Star Wars_ Millennium Falcon - James Luceno [53]
Flitcher Poste spotted his mark on the arrivals level of the spaceport: a lanky human of forty-five or fifty years, blond hair worn long, a short beard and mustache. He was gazing out on Nar Shaddaa's skyline like he'd just arrived from some backrocket world in the Cron drift. Studying the holoadverts above the exit doors, trying to figure out if he should ride a hovercab, a mag-lev, a shuttle, or maybe risk renting an airspeeder.
Just a rube from a faraway planet.
Poste kept him in his sights as he rode a turbolift down to the arrivals level. He walked out the tall doors and moved toward the hovercab stations, carrying a small black attaché case. That struck Poste as curious. Only beings who had business on Nar Shaddaa arrived with attaché cases. Tourists, gamblers, players, visiting dignitaries or criminals usually arrived with luggage, sometimes a full pallet of bags. Clearly the guy wasn't a resident—not with that lost look on his face. So maybe he had arrived from a low-tech world and was carrying all his worldly possessions in that one case. But then why would anyone with so little come to Nar Shaddaa? Well, okay, the moon was often a final stop for folks who had nothing more to lose, but this human didn't give that impression. Maybe he had family or friends here. But friends or family wouldn't leave someone to the mercy of people like Poste, who made a living prowling the spaceport for innocent travelers, getting to them before they could be fleeced or set upon by the currency changers, holdup artists, and scammers who worked the rest of the urban sprawl.
Hurrying after the human, Poste noted that he walked like someone who was still getting used to his legs, or maybe someone who had had ill-fitting prosthetics installed. That meant he could be a veteran who had lost his legs to blasterfire in one war or another. Though the human didn't meet anyone's gaze, Poste could tell that he was taking stock of his surroundings, aware of everything that was going on around him. How else would he be able to steer through the spaceport throng with such an easy grace?
That was it.
New legs or no, there was something inherently nimble about his movements. Something capable, one might say. Self-possessed.
Poste drew nearer. The stranger didn't appear to be armed. No weapon strapped to his ankle or wedged into the rear of his trousers that might create a telltale bulge beneath the thin material of his jacket. Poste began to wonder if the lost look and awkward gait might be for show. Maybe the newcomer was looking for marks. Worse, maybe he was trying to lure petty criminals like Poste by baiting, then entrapping them. But the idea of a plainclothes cop on Nar Shaddaa was even crazier than the idea of arriving onworld with no more than an attaché case.
Poste was intrigued. He made up his mind not to pickpocket the mark or entice him into buying a bogus nightlife tour, but he hadn't given up on the idea of seeing what that attaché contained. Perhaps the newcomer would set it down carelessly, or become distracted just long enough for Poste to move in and move on. It was simply a matter of waiting for the right place and the right moment …
Poste studied the newcomer's clothing more closely as the two of them edged into the public transport area. The wrinkled jacket and drab trousers had the look of clothes you might be given if you'd just been released from stir, or from a psychiatric ward. Even the lower-level panhandlers and canyon kids dressed better. So there went the cop theory. Or did it reinforce it?
Poste came to a halt and turned to one side, pretending sudden interest in the display window items of a tech store. In the window's reflection, he could see the newcomer standing in a HoloNet booth, running a search of some sort. If he was looking for a hotel, it meant he wasn't sure where he wanted to go.