Get Salty - 9.355

[Bear Banthabrand]

On Ord Mantell, there was a saying: “A man who needs directions is as welcome as a savrip at a banquet.”

I recalled those words as I looked out of my window and down into the seething broth of low lives slumming in the streets below. It was market day, and the Devaronian Quarter was packed with rickety stalls and shabby merchants, flogging whatever trinkets fell off the back of the last freighter in town. The Devaronian Quarter was one of six alien quarters in Drelliad’s Nest, a labyrinthian gauntlet of xenophobic cut-throats etched into the narrow canyon walls of the city. These streets were nameless and the buildings unmarked, such was the attitude towards outsiders, but for humans like me, the residents of Drelliad’s Nest reserved a special kind of contempt. And, for a savrip at a banquet, nothing was for free.

Charity and hospitality being dirty words amongst the locals, I had to dig deep into my coffers just to get there. There, being the Hotel Redgrass, and my coffers, being a weathered old pair of leatheris boots I kept under the bed. Lefty was empty, and when I gave old Righty a shake, the faint tinkling in the toes did a number on my confidence. The boot was upended and a modest pile of credit chits fell into my hand. That was the extent of my own personal fortune; the rest of it had been blown on directions, a cab, a long-haul flight, and an ugly divorce. I pocketed the credits and performed a routine gear check: clothes, credits, blaster, boots. Satisfied, in my own way, I left the room and headed downstairs.

In the lobby, a group of ugnaughts were squealing at each other and jostled over dismembered protocol droid parts. When I walked into a chandelier with a clang and a curse, the ugnaughts dispersed, scattering golden limbs in their wake. It struck me, literally, just how low the ceilings were in that place and I wondered if they’d ever received wookiee guests before. I liked to think that, if that ever happened, it wouldn’t be droid arms I’d be tramping through. In appearance, the Hotel Redgrass was true to its name: the ceilings were painted red, the floors carpeted red, and the walls were made of coarse crumbling red bricks. Everything else was cheap imitation gold, like the low chandeliers and enormous vases stuffed with, of all things, bunches of redgrass. I was beginning to see a theme.

“Excuse me, pal,” I said, upon arriving at the reception desk, “Could you help me out with something?”

The receptionist, a squat Sullustan in a red and gold-trimmed jacket, walked away. I cleared my throat. He rummaged in a drawer. There was a bell, I rang it. He produced a water bottle and started spraying redgrass bundles. I called out, and waved in case he had difficulty hearing (which was unlikely with those ears), but nothing. And then, it came to me: my hand dipped inside my pocket and, beckoned by the sweet sweet jingle of credits, the receptionist floated over. Not wasting any time, I placed a 10 credit chit on the desk and presented him with a worn holoflimsy.

“Have you seen this woman?”

“I am… not familiar with her, sir,” said the Sullustan, he had a soft melodic voice.

“She rented a room here three nights ago!”

He shrugged like he was made out of air, and started drifting back towards his redgrass. His retreat was cut short by the ring of another 10 credits being deposited onto his desk. He considered the flimsy a second time.

“Ah, yes. I do recognise this woman. Rented a room three nights ago, I think.”

“Yeah, no kidding. There was a man with her, right?”

“Man? I don’t quite recall…”

“That jog your memory?” I said, slapping another chit onto the counter.

“Now that you mention it, yes. Another human, I think.”

“And when did you last see him?”

Ten credits.

“Why,” the receptionist stared into the ether, and continued in his own vacant sing-song way, “It must’ve been… yes, three nights ago.”

Perhaps it was my barely contained rage, but when I grunted, he was quick to add, “When they were leaving the hotel, you see.”

“What, they were checking out already?”

“No, you see.”

“And did they return together?”

Ten credits.

“No, you see.”

“Where did they go?” I said, accidently surrendering two chits in my enthusiasm.

“The casino, of course.”

“The casino! Where is it?”

And there it was. A slight tilt of the head, a knowing glance, and the receptionist departed like a cloud on the breeze. But I was not to be outdone, not when I was that close. As he reached for the water bottle, I pressed into his hand three more credit chits, and allowed my desperation to do the talking.

“You will find the casino in the Rodian Quarter.”

“Rodian Quarter… where’s-”

“Good evening, sir.”

There was nothing else I could do. As the receptionist tended his redgrass, I watched. Maybe it was that strange, jowled, flappy face of his, but damn, if he didn't look positively drunk with satisfaction. And rightly so: little labia face just made himself an easy hundred credits at my expense, leaving me with fifty credits to spare. So, with fifty credits in my pocket and the shirt on my back, I went out into the bustling streets in search of my quarry. I had the element of surprise, I had her scent, and her name, and soon, she would know mine. My name is Bear Banthabrand, and I am probably the worst bounty hunter in the galaxy.

