“As if that matters,” Vone said.
“It does if you come to me. Then I got something I can look at. It’s just you versus him right now. How do I know who is telling the truth?”
“I am!” Vone said, as if I had simply misheard him.
“No, he’s not,” Dimi-Vim tsked.
“How much are you down on your business?” I asked Vone, and as soon as I said it, I knew it was a dumb question. He would never tell me, let alone say it in front of Dimi-Vim. I could torture him for weeks and he’d never reveal how much money he made.
He grumbled and mumbled something.
“Never mind,” I quickly said. “What kind of clubs do you have?”
“It’s a club. Booze. Drugs. Dancing.” Vone shrugged.
“Normal club, Hank,” Dimi-Vim confirmed.
“Come on, you know more than that, right? What kind of music do you have?”
The two bosses looked at each other.
“I don’t know. Smash-oz.”
“Ropes.”
“Beggit-time.”
“Usual.”
I thought. Could it be that simple?
“Can you just have different music? That will bring in different customers,” I said.
“No. Some music brings better customers than others,” Dimi-Vim said.
“Fine, alternate,” I said. “That will keep people on your block every day of the week and if someone doesn’t feel like that type of music they can just hop to the other club.”
The bosses shared glances. I could tell neither one wanted to concede anything.
“Some of those styles cross genres,” Vone cautioned.
“Yeah,” Dimi-Vim squinted.
“Ugh. Alright. The majority of the music has to be a certain type. You can draw lots every month on who gets what style on what day. If you suspect any tricks, I’ll send one of my younger Kommilaire in disguise to listen. If you’re found to be cheating, you owe the other boss that night’s door and bar.”
A very long pause between them. My modern art sculptures probably moved more than they did.
“Agreed,” Vone said finally.
“Agreed,” Dimi-Vim said.
“We’ll meet at the Athletic Gentleman’s Club in a day or two and draw up a real contract,” I said.
I stood up, and the effort it took made it clear that everyone should do likewise.
“See? That wasn’t hard,” I said.
CHAPTER 3
The elevated train let me off near Justice Lane. There was a persistent roar of noise in this part of the city. It was hard to put your finger on the cause until you realized what it was:
People.
It was the weekend and that meant I had to go for a trial. A real trial. Or as real as Belvaille got, anyway.
When I was working, I liked having a heavy lifter drive me around because we moved so much, but I was capable of walking just fine on my own. I strode up Courtroom Three Street for my appointment. I was escorted through security checkpoints by my own Kommilaire who did double-duty as bailiffs here.
All along the way, the block was packed. The sidewalks had been fitted with bleachers so they could fit in more spectators. All the apartment buildings had been equipped with terraces—box seating that cost a fortune during popular trials.
The hottest court cases were ones with crimes committed by the wealthy and powerful, mass murderers brought in for sentencing, things that caught the public’s imagination.
That included any testimony I happened to give.
Judge Naeb was the presiding judge of Courtroom Three Street during the day. His gilded bench was twenty feet off the ground.
There were numerous judges. I’d guess around twenty. Some were good, some were bad, some incompetent. Naeb was the longest-serving judge and by far the most corrupt. It was widely-known that the outcome of any trial before him was based on how much either side paid and whether or not he held a personal grudge.
Judge Naeb didn’t care for me, but I didn’t mind. These trials were a farce anyway. It was just to keep the city thinking we had a working system of government.
I made my way to the witness box as the lawyers and defendant waited in front. The crowd grew hushed. This trial, like many others, was broadcast live across the city via loudspeaker. It was Belvaille’s most popular form of free entertainment.
Work, and even crime, across the city came to a virtual stop during a big case, as people huddled around the speakers to listen to the progress.
When I finally stood in the witness box I tried to see who the defendant was, but I didn’t recognize him.
All the judges were appointed by the owner of Belvaille: Garm. She literally had the deed to the city. Though it was of questionable value since the empire that had signed it no longer existed. She also wrote most of the laws that Belvaille possessed, though we didn’t have many.
They said Garm stayed at the top of her impregnable City Hall. I wouldn’t know since I hadn’t seen her in forty or more years. There was a time, long ago, when we had been good friends. We had even dated for a spell.
I could see why she didn’t come out. I personally knew of at least five outstanding contracts to have her assassinated. And she wasn’t bulletproof like I was.
Garm was a member of the Quadrad. It was a planet-wide society of assassins and criminals. In her prime, Garm had been incredibly skilled, but that was half a century ago.
“Please state your name,” the bailiff said.
“Hank.”
Cheers rose up across the city. Those who couldn’t see the trial knew I was finally there and things were about to begin in earnest.
“What is your occupation?”
“Civil servant.”
More cheers.
“Do you promise not to lie or half-lie or twist the truth?”
“I suppose.”
The bailiff walked away and the defense attorney approached. He wore a suit made out of an incredibly fluffy blue animal. He looked like a creature from a very cold planet.
The lawyers knew they were arguing not just to the judge, but to everyone. The people in the stands and poised on balconies. So they had to have good voices and be appealing to look at. Or at least distinctive.
This lawyer’s name was Mylan.
“Do you recognize that man?” he said, flinging out his fluffy arm behind him.
I looked again.
“I can’t see him well. You sat him clear across the street.”
A pattering of laughter rose up from the block.
“Mr. Imdi-ho, would you please approach the witness stand. I wouldn’t want to make our illustrious civil servant have to walk to you. The trial could take weeks.”
He said it as a joke, but he could see it fell flat so he quickly filled the silence.
“Come. Come.”
I knew the man once he said the name of course. He had loose manacles on his hands and feet.
“Yeah, I know him. He pulled a weapon on me a few weeks ago when we were patrolling,” I said.
“Thank you. You can be seated, Mr. Imdi-ho. Can I ask you if this,” he went to his table and returned, “was the weapon he threatened you with?”
He held up a submachine gun to me.
“I don’t remember,” I said honestly.
“Really?” he asked in mock-amazement. “If someone pointed this at me, it would forever be ingrained in my consciousness. Do you want to look again?”
He held it up, but it meant nothing. I vaguely knew what type of firearm it was, but that’s about it.
“I don’t recognize it. But you could have changed guns for all I know.”
“True. Though I didn’t. That is Exhibit A, as both the prosecution and I agree. Is that correct?”
“I concur. That weapon was submitted with the defendant,” the prosecutor stated. The prosecutor wore flashing lights all over his clothes. But they were subdued colors and to me it looked more respectable than the blue monster hide the defense was wearing.