"And around here," Pattipong said, lapsing into a full speech pattern, "you need all the edge you can get."
That was true. The spaceport's traffic may have been light, but there were still stevedores, sailors, whores, and everyday villains looking for amusement—which was often defined as laying odds on how long it would take someone to bleed to death in a gutter. Pattipong kept a long, unsheathed knife hidden under the pay counter.
Raschid went back to his recipe. The browned ham was put in a warming oven. He had femon juice, red pepper, a touch of salt, and three egg yolks waiting in a blender. He melted butter in a small pan. Then his mental timer went on. Muffins toasted... eggs went into boiling water to poach... the muffins were ready... ham went on top of the muffins... two and a half minutes exactly, and the eggs were plopped on top of the ham.
He flipped the blender on and poured molten butter into the mixture. After the count of twenty, he turned the blender off and poured the hollandaise sauce over the eggs.
"Voila, Sr. Pattipong."
Pattipong gingerly sampled.
"Not bad," he said grudgingly. "But eggs."
Raschid tried them on a customer, a sailor drunk enough to be experimental. The man sampled, looked surprised, and inhaled the plate, then ordered a second plate. He swore it sobered him up—now he was ready to start all over again.
"Like sobriety pill? Maybe great invention. Cure diseases. Sell through mail."
"Clot off," Raschid snorted.
The sailor came back the next day—with six friends.
The port police started dropping by around lunchtime. For some reason, Raschid felt uncomfortable—with no idea why. They ate, of course, on the cuff. Lunch was no longer slow.
Raschid came up with other dishes: something he called chili, and something he called "nuked hen." He convinced Pattipong that the customers wanted something more than the bland, airport/diner standard dishes Pattipong had previously featured on the menu.
"You talk. I listen. I do. Make curry. Curry like mother made. Customers try-I laugh. Get revenge for all yata-yata-yata talk all time." '
Pattipong's curry may not have been quite that lethal-but it was nominated.
"Know why I listen to you?" Pattipong asked.
He waved an arm out of the serving window. Raschid looked out at the dining area. It was packed. Pattipong had even put tables and chairs out on the sidewalk. Raschid knew that they had been getting busier, but he really hadn't realized just how much. The crowd was different. There were still the bruisers and brawlers, but Raschid saw suits and some uniformed port authorities, as well. There were even two orange-robed members of the Cult of the Eternal Emperor. For some reason, they made him just as uncomfortable as the policemen did-also for equally unknown reasons.
"Last Blast now hot place to go. Walk wild side... eat good. It last for while. Then they find new place. Happen before. Happen again. Hard thing to remember. Not expand. Not drive old customers away.
"These people like... like insect that buzz... buzz... flower to flower. Then vanish."
"Butterflies?"
"Butter not fly, Raschid. Work. No more jokes."
Raschid went back to his stove. Another damned order for Imperial Damned Eggs. He was starting to share Pattipong's hatred for eggs.
Raschid was glad Pattipong was making money. But it meant nothing to him.
He felt... as if he were waiting. For someone? For something? He did not know.
Others noticed prosperity, as well.
It was very late. The Last Blast opened early and closed late-but this was getting absurd. Around midnight they had a gaggle of guests, all caped in formal wear. The thea-tah crowd.
Raschid was exhausted. As soon as he finished stoning and oiling the grill he was for his room, the fresher, one drink, and unconsciousness. They had a new hire-a baker, one of Pattipong's innumerable relatives-coming in. Raschid was supposed to train him-a clear case of a double amputee teaching ballet.
He heard the scuffle and argument from the front. Another damned robbery. Pattipong had a dump near the pay counter-almost all money went into a sealed, time-locked safe. Since they would lose only a few dollars in a heist, it was easier just to give the robbers the till than fight back. Safer, as well. The next morning Pattipong would tip the port police, who would find the thief and either have him make restitution or, if he had spent the money, just break his thumbs for an hour or so.
This sounded different.
Raschid picked up a heavy cleaver and went to the kitchen doorway. Then he set the cleaver down on a shelf and looked out. He instantly knew—but did not know how he knew—what was going on. Four heavy sets. Flash expense. False smiles and real menace. He walked over to Pattipong.
"G'wan back, cookie. This don't pertain," one of the thugs said.
"Protection?" Raschid asked, ignoring the man.
Pattipong nodded. "We pay. No stinks. Furniture not busted. Customers protected."
"Are they connected?"
"Hey. We told you get out of it."
"I not see before. New. Not connected. No connections now. Old boss go hoosegow. Baby new bosses still fighting."
"Knock off the drakh. We made our offer. Polite folk respond."
Pattipong looked at Raschid. "You think we pay?"
Raschid shook his head slowly—and spun the heavy glass match bowl on the counter into one man's face.
Pattipong snapkicked the second—a man nearly two meters tall—under the chin. The man stumbled back and went flat.
A third man grabbed a chair. The chair came up... Raschid went under it, head-butting. The man dropped the chair and sagged. Raschid double-fisted him on the back of the neck, and the man was out.
Pattipong had his long knife about halfway out, and the rules changed. The last man's hand slid toward his belt. A gun.
Raschid, having all the time in the world, spun right... two steps back toward the kitchen, hand reaching inside. Whirl... the gun was coming up. Finger touching the trigger stud. Raschid overhanded the cleaver. It smacked into the tough's skull with a dull sound not unlike an ax striking rotten wood.
Pattipong hurried to the door. "No cops."
He came back inside and shook his head at the carnage and the scatter. "This not good."
"Sorry. But he was—"
"You misunderstand. Not bad he dead. Bad he dead not neat. Messy. Take two, maybe three hours to clean up. Long day. I was sleepy." He started for the com. "I call cousin. He pick up bodies. Leave maybe in front of police station. Let three explain one, when they wake."
He touched buttons.
"You not bad fighter. For cook."
Raschid was looking at the moaning or unconscious human and formerly human debris. Feeling... feeling as if there were a curious observer behind him. He felt... he felt... push it away... nothing in particular. A necessary act.
He went to work helping Pattipong.
Two men sat at Pattipong's counter. Both wore what might appear to be-after suitable degreasing, cleaning, pressing, and sewing-uniforms.
Beside one man was a captain's cover, with formerly gold braid on its bill. Raschid had seen braid go green, even black, with age, but this was the first he had ever seen what looked as if it were infested with barnacles. The cap may have suggested the man's position-little else did. It was not merely the grime: he was a tiny little rabbity person, with the twitching mannerisms of that creature, as well.
The other man, a hulk, had the peeling braid of a ship's officer on his sleeve and on his breast a command-qualified ribbon. On the man's shoulder, Raschid could make out a round patch: pease shipping.
Both men were drinking caff and arguing. The "captain"-if that was what he was-looked fondly at the lined bottles of alk behind the counter. The other man-mate?-shook his head. The rabbit sighed and whined on. Raschid could make out bits of what he was saying.