Star Wars_ The New Rebellion - Kristine Kathryn Rusch [7]
Han wrapped his hands around his Gizer ale. “I’d’ve waited if I’d known you were buying.”
Jarril shrugged. He was a small man with narrow shoulders, and a face scarred from years of harsh living. Han had always envied Jarril’s hands, though. They were smuggler’s hands, with long, thin, tapered fingers, perfect for piloting, blasting, and those forms of gambling that required dexterity. “More for me,” Jarril said.
The smuggler’s credo. Han grinned. It’d been too long since he’d been in a place like this. He probably wouldn’t even have answered Jarril’s contact if it hadn’t been for Leia. She had looked like that sharp-tongued princess he’d rescued back when he’d been an equally sharp-tongued scoundrel. Sometimes he missed that part of himself more than he cared to admit.
Han slid his chair back so that it hit the wall. He wore a blaster at his hip, having learned almost before he could walk that no sane man entered a place like this without protection. Besides, he didn’t really know the reason behind Jarril’s visit.
“I don’t believe you came to Coruscant just to buy me a drink,” Han said. He didn’t bother to mention that the Jarril of old would never have bought anyone anything. A lot had changed about his old colleague, including the price of the man’s clothes. Jarril used to wear shirts until they fell off him. This one was made of a dyed green gaberwool, a singularly ugly garment despite its obvious newness.
“I didn’t,” Jarril said. He downed one green drink, coughed, wiped his mouth, and grinned. His teeth glowed for a moment before he licked the liquid off them. “I came to tell you about an opportunity.”
This was rich. An opportunity. For Han Solo, hero of the Alliance, husband, father, and family man. “I’ve got opportunities,” Han said, and immediately wondered what they were.
“Yeah, sure.” Jarril pushed a strand of hair off his pocked forehead. “I gotta admit you stayed legit a lot longer than I woulda thought. I figured six months with the princess and you and Chewie would be back on the Falcon, heading for parts unknown.”
“There’s enough to keep me busy here,” Han said.
“Busy, maybe,” Jarril said. “But it’s a waste of talent if you ask me. You and Chewie were the best pirates I knew.”
Han slid one hand to his blaster and rested his fingers against the trigger. “I haven’t been away that long, Jarril. I still don’t con easily. What do you want?”
Jarril leaned close. His breath smelled of mint, ale, and cream candy. “There’s money out there, Han. More money than we ever dreamed of.”
“I don’t know,” Han said. “I can dream of a lot.”
“So can I.” Jarril’s voice was so soft Han could barely hear it over the band. “And I can’t spend all I got.”
“Congratulations,” Han said. “You want me to propose a toast?”
“You’re not interested, are you?” Jarril asked. He had a curiously intent look.
“Maybe I would have been years ago, Jarril, but I’ve got a life now.”
“Some life,” Jarril said. “Sitting around all day, watching the babies while the little woman runs her own private empire.”
Han leaned forward and grabbed the collar of Jarril’s shirt in one quick, practiced movement. “Watch it, pal.”
Jarril grimaced in a vain attempt to smile. His eyes shifted from Han’s face to his hidden hand and back again. Good. Han hadn’t lost any of his reputation during the time away. “Didn’t mean anything by it, Solo,” Jarril said. “Just making conversation, you know?”
Han tightened his grip on Jarril’s shirt. “What do you want?”
“I want help, Han.”
Han let Jarril go. Jarril slammed back into his seat. He grabbed his second glass, gulped down the hideous green contents, and wiped his mouth. Han waited, finger still on the trigger. Smugglers never asked each other for help. Sometimes they conned their friends into assistance, but they never asked.
Jarril had been conning him. It just hadn’t been working.
Jarril licked his teeth, and took another glass off the passing servo droid.
“Make it quick,” Han