Eros Ascending: Book 1 of Tales of the Velvet Comet by Mike Resnick Page A

set the chairs up, and she seated herself between the two men.
    “I still feel I'm missing something,” remarked Redwine, who had been dwelling on her last remark.
    “How can I put it?” said the Security chief. “Lori isn't a working prostitute any more, but she still helps train a problem case from time to time.”
    “It's a way to make a little extra money and put some old skills to use before they atrophy,” she explained with a smile. “Although calling Gamble a problem is like calling the Vainmill Syndicate a thriving little company.”
    “You see,” said Rasputin, “Gamble approaches everything in life as if he were back in the ring. Finesse just isn't one of his strong points.”
    “Neither is endurance,” added Lori caustically.
    “So your job is to make him a better lover?” asked Redwine.
    She laughed. “I'll settle for making him a barely adequate lover. He's got ten thumbs, two left feet, and the personality of a fern.”
    “Then why is he here?”
    “The Madonna thought he could draw a crowd, so to speak, and for the first couple of weeks he did. Then word got out, and he's been a pretty lonely young man ever since. Usually the only time he works is when we're packed, or when some sports groupie asks for him—and believe me, they never ask for him twice.”
    “I assume you're rooting for the Duke, then,” said Redwine.
    “Of course not,” she replied.
    “But —”
    “Look,” she said. “After all the days and weeks I've spent in bed with that body, I'll be damned if I want to see somebody smash it to pieces. You're an accountant, Harry—you ought to understand the concept of protecting your investment.”
    He smiled. “Well, when you put it that way...”
    Suddenly all the ringsiders fell silent, and Redwine saw that the Duke was approaching the ring. The pit boss stopped beneath a high bar, leaped up, chinned himself five or six quick times, and then continued his approach. When he reached the ring he climbed the stairs, bent over, and stepped through the ropes. He was a burly man, built along the lines of Rasputin, though about four inches taller. He wore nothing but a pair of sweat pants, and his muscular body glistened with perspiration.
    He nodded to a couple of people in the small audience—Redwine recognized them as casino employees—and began dancing around, shadow boxing and lashing out with an occasional kick.
    DeWitt entered the ring perhaps two minutes later, the physical personification of a Greek god. He wore brief bathing trunks, his left arm was strapped securely behind his back, and he had lead weights taped to his Achilles’ tendons, where they wouldn't come into contact with his opponent if he landed a kick.
    He looked rather bored, especially in contrast to the Duke, and his torso and legs were absolutely dry.
    “Idiot!” muttered Lori. She rose from her chair, climbed up to the ring, and had DeWitt deposit a huge wad of gum in her hand.
    “If there's another guy aboard the Comet who chews gum, I've never met him,” she muttered as she rejoined Redwine and Rasputin.
    “He looks reasonably fit,” commented Redwine. “No more than five or ten pounds over the weight he fought at.”
    “He looks beautiful ,” she replied earnestly. “You ought to see him with his clothes off!” She paused. “What a goddamned pity that he has to move!”
    A young man stepped into the ring, called the two antagonists together, and quietly explained the ground rules to them.
    “Is he the referee?” asked Redwine.
    Rasputin shook his head. “There isn't any referee,” he answered. “I told you—this is a grudge match.”
    “Then what's he doing there?”
    “Explaining that if Gamble gets his left hand free and uses it, all the bets are off. It won't stop the fight, of course—I mean, who the hell is going to get in there and try to separate them?—but the casino will return all the money.”
    The young man directed the two fighters to their corners and then