Tales from Mos Eisley Cantina Read Free Page A

bandstand, then stared out over the crowd. Not wanting to turn his back. Probably a native. I wondered if he’d consider it polite to ask his name, or if he’d take a swing at me. “Good band,” he muttered. “What’re you doing on Tatooine?”
    I set down my mug beside the Ommni. “Good question,” I said stiffly. “We’ve played the best palladiums in six systems.”
    “I believe it. You’re excellent. But you haven’t answered my question.”
    I began to warm toward him. “You’re looking at it.” I nodded down toward Figrin’s gaming table. “We were passing through and got stuck. You work around here?”
    “Yah.” Sounding blue-gray, he picked up my mug. “I tend bar up the street. Rough living, but somebody’s gotta keep the droids from taking over.”
    I hissed softly in a range humans find inaudible. Droids improve life. I was getting ready to remind him when he said “Keep your reed wet, my friend,” and hustled away.
    Was he one of the rare, approachable types? Had that been a warning? I looked for Thwim by his green cape and twitching snout, but I couldn’t spot either.
    Soon Figrin rejoined us on the bandstand. “Losing?” I murmured as he plugged in his horn.
    “Naturally. Give me an A.” We swung back to work. At the table just below us, something changed hands with infinitesimal, micron-per-minute movements: a normal Mos Eisley business deal.
    Something else—something huge—lumbered intoview. Two gargantuan Whiphids—two and a half meters of tusk and claw and pale yellow fur, lashed together with a garland of imported greenery—danced toward our stage with their long furry arms draped around each other. I stood on a platform, but their heads towered over mine.
    D’Wopp stared rapturously into the broad, leathery, tusk-bottomed face of his bride. Without seeing the surreptitious traders already occupying the closest table, the Despot’s owner and her professional hunter sank onto empty chairs. They started untwisting greenery.
    I held my head at an angle that made it look as if I were staring out over the dance floor, but actually, I was watching one of Jabba’s toughs, an anemic, gray-skinned Duro, glide in our direction … alone.
    A trio of Pappfaks twirled past, entwining their turquoise tentacles in something that looked like a prenuptial embrace of their own. They nearly tripped over a mouse droid wheeling toward Lady Val. Seeing the droid, our hostess bride excused herself from D’Wopp with a fond pat of his lumpy head. She followed the droid toward her kitchens.
    The Duro’s red eyes lit. He edged along the dance floor, approached D’Wopp, paused, and bowed. “Gooood hunting, Whiphid?” Jabba’s Duro shouted, gargling through rubbery lips. He extended a thin, knobby hand.
    D’Wopp’s massive paw closed on the Duro’s arm, dangling a ribbon of leaves. “Explain that remark, Duro, or I shall serve your roasted ribs to my lady for breakfast.”
    “No-o, no-o.” The Duro rocked his head, cringing. “I do not signify your lo-ovely mate. I am addressing D’Wopp, bounty hunter of great r-repute, am I not?”
    Placated, D’Wopp released the gray arm. “I am he.” He tilted his head back. “Is there someone you want splashed, Duro?”
    I breathed a little easier, too. Playing by memorymeans occasional boredom and backflashes, but sometimes it saves your neck. I kept listening and playing.
    “Has the lovely br-ride offered any game yet?” asked the Duro.
    D’Wopp flicked one tusk with a foreclaw. “What is your point?”
    I strained to hear the Duro answer. “There is a big-ger-r boss on Tatooine, excellent one. Lady Valarian pays him protection money. A Whiphid who truly looves the hunt doesn’t settle for small bait. My employer just offered a r-record bounty. You’re probably not looking for work at the moment, but opportunities like this come r-rarely.”
    So the toughs were baiting Lady Val through her bridegroom—and not us! Goggle-eyed, I hit a