Unification - Jeri Taylor [62]
“A fat Ferengi has just entered the establishment,” said the Klingon.
“Is that ‘Melor Famagal’ I hear?” asked Riker.
At Amarie’s nod, the lieutenant answered, “It is.”
“I’m on my way.”
Amarie looked over to see Omag ordering food and drink—lots of it, if pattern held. Occasionally he glanced at her and smiled, nodding his ridiculous head, encouraging her to keep playing the runey song.
And Amarie did. She’d rather be playing love themes from operas and hearing the manly voice of the handsome officer near her, but Omag was always good for a big tip at the end of the evening. And if this was to be her last night of work, she’d need it.
The remembrance that by tomorrow she would be unemployed hit her with full force again. The thrill of meeting the Klingon had temporarily driven that depressing thought away, but it returned with grinding impact. What the rune was she going to do? She couldn’t even get off this runey little planet. And there weren’t any more jobs for four-armed keyboard players; she’d been lucky to find this one.
Amarie sighed and tried to concentrate on making sure Omag was happy with her playing. His tip might have to last her for quite a while.
Riker transported to the surface alone, trying not to feel qualms about leaving Gretchen behind on the Enterprise. Her summary rejection of his dinner invitation had stung, and he reflected that this was exactly the kind of unpleasantness he had wanted to avoid. He vowed from this point to keep their relationship on purely neutral ground.
But he had to admit that he had been deeply affected by the vulnerability he had seen exposed in her. Her need to achieve, to be the best, was a desperate and driving force, which, if derailed, left her defenseless.
It was a failing she would have to correct if she were going to make it in Starfleet. Needy people are suscep-tible people, and such people—particularly in security—make mistakes. Mistakes in Gretchen’s branch of service could be life threatening, to herself and to others.
He shook off these dark musings as he entered the hideaway and heard the strains of “Melor Famagal” still playing. There were few patrons in the place, as usual; ahead he saw Worf seated near Amarie, who was managing to make the fourth time through the melody sound varied and fresh.
Riker’s eyes roamed the room and easily found the fat Ferengi, Omag. He was seated at a table with two gorgeous women, stuffing food into his mouth at a prodigious rate, washing it down with what looked like champagne.
Worf caught Riker’s eye and stood, walking casually toward him. The two men glanced toward Omag, who was now pounding the table with his shoe.
“Where is the waiter?” he was squealing, and bits of food fell out of his mouth as he did so. “Is there no waiter in this sorry place?”
Riker and Worf made their way to the table. Riker leaned down toward the fat little man and asked seriously, “Is there a problem?”
“Yes,” snapped Omag. “I need more napkins.” He turned away and slurped more champagne.
“Use your sleeve,” said Riker quietly.
This produced the anticipated effect. Omag turned to him in shocked surprise, eyes wide. “What did you say?” he asked incredulously, as bits of food dangled from his mouth.
Riker found him disgusting. He glanced toward one of the lithe young women who were sipping drinks and pretending to ignore this little encounter. “Or use her sleeve, I don’t care.”
Omag’s squinty eyes narrowed further. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Commander William Riker, the U.S.S. Enterprise.”
“Am I supposed to stand up and salute?” Omag looked at the women and laughed heartily. They joined suit.
“We’re investigating the disappearance of a Vulcan ship—”
“You’ve got the wrong Ferengi. I never trade in Vulcan ships.” “We know you were involved,” persisted Riker. Omag stuffed something long and oily into his mouth and chewed for a moment before responding. “Who would want a Vulcan ship? Vulcans are paci-fists. I deal in warships.” A drizzle of oil squirted from his mouth and he wiped