“I don’t have any proof of this,” said Constiner. “But I think you and your goons have sabotaged me and done me physical harm all along the way. Since you’re now fleeing the planet, I also assume you’ve rounded up the remaining Horizon Kids and sold them to your client.”
“Did you say you had proof? I didn’t quite catch-”
“No, you dimwit, I don’t have proof.” Constiner’s leathery face looked like it was rapidly becoming drier. “If I did, your arse would be reposing in the hoosegow at this very moment. Should I ever come up with so much as a scrap, beware.”
“I’ll be on Barnum for a spell. Can you extradite me from-”
“I’ll extradite you from the furthest little pissant planet in the remotest galaxy in this nitwit universe. I’ll…and, another thing, Smith. I don’t believe that flap-doodle about Benton Arloff.”
“Which flapdoodle is that, Deac?”
“That he was accidentally killed while hunting.”
“Sounds plausible to me. I know the guy was a real gun enthusiast.”
“What I don’t understand is how come you didn’t end up in the sack with the widow.”
Smith grinned thinly. “Because I’m a decent, law-abiding fellow.” He hung up.
He went back to his chair.
It seemed likely that Jennifer would get in touch with him. He’d been right about her husband, about what had been going on. She ought to realize that by now. He didn’t expect an apology, but at least a thank you, a goodbye.
He sat in the room the rest of the day, watching the sea go dark.
But she never called.
Ron Goulart
