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“Naturally. Give me an A.” We swung back to work. At the table just below us, something changed hands with infinitesimal, micron-per-minute movements: a normal Mos Eisley business deal.

Something else—something huge—lumbered into view. Two gargantuan Whiphids—two and a half meters of tusk and claw and pale yellow fur, lashed together with a garland of imported greenery—danced toward our stage with their long furry arms draped around each other. I stood on a platform, but their heads towered over mine.

D’Wopp stared rapturously into the broad, leathery, tusk-bottomed face of his bride. Without seeing the surreptitious traders already occupying the closest table, the Despot’s owner and her professional hunter sank onto empty chairs. They started untwisting greenery.

I held my head at an angle that made it look as if I were staring out over the dance floor, but actually, I was watching one of Jabba’s toughs, an anemic, gray-skinned Duro, glide in our direction … alone.

A trio of Pappfaks twirled past, entwining their turquoise tentacles in something that looked like a prenuptial embrace of their own. They nearly tripped over a mouse droid wheeling toward Lady Val. Seeing the droid, our hostess bride excused herself from D’Wopp with a fond pat of his lumpy head. She followed the droid toward her kitchens.

The Duro’s red eyes lit. He edged along the dance floor, approached D’Wopp, paused, and bowed. “Gooood hunting, Whiphid?” Jabba’s Duro shouted, gargling through rubbery lips. He extended a thin, knobby hand.

D’Wopp’s massive paw closed on the Duro’s arm, dangling a ribbon of leaves. “Explain that remark, Duro, or I shall serve your roasted ribs to my lady for breakfast.”

“No-o, no-o.” The Duro rocked his head, cringing. “I do not signify your lo-ovely mate. I am addressing D’Wopp, bounty hunter of great r-repute, am I not?”

Placated, D’Wopp released the gray arm. “I am he.” He tilted his head back. “Is there someone you want splashed, Duro?”

I breathed a little easier, too. Playing by memory means occasional boredom and backflashes, but sometimes it saves your neck. I kept listening and playing.

“Has the lovely br-ride offered any game yet?” asked the Duro.

D’Wopp flicked one tusk with a foreclaw. “What is your point?”

I strained to hear the Duro answer. “There is a big-ger-r boss on Tatooine, excellent one. Lady Valarian pays him protection money. A Whiphid who truly looves the hunt doesn’t settle for small bait. My employer just offered a r-record bounty. You’re probably not looking for work at the moment, but opportunities like this come r-rarely.”

So the toughs were baiting Lady Val through her bridegroom—and not us! Goggle-eyed, I hit a string of offbeats and reminded myself that Jabba had plenty of time to come for us.

D’Wopp clenched his paws over the table. “Bounty? Is it a fierce bait?”

The Duro shrugged. “His name is Solo. Small-time smuggler-r, but he made the boss big-time mad. Jabba has man-ny more enemies than Lady Valarian has, reputable D’Wopp.” The Duro’s red eyes blinked. “May I sponsor-r you to the mighty Jabba?”

The Whiphid’s leathery nose twitched. “Record bounty?”

At last the Duro dropped his voice. I missed the numbers that clinched the deal, but D’Wopp sprang up. “Tell your employer that D’Wopp will bring in the corpse. I shall meet him then.”

Solo … Figrin had mentioned him as a tolerable sabacc player, for a human. Now he was my fellow bait on Jabba’s short list. The Duro whined, “Ar-ren’t you staying for the celebration?”

“Later,” said D’Wopp. “My mate and I shall celebrate my glorious return. She is Whiphid. She will understand.”

Lady Val reappeared out of the crowd. Jabba’s Duro melted back into it like an ice cube on a sand dune. I held my breath. Figrin counted off another song, one I didn’t know so well. I had to concentrate. Something rumbled at the foot of the stage. A deep voice shouted “fickle” in Basic. A gruffer one called “dishonorable.”

My reed squeaked. Two bellows boomed out in an unidentifiable language. Our loving couple attacked each other tusk