Now if only Leo Makhno would come home soon, her contentment would be complete.
Tomas Messenger y DeCastro was no fool, as anyone in Docktown could tell you. He could see the writing on the wall-or on the new sign over what had been Harp's Place. He also knew how to move fast when he had to.
Therefore he had the advantage of surprise when he strolled into the Simba Bar and calmly asked to see Jomo. He drank a beer while various underlings slipped in and out of the back room. Eventually a flunky waved him toward the rear door. DeCastro coolly finished his drink and strolled to the inner sanctum.
Sure enough, Jomo was there-curious enough to ask what DeCastro wanted and listen to his answer.
"Very simple, se?or," purred DeCastro, lighting a large off-world cigar. "Everyone in Docktown knows of your new, ah, equipment. Everyone in Docktown has also seen your, hmm, acquisition of this establishment. It is only logical to assume that your next target will be none other than my estimable self. Correct, Se?or Jomo?"
Jomo answered with nothing but a smile. Only his lips moved.
"I see you have considered it," DeCastro continued blowing an almost perfect smoke ring. "Certainly I have considered it, and come to the conclusion that I must join forces with you to survive."
Jomo raised an appreciative eyebrow, saying nothing.
"I ask not for equality with your most estimable self," DeCastro continued smoothly. "No. I ask to be your segundo, your teniente, your caporegime as it were. In exchange, I will ensure the loyalty of my men and carry out your every command with great efficiency."
He leaned back in his chair and puffed another smoke ring, letting his words take effect.
Jomo was silent for a long moment, then laughed harshly. "You expect me to believe this? You: a proud, independent Castillano, willing to bow the neck and swear service to another man? You expect-"
DeCastro was ready for this. "I am no facisto Castillano!" he broke in, calculatedly indignant. "I am Mestizo, ten generations' worth." His voice turned calm and ingratiating again.". . And I have the good intelligence to prefer being a small and wealthy frog in a large pond to being a big and very dead frog in a small one. You, se?or, are clearly Going Places-and I wish to go there too."
Jomo nodded acknowledgement and considered the offer. He knew DeCastro to be smart and as good as his word when it came to holding a bargain; he had not progressed much because he was somewhat lazy, content to be comfortably wealthy and safely powerful, not terribly ambitious.
After inspecting the deal from all sides-and considering the value of one Paul Jefferson who currently held that position-Jomo pronounced: "I have a second in command already. It must be settled between you as to who will have the position."
DeCastro smiled, bent his head formally, and stubbed out his cigar.
Jomo got up from the desk and walked toward the door, motioning for DeCastro to come with him.
The only people now present in the bar were Jomo's men. Paul Jefferson was drinking at a table with one of the "safe" women. At a gesture from Jomo all noise and movement ceased.
"Paul," Jomo announced, "this man wants your job. Do you wish to give it to him?"
DeCastro raised an eyebrow as he recognized the Reynolds off-world man.
"Hell, no!" was the shouted answer, as Jefferson came up from the table, drawing his sheath knife.
Jefferson's next step was met with the roar of a large caliber pistol. He collapsed on the floor with a bullet hole through his right eye. The woman at the table carefully reached for her cup, and drained it.
"Discipline must be sure and quick," said DeCastro still holding his pistol in a combat marksman's stance. "Is there anyone else who wishes to dispute my authority?"
Nobody answered.
"No? This is good. I will now have a drink with each of you. We must get to know each other." DeCastro went to the bar, holstering his pistol.
DeCastro pointed at the first two men at the bar. "Dispose of that corpse, then come back and speak to me," he said.
Jomo smiled as he went back to the office; Jefferson had been with him for the last eighteen months but had been getting independent ideas of late. This had been the ideal solution.
Makhno threw the Black Bitch's engines into fast reverse at the last possible moment and came to a foaming halt just at the edge of the north shore rocks. He killed the engine, threw out the anchor and reached for the dangling bell-pull in almost the same motion. The bell clanged overhead, louder than the laboring pump.
A grizzled head peeked over the ledge far above. Makhno waved frantically at it. The head withdrew. From above it came a creaking of gears. A rope with a padded loop at the end came snaking down toward the water. Makhno grabbed the loop, shoved his upper body through it and yelled: "Enough! Haul me up!"
At the ledge, hands pulled him in. He wriggled out of the loop before the crane's gears were properly locked, and panted: "Where's Jane?"
"At the fort, checking the stores," said Tall Lou, raising her gray eyebrows at him. "Why didn't you come around to the dock?"
"No time. What's the quickest way?"
"Up the new stairs, there. What about your cargo?"
"Haul the cargo up with the crane!" Makhno yelled back, already running. He clambered his way up the newly cut stairs, rebounded around twist after turn, ran panting to a thick steelwood plank door in the towering cap-rock and pounded madly on the knocker. "Jane!" he roared. "Goddammit, lemme in! News!"
Nona opened the door, batting her eyelashes furiously. In answer to his snapped question, she pointed fast directions to the storeroom. By the time she had the door closed and bolted, he was already yards off and running.
The dim-lit rock tunnel let out into a low-roofed rock chamber packed with rough-cloth sacks and homemade wooden boxes. Jane was there, just turning to see him. The ceiling-hung oil lamp threw startled shadows across her broad Polish face.
"Jane," he panted, bent over with the effort of sucking enough air. "It's bad news. Old Harp's dead. Killed. And Jomo's taken over Docktown. And he's got CoDo weapons."
"Whoa, hold on." Jane got up, tucked a stray lock of dark-blonde hair back into her tattered braids, and went to him. "Calm down, Leo. Take a deep breath and tell me everything, right from when I saw you last."
"Harp-" Makhno started, then choked again. He sat down on a box and rested his head on his knees for a long moment, caught in memories.
Harp had been the leader of the independent faction of Docktown, willing to do business with the Harmonies or anyone. When he had arrived, he had asked Castell himself if he could build a shelter, and a bank was pointed out to him near the lake by a warden of the church. Old Harp (had he ever been young?) had smiled, and had taken a shovel and started excavating into the hill.
By the end of the next two shifts, he had a room beyond it and a pile of rocks and soil blocking the wind from the entrance. Within a cycle he had rented his shovel for the use of an axe and had felled a couple of trees that he split for rough boards. Within four cycles more, he had added a brewing room and a bar and had a going business dealing in beer, food, and renting the main-room floor space for sleep during off-shift and full dark.
Harp's business had grown in leaps and bounds. He had become master trader and unofficial arbiter of deals between the independent farmers, growing Docktown and Castell City, respected by all sides as an honest man.
He had also been a voice of reason and a strength against the growing gangs in Docktown. He had refused to pay protection to Jomo or any of the others.
". . They found his body washed up on the lake shore, just a couple shifts before I arrived. Jomo took over his place, changed the name to the Simba Bar, moved his bullyboys in." Makhno ran a lean hand through his wiry dark hair. "Word is, he's taking over Docktown. He got CoDo stunners from off-world, and he's throwing his weight around hard and fast."