Unification - Jeri Taylor [50]
Two hands shifted into a bluesy riff, another worked the salt stick, and the fourth offered him one from a nearby bowl. “Suck salt?” she queried.
“Never cared for it,” replied Riker. He thought it a disgusting habit, and wondered if the people who were caught up in it realized what it did to their mouths. He’d dated a woman once who loved her salt sticks, and every time he kissed her he felt his own mouth pucker and dry; it was like kissing a desert floor.
“Good for you. Nasty habit.” She took a few more licks and then put the stick down. Without looking at him, she said, “Who are you looking for?”
Caught a little off-guard, Riker felt his reply was bumbling. “Who says I’m looking for anybody?” “Your face. Your uniform. In a place like this.” “Okay. I’m looking for you.”
“You just made my day.” Amarie’s delivery was dry, but Riker felt there was a truth in the words that she would never admit to. “I have to ask you about your husband.” Amarie cast him a glance and her music took on a different tone—a little busier, more urgent. “Well, it was nice while it lasted,” she said with studied nonchalance. “Which husband?” “The dead one, I’m afraid.”
She kept playing, never missing a beat. But that faintly frantic element was still in the music. “You must be from the Enterprise,” she said laconically. “You destroyed his ship.”
Riker was relieved that she wasn’t a game player. This whole endeavor could have been protracted interminably, but Amarie was not a guileful woman. He wondered what feelings she might still have for the dead man who piloted the smuggler’s ship, so he trod carefully. With a touch of regret in his voice, he said, “He fired first.”
“He always did.” Riker gave her a sharp glance, looking for any hidden meaning, but her face was neutral.
“He was involved in some pretty bad business,” he continued. “And he took the evidence with him.”
“His one endearing quality—he always cleaned up after himself.” Now Riker thought he saw a twinkle in her eye. “What do you want from me?” she asked.
“I was hoping you might know his business part-ners.”
Amarie sighed faintly and looked down at her hands, moving idly over the keys. “Why should I help you?” she asked softly.
“To be honest, I can’t think of a good reason.” He smiled at her, and hoped honesty appealed to an honest woman.
“Well, you did kill my ex-husband. That’s not a bad start.” He shook his head, grinning at her; the more he sat here, the more he liked her. “Why don’t you drop a few coins in the jar,” she suggested. “I‘11 see what I remember.”
“I don’t carry money,” he said truthfully. She gave him an appraising glance, and then sighed again.
“You don’t offer much, do you?”
Riker considered this. It was true. He was asking for information—a commodity of great value to him. And he had nothing to offer in return. There was something unfair about it. What might this used-up woman want, he wondered, except a man to treat her decently and take her away from all this? Then it occurred to him what it might be. “Slide over,” he ordered. She looked at him in surprise. “What?”
Riker got up and sat next to her at the piano, catching a whiff of her salty breath. He reached toward the keys.
“Just what I need—another set of hands,” she commented.
“You know this one?” He began to play the way he had in the re-creation of Stumpy’s place on the holodeck. “Early twentieth century, from a place on Earth called Memphis.” He played for a moment and could tell from her reaction that she was responding. “Maybe,” he suggested, “I could teach you a lick or tWO.”
“You already have,” she acknowledged, watching his hands carefully, absorbing the riffs, studying the way his fingers drifted over the keys. She was genuinely impressed, loving the music, moved by its heartfelt origins.
He played for a few moments, and then ventured idly, “So, what do you say?”
She shrugged, looked up at him, gave him that ready grin. “Gonna be around a few days?” “I can be.”
“Sooner or later, a man named Omag will come by for a song.