Again.
Quark had neither heard nor seen Ro Laren since she had chased the Jem’Hadar soldier from the bar two nights ago. She had talked about coming back later that night, but not only had she not returned since then, she had also been conspicuously absent from the Promenade. Quark had not even seen her in her office.
Females and finances don’t mix,he reminded himself. He never seemed to remember that when he needed to. And he had been fool enough to believe that she had actually begun returning his flirtations.
Quark grumbled, lifting a V-shaped glass half-filled with a lightgreen liquid. He wiped the condensation from its base and from the place it had rested, then set it back down. The Boslic woman sitting on the other side of the bar, whose drink this seemed to be, was not even paying attention. She sat turned away, peering in the direction of the dabo table. Quark thought about suggesting to her that she go play, but then a voice reached his ears.
“Pass five, pass five,” the voice said. “Sorry, no winners this time.” Quark had no problem with the outcome—it was about time that the dabo wheel began spinning again according to the advantages of the house—but the voice should have belonged to Treir. It did not; it belonged to a man.
Quark shifted to his left and looked past the Boslic woman. Around the dabo table sat a couple of men and a half-dozen women. Treir, who should have been operating the game, was nowhere in sight. Instead, the young, scantily dressed Bajoran man she had brought in earlier today stood in her place. As Quark watched, the man—Hetik, was it?—held the rondure up before the gamblers, his hand dancing dramatically through the air, and then, with a flourish, he placed it in the wheel and sent it spinning around.
The edges of Quark’s lobes warmed as anger rose within him. Not only had Treir—an employee—had the audacity to hire somebody, and not only had she concocted the position of dabo boy,but he had ordered her to get rid of Hetik by the time he returned to the bar. And yet there the man stood, with Quark’s latinum spread out on the table before him.
Quark flung the rag down behind the bar, furious. He would fire Hetik, and then, when he found Treir, he would dispatch her as well. Sensuous or not, green or not, Treir had overstepped her bounds more than once, and by more than just a bit. Quark had had enough. He turned—
—and almost ran into Treir. Quark pulled up quickly, surprised not only to see her there, but that she had approached without him hearing her. Am I that distracted,he asked himself, or is she that good?He thought his ears had been open, but now he realized that he had only been listening for the sound of Laren’s voice. As he looked up at Treir, though, he knew that none of that mattered at the moment; what mattered was him regaining control of his bar.
“I told you to get rid of him,” Quark said without preamble, pointing over at Hetik. He spoke loudly, not caring who heard him. This was his business, and he would—
“I have a proposition for you,” Treir said, interrupting his thoughts. She spoke in soft tones, but her eyes stared down hard at him. Her manner seemed to imply that there would be no subterfuge here, no use of wiles—feminine or otherwise—only business dealings.
“Why would you want to get rid of him?”somebody asked to Quark’s right. He looked in that direction and saw that the Boslic woman had turned in her seat toward the bar. The triangular slope of her forehead, and her dark hair and eyes, reminded him of Rionoj, a freighter captain with whom he occasionally dealt. This woman was shorter and heavier than Rionoj, though, and clearly did not have the sense to tend to her own business; she had evidently heard Quark and seen him gesture toward Hetik. “He’s beautiful,” she said. “In fact, I may go play a little dabo myself.”
Quark resisted the impulse to tell the woman to go. Instead, he simply smiled and nodded. Then he turned back to Treir, who had not moved a millimeter. “A proposition?” Quark said, sidling away from the bar and over toward the shelves behind it, putting a little distance between himself and the Boslic woman. Treir glided over with him.
“Yes, a proposition,” she said. “Let Hetik work here for a week before you make a decision about whether to keep him on or not. If you decide to let him go at that point, then I’ll pay his wages.”
Quark felt the ridge of his brow rise, surprised at Treir’s promise of actual latinum. She obviously wanted very much for Hetik to work here. Quark did not know why—although considering the amount of clothing these two wore in public, he thought he could guess easily enough—but he did see an opportunity for a small profit. “What sort of wages did you agree to pay him?” he asked. Treir told him, and actually, the amount was fairly low, only a fraction of what Quark currently paid her. “I’ll tell you what,” Quark said. “I’ll keep him on for a week, and then I’ll pay him. But if I decide to fire him, I won’t pay youfor the week.”
Treir said, “No, that’s not fair,” but her shoulders slumped, and Quark knew that he would get what he had demanded. He took a step past Treir, heading toward Hetik, but she stopped him. “All right,” she said.
Quark gazed up at her curiously. “Why are you doing this?” he asked.
“If I tell you,” Treir said, shaking her head, “you won’t believe me.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Because I think it’s good business,” she said. “I mean, look.” She nodded her head in the direction of the dabo table, and Quark looked over there. “I know it’s only eight people,” she went on, “but he’s only been here a few hours, and that’s the most people we’ve had playing dabo in weeks.”
Quark shrugged and looked back at her. “Coincidence,” he said. “And even if it’s not, him drawing one or two more dabo players a night is not going to justify keeping him on the payroll.”
Treir suddenly smiled broadly, which unnerved Quark. “Oh, he’ll do better than that,” she said. “And the two of us together will do muchbetter than that.” Quark wondered if Treir and Hetik might be planning something other than simply trying to draw more dabo players into the bar. He doubted it, but he also resolved to keep his ears open.
“Well, why don’t you two drum up some business right now,” he offered sarcastically. “We could use it.”
“Sure,” Treir said, nodding.
“Oh, and I’ll draw up a contract for our little agreement,” he told her.
“I’m sure you will,” Treir said, and she headed for the dabo table.
Quark watched her go, confident that he had just made himself some easy latinum, Still, it brought him little joy. He peered down at the floor, then bent and retrieved the rag he had thrown down. He tossed it on the recycle shelf, beside a couple of short glasses and a tall, slender blue bottle. Then he found an unused rag beneath the bar and resumed his cleaning.
“Hey, Mr. Quark, long time no see.” Vic Fontaine had finished singing for the night, and as the lights came up in the nightclub, he descended the steps at the right-hand side of the stage. Quark sat alone at a table in the space between there and the bar, one elbow up, the side of his face resting on his closed hand. “So what’s doin’?” Vic asked as he passed by, no doubt headed to get a drink. Quark might not have visited this holosuite program in a while, but he had spent enough time in it to know that the singer liked to imbibe after his last set.
“You don’t want to know,” Quark intoned, answering—and not answering—Vic’s question. He watched as the musicians on the stage packed up their instruments. One of the men seemed to be having some difficulties getting his curved, gold-colored horn into its black case.
“Oh no?” Vic said. Quark glanced over and saw him perched on the edge of a stool, a quick nod of his head getting the attention of an older, gray-haired man tending bar. “Vodka and tonic, rocks,” Vic ordered. Then, looking over at Quark, he asked, “Somethin’ to drink?”