Eros Ascending: Book 1 of Tales of the Velvet Comet (11 page)

“Neither is endurance,” added Lori caustically.

“So your job is to make him a better lover?” asked Redwine.

She laughed. “I'll settle for making him a barely adequate lover. He's got ten thumbs, two left feet, and the personality of a fern.”

“Then why is he here?”

“The Madonna thought he could draw a crowd, so to speak, and for the first couple of weeks he did. Then word got out, and he's been a pretty lonely young man ever since. Usually the only time he works is when we're packed, or when some sports groupie asks for him—and believe me, they never ask for him twice.”

“I assume you're rooting for the Duke, then,” said Redwine.

“Of course not,” she replied.

“But —”

“Look,” she said. “After all the days and weeks I've spent in bed with that body, I'll be damned if I want to see somebody smash it to pieces. You're an accountant, Harry—you ought to understand the concept of protecting your investment.”

He smiled. “Well, when you put it that way...”

Suddenly all the ringsiders fell silent, and Redwine saw that the Duke was approaching the ring. The pit boss stopped beneath a high bar, leaped up, chinned himself five or six quick times, and then continued his approach. When he reached the ring he climbed the stairs, bent over, and stepped through the ropes. He was a burly man, built along the lines of Rasputin, though about four inches taller. He wore nothing but a pair of sweat pants, and his muscular body glistened with perspiration.

He nodded to a couple of people in the small audience—Redwine recognized them as casino employees—and began dancing around, shadow boxing and lashing out with an occasional kick.

DeWitt entered the ring perhaps two minutes later, the physical personification of a Greek god. He wore brief bathing trunks, his left arm was strapped securely behind his back, and he had lead weights taped to his Achilles’ tendons, where they wouldn't come into contact with his opponent if he landed a kick.

He looked rather bored, especially in contrast to the Duke, and his torso and legs were absolutely dry.

“Idiot!” muttered Lori. She rose from her chair, climbed up to the ring, and had DeWitt deposit a huge wad of gum in her hand.

“If there's another guy aboard the
Comet
who chews gum, I've never met him,” she muttered as she rejoined Redwine and Rasputin.

“He looks reasonably fit,” commented Redwine. “No more than five or ten pounds over the weight he fought at.”

“He looks
beautiful
,” she replied earnestly. “You ought to see him with his clothes off!” She paused. “What a goddamned pity that he has to move!”

A young man stepped into the ring, called the two antagonists together, and quietly explained the ground rules to them.

“Is he the referee?” asked Redwine.

Rasputin shook his head. “There isn't any referee,” he answered. “I told you—this is a grudge match.”

“Then what's he doing there?”

“Explaining that if Gamble gets his left hand free and uses it, all the bets are off. It won't stop the fight, of course—I mean, who the hell is going to get in there and try to separate them?—but the casino will return all the money.”

The young man directed the two fighters to their corners and then clambered out of the ring. They stood, staring at one another, until the young man took his seat and yelled “Time!”

The Duke bounded out to the middle of the ring with a speed that belied his years, and DeWitt slowly moved out to meet him. They circled each other for a moment, and then the Duke, head low, bobbing and weaving, blocked a short blow from DeWitt and landed a quick three-punch combination, spinning away quickly and delivering a powerful kick when DeWitt pursued him.

“He's rusty,” said Redwine. “His timing's off.”

“He's wearing ten pounds on each foot,” replied Rasputin, as DeWitt plodded slowly after the jabbing, kicking pit boss.

The next three minutes were pretty much like the first, with DeWitt landing an occasional blow but taking six or seven in the process.

“You want your money now or later?” whispered Redwine.

“I'll trust you for it,” grinned Rasputin. “Ten minutes from now will be fine.”

Redwine shook his head. “He used to be such a damned fine ring general. If he could just get him in a corner where he could land a kick or two...”

“Not today, Harry,” said the Security chief. “Three of his four weapons aren't firing.”

“Sounds familiar,” commented Lori wryly.

