Deuces Wild: Stacking the Deck
by L. S. King
appearing in Ray Gun Revival
"Dining with the Enemy"
The two guards behind Reggie, flanking his chair, raised their PBRs. Pursed lips gave away Reggie's uncertainty despite his smug expression. "Kudos. I see your skill is no less than it used to be. You seem to have aged well, like a fine wine. I assume your other talents are equally as honed." Reggie still spoke in a close-mouthed drawl, but that broken jaw had caused considerable damage, after all. It didn't affect his silky voice, though, and only increased his ability to appear poised.
Tristan's stare was his only reply.
Reggie leaned back, tenting his fingers in front of him, his gaze growing curious. "Would you join me for a meal?"
"Are you giving me a choice?"
A smile slowly spread. To someone who didn't know Reggie, it might seem genuine, but to Tristan, it was feral.
"No."
Give in to the inevitable, wait for a chance. Tristan stood. Reggie rose as well, his lifted eyebrows the only indication he was surprised. Did he think Tristan would fight or balk? Perhaps. He remembered a much younger man, one with dark moods and an explosive temper. Could Tristan use that to his advantage?
"I apologize, but I must ask for you to relinquish your vest." Reggie lifted a finger. "And don't try to palm any of your...equipment. You know I would see it."
And he likely would, having been one of Tristan's teachers in the art. His gaze didn't waver as he took the vest off and held it out for a guard to take. None of the items was irreplaceable, but he would mourn the time, effort, and cost if he had to be put through the process twice within a year.
One of the guards ran a scanner over Tristan, then nodded.
Reggie swept an arm out, inviting Tristan to lead the way. The guards' aim never faltered as Tristan passed. Once in the corridor—the plush blue fibers on the deck and polished mahogany moldings indicated it was a luxury yacht—Reggie said, "The dining room is aft."
And dining room it was, with chandeliers, bulkheads of raised, dark mahogany panels accented with light, burl moldings, and a large table, sumptuously laid. Liszt's Liebestraum played softly. Three servants—from their carriage and the fact they bore weapons, they doubled as guards—waited at various points around the room. Tristan did a mental calculation; standard crew on this class ship was eight. Two on the bridge, two stationed behind them at the door, and three in the room already. Where had the pilot been when Tristan was flying the ship? And did Reggie double as captain? How many people did Tristan need to worry about?
At the table sat Tristan's companions. Slap and Addie both glowering, were seated to the left of the empty host's chair. Carter, on the right, appeared worried.
"I was going to confine them to cabins, but that wouldn't be very chivalrous for a rescuer, would it?" Reggie's smile flashed as he strutted to the head of the table and indicated Tristan should sit to his right, next to Carter.
"And besides, I have a feeling that, given the chance, Lt. Commander Donegal would be attempting something ingenious which would be detrimental to the ship."
Oh, would he ever! The thought of what Carter could do to Reggie's ship sent ripples of glee up Tristan's spine. A hint of humor must have sparked in Tristan's eyes as he and Reggie sat; his former partner shot him an intense, peculiar glare as he unfolded his napkin.
A servant stepped forward with a bottle of wine. Tristan watched with veiled amusement as Reggie went through the pompous process of approving the selection—from sniffing the cork, to swirling it his glass, and the final show of tasting.
When he gave the nod of endorsement, the servant then proceeded around the table. Tristan allowed his glass to be filled, but Carter put his hand over his. Slap followed suit. Addie, sitting across from Tristan, let hers be filled, and to his surprise, lifted the glass and stuck her nose almost into it. After a few moments, she took a sip, and held the wine in her mouth, lightly swishing it. She swallowed, wrinkling her nose, and for the first time, endeared herself to Tristan's heart by announcing, "Well, that's very bland."
Reggie's eyes narrowed, then he smiled, most condescendingly. "I expect your palate is not used to fine wines, child."
Tristan tasted his wine as Addie answered, "I'm not a child, and this is tasteless. My daddy taught me wines. What is it, a Chenin Blanc? Bet it's from Minatoa or Cepheus. Both planets have a reputation for letting Chenin overproduce."
The girl had it right—the wine was very...uninteresting. Reggie's taste hadn't improved; he still didn't know quality, just played at being cultured.
Reggie's frown deepened. "The wines of Cepheus are renowned."
Addie snorted. "Some are, especially the wineries on the west coast of the main continent in the eastern hemisphere. But not all, as this unimaginative little wine proves."
Tristan silently agreed, staring hard at Addie. Amazing...he realized he never had truly looked at her before. He'd always let his eyes slide by her, not wishing to acknowledge her presence. He was not surprised to see Addie fearlessly standing toe-to-toe with an adversary, but the fact she was actually knowledgeable about a topic such as good wine shocked him. Could there be more to her than he had ever given her credit for?
