The Grift Read online

The Grift

  (published in Digital Dragon Magazine, April 2010)

  L. S. King

  Copyright 2010, 2015 L. S. King

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  cover image courtesy of kafka4prez

  https://www.flickr.com/photos/kafka4prez/

  The Grift

  “You buy?” The little man skipped sideways next to Slap, holding up a fancy piece of lace. “Pretty, yes? Is my wife’s. Please, you buy?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Tristan was right, this wasn’t really a station, only a fuel depot that had grown hodgepodge over the years. Fancy liners with rich tourists didn’t stop here, only freighters and transports carrying migrants and colonists—many heading out to escape the expanding Confederation, and of course, riff-raff.

  The man tugged at Slap’s sleeve. “Family stranded. Please, missah. Need to buy food.”

  Slap hesitated, looking down at the thin face. His own family dead, his ranch—his planet left behind, he could identify with a father’s desperation.

  “He said ‘no.’” Tristan strode over from the opposite side of the concourse. “Beat it.”

  As the man skittered away, Slap said, “Aw, Tristan, his family—”

  “Don’t be a mark. He’s a professional.”

  “How do you know that? Just because you’re a cynic, you think everyone—”

  “I’m just trying to save you learning lessons the hard way, cowboy. By all means, if you wish to buy that lady’s mantilla—which only the wealthy wear on a cluster of planets in the Xanthus Commonwealth and not likely something he stumbled upon honestly—then go to it.”

  Slap sighed. Was Tristan always right?

  “Come on. We have some time before the ship is refueled. I’ll treat you to lunch.”

  = = =

  Slap slurped coffee while his dark-complected companion concentrated on the display, tapping the panel with a frown.

  The little tables huddled under unnecessary umbrellas, and plastic plants attempted to give the café an outdoorsy feel. Not much of a place to eat, but folks seemed to buy something to munch on while hunched at the consoles.

  Why Tristan couldn’t use the computer aboard the ship, Slap wasn’t going to ask. Since he and Tristan had hooked up to fight then flee the thugs on Slap’s home planet, he’d learned the man wasn’t likely to answer questions.

  Slap watched the crowd, chin in hand. The passersby hurried, perhaps to keep from being pestered by beggars and the caroling kiosk vendors. Snips of conversation floated past.

  “—engines are sound with decent legs, but the price he’s asking for the age of the ship—”

  “—so I said she can be like that if she wants, but I won’t just—”

  “—seems like a good deal for a homestead, but it’s so near Confederation space—”

  “—please, mum, pleeeease, I really, really want it, I promise I’ll—”

  “—a thief, Rosemont! You stole our family’s whole stake—”

  Slap sat up straight. The man spun to face the young woman addressing him.

  “My dear young lady, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  The girl stabbed a finger in the man’s chest. “Everything we had from selling our farm—gone! The deed for the homestead on Congrejo was a fake!”

  “That’s between you and the Immigration Office.”

  “Not if the guy you introduced me to doesn’t work there.” She whipped a strand of dark hair out of her pale face. “You two set us up!”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, I assure you.”

  The gal struck him across the face and stalked off.

  Slap started to rise from his seat, but his friend grabbed his wrist. He glared at Tristan. “I’m not going to let some crook—”

  “What do you think you can do to a grifter? Con him? Threats won’t work.”

  “You could con him!”

  “Why should I?”

  “You never do anything for anyone but yourself, do you?”

  Tristan’s stare was his answer.

  “Well, I ain’t gonna just let him walk away.” Slap jerked his arm out of Tristan’s grasp. “I can at least find out more about this.”

  He heard Tristan’s sigh as he strode after the girl. He caught up with her down the concourse. “‘Scuse me, miss. I heard your trouble back there. I. . .um, is there any way I can help?”

  = = =

  “You think this will work?” Slap asked, as he and the girl, Selena, waited in a booth at the bar where the con man had met her.

  “I think so. We just have to get evidence to show the authorities. They wouldn’t listen to me.” She nodded at Slap’s vest pocket. “You have that credchit?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. We need something to make him drool.”

  Slap nodded and then, seeing the smarmy scammer saunter in the door, hissed, “There he is.”

  “I don’t dare be seen. I’ll wait here.”

  “You have the code for security?”

  “Right here”—she tapped the comm at her ear—“and I’ll notify them as soon as I see him trying something.”

  “Yeah, cuz I don’t want to lose this.”

  “Believe me, I know. We lost everything.” Her eyes grew hard.

  “We’ll get it back.”

  She smiled. “Thanks.”

  “We homesteaders have to stick together.” Slap slid out of the booth, walked to the bar, and plopped onto a stool two seats down from Rosemont.

