Star Wars_ Tales From the Mos Eisley Cantina - Kevin J. Anderson [5]
Beyond the big tables lay a dozen little ones. I could almost feel Figrin’s mouth folds twitch, anticipating a wealthy crowd in the mood to celebrate.
A red-raucous cheer erupted in the lounge. “They must be married,” Figrin mumbled. Beings streamed out into the cafe. Figrin swung into our opening number. Before we finished, I’d started to sweat … and not from the heat. Several of Jabba’s toughs had ridden the wave of that stream into the cafe. Were they invited guests? Or had Jabba set us up a one-way trip to the Great Pit of Carkoon?
One more time, I looked around at Valarian’s security. Eefive-tootoo stood beside her back hatch, gleaming new blasters and needlers retrofitted for the occasion … and a shiny new restraining bolt dead center on his massive chest. Evidently she only trusted droids so far.
A young human tottered up to our stage, wearing clean, unpatched clothing and a slouch. “Play ‘Tears of Aquanna.’ ” He tugged Figrin’s pant leg where it gathered above his boot. Figrin pulled his leg free. The human repeated his request, then headed toward me.
I didn’t want my pants stretched. “Got it,” I said toward him, then took a fast breath and hit my E flat entrance.
How were we to know that a local gang had adopted one of our numbers as their official song? The slouch and several friends huddled at the foot of our stage and caterwauled lyrics they’d obviously invented.
Several other humans lurched toward the stage, glaring. I elbowed Figrin. He took an unorthodox cut to the coda. We finished playing before the gang finished singing. Several of them glowered.
One newcomer, a darkly tanned female, shoved a nonsinging bystander aside. “Now play ‘Worm Case,’ ” she growled in a voice that matched the shade of her skin. “For Fixer and Camie.”
“Got it,” said Figrin. I have a six-bar intro into “Worm Case.” I cut it to four.
When you’ve played a piece six hundred times from memory, you lose track of where you are during the six hundred and first. This time through, it became a crazy game of cut-and-patch. I don’t remember having so much fun with that moldy jump tune. This group didn’t try to sing.
Thwim and another security guard accompanied both gangs away. I rechecked Jabba’s toughs. They’d gathered near the bar, just killing time … for now.
At the end of that set, Figrin headed for a sabacc table. I lingered onstage, up out of the congealing smokes and odors.
One of the ugliest humans I’d ever met, with a diagonal sneer for a mouth, sauntered over carrying two mugs. “You dry?” he asked in a surly black tone. “This one’s lum, that one’s wedding punch.”
“Thanks.” Despite my distaste, I seized the mug of punch and put down half of it.
“You’re welcome.” My plug-ugly sat down on one edge of the reflective bandstand, then stared out over the crowd. Not wanting to turn his back. Probably a native. I wondered if he’d consider it polite to ask his name, or if he’d take a swing at me. “Good band,” he muttered. “What’re you doing on Tatooine?”
I set down my mug beside the Ommni. “Good question,” I said stiffly. “We’ve played the best palladiums in six systems.”
“I believe it. You’re excellent. But you haven’t answered my question.”
I began to warm toward him. “You’re looking at it.” I nodded down toward Figrin’s gaming table. “We were passing through and got stuck. You work around here?”
“Yah.” Sounding blue-gray, he picked up my mug. “I tend bar up the street. Rough living, but somebody’s gotta keep the droids from taking over.”
I hissed softly in a range humans find inaudible. Droids improve life. I was getting ready to remind him when he said “Keep your reed wet, my friend,” and hustled away.
Was he one of the rare, approachable types? Had that been a warning? I looked for Thwim by his green cape and twitching snout, but I couldn’t spot either.
Soon Figrin rejoined us on the bandstand. “Losing?” I murmured as he plugged