Free Space For Hire (Seven For Space) by William F Nolan Page A

Deimos. A shagbeast had him by the ass. I gunned the shag. And for that he owes me. But I don't want what he hasn't got. I'm not after credits."
    "Then what are you after?" She gave me a curious look in mid-gesture, the coffeepot in her hand.
    "Info." I shook Hovel until his eyes jiggered; then I smacked him again. It didn't help much.
    He slumped onto a nearstool by the table, groaning, holding his head in both hands.
    "Get that coffee into him," I said. "Now!"
    "Gimme two seconds willya?" TeTe kept fiddling with the ancient Moonstove. The pot bubbled and hissed.
    "Now!" I said.
    "Okay, okay," she said, carrying over the steaming pot. She got out a cup. Filled it.
    I took the stuff to Hovel, made him drink it black. He coughed and sputtered but he got it down.
    "More," I directed. "He's still half out and I want him talking."
    We continued this routine for maybe five cups. Then I grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. "I need some info, Gimpy. You understand me?"
    "Sure … sure, Sam … Jus' lemme … pull myself together. My head hurts."
    I stood above him while he fought the juice. He'd had plenty but the hot java plus my wakeup treatment had brought him to the surface again.
    "You know every goongun for hire on Luna," I said. "I need to find out about three particular ones."
    "Which … which ones, Sam?"
    Hovel had smuggled illegal tobacco plants for awhile; then he'd gone into black-market soapweed. He'd even had a stable of goongirls until they gave him the ditch. He knew what I had to find out.
    "Three Loonies who work for Kane. They tried for a hit on ole doc Umani twice in Bubble City. On the last trip they grabbed his daughter. I want names. And I want to know where to find them."
    Hovel rubbed his forehead. "You wanta know a lot, Sam. I could get in some big trouble playin' goonstool for you."
    My eyes narrowed and I leaned on the table, lowering my face to line up with his. I looked mean and I was. "Talk to me or I give you a lot more than Moon trouble. I'll toss you into that sandcar and haul you back to Earth and turn you over to O'Malley. He's got big fists and a long memory." I gave him my wolf's grin. "O'Malley would lick his chops over you."
    "Aw, Sam … you wouldn't do that to a pal?"
    "Not if you sing for me I won't."
    He groaned, sweating, hands shaking. He was caught and he knew it; there was nothing he could do but give me what I wanted.
    TeTe watched us from the far corner of the hut. She crouched there, out of the action, wanting no part of a guy like me.
    "I — I think I know the goons you're after," said Gimpy. "They're on Kane's paysheet, I know. Heard' em braggin' about it. He uses 'em from time to time on hard-knuckle jobs. They don't mind tellin' about it neither. They figure it's kind of an honor, doin' knuck jobs for the Robot King."
    "Names," I prodded.
    "I just know ‘em by their nicks," whined Hovel. "One's called Fruit, cuz he likes eatin' all kinds of it. He especially loves them big cherry plums from Venus. Usually he's got cherry plum stains all over his shirt."
    "Snap it up," I growled. "Who're the others?"
    The Gimp scrubbed at his cheek. He was nervous but he was talking and that's what mattered.
    "The second one's called Spider. He's shaped that way. Kinda lumpy and hairy. Third's called Kid Smiley, cuz he never does. Smile, I mean. The nick's kind of an irony, see?"
    "I get it," I said. "Where do they stash?"
    His face glistened with fear sweat. "I'm … I'm not sure I can —"
    I doubled my fist. Hovel flinched away from me. "Wait. Wait a sec. I can remember. Yeah, I do remember."
    "You're lucky to have such a good memory," I grinned. "Saves you getting your nose busted."
    He returned my grin with a sour, uncertain one of his own. "Try the Jet Juicer in Rim City. Kane's goons go there for spinkas."
    "How are they stocked?"
    "Fruit carries a custom .30-70 quickfire sleevebreech Rugby-Powell with him. Spider's off the iron; he packs a skinner in his boot. Long blade.