  He signaled the bartender. “A beer.”

  He emptied the mug and asked for a second, then downed it too, aware Rosemont was watching him.

  “If you want to get drunk, there’s better stuff than beer.”

  Slap snorted, staring into the glass. “You buyin’?”

  “I’ll buy you one. If you tell me what’s troubling you, friend.”

  “The Immigration Office has a weeks’ long waiting list. The land will be gone and the colonists moving out before I can even get in to see anyone.”

  “Is that so? Well, I happen to know someone in Immigration.”

  Slap perked up. “You kiddin’? You’d help me?”

  “I can’t stand to see a man down on his luck.” The swindler flashed a grin. “Let’s see what we can do. Come on. We’ll catch him before he leaves for the day if we hurry.”

  Slap followed Rosemont out. He wove through the crowd to keep up. One little fellow he knocked down, then rushed to haul him to his feet, muttering apologies.

  The little guy grated out, “S’all right. Got money for a drink, pal?”

  Slap held his breath at the smell of booze and shook his head, pushing on to catch up. They stopped short in front of the Immigration Office, notices scrolling for the various colonies on each side of the locked door.

  Rosemont’s shoulders drooped. “Too late.” He snapped his fingers. “I know where he usually eats dinner. Let’s give it a try.”

  Slap followed him to a nearby restaurant, and they threaded past tables. Rosemont called a hello and dropped into a seat by a balding man. “Charlie, this here’s a young man who is looking for a homestead—got anything for him?”

  “Well, there’s a few places on Congrejo. They’re going fast though. Prime place, being far away from the Confeds.”

  “How much?” Slap asked.

  Charlie told him. It was about the right amount for a homestead on a prime world.

  “I hav
e several people coming by in the morning, and I’m afraid the last of the best land will be gone. I’d hate to see a friend of Danny’s lose out. How about I take a down payment tonight and give you a receipt. Then in the morning you can come by the office and take your pick?”

  A-ha! “Well, I don’t know. . .”

  Charlie shrugged. “I understand. You don’t know me. But I trust you—you have an honest face. Just let me see the money so I know you have it. You show up tomorrow morning, and I’ll push you to the head of the line.”

  Slap handed him the credchit, keeping his eye on it; he’d seen Tristan pull switches. Charlie set the chit in the table’s computer reader and scanned it. “Looks all right and tight. First thing in the morning.” He handed it back to Slap.

  Slap pocketed the chit. Where was the scam? He couldn’t stay till tomorrow morning, he and Tristan were due to leave before long. He slowly rose. Charlie and Rosemont both smiled at him.

  “See you in the morning,” Charlie said.

  Not knowing what to do, Slap walked away frowning. Where was Selena? He walked around the concourse, looking for the girl, then back to the bar. At length, he headed back to the diner where he and Tristan had eaten lunch. Might as well grab a bite before heading back to the ship.

  He set the credchit in the table’s slot to order a meal, and it blipped red. The chit was a blank! Those lizards! He shot out of the seat and barreled down the concourse to the restaurant. The table was empty; he slammed a fist on it, ignoring the wide-eyed looks from those nearby. He wanted something to punch. They got him! How’d they do it? Tristan would never let him live it down.

  Still breathing hard, Slap tried to appear calm as he left the place.

  Leaning on a post across the concourse, Tristan waited. Slap’s legs felt like lead as he walked over.

  “Next time you’ll listen, won’t you?”

  “They took me,” Slap muttered.

  “They think they did. But I switched your credchit for a special one.” Tristan lifted his hand, and a credchit appeared with a flick of his fingers. He held it out. “We took them instead.”

  “You switched it? Why didn’t you do that in the first place?”

  “I’m not interested in helping anyone else, remember? But I wasn’t going to let you get taken. It would make you more dependent on me.”

  Slap scowled. “When did you switch my credchit?”

  “When you knocked me down and refused to buy me a drink.”

  Slap’s mouth dropped open. “That was you? So. . .what’s so special about the chit you switched?”

  “It’ll send me info the second they access it. From there, I’ll wipe them out.”

  “Won’t they have something in place to detect something like that?”

  “Probably, but it won’t be enough.” Tristan smiled. “Trust me.”

  = = =

  Slap leaned over Tristan’s shoulder to see the display on his console. Not only had Tristan wiped out their numerous accounts, but somehow also sold their ship—they were stranded.

  “I wish I knew what happened to Selena,” Slap murmured.

  “The girl? She was one of them.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know a setup when I see one. But think about it. If she had truly been a homesteader, would she have been so space-pale?”

  END

  If you like this story, you can read more adventures of Slap and Tristan in:

  Deuces Wild: Beginners’ Luck

  https://loriendil.com/DW_1.php