Chapter 7
THE DESK SERGEANT must have been given his orders while Grimes was on the way down from the Commissioner’s office. There were forms ready for signing. There was a receipt book.
“What have you got that other spacers haven’t, citizen?” he asked. “But as long as you’ve got money that’s all that really matters. Ha, ha. Now, the fines . . . Grievous bodily harm to the persons of three police officers at five hundred credits a time . . . That’s fifteen hundred. Replacement of one complete uniform . . . One hundred and seven credits and fifteen cents . . . Repairs and dry cleaning to two other uniforms . . . Twenty-three credits fifty . . . Medical services to the assaulted officers . . . One hundred and fifty credits . . . Riotous behavior, breach of the peace, etc. . . . Two hundred and fifty credits. One night’s board and lodging in our palatial cells . . . One hundred and twenty-five credits. Ten percent service charge . . . Two hundred and fifteen credits and fifty-seven cents. Making a total of two thousand, three hundred and seventy-one credits and twenty-two cents.”
“Is there no discount for cash?” asked Grimes sarcastically. The policeman ignored this.
“A check will be acceptable,” he said, “or any of the major credit cards.”
Grimes pulled out his checkbook and looked at the stubs. He was one of those people who prefer to keep their own accounts rather than put himself at the mercy of the computers. He was still quite a way from being flat broke. He made out a check for the required amount, signed it and handed it over, was given a receipt in exchange.
“And now, citizen, if you’ll sign these . . .” These were official forms, and by affixing his autograph to them he made himself entirely responsible for Ms. Connellan during the remainder of her stay on Austral. He would be liable for any debts that she had incurred. He would be liable, too, for any further fines, for the costs of any civil actions brought against her and so on and so on and so on.
Una Freeman was striking a very hard bargain. It was a seller’s market.
He signed.
When he straightened up from the desk he turned to see that the Green Hornet, escorted by two policewomen who looked even tougher than herself, had been brought up from the cells. She was not a prepossessing sight. One of her eyes had been blackened. Her green hair was in a tangle. Her clothing was soiled and torn.
She scowled at Grimes.
She said sullenly, “I suppose you’re expecting me to thank you. But you’re only helping yourself, aren’t you? We both know that.”
“That’s the way of it,” said Grimes. “And now we’ll get you to the Shipping Office to sign on, and then you’ll report straightaway to the chief officer, aboard the ship. He’ll find you a job to keep you out of mischief.”
“What about my gear?” she demanded. “All my things are still at The Rusty Rocket. I can’t join a ship without so much as a toothbrush or change of underwear.”
“We’ll stop off on the way to the Shipping Office,” Grimes told her.
There was a public telephone in this groundfloor office. Grimes used it to order a cab. He said a polite good day to the sergeant and the two female constables then went outside to wait, almost pushing Ms. Connellan ahead of him. He realized that he was afraid that Una Freeman might change her mind and was anxious to remove himself from close proximity to her as soon as possible.
The Green Hornet asked him for a cigarette. He told her that he did not use them. He produced and filled his pipe, lit it. She snarled at him, saying, “It’s all right for you.”
He told her, “Just stand to leeward of me and you’ll be getting a free smoke.” She snarled at him again, wordlessly.
The cab came. Grimes got in beside the driver so that she could sit in solitary state on the back seat. The ride to The Rusty Rocket was made in silence; the driver, unrepresentative of his breed, was not a conversationalist and Ms. Connellan seemed to be sulking. This suited Grimes, who was in no mood to be ear-bashed.
They arrived at the shabby hostelry, a small, pyramidal building with functionless vanes giving it a faint similitude to an archaic spaceship. Grimes asked the driver to wait for them. He and the Green Hornet went inside.
***
There were unpleasantries.