[Bear Banthabrand]

“Bring us the girl and wipe away the debt.”

That’s what they said. Maybe it was their warm smiles or their winsome ways, but something stirred in me that night, and I felt compelled to oblige my new Gamorrean friends their strange request. Their blaster barrels had a way of winking at me just so. And had I known where the job would take me, I might’ve just looked that old blaster in the eye, and winked back.

I was quick to find the Rodian Quarter: in the street, some kids were debating the ground rules for a new game, and it was decided that the Rodian Quarter, which was just beyond the Ithorian dung sculptures, was strictly out of bounds. It turns out they were playing bounty hunters, too. In locating the casino, my luck dried up like the wretched dung sculptures; the sun had set by the time I stumbled upon it, and that was only because a drunken Gran stumbled into me, muttering about loaded chance cubes and bankruptcy. So, I followed the trail. The casino was a hole, literally, carved into the ravine wall like a den for scavenger wolves.

Once inside, I discovered that, what the locals called a casino, the rest of the civilised galaxy referred to as a cantina. It was a moody place, with a bright island of illuminated counters in the middle, and around the outside, about a dozen squalid little alcoves that housed sabacc tables and jubilee wheels. I approached the bar like I belonged there and rapped my knuckles on the counter. The bartenders, a couple of thuggish Sayormi somewhere south of thirty, were propped up against a refrigerator, watching a vintage huttball game on screens overhead.

“You don’t mind if I help myself, right?” I called out. One of them became unstuck, and strutted towards me, his head swaying with every measured step. My gaze was averted long enough to keep a straight face. When he finally arrived, I tossed a chit down, and afforded him a fleeting glance, “Give me your coldest cheapest ale.”

While the bartender willed his limbs to life, I became distracted by a chorus of triumphant squeals coming from the back of the room. In the alcove there, a familiar party of Ugnaughts had climbed atop their stools to celebrate a victorious game of Zinbiddle; airborne credits fell like rain about their feet as they danced and grunted happily amongst themselves. Their opponents, a trio of Devaronians, vacated their seats with faces to turn blue milk sour. The last to leave was so incensed by his embarrassing defeat, that he seized one of the victors by his scruffy overalls and lifted him up off the ground. They were eye-to-eye for but a moment, when a lumbering zed droid hoisted him up by his horns. In his surprise, the Devaronian dropped the Ugnaught, who rolled under the table, and was removed from the casino kicking and cursing.

“Corellian.”

The Sayormi had reappeared and presented me with a mug of frothy beer. One whiff confirmed what he said to be true: Corellian ale, the cheapest, most common beer in the galaxy. I took a swig - at least it was cold. There was a tinkling of credits as the bartender deposited a few chits in front of me. My hand clamped down upon his, pressing it against the glass.

“Keep the change,” I said, and then turned his hand over to plant the last of my hard-earned credits into his sweaty palm, “I’m looking for a girl.”

“Zis iz not zat kind of bar, outzider.”

“You don’t say?” I presented him with the holoflimsi, “This girl was here three nights ago. Do you remember?”

“I remember. Ve don’t get many hyumans around here, and zere vere two of zem. A man also.”

“Did you notice anything strange? Did they meet someone?”

A change came over him. The hard angular ridges of his face appeared to soften, he smiled, as if privy to some secret joke. His fingers unfurled and he glanced at the handful of credits.

“Do you really zink I vill zing for zis... pocketmoney!?”

“You got yourself 45 credits there, chum. If I were you, I’d take the coin, and tell me what I want to know.”

Now the bartender laughed, “I zink you have had enough to drink, friend. Leave now, before I zet ze droid on you.”

“But… where is he?” I asked, a picture of false surprise. I leaned forward on the glowing counter, and liked to imagine the glow from below made me look pretty damn fierce, “That’s right! He’s outside dealing with that horny bastard, isn’t he?”

My arm fired like a piston, and snatched him by the shirt to pull him in close, “Now, I have no credits, a little patience, and a big gun, so let’s trade. Choose your currency, kid!”

“I chooze patience, of course!” he hissed, “But zere iz nozing I can tell you!”

There was a clatter as my blaster was planted on the bar, with the business end teasing the barman’s belly. He went rigid and insisted he was telling the truth. When my finger feathered the trigger, he made an unflattering sort of squeaking sound that attracted the attention of his fellow bartender.

“Zere vas another!” he blurted, “Zey zat and drank, but I did not zee his face- but I can show you!”

The blaster pistol, on which he had just been nearly skewered, was returned to its holster. I gave him a nod.

“Then show me.”