Reggie inhaled and turned to Tristan, overtly dismissing Addie. "Quaint passenger you picked up. Where did you find her, on a garbage scow?"
"Is that supposed to be an insult?" Addie retorted. "Try harder you pretentious, low-brow gangster."
Fighting a smile, Tristan leaned back. This could be unexpectedly good entertainment.
Slap, sitting next to Addie, patted her arm. "Hush, girl. Be good." He scowled at Reggie. "And how do we know the food and drink aren't poisoned?"
Trust Slap to be blunt.
Reggie's smile grew smug. "You forget. I rescued you from the ice and cold of that planet, and from the Confederation. Why would I wish to bring harm to my guests?"
Slap's one-word reply was pure cowboy: direct and earthy.
"Two very quaint companions, I see," Reggie murmured. "I would not say you have come up in the world in your choices of friends."
Oh, so tempting to retort, but Reggie expected it, so Tristan remained silent.
After a few moments, Reggie's attention reverted to Slap. "If I wished to kill you, I could have merely left you on the planet, or instructed one of my guards to shoot you."
"What about drugging us?"
"The only one I might wish to drug is the Lt. Commander here, and that only out of concern that he might be tempted to...be creative in a misplaced effort to be what he feels is helpful to his friends." Reggie's feral smile re-emerged as he turned to regard Carter. "But be not alarmed, sir, I have no intention of ruining such good food, and besides, it would eliminate the chance for us to have a heart to heart later."
Carter didn't answer. Reggie, still smiling, adjusted the napkin in his lap. "Shall we dine?"
A plate of scallops wrapped in bacon was set before Tristan. He cut his gaze to Reggie, whose expectant countenance slid into innocent bemusement and then dismay. "Oh, dear. I believe I committed a faux pas. Or do you no longer only eat kosher foods?"
Tristan had never kept kashrut as Zvi did, although he did follow a subset of the laws; a compromise of the two beliefs he'd been raised with. He avoided the slur intended and rounded with one of his own: "Company can render even a kosher meal treif."
"And which rabbi said that?"
"Rabbi Yuri Rabinovich."
Reggie exhaled in a silent laugh. "I didn't know Zvi was a rabbi."
"There's a lot you don't know."
Reggie's flinty look quickly disappeared beneath his cool demeanor, and he picked up his fork. After several bites, he glanced around the table, and his expression became pleading. "Do eat. My chef went to great trouble—and on such short notice. You wouldn't want his feelings hurt."
Arms crossed, Addie asked, "Is the food any better than the wine?"
"Addie!" Slap hissed.
"I'm not afraid of him."
Reggie sat back, exhaling in dramatic exasperation. "My dear, child, there is nothing to fear from me. You are all guests."
"Then why the armed guards?" Slap asked.
"Besides the fact I require my crew to be armed at all times? As long as you are under the misapprehension that you are in some danger from me, I find myself in the position of being in danger from you. A delicate standoff, isn't it?"
"Considering your boss hired you to kidnap Tristan, how are we supposed to trust you?"
"Kidnap?" Reggie gazed upward, considering, and gave a shrugging nod. "I suppose, technically. Monsieur Lefevre merely wants to bury the hatchet, but your friend"—Reggie nodded at Tristan—"being stubborn, refuses to believe it."
"So why not leave him alone? Ain't that buryin' the hatchet? Or is it that he wants to bury the hatchet in Tristan's neck?"
"You really should leave discussions you know nothing about to your betters."
Slap's explosive verbal reply made Addie giggle. Reggie ignored it and said to Tristan, "You should instruct your companions to eat. They must eventually give in or starve."
"I believe it's the company, not the food, they find distasteful."
Reggie's lips thinned and his face grew pinched. He carefully dabbed his mouth with the napkin. "Fine. You may all eat in your cabins, and remain confined there for all I care."
All four stood at almost the same time. Slap looked relieved, and Addie grinned.
"Except you, Lt. Commander. I wish to have a word with you."
Carter frowned and spoke for the first time. "I have nothing to say to you."
Reggie shrugged. "You can listen then." He nodded to the guards, who stepped forward, weapons raised. "Please don't try anything. My people are all well-trained, and if one of you makes a move, all of you will pay the price."
Tristan allowed himself to be herded out, wondering what Reggie wanted to say to Carter. Dray was interested in his genius, but did Dray realize how badly the Confeds wanted Carter, to what lengths they would go to get him back? Even Dray might find himself biting off more than he could chew.
Interesting scenario. If only Tristan and his tag-alongs weren't caught in the middle. He let out a long exhale. He needed to plan his next move, but he had no idea what cards the other players held.
#
Slap eyed the posh suite as the two guards escorting him took up positions at the door. The living room and bar took up more space than Bertha's captain's cabin, galley, and rec lounge/mess. Everything in the place was outrageously luxurious, from the polished, dark wooden panels on the bulkheads to the thick carpet Slap's feet sank into. The furniture was...swanky. He wondered if Granger would throw a fit if he actually sat on anything. The guard acting as bartender—or was he a bartender who also doubled as a guard?—regarded him distrustfully.
