I looked back at Jack Jack. He was again slouched in his couch, hands clasped over his belly, hat over his eyes.
TWENTY-THREE
June 12th, 2144
After a few days with the slick gentlemen, I was convinced that the population of Chyteew would be plucked naked by the time the show moved on to Vistunya. "Science" is such a poor word to describe the method of these fast-fingered fellows. Boston Beau Dancer began his career back on Earth as a "dip"—a pickpocket. When I expressed disbelief that anyone could put hands into my pockets without me being aware of the event, Boston Beau handed me back my billfold, pocket knife, small change, and then explained the difference between a street scene and a show scene when dipping for leathers.
"Warts, a street dip works with at least one other person, sometimes two. The ideal in such circumstances is to have number one attract the touch's attention, while number two—the dip—lifts the leather, then palms it off to number three to get rid of the evidence. A terrible waste of manpower. Working the push at a circus is different—it's mass production. The dips spread out in the crowd, then I'll get up on a stand and call attention to myself. Once everyone is watching, I will explain to the touches that it has been reported that there are pickpockets working the show, and that everyone should keep a close watch on their belongings, and thank you kindly."
"You warn them?"
Boston Beau nodded. "As soon as they are warned, the first thing they do is grab for wherever it is that they keep their coin. The dips in the crowd note the locations, then the only limit on leathers is how many you can carry."
Working for the benefit of all, the steerers would wander the streets of the large city nearest the show, looking for high rollers who could be coaxed onto the lot to investigate the games. There they would witness a happy customer or two win a few games of Leary Belt, Three Card Monte, Innocent Strap, shell-and-pea, or whatever, thereby becoming convinced that the game could be beaten. These happy "customers," known as "cappers" were associates of Boston Beau. "Science" is such a feeble word with which to describe the methods the slick gentlemen used to part the sucker from his credits. And, as my faith in my nimble Pendiian eyes diminished, my respect for the grifters increased. It takes no small amount of courage—no matter how corrupted—to sit behind a flimsy table by yourself and steal a hard rock miner's money under his nose with no one near by except the hulking brute's friends and relatives. I suppose my respect for the lucky boys could have flowered into admiration, except their lessons were beggering me.
Since my own research fund had expired, I asked questions and took notes. "A thing I don't quite understand, Boston Beau, is how you can afford to pay Mr. John twenty-two million credits for the privileges. I mean, your paying him to sell his tickets."
Boston Beau scratched his chin, looked up, and did some mental calculations. When he was finished, he looked back at me. "How much did the show take in last season—about twenty, twenty-five million?"
"About that."
He nodded. "Say that you are a customer. You come up to the ticket window to buy your two-and-a-quarter credit ticket. You hand me—the ticket seller—a ten- or twenty-credit note; let's say a ten. Now, I give you four and three-quarters credits back—"
"No, You'd owe me seven and three-quarters."
He raised his brows. "I'm not disputing that, Warts. I owe you seven and three-quarters, but all you get is four and three-quarters."
"How..."
Boston Beau grinned. "If after all your research you have a tenner left, I'd be pleased to take you over to Ten Scalps Tim and have him show you how it's done."
I glowered at the grifter for a moment. "No. I don't think so."
Boston Beau nodded and smiled. "See? Look at how much you have already learned." He clasped his hands together. "Now, just about everyone who goes to the show will have set money aside for it, and it's always in big bills. Maybe one out of twenty customers pays with the exact change. That means that, after deducting the amount I have to pay Mr. John—the two-and-a-quarter credits—my profit is three credits. It's even more for larger bills. The standard short on a twenty is eight credits, and on a fifty is twenty-two."
"But, what happens when the customer counts his change and finds it short?"
"By then the line behind has pushed him out of the way, or if it hasn't, a couple of the boys working with the short-change artist will shoulder him away from the window. Then, when the sucker puts up the big holler, the man at the window says he should have counted his change before leaving the window." He held out his hands. "I mean, it is not reasonable to expect the ticket man to pay such an unfounded claim—a guy just walking up and saying, 'Hey, you gave me the wrong change.' The crowd shouts the guy down, he gets embarrassed, and usually walks off. If he persists, puts up a big enough squawk, or threatens to bring in the coppers, I'll take him aside and pay him off to keep him out of our hair."
"But, still, the amount you paid the Governor—"
"I'll clear as much out of the ticket windows as the show does, without the same expenses. Of course, that doesn't count the games—and the dips. All in all, on a planet such as Ahngar, my associates could clear thirty or forty million in a third of a season. I expect to double that on a planet as wealthy as Chyteew." He, grinned and flashed his gold teeth. "And just think, they've never seen a show before." He closed his eyes, leaned back in his couch and said with a touch of ecstasy in his voice. "Ripe. So ripe."
TWENTY-FOUR
June 14th, 2144
The day before we made orbit around Chyteew, I stormed into the Governor's office. "How... how can you turn those... those... grifters loose on those people? We'll ruin Chyteew for circuses forever!"
O'Hara rubbed his chin, then nodded. "How is your education coming along, Warts?"
"Mr. John..." I flapped my arms about for a bit. "I can't see why you are doing this! We could have at least broken even on the season, and the Monarch won't press for his money. You know that."
He shook his head. "One blowdown, one fire, a couple of blown dates—that's all it would have taken to wipe us out. I couldn't risk losing the show. That's why I had to take them on. There's another reason." He frowned and clasped his hands together, then shook his head. "But that's personal." He held out his hands and shrugged. "Should I have risked the show, Warts? Throw this all away, just because of a few scruples that together wouldn't buy a bale of hay for the bulls?"
"I... I don't know!"
I stomped out of there, walked up to the family quarters at the center of the ship, thinking to talk to Duckfoot. When the door to his quarters opened, Diane, Queen of the Flying Trapeze, was standing there.
"Warts."
"Where's Duckfoot?"
"He's down in the canvas shuttle." She stepped out of the doorway. "Come in. You seem worried."
I entered and the door closed behind me. "I am."
"Is it something to do with the tops?" She pointed at a couch and I sat. In front of me, Sweetie Pie was dangling from the overhead by her teeth. Diane nodded at her daughter. "Sweetie Pie is working on an iron jaw act. If she gets it down, the Director of the Ballet says she can join this season."
I gave a weak smile to the girl, then turned to Diane. "It's about these grifters Mr. John's taken on."
"What about them?"
"Is this a time for jokes?" I snorted. "They'll ruin the show, that's all!"
While Sweetie Pie lowered herself from the overhead, Diane seated herself across from me and smiled. "I'm certain that the Governor wouldn't do anything to harm the show, Warts. It's his life."