A Gathering of Widowmakers (The Widowmaker #4) by Mike Resnick Page A
Authors: Mike Resnick
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vouched for his identity?" asked Nighthawk.
"They took our word for the two others—they were atomized this morning—but for a multi-million credit reward, they want to run their own tests," answered the officer. "Still, they paid the money even before they checked it, so they're pretty satisfied with the data we forwarded to them." He paused, staring at Nighthawk, as if still trying to figure out how he'd managed to kill Hairless Jack Bellamy. "I assume you don't want your money in cash?"
"No," replied Nighthawk. He scribbled down a twelve-digit number and handed it to the officer. "Just transfer it to this account at the local branch of the Bank of Deluros and tell them to route it to Deluros VIII."
"You live in the Deluros system?" asked the officer, surprised. "I always figured you lived on the Inner Frontier."
Nighthawk shook his head. "I do."
"We could send it direct to your home world."
"My home world has a branch of the Bank of Deluros," said Nighthawk. "I can get my hands on the money whenever I want, once you've deposited it."
And, thought Kinoshita, this way no one knows where his home world is.
"Well," said the officer, "we haven't had bombs in the building or riots in the street yet. Who are you going to bring us next?"
"I was thinking of Cleopatra Rome."
"Cleopatra Rome!" exclaimed the officer. "You don't believe in making things easy for yourself, do you?"
"What can you tell me about her?"
"I can tell you this: she's going to make killing Bellamy seem like child's play."
13.
Nighthawk decided that as long as they were out of the District, they might as well eat at one of Cataluna's better restaurants before returning. The establishment, modestly named The Apex of the World, was atop one of the city's tallest buildings, and from their table by a window they could look down across the District.
"You wonder why they haven't simply dropped a bomb and wiped the whole place out," commented Kinoshita, gesturing toward the District as they sipped their drinks and waited for their meals to arrive.
"Because they're not fools," answered Nighthawk.
"I don't think I follow you."
"The District looks to be about a mile square, give or take a couple of blocks," said Nighthawk. "New Barcelona's probably got ten million square miles, maybe more. But that little piece of turf, distasteful as its residents may be, unquestionably generates more money than the rest of the planet—hell, the rest of the system—put together."
"They can't tax it, so what good does it do?" said Kinoshita. "It's strictly an underground economy."
"Doesn't matter. Every single thing they buy in the District, from food to weapons to clothing, has to be imported, and the tariff rate is usurious—or it would be under normal circumstances. And the few legitimate businesses that have set up shop in the district just pass the cost along."
" Are there any legitimate businesses?" asked Kinoshita.
"Of course there are," answered Nighthawk. "There are the gun shops, the hotels, the restaurants, the bars. Even the drug dens have to buy couches from the furniture dealers who supply them; the same applies to the hotels and the whorehouses. You're making the mistake of looking at the clientele; try looking at the business owners. They were probably starving in the part of the city we're in now, so they moved to the District. They face a lot more risk, but the rewards are commensurate to the risk. A sandwich at that alien restaurant we ate at costs more than a six-course meal on the roof here—and you wouldn't believe the price that weapon shop was charging for burners and screechers." He paused. "No, if you want to send New Barcelona spiraling into a permanent economic depression, bomb the District."
Their meal arrived at that point. Kinoshita had ordered a mutated shellfish in a cream sauce, while Nighthawk had a steak imported from Pollux IV.
"I hadn't realized how tired I was of soya products," remarked Kinoshita as he dug into his
"They took our word for the two others—they were atomized this morning—but for a multi-million credit reward, they want to run their own tests," answered the officer. "Still, they paid the money even before they checked it, so they're pretty satisfied with the data we forwarded to them." He paused, staring at Nighthawk, as if still trying to figure out how he'd managed to kill Hairless Jack Bellamy. "I assume you don't want your money in cash?"
"No," replied Nighthawk. He scribbled down a twelve-digit number and handed it to the officer. "Just transfer it to this account at the local branch of the Bank of Deluros and tell them to route it to Deluros VIII."
"You live in the Deluros system?" asked the officer, surprised. "I always figured you lived on the Inner Frontier."
Nighthawk shook his head. "I do."
"We could send it direct to your home world."
"My home world has a branch of the Bank of Deluros," said Nighthawk. "I can get my hands on the money whenever I want, once you've deposited it."
And, thought Kinoshita, this way no one knows where his home world is.
"Well," said the officer, "we haven't had bombs in the building or riots in the street yet. Who are you going to bring us next?"
"I was thinking of Cleopatra Rome."
"Cleopatra Rome!" exclaimed the officer. "You don't believe in making things easy for yourself, do you?"
"What can you tell me about her?"
"I can tell you this: she's going to make killing Bellamy seem like child's play."
13.
Nighthawk decided that as long as they were out of the District, they might as well eat at one of Cataluna's better restaurants before returning. The establishment, modestly named The Apex of the World, was atop one of the city's tallest buildings, and from their table by a window they could look down across the District.
"You wonder why they haven't simply dropped a bomb and wiped the whole place out," commented Kinoshita, gesturing toward the District as they sipped their drinks and waited for their meals to arrive.
"Because they're not fools," answered Nighthawk.
"I don't think I follow you."
"The District looks to be about a mile square, give or take a couple of blocks," said Nighthawk. "New Barcelona's probably got ten million square miles, maybe more. But that little piece of turf, distasteful as its residents may be, unquestionably generates more money than the rest of the planet—hell, the rest of the system—put together."
"They can't tax it, so what good does it do?" said Kinoshita. "It's strictly an underground economy."
"Doesn't matter. Every single thing they buy in the District, from food to weapons to clothing, has to be imported, and the tariff rate is usurious—or it would be under normal circumstances. And the few legitimate businesses that have set up shop in the district just pass the cost along."
" Are there any legitimate businesses?" asked Kinoshita.
"Of course there are," answered Nighthawk. "There are the gun shops, the hotels, the restaurants, the bars. Even the drug dens have to buy couches from the furniture dealers who supply them; the same applies to the hotels and the whorehouses. You're making the mistake of looking at the clientele; try looking at the business owners. They were probably starving in the part of the city we're in now, so they moved to the District. They face a lot more risk, but the rewards are commensurate to the risk. A sandwich at that alien restaurant we ate at costs more than a six-course meal on the roof here—and you wouldn't believe the price that weapon shop was charging for burners and screechers." He paused. "No, if you want to send New Barcelona spiraling into a permanent economic depression, bomb the District."
Their meal arrived at that point. Kinoshita had ordered a mutated shellfish in a cream sauce, while Nighthawk had a steak imported from Pollux IV.
"I hadn't realized how tired I was of soya products," remarked Kinoshita as he dug into his
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