Granger entered and crossed to the bar, smiling like a used rover salesman. What is he up to?
"Please, join me." Granger nodded to the guard who began mixing a drink. "What would you like?"
Slap glared at him. "Your heart and liver served up on a platter."
Granger's smile didn't fade. "Your loyalty to your friend is admirable. But misplaced." The guard placed a stemmed glass on the bar. Granger picked it up and sipped. He stared at Slap as if sizing him up. "He tends to betray friendships, you know. He betrayed me, and our employer, not the other way around. No matter what he might have told you."
Slap leaned an elbow on the bar, pretending to stifle a yawn. "Ya got anywhere to go with this, or you just blowin' hot air?"
"He was M. LeFevre's protégé. Groomed to be his successor. Has he told you why he left?"
Slap poked a finger at Granger. "Think I'd believe anything from space-sucking sleaze like you? You're wastin' your time. I don't want to be here, I don't want to listen to you, and I ain't gonna to talk to you no more."
"He disobeyed our employer, and endangered both his life and mine, all just for self-gratification. "
Slap considered punching Granger, but instead decided to be more vocal in his rejection of the conversation. He leaned his back against the bar, crossed his arms, and began singing "Home on the Range."
By the second line, Granger stopped, open-mouthed. He tried to talk over Slap's singing, but Slap just sang louder. The lizard's expression changed from amazement to irritation to disgust. Finally, he lifted a hand as if dismissing Slap and turned away, pointing a finger at the door guards. They stepped forward and gestured with their PBGs. Slap let himself be led back to his fancy cabin.
Once back in his gilded cage, he prowled wall to wall, helplessness and anger growing in him. How did the man think he could insult Slap's intelligence—as if Slap couldn't understand or didn't remember the way Granger referred to him to Tristan—then try to play up to him? Slap might not have the fancy education Tristan did, but he wasn't stupid. He wasn't ever going to believe that smooth-talking piece of slime was someone he could trust, and he wasn't going to tell him anything about Tristan either.
Was Granger trying this game with the others? Carter would know better. Addie...Slap grinned, thinking of the insults the girl would hurl at him, but then he sat, thinking hard. Addie would likely give away anything she knew or thought she knew about Tristan without even realizing it.
But what did she know? As far as that went, what did any of them really know about the man? Granger probably knew more than any of them. An irrational twinge of jealousy rose in him. As much as his friend trusted Slap with his life, he didn't trust him with his past. If he'd played Granger's game, the man might have told Slap plenty, but twisted, to fit whatever scheme the lizard was up to.
No, he'd rather not know Tristan's past than hear Granger's version.
#
"Interesting companions you have." Reggie gestured to the chair across from him. Tristan glanced back at the guards and sat, eyes on his opponent.
"Quite diverse," Reggie added.
"I take it you have...interviewed all of them."
"But of course."
Of course. Tristan wondered what each of them had to say to Reggie.
"You have managed to cultivate an incredible amount of loyalty in all three." Reggie leaned back, swirling the wine in his glass. "Or so it seems."
Tristan waited. He could hear a "but" lurking.
Reggie let his smirk show. "However, one of them is a spy. Do you know which one?"
Addie. Tristan didn't respond aloud and kept his face impassive. Reggie often ran fast and loose with truth, but Tristan had begun to suspect something himself. Sifting Reggie's words might shed some light on his own ideas.
"That girl disappointed her Confederation allies when she stopped cooperating with them."
"I can imagine their kidnapping of her had something to do with that."
"They rescued her from the original boors who kidnapped her, but that's when she decided to stop cooperating. So," Reggie paused to sip his wine, "they used her as bait to get you and Donegal."
Addie spying made sense. Her father probably put her up to it—he lost business when the Mordas lost control. The Confederation would want to fill in a power vacuum, and an unscrupulous business man, made wealthy by criminals, would be a perfect in-road for them to gain a foothold. But why would Addie stop spying for the Confederation?
"Is she your lover?"
Tristan's thoughts skidded to a halt. He blinked. "What?"
Reggie stopped, open mouthed, and a smile slowly spread. "How extraordinary. You weren't aware she's in love with you?"
Tristan's dumb-struck astonishment of such a far-flung notion gave way to humor, and he found himself chuckling. "You never were very perceptive, were you?"
Reggie's grin faded. "I'm serious." Glass in hand, he pointed at Tristan. "You, my old, dear friend, must be slipping."
Tristan opened his mouth to answer, but a shudder ran through the ship at that moment. He sat up straight. The klaxon blatted, and a voice over the comm announced, "We're under attack!"
© 2006 - 2010 L. S. King