Ms. Connellan did not have—or said that she did not have—the money to pay her bill. Grimes had been expecting that. What he had not been expecting was to be presented with another bill, a heavy one, to cover repairs to the replacement of various pieces of equipment and furniture. It was obvious, he was obliged to admit, that the playmaster had had its face smashed in, and recently. On the other hand the thing looked as though it had been on the point of dying of old age when it had been put out of its misery. There were two broken bar stools. There was a dent in the stained surface of the bar. There was a bin of broken bottles which, according to the sour-faced manageress, had been swept off the shelves behind the bar by the berserk Green Hornet.
“Did you do this damage?” asked Grimes exasperatedly.
“I did not!” snapped Ms. Connellan.
“She did!” yelped the manageress. “Like a wild beast she was! Screaming and shouting . . .”
“I had to scream to make myself heard! I had to fight to defend myself!”
“If there was a fight, you started it!”
“I did not!” She turned to Grimes. “Pay no heed to her, Captain. She’s lying like a flatfish!”
“Lying, you say, you deceptive bitch! Who’s lying, I ask. Not me. And I’m holding on to your bags until I’m paid for all the wanton destruction!”
“You’ll let me have my baggage,” snarled the Green Hornet, advancing threateningly on the landlady, “or . . .”
“Ladies, ladies,” admonished Grimes, interposing himself between them.
“Ladies . . .” sneered Ms. Connellan. “I’ll thank you not to tack that archaic label on to me!”
“She admits it!” jeered the other woman. “She’s no lady!”
“Who are you calling no lady, you vinegar-pussed harridan? I’ll . . .”
“You will not!” almost shouted Grimes, pushing Ms. Connellan to one side before she could strike the manager. “Now, listen to me! Unless you behave yourself I’ll put you in the hands of the police again. The Commissioner’s an old friend of mine . . .” (Well, she had been a friend, and rather more than a friend, once, a long time ago.) “I’ll ask her to keep you under lock and key until I’m ready to lift ship. And as for you, madam . . .”
“Don’t talk to me like that, buster. I’m not one of your crew.”
“Can I see that bill again, madam?” She thrust the sheet of dirty and crumpled paper at him. “Mphm. I see that you’re charging for a new playmaster. And that I am not paying. One quarter of the sum you’ve put down should buy a good second-hand one, one far better than that . . . wreck. The bar stools? I’ll let that pass, although I still think that you’re overcharging. The dent in the bar? No. That’s an old damage, obviously. And now, all these bottles . . . Were they all full bottles? I’ll not believe that, madam. I note, too, that you’ve charged retail price. Don’t you buy your liquor at wholesale rates?”
“I’m an honest woman, mister!”
“Tell that to the Police Commissioner,” said Grimes. “I’ve no doubt that she’s already well acquainted with your honesty.” He began to feed figures into his wrist companion. “One second-hand playmaster . . . I’ve seen them going for as-low as one hundred credits, quite good ones . . . Six bottles of Scotch at four credits each wholesale . . . Twenty-four credits . . . But as they were almost certainly no more than half full, that makes it twelve credits . . .” He raised his eyebrows. “Brandy, at twenty-four credits a bottle? Even as a retail price that’s steep.”
“Either you pay,” said the woman stubbornly, “or I call the police.”
“Do just that,” Grimes told her. “As I’ve said already, Commissioner Freeman is an old friend of mine.”
“Like hell she is. She hates spacers.”
“In general, yes. But in particular? Ask yourself why she released Ms. Connellan to my custody, although usually she insists that spacers serve their full sentences, with no fines and no bail.”
“All right,” said the woman suddenly. “All right. I’ll take your word for what you say you owe me. Just don’t come back in here again, ever. And tell that green bitch of yours to keep clear of my premises.”
“Who are you calling a green bitch, you draggle-tailed slut?” screamed Kate Connellan. “I’ll . . .”
“You will not!” snapped Grimes. “Collect your bags and put them in the cab. And now, madam, if you’ll make out a receipt for two hundred and ten credits . . . That covers the playmaster, the bar stools and a very generous estimate of the cost of liquor lost by breakage.”
Check and receipt changed hands.
Grimes went out to the waiting cab in which the Green Hornet, two battered cases on the seat beside her, was sullenly established. He got in beside the driver, told him to carry on to the spaceport.