against the wall, whistling still, and waited. A sound off to his left distracted him. He glanced down that way-

Pain exploded through the back of his skull. He went down, knowing he was hurt, and felt his face connect with a monstrously hard floor. Then a cloth soaked in foul-smelling liquid covered his nose and mouth. He struggled briefly, cursing his stupidity and carelessness, but slid inexorably into a black fog even as hands searched his pockets.

Then the darkness closed over him and left him inert against the floor.

When he regained his senses, slowly, with a taste like the Gobi on his tongue and a sandstorm pounding the insides of his head, Skeeter groaned softly, then wished he hadn't. Drugged ... He struggled to sit up and nearly retched, but made it to a sitting position propped more or less against the wall. Fumbling hands searched, but the tickets and all of his money were missing. Had Farley rolled him? Or some opportunist amateur new to the station? Or just as likely-one of Goldie's agents?

He cursed under his breath, winced, and gingerly touched his throbbing head He couldn't exactly report this mugging to Bull Morgan, now could he? "Hi, I was about to scam this uptimer when somebody jumped me with a sap and a chloroformed rag ... ."

No, he wouldn't be talking to the Station Manager or anyone else about this one. Skeeter managed to gain his feet, then slid dizzily back to the floor and spent several miserable minutes bringing up the contents of his stomach. He was still coughing and wishing for a glass of water to rinse his mouth when hasty footsteps ran lightly his way.

"Skeeter?" a female voice said anxiously.

He looked up, wondering who she was. He didn't remember seeing her before.

"Skeeter, you are ill! Oh, Ianira will be so upset! Here, let me help you."

Her accent pegged her as a downtimer, probably Greek. Legs so wobbly he could barely stand unaided, he let her guide him through the back corridors to his own apartment, where she levered him expertly into the shower, stripped him down, and sluiced lukewarm water over his shivering body to clean up the mess. He leaned against the tiles, groaning, and pressed gingerly at the swelling on the back of his head.

Whoever she was, she reappeared with a towel and helped him out of the shower, dried him expertly, and got him into a comfortable robe, then assisted him across the short stretch of floor to his bed. He couldn't have made the walk unaided. She disappeared again, returning with a glass of liquid.

"Here. Sip this. It will settle your stomach and ease the pain in your head."

He sipped. It didn't taste as bad as he'd expected. Skeeter finished the glassful, then groaned softly and leaned back into the pillows. She pulled the covers up over him, switched off the lights, and settled into a nearby chair to watch over him.

"Hey," Skeeter mumbled, "thanks."

"Sleep," she urged. "You have been hurt. Sleep will heal."

Unable to argue with either her logic or the heaviness stealing across him, Skeeter closed his eyes and slept.

Marcus found Lupus Mortiferus in Urbs Romae, skulking near the entrance to the Epicurean Delight. The gladiator's eyes widened when Marcus charged right toward his place of concealment. He thrust his hand into the box of money he'd so carefully saved up and yanked out a fistful of coins from a bag that matched the amount Skeeter had given him.

"Here. This is yours."

Lupus took the wad of heavy pouch without comment, just staring at him. He glanced down at the money, then back at Marcus. "What has happened?"

Marcus laughed, a bitter sound that widened Lupus' eyes. "I have discovered an ugly truth, friend. I am a very great fool. The man who stole from you gave me that money. I thought he had won it fairly, betting at the Circus. Why I thought that, when he has never done an honest day's work in his life ... "

Lupus caught him by the shirt. "Who is he? Where is he?"

For just an instant, Marcus almost answered. Then he jerked loose. "Where?" The laughter was even more bitter than before. "I don't know. And I don't care. Probably out trying to steal from someone else gullible enough to call him friend. As to who he is ... I have given hospitality. My woman and my children are in hiding and now I do not have enough money to repay the debt of my purchase price to the man who brought me here. And thief and scoundrel though he may be, I have called him friend. You mean to kill him. You will have to discover him yourself, Wolf."

Goldie's network of contacts paid off. Specifically, a brilliant, impudent downtimer aged about fifteen, known to everyone in La-La Land as simply "Julius" had been the one to hit paydirt. Goldie sat down on a bench in Victoria Station, where the Britannia Gate would be cycling soon. According to Julius, all she had to do was wait. People strolled past three and four times as they explored the brilliantly decorated Holiday La-La Land-and Victoria Station had pulled out the stops in the annual competition, hoping to regain respect again after that enormous raptor of some sort had crashed through and fallen five stories, only to land with smashing force on cobblestones, wrought-iron benches, even smashing over a dainty street lamp with etched glass in its multiple panes. She hoped they took the prize money with a thousand points between them and their nearest competitor.

Goldie shook off too many memories and watched intently the tourists taking in the exuberant display, complete with a Victorian kid-sized railroad that began at Victoria Station and quickly picked up steam to circle the entire, lavishly decorated Commons. Many parents had vidcams with them to record junior or their darling little miss, eyes aglow and their laughter sparkling like Christmas bells.

Goldie snorted under her breath. Truth was, she hated children as much as she hated that tinkle-winkle noise of thinly silver-plated brass bells.

Goldie shrugged. She couldn't help being cynical. She'd seen it all before, year in and year out, as relatively poor uptimers with their big families took advantage of the special "one-cycle-pass" tickets to step through Primary and absorb as much of the holiday spirit as possible in the Wonderland of La-La Land before the Primary cycled again. But she'd put up a few requisite lights and bows around her shop and counted it time wasted. And speaking of time wasted...

Where was Skeeter's Nemesis?

Ordering herself to remain patient and seem the very picture of innocence, she sat regally on her bench in Victoria station, watching the crowds surge past, many pausing to take pictures of overhead decorations. Goldie noted they were tattered a bit in places by the prehistoric birds and pterosaurs that tended to roost in the girders.

One camera-bedecked geek got more than he had bargained for. An offering from one of the leather-winger screechers above splattered hideous across camera lens and body, the photographer's , the eye not on the eyepiece, both cheeks, mouth and chin, never mind the mess running down into his hair. Laughter, most of it sympathetic, with the delighted, devilish kind coming from the kids in their mothers' tow, broke out across Victoria Station.

Goldie, chuckling along with everyone else, almost missed him. A pair of cow-chaps caught her attention. Her field of visual acuity narrowed as she looked this man over. Someone staying in the Wild West section, out to see the rest of the station's gilt offerings. Oddly enough, he wasn't laughing with the rest. Then he turned and Goldie looked straight into his face. Ahh ... yes, that was him, all right. The dark scowl, the shock of short-cut reddish hair, the play of muscles as he moved, all confirmed the identity of the man with the knife. Just where he was sleeping was not immediately obvious; he looked tired, like a man who hasn't eaten enough in the past few days, and somehow frustrated. She didn't know his name yet-but this very much the worse-for-wear gladiator was going to solve all of Goldie's problems and rid Time Terminal 86 of that weasel Skeeter Jackson forever.

With a wave of her hand, Goldie signaled. Two very large, very muscular downtimers in her employ casually moved in, then grasped the astonished gladiator's arms-pinning them behind him (probably a career record for sudden, brutal defeat)-then steered him over to Goldie. A moment later, a young lad slid across the cobblestones on in-line skates, sending showers of sparks as he moved on the sides of his wheels rather than the bottoms. He did an impressive sliding stop on the bench rail, earning admiring looks from uptime kids on a tighter leash.