“What did he look like, the man who hired you?”
“Well heeled. Slick. Beard. Dressed like a gentleman.”
Hunter Covington. Had to be. Not that Zoë had been in much doubt.
“He give you any clue what he intended to do with my friend?”
“None whatsoever, and I didn’t inquire. I prefer to know as little as possible about the dealings of others. The kind of people who hire me like to keep their business private, too.”
Zoë had few doubts on that front. Yellow Duster was a classic go-between, the type of guy you could rely on to be incurious about the whys and wherefores of a job so long as the money was right.
She pressed him for further information anyway. Maybe he knew something useful about Covington without knowing he knew it. “How did the man who employed you contact you? Are you part of an organization, or—”
“I’m on my own. Freelance. Sole trader. Got no organization to answer to.”
“So how did he contact you?” she repeated.
“In person,” Yellow Duster said.
“Not by wave?”
“No, ma’am. People who have a need for me can find me. They don’t necessarily invite me out for dinner and a slow dance, although it’s been known to happen. But we always meet in person. Every time you send a wave, see, it leaves a trail that can be followed. People I work for don’t like trails. That’s why they come to me in the first place. I’m known for doing odd jobs around the docks for people. I’m also known for having something of a reputation. I’m reliable. A straight shooter. You give me something to do, it gets done, no quibble, no mess. No trail.”
“Anyone doing odd jobs in Eavesdown would need consent from the criminal operators who run the docks,” Zoë said. “Such as Badger, for instance.”
The mention of Badger’s name earned a flicker of recognition from Yellow Duster, but then that was hardly surprising. You worked in the shadier edges of Eavesdown, you’d at least know of Badger, if not associate with him personally.
“Actually it’s not as simple as that,” he said, smirking. “Everything in this town — and on Persephone overall — is more like live and let live, up to a certain point. And ‘by a certain point,’ I mean the amount of platinum on the table. Folks who are careful can earn their daily scratch without answering to higher-ups, Badger or anyone else.”
“So the man who paid you for handing over the note isn’t a higher-up, then?”
“Could be. Sure looked like he was. Don’t know his name, though. Not that I’d necessarily reveal it, even if I did. Another part of my reputation is my discretion. I’m famous for it.”
“I already know his name,” Zoë said.
“Well, bully for you! Then I reckon that makes you one up on me. Look, lady, are we finished here? I’ve told you all I can. Figure it’s high time you lower that cannon of yours, an’ maybe then you and I can go somewhere, have a drink, see what develops, you know what I’m sayin’?”
In case she might misinterpret his meaning, he gave her a slow, lascivious wink. It fair turned Zoë’s stomach. She firmed her grip on her gun.
“I still have a couple more questions,” she said.
“Fire away,” said Yellow Duster, hastily adding, “Not literally.”
“Your ‘employer,’ for want of a better word. Where did you and he meet?”
“Right here,” he said, as if it should have been obvious. He nodded in the direction of Taggart’s.
“How did he know to look for you in Taggart’s?” she pressed, but Yellow Duster simply smiled. “Right, your lofty reputation preceded you.”
“Lots of dealings go down in Taggart’s,” he said. “Reckon you already know that.”
Zoë felt herself growing increasingly vexed. Time was slipping away, and the man was giving up what little useful intelligence he had in a very relaxed and roundabout fashion. Plus, nothing he’d said could be verified beyond doubt, so there was no reason to believe he was playing straight with her.
Inadvertently she shifted onto her bad leg. A spike of pain made her grimace.
“Hold your horses now,” Yellow Duster said, misreading her expression and taking it for a precursor to homicide. There was a first, faint hint of panic in his voice. “I’ve been accommodating so far, ain’t I?”
“Not nearly enough.”
“Well, I can be even more accommodating, if you’ll just let me.”
“Go on. As long as that’s not innuendo.”
“Not this time. When he hired me, the fella muttered something about this had been a long time coming. Said there’d been a betrayal. Said there was a price that was long overdue paying, and now was the reckoning.” Yellow Duster looked at her expectantly, optimistically. “Didn’t understand it myself. Guessed maybe your pal owed him money going way back. Is that what he meant?”
“It’s possible,” Zoë said. Mal doubtless had past financial debts he hadn’t honored. “Anything else?”
“That’s all, I swear.” The man was emphatic. “Of course, the remark wasn’t addressed direct to me, so I may have misheard.”
“He was talking to somebody else? Who?”
“A woman,” came the reply. “Real quiet type. Fidgety. She came into Taggart’s with him. He said it to her.”
Zoë seized on the new information. Covington had an accomplice. Maybe his wife? “What did she look like?”
“She was pretty. Light brown skin, black hair, all kind of curly and long. Not unlike you, though not as intimidating. She kept staring at me with these big greenish eyes, hard, like she was trying to tell me something. Ask me, I think she was frightened.”
“Frightened of what?”
“Who she was with. Like she didn’t want to be with him.”
“Maybe she was trying to solicit help,” Zoë bit off. “Hence the look. Sounds like she could have been a kidnap victim, or else a bondswoman. She was pleading with you to do something about her situation.”
“Why would she do that?” Yellow Duster said.
“Because she mistook you for a decent human being?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Now, now, darlin’. Don’t get all high and mighty with me. You run your life and I’ll run mine.”
With effort, Zoë reined in her aggravation. “How long ago did this conversation happen? When were you hired to hand over the note?”
“Just a couple days ago. The guy came into Taggart’s with his lady friend, asked for me by name, and I chanced to be in that day.”
Zoë decided to take a risk and reveal her hand a little further. “The name Hunter Covington mean anything to you?”
Yellow Duster looked at her keenly. “Not a smidge. Should it?”
Zoë fancied he was mentally filing the name away for future reference, in case it proved useful income-wise. “Not necessarily,” she said. “Where did you go after you gave the note to my friend?”
“To get the second half of my money.”
“Where?”
“Some old flophouse, not ten minutes’ walk from here.”
The hairs rose on the back of Zoë’s neck. Finally, something tangible to work with. Maybe it would connect the dots. The flophouse might even be where Mal was.
“Who did you meet there?” she asked. “Covington?”
“That the gent? No, not him. Some other guy. No one special. Pale hair. Couple scars on his face. That’s about as far as it goes for distinguishing features.”
Scars were not rare in a postwar era; nor, for that matter, on a hardscrabble world like Persephone. “And do you think you can find your way back to this flophouse?”
“I look like I just stepped off the boat? Like I don’t know my way around these here parts? Course I can.”
Zoë pondered her options. Shepherd Book was heading to Guilder’s. Jayne was taking the kid Allister home. Kaylee, Inara, Simon and Wash should stay on board Serenity, all hands being needed to deal with River. That left Zoë to follow this lead, her and no one else — and sore leg notwithstanding, that’s what she was going to have to do.