The Duke gained in confidence with each passing second. No longer did he strike and run; instead, he closed with DeWitt, as if the strain of carrying the weights around the ring had sapped most of his opponent's strength. Finally a whirling kick to the side of the neck dropped DeWitt to the floor.

“Get up, you big oaf!” panted the Duke, standing over him, fists clenched. Suddenly he grinned. “Oh—I forgot! Getting things up isn't exactly your specialty, is it?”

DeWitt's expression turned ugly, and he was on his feet in an instant.

The Duke landed two quick left jabs, then closed with him again.

“Low blow!” cried someone from the other side of the ring.

Lori leaped to her feet.

“Don't you hit him in the balls after all the work I've done!” she yelled furiously.

“I tried,” laughed the Duke, “but he doesn't have any!”

Everyone in the audience laughed—and suddenly Gamble DeWitt went crazy. He lumbered across the ring and hurled himself, feet first, at the Duke. He didn't hit his target dead center, but the very suddenness of his actions froze the Duke for an instant, and a lead-weighted foot caught the pit boss on the shoulder and spun him into the ring post. He bounced off groggily, and then DeWitt was all over him, pummeling him with sledgehammer blows. Finally he grabbed the Duke's arm and hurled him against the ropes. The Duke came flying off, and DeWitt cracked him across the throat with a karate chop, and as quickly as that the fight was over.

While one of the men from the casino jumped into the ring to revive the Duke, Lori climbed the stairs and began unwrapping DeWitt's left arm. As soon as it was free she knelt down and took the weights off his feet.

“I'd have bought out of my bet for five hundred credits about a minute and a half ago,” confessed Redwine.

“I wouldn't have sold it to you for six and a half,” replied Rasputin. “Damn! If he'd just kept his mouth shut!”

The Duke was awake now, and he was led, groggy and rasping, back to the locker room. Once the crowd saw that he was all right, they began to disperse, and Redwine walked over to DeWitt's corner.

“Gamble?” he said.

“Yeah?” said DeWitt, looking down at him.

“My name is Harry Redwine, and this is the second time I've had the pleasure of watching you work. I made seven hundred credits off you this afternoon, so the least I can do is invite you by for a drink.”

“Were you one of the ones who laughed at me?” DeWitt demanded.

“Not me. I was cheering the whole time.”

The fighter's face lit up. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

“For just a minute there, it felt like the old days,” said DeWitt wistfully. “Not like ... well...” His voice trailed off.

“I'll be in the Madonna's auxiliary office all afternoon,” continued Redwine. “Come on by after you've showered and rested.”

Suddenly DeWitt's expression changed. “I don't go to
her
office, not even for a drink. I'll catch you some other time.”

He stepped through the ropes, jumped down to the floor, and headed off toward the shower room.

“You said a wrong thing, Harry,” remarked Lori.

“So I gather.”

“He blames the Leather Madonna for his being here, and he isn't very happy with his new occupation.”

She paused. “Not that anybody twisted his arm to get him to sign his contract. It's just that he didn't know quite what was going to be expected of him.”

“Well, not everyone's cut out to be a prostitute,” said Redwine.

“True enough,” she agreed. “I had a good four-year run of it, and then I figured I'd better learn to do something else before they told me I had to.”

Redwine watched DeWitt walk across the gym.

“He's as strong as an elephant!” he said admiringly.

“I read about elephants, Harry,” said Lori. “They could tear down trees, kill lions, carry a dozen men on their backs.” She smiled sadly. “But they couldn't peel a grape.”

“Maybe that's why they died out,” suggested Redwine.

“That's why
this
one's dying out, that's for sure,” she said. “I suppose I could put up with what we euphemistically term his technique if I didn't have to hear a blow-by-blow account of his career.” She sighed: “And now he's got another one to add to the list. Sometimes I wonder if the extra money is worth it.”

Redwine chuckled. “I think I offered the wrong one of you a drink.”

“I was wondering how long it would take you to figure that out. I'll be by in a couple of hours.”

She turned and left, and Redwine rejoined Rasputin.

“Well, back to work,” said the Security chief. “I'll drop you at your office.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Redwine. “And thanks for letting me know about this.”

“My pleasure,” said Rasputin. “Now, before I forget...”

