Read Online Hard Luck Hank: Basketful of Crap by Steven Campbell - Free Book Online Page B

hosting the toughest guys in the galaxy, it was a very smelly
establishment. It stank. It wasn’t even something discernable like foot odor or
sweat. I think the metal walls themselves had become infected. I was used to
it.
    Inside the
club, I began to unbuckle my autocannon.
    “I’m not taking
that,” Krample said.
    The man was
maybe a million years old. Or at least he looked like it. He had been coat
check in the Gentleman’s Club since as long as I can remember. If his skeleton
weighed fifty pounds and his organs weighed ten, he had to weigh maybe sixty-one
pounds total. He was just a tiny old man.
    “But,” I began,
“no guns allowed inside, right?”
    “Where the hell
do you think I’m going to put that?” he asked me.
    “Can I just leave
it here in the hallway?”
    “People will
trip on it. Take it with you.” He turned and that was the end of the
discussion.
    I had never,
not once, seen someone carry a gun in the club.
    I walked
upstairs to the cafeteria and looked around to see what was going on. There
were about twenty people in the room, assorted hitmen and enforcers. They all
noticed my autocannon, but no one said anything.
    “Hank,” someone
yelled from across the room.
    “Yeah,” I
answered, ready to defend my autocannon-toting.
    “Ginland
glocken in two hours. Facing Nedle’s Nibash. What can I put you down for?”
    Glocken was a
sport. Ginland was the state we lived in, where Belvaille was. The team, The
Reskin Sleepers, had never won in its history. It was the longest uninterrupted
losing streak of any professional team of any kind. Nedle’s was a private team owned
by some rich guy, not even a state team. I liked watching Ginland’s team
because they were so horrible. They just made me feel better about myself.
    “What is
Nedle’s by twelve going to get me?”
    “Even money. If
you go by fifteen it’s five-to-three odds.”
    Most games had
scores of around seven max.
    “Is Tommiah
starting?”
    “I don’t know,
Hank. I think you’re the only person that follows that team.”
    “Give me a bit,
I want to check the sports page.”
    I had to do
some research. Even in Ginland they didn’t cover the home team very well. I sat
down and ordered some food as I looked through obscure sports sections on my
tele.
    I could only
find one person covering the game and I thought it might be a little kid. He
described the players as “great” or “really great” or “super great” and didn’t
seem to have a thorough understanding of the game.
    “Hey, what odds
will you give me that Ginland only loses by eight?” I asked.
    Bookies are
supposed to be poker-faced and consult their shifting array of odds, but he
looked surprised and said without even thinking:
    “Ten-to-one.”
    “Fine. Put me
down for a hundred.” It wasn’t going to break me. Besides, the day I stop
betting long shots on Ginland is the day I’ve given up all hope completely.
    A roughneck sat
down next to me and looked a bit upset. I stopped him before he started.
    “Krample said
bring it up. Wasn’t my idea.”
    “Hank, you got
any work?”
    “Oh. Well, you
know I got fired when Yeolenz Flame got bombed.”
    “Yeah, but
people said you might be working on some other stuff. Something considerable.”
He kept his voice down and his eyes scanned the club.
    “Where did you
hear that?” I asked.
    “Just around.”
    I might as well
put out more feelers.
    “I’m looking
for an item. For some clients. Big time weapon.”
    “Is it for the
Navy?” he asked.
    “Why would you
say that?”
    “You worked for
them, right? An Oberhoffman?”
    Man, this guy
knew an awful lot about me.
    “Doesn’t
matter. It’s just hot and there’s a big reward.”
    “How big a
reward?”
    “Big enough for
me to call it ‘big,’” I said.
    He didn’t seem
to like that answer very much.
    “Look,” I
began, “they can’t ship it off station. They can’t talk about it or sell it or
I’ll find them and just take it from them.