She turned to the doors. "Which is mine?"
"Whichever you want. Just let it read your handprint and retina once, and it'll be programmed for you for the next four days."
"I don't know which one I want until I see them both."
"They're identical."
"Okay, this one is fine then," said Matilda, letting the security system scan her readings. The door dilated a moment later and she passed through it. "Not bad," she said. "Larger than I expected."
"Space isn't at a premium on Innesfree," remarked Dimitrios.
She walked back out into the corridor. "It'll do. Now I have to pop over to El Gran Senor and see about a job."
"I'll come with you," he said.
"Why don't you just stay here and relax? I'll be back in a few minutes."
"I didn't come here to rest."
They walked back to the front of the hotel, where Dimitrios brought their luggage in from the aircar and tossed another coin into another blue alien's mouth after telling him their room numbers.
"I hope he understood," she said as the walked out onto the street.
"They wouldn't let an alien hang around the lobby and collect tips if he couldn't."
They walked two blocks north to El Gran Senor. It was closed for the afternoon, but a doorman let them in. The interior was starkly decorated, with a bar in one corner, a number of tables with uncomfortable-looking chairs, and a small stage. A second, even smaller stage, held a single stool, obviously for the guitarist.
"Good afternoon," said a balding, pudgy man with a reddish face. "My name's Manolete. You must be my new dancer."
"Matilda," she said, extending her hand.
"Got a last name?" he asked as he took her hand and shook it.
"Not lately," said Matilda with a smile.
"No problem. Just need something for our records."
"Pay me in cash and use any last name you like."
"Done." He turned to Dimitrios. "You're sure as hell no dancer," he said, starting at the bounty hunter's weaponry.
"Just looking for a friend," said Dimitrios.
"Well, I'm as friendly as they come," said Manolete. "What can I do for you?"
"You're not the friend I'm looking for," said Dimitrios. "I hear that Hootowl Jacobs is on Innesfree."
"Could be," said Manolete. "What do you want with him?"
"I'm his attorney, here to deliver an inheritance."
"I hear tell he's had his share of them."
Dimitrios nodded. "Poor fellow does seem unlucky," he agreed.
"Not as bad as his luck is now, Dimitrios of the Three Burners," said Manolete with a grin. "I've heard about you. They say you're one of the best."
"So is he on Innesfree?"
"He is."
Dimitrios stared coldly at Manolete. "You wouldn't be so silly as to warn him?"
"Me?" laughed Manolete. "Hell, no! I want you to take him out right here in El Gran Senor! We can use the publicity. Maybe I'll even catch it on my holo cameras." He outlined the entertainment with his hands. "Last show each night. For an extra 200 credits, watch the fabled Dimitrios of the Three Burners take out that notorious ladykiller Hootowl Jacobs! Now, why the hell would I warn him away?"
Dimitrios was silent for a long moment. Finally he spoke: "Draw up a contract."
"A contract?" repeated Manolete. "What for?"
"If Hootowl Jacobs shows up here, and if I kill him, and if you capture it on your holo cameras, and if you start charging customers to watch it, then I want 50% of the gross to go to these two charities." He wrote the names down on a counter, then looked up. "Is it a deal?"
Manolete sighed. "Okay, I'll have a contract ready tonight."
"If I should ever find out that you were cheating my charities," said Dimitrios, "I would be seriously displeased with you. Do we understand each other?"
Manolete nodded, and Dimitrios turned and walked back out into the street. The club owner turned to Matilda.
"Nice company you keep."
"We get along."
"I hope Jacobs kills him!" said Manolete passionately. "Hootowl would never charge me half just for showing holos of it." He paused. "Where does he get off, charging me for showing holos of what happens in my own club?"
"It hasn't happened yet."
"It will."
"Probably," agreed Matilda. "Killing's his job. Mine is dancing. Where's my costume?"
"In your dressing room," said Manolete, getting to his feet. "Come on, I'll show you." He escorted her backstage. "We haven't got time to teach you a number. I hope you can improvise."
"I usually do."
"We've got a Borillian playing the guitar," continued Manolete.
"A Borillian?" she repeated. "Why?"
"It's a 14-string guitar, and he's got seven fingers on each hand. You won't believe the music he can make."
"As long as it's Flamenco, we won't have a problem."
"Here we are," he said as they reached a small dressing room. "Usually we have two or three women backing up the lead male, but that asshole went and got himself shot last week."
"And the other women?"
He shrugged. "You know how women are."
"No," said Matilda. "How are we?"
"Easy come, easy go."
"Right," she said. "We're so flighty we don't hold still long enough to get shot like your male dancers."
He glared at her, but made no reply. She looked around the room, checked out the costumes to make sure they'd fit her, examined the vanity, and finally nodded. "All right, I've seen it. When do you need me?"
"We're pretty informal here. Show up after you've digested your dinner. You'll do three shows, maybe four." He paused. "Don't you want to try on the shoes?"
"I'll wear my own."
"They won't match."
"But they'll fit."
"You know," said Manolete, "you're as disagreeable as he is."
"I'm not here to be agreeable," said Matilda. "You wanted a dancer. You've got one."
"As long as you're hired, I'd better tell you the rules."
"There's only one rule," said Matilda. "No one enters my dressing room when I'm in it."
"There's no drinking, no drugging, no—"
"You'll get your money's worth," she said, walking to the exit. "I'll see you later."
Before he could say a word, she'd shut the door in his face and headed out to the street. Once she was outside she looked around for Dimitrios, couldn't spot him, and walked back to the hotel. She checked the bar before going to her room, and saw him sitting there, the only customer in the place in midafternoon, a tall cold drink on the table in front of him.
"Don't drink too many of those," she said, sitting down opposite him. "I've got a feeling Jacobs will show up tonight."
"There's no alcohol in it," he replied. "I don't indulge when I'm working. You want one?"
"Sure. What is it?"
"I don't know what it's called. It's a mixture of three or four citrus fruits native to Innesfree. Nice tang to it."