Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [76]
“Where do you want this stuff?” a gruff voice called.
Evar turned. Captain Hoban of the Star Dream, a disreputable-looking human in a shiny metallic jumpsuit, had opened the ramp to the cargo compartment. One of his battered old droids held a large crate with “Evar Orbus and His Galactic Jizz-wailers” stenciled on the side.
“Over there, please,” Evar said. He pointed to the cargo area behind the ship with a tentacle. “We have transport coming.”
The droid shifted the crate and almost dropped it.
“Watch it!” Evar screamed. He felt his sense organs lurch at the thought of having his livelihood destroyed by a roving scrap heap. “Watch those instruments! If you break them, you’ll have to replace them!”
The droid bleeped angrily.
“Easy there,” Captain Hoban said to the droid. He smiled apologetically at Evar Orbus. “There’s nothing to worry about, sir. We handle crates like this all the time.”
But do you break them? was Evar’s first thought. He knew better than to voice it, though. He contented himself with watching the droid carefully through three eyes while his fourth swiveled around to watch for their transport.
The ramp beneath his feet shook as someone started down behind him. He moved to the side, swiveling an eye to see.
It was, of course, Max Rebo, his Ortolan keyboard player. Max peered left, then right around the ship, his trunklike nose snuffing the air ever so slightly. Probably looking for his next meal, Evar thought.
“Is that spiced Parwan nutricake I smell?” Max asked. “I think there must be a restaurant nearby. How about I pop over and see? It’s well past dinnertime, you know.”
“We’ll eat when we get to the cantina,” Evar said evenly. It often seemed to him that Max’s brain was in his stomach.
“But—”
“You heard me.” He focused all four eyes on Max, who swallowed meekly. “If you want to help, see what’s taking Sy and Snit so long.”
“Right!” Max brightened noticeably. “Then we can eat!” Turning, he waddled back up the ramp as fast as his chubby little legs could take him.
Evar turned three of his eyes back to the droids. Yes, he thought, things were definitely looking good. He had credits in his belt pouch, a six-month gig lined up, and finally an agreeable climate to live in. Once they got to the cantina, everything would be perfect.
Now, what had happened to the transport they’d promised him …
Using his personal comlink, he called the cantina.
“Yes,” a Bith said, its mouth folds stretching back to reveal a surprisingly facile mouth. It was nodding its tall, hairless head to music from an unseen source.
“Greetings, gentle,” Evar said. “Is the Wookiee Chalmun there?”
“Not here. Called away on business.”
“Perhaps that explains it. Our transport was not waiting at the spaceport—”
“We’re not a travel service.” The creature reached out to disconnect.
“Wait!” Evar snapped. “I’m Evar Orbus!”
“So?”
“Of the Evar Orbus Galactic Jizz-wailers. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”
“Jizz-wailers? No.”
Was that disgust in its voice? Evar huffed a little, but restrained his anger. If he spoke his mind, the Bith would doubtless disconnect on him. He satisfied himself by mentally running through five generations of insults to the Bith’s maternais.
“Look, incompetent one,” Evar finally snarled, “tell your boss the new band is here. Get us transport—now—or I’ll have your head on a platter when I get there.”
“New band?” The Bith paused, puckering its lip folds, then chittered to someone Evar couldn’t see. The unseen one chittered back.
The first Bith then gazed back at Evar. “What landing pad?”
“Seven.”
“A transport will be there shortly.”
“Thank you,” Evar said with satisfaction. He disconnected.
Dinner, dinner, glorious dinner! Max thought as he waddled down the corridor. Every footfall was a dinner gong; every scent a call to eat. It seemed like weeks since his last meal. If he wasn’t careful, he’d waste away to nothing, like Snit. Not that Evar Orbus would have noticed—the only thing that Letaki cared about was money.
Now, though, dinner loomed near. Dinner, dinner,