Star Wars_ Coruscant Nights II Streets of Shadows - Michael Reaves [72]
“It gets better,” Den continued. “Fon’s local.”
Jax grinned at the Sullustan. “I take back everything I’ve said about you, Den.”
“What have you been saying about me? Never mind, I’m sure it can’t be any worse than what I-Five says about me.”
“I even take back everything he says about you. Thanks to your imaginative stunt, we’ve got more than a clue—we have a suspect. What’s the address?”
Den rolled off a street name and number. Jax overlaid the information on a mental picture of the immediate region of Coruscant. He was not surprised to find that the address was nearby. Most thieves dwell in close proximity to their victims. It simplifies transportation.
“Let’s go have a little chat with this Spa Fon.”
eighteen
The address the batrachian art broker had reluctantly revealed to Den was, surprisingly, located on the 42nd Level, in a neighborhood that could at least lay claim to potential gentrification. Which was to say that one was marginally less likely to be mugged and robbed there on a dark night than on many of the innumerable levels below. Nevertheless, Jax and Den did not relax as they exited the transport and made their way on foot to the complex where, according to the information Den had been given, the Nuknog made his business as well as his home.
This portion of Level 42 was infused with photonics, so that wired or radiant lighting was not required. Shopfronts flaunted their goods without the usual security bars or alarm beams, and the guards out front actually wore uniforms instead of just harsh expressions and weapons. It wasn’t the Manarai Hills, not by the length of a comet’s tail, but it was considerably more upmarket than either of them had anticipated. Business must be good, Jax mused.
The address given to Den was almost comically nondescript—so much so that it was impossible to tell whether they were looking at the front of a residence or a business. There were no windows, no other doors, not even any visible vid pickups: just a floor-to-roof rectangle of dull gray carbonite composite with a number floating half a centimeter to one side of the center.
Jax knocked loudly. The response time was long enough to make him think that no one had heard. But as he raised his fist to pound again, a portal appeared in the center of the gray wall, revealing a Lonjair standing there. Barely half a meter tall, skinny and indigo in hue, it regarded them out of four bright turquoise eyes beneath a single tuft of pale blue hair that rose from the crest of its skull.
Jax had never seen a Lonjair before. There weren’t a lot of them in this part of the galaxy. Normally shy and species-centered, they tended to keep to themselves in three closely packed systems far out on the South Arm. Like every other civilized species, they had representation on Imperial Center, but to see one in private service was unusual. Perhaps Spa Fon, being of modest stature, preferred servants even less physically imposing than himself. Certainly the Lonjair’s high, squeaky voice was not exactly daunting.
“Yeh geets aftrah beedness wi’ Spah Fhoon?”
Den stepped forward. “We do.”
The Lonjair looked the Sullustan up and down. “Yeh dawn’t lahks d’sarht.”
Jax said, “Does the redoubtable Spa Fon judge business acumen by appearance?”
In quick, smooth succession, one after the other, four eyes blinked at the Jedi. “I aftrah beh nahdin’ nahmes.”
Jax supplied two, making them up on the fly and hoping his companion would remember his. Den’s previous profession had taught him to retain