He withdrew a billfold and handed over a wad of credits.

“Invite me in for a minute, Harry,” said Rasputin as Redwine commanded his door to open.

“Won't you please come in?” he said sardonically.

“Thanks. I think I will.” Rasputin walked to a sofa and sat down. “We've got a couple of things to talk about.”

“About the fight?”

Rasputin shook his head. “About you.”

“I thought I asked you to back off,” said Redwine.

“You did.”

“Well?”

Rasputin smiled. “I thought I asked you to tell me why you were here.”

“I assume my being here is what you want to talk about?”

“Right.”

“I don't know how to tell you this,” said Redwine, “but I'm really not interested in your speculations.”

“Then you'd better
get
interested in them,” answered Rasputin easily. “Especially considering how you've been spending your nights—and with whom.”

“You don't have any idea what I've been doing at night,” replied Redwine. “I've jammed the security system in my suite.”

“Have you jammed it anywhere else?” asked Rasputin.

“No.”

“Now, if you were me, and you couldn't find the Madonna anywhere else on the ship, what conclusion would you draw from that?”

“My conclusion, like my free time, is none of your business,” said Redwine testily.

“True,” admitted Rasputin. “But
my
conclusion may affect
your
business, and I think it's about time I laid my cards on the table.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Look, Harry, let me be as honest as I can,” said the Security chief. “As near as I can figure it, the reason you're here is because they think someone is fixing the books. I'm a little upset that they didn't let me in on it, but they probably figured that since no one in Security is an accountant, there was no need for it. Anyway, my feelings aren't important. The main thing is that I'm happy working for the Syndicate, and I'd like to keep working for it for quite some time to come.”

“You
are
going to get to the point sooner or later, aren't you?” asked Redwine.

Rasputin nodded. “I just want you to know where I stand on this. But there are also two other possibilities, neither of them very likely, but both worth considering. One is that you're either a thief or a saboteur from one of our competitors.”

“And the other?”

“That this is just some kind of crazy test to see what security will do.”

“That's the first really stupid thing I've heard you say,” commented Redwine.

“It doesn't make much sense,” agreed Rasputin. “But I'm just trying to clear the air. Either you're a very high-powered troubleshooter, in which case I don't want to offend you or whoever sent you here, or else you're someone that I have to expose.” He paused. “I'm asking you once more: who are you, and why are you aboard the
Comet
?”

“And I'm telling you once more: it's none of your business.”

“Harry,” said Rasputin almost pleadingly, “I'm not playing verbal games anymore. I've got to know.”

“Have it your way,” shrugged Redwine. “I'm a troubleshooter.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“There's a hell of a lot of difference between being able to and being willing to,” said Redwine.

Rasputin was silent for a moment. “You're forcing me to do something I really don't want to do.”

“Then don't do it.”

“I don't have any choice.” He paused again. “I finally brought up the stuff you changed on the computer.”

“I didn't change anything,” said Redwine, looking him squarely in the eye.

“You sure as hell didn't change
much,"
agreed Rasputin. “You're still Harry Redwine, and you're still an accountant for Vainmill. Your identification checks out, your tenure checks out, there's nothing damaging there at all.”

“So?”

“Damn it, Harry! If you can't give me a reason to stop, I'm going to have to keep digging!”

“It would make me very happy if you'd stop,” said Redwine.

Rasputin uttered a humorless laugh. “I'll need a better reason than that.” He fidgeted uneasily. “And if you don't give me one by the time I leave this office, I'm going to have to tell the Madonna what I know.”

Redwine felt a hollowness in the pit of his stomach.

“You don't
know
anything.”

“I know you lied to us,” said Rasputin stubbornly.

“I don't know why, and I don't know about what, but I know you lied and I know that you're sleeping with the most important person on the
Velvet Comet.
That makes you a threat to the ship's security.”

“You could make this a very unpleasant situation for all three of us,” said Redwine slowly.

“I know. I'm asking you one last time: give me a reason not to.”

Redwine shook his head.

Rasputin sighed and got to his feet. “Okay, if that's the way it's got to be.”