The Sanctuary of Regret
Chapter Eleven
Darmas Pollaran swirled the dregs of his Sonic Screwdriver as he reached under the table for the blaster hidden there.
The bouncer had locked up no less than ten minutes ago and boarded a cab with a pack of the cantina's exhausted dancers. The neon lights lining the main thoroughfare of the Corellian Sector on Nar Shaddaa shed their colourful glow on the now deserted sector.
The purple neon skirting the VIP section of the Stars End Cantina was the only source of light inside the bar. One section flickered in a too-even rhythm before winking out. The last strains of 'That Slippery Little Hutt of Mine' wound down on the jukebox, until all Darmas could hear was the crackle of the ice cubes fading in his glass.
He glanced up with hardened green eyes, following the dim neon to the mirrors surrounding the bar. A vibration tinkled the bottles lining the shelves. His index finger curled around the blaster's trigger and the corner of his mouth edged up.
"If you're here to rob me of my winnings, do it like a man and play me for it. I'll cut," he called out, needling the intruder.
Jonas Balkar emerged from his hiding place and flicked on the overhead lights in Darmas's section. "I'm not here to play games, Pollaran."
"Then grab a bottle of that low rent swill you like and join me."
Darmas retracted his hand from under the table and topped up his drink. His gaze followed Jonas as he rounded the bar. His left hand was curled around the neck of the kri'gee bottle while two fingers pinched a tumbler between them. His pistol hand remained free.
"Long time—figured you'd show up eventually," Darmas drawled and took a swig of his drink.
Jonas slid into the booth across from his contact. "Last I heard you were heading for a lengthy stay on Belsavis."
"You didn't think they'd actually hold me, did you?" Darmas muttered over the rim of his glass. "Some things are worth more than credits to the right people. Even managed to earn myself a new start here."
Jonas poured two fingers of kri'gee. "You've got friends in high places."
"I've got dirt on people in high places you mean. Still naïve as ever, m'boy."
"I prefer—honourable, if it's all the same," Jonas grumbled.
"There's no honour in what we do—we're all little more than womprats in a woodpile."
"That's about what I'd expect from a sack of filth like you."
"Now is that any way to talk to your father?" Darmas smirked and crunched the remnants of the ice cube in his mouth.
"You're right. This is how I should talk to you." Jonas drew his pistol and leveled it between Darmas's eyes. "My mother's dead because of you. I should've done this a long time ago."
"You didn't then and you won't now. The muja fruit didn't fall far from the tree did it?" Darmas curled his hand over the pistol's muzzle and forced it down.
Jonas recoiled. "She trusted you, loved you—how you could do that to her? And to me? I was just a kid."
"A kid too nosy for his own good. Once your mother confided to me where the terrorists were, it was all over."
"You didn't have to kill her—or the dissidents."
"That was the job. She was a means to an end, nothing more. The job always does your feeling for you. Piece of fatherly advice? Don't get attached. The day always comes when you have to let go, one way or another. You'd have done the same thing."
"Like hell I would."
"One day you'll see what I mean—or maybe you have already?" Darmas nodded toward the band of white flesh at the base of Jonas's ring finger. "I see married life isn't agreeing with you?"
"That's none of your damn business."
"Sure it is. Gutsy move on your part, marrying a Sith—even though she barely qualifies. Have to wonder what was in Marr's head to put her in charge of Imperial Intelligence. She's been played more times than this deck." Darmas tapped the stack of cards to his right.
"Shut your mouth. You don't know her."
"Neither do you. You figure Marr had a seasoned Cipher in his stable, one that had gone toe to toe with the best of the Sith and he picks Beniko because she can do a little Force mumbo jumbo?" He wriggled his fingers like a magician casting a spell. "The woman couldn't spot a mole if it was on her face."
Jonas dove over the table and snatched him up by the collar. "That's my wife you're talking about."
"Ex-wife."
"We're on a break, that's all." Jonas released Darmas and shoved him back against the padded backrest in one gesture.
"She's not your type—a rebound? I think so."
"Stop acting like you know me."
"We're more alike than you'd care to admit."
"The hell we are."
"Come come now, m'boy. I see the signs—you've been killing yourself for years now. Nights spent hunched over a bottle, a deathstick habit you hope no one notices—even those expensive Huttese cigars you can't afford—nice diversions until you realize they don't work. You figured marriage would fill the void, but no dice. I almost feel sorry for her."
"Are you done?" Jonas snapped.
"Put it this way—if your wife had any talent for intelligence work, she'd have run the other way the moment she laid eyes on you."
Jonas scowled. "You think you're so damn good at this."
"I am good. Humour your old man—let's see what she looks like."
"You've talked to Lana on the holo. She told me."
"Not her."
Jonas downed his drink in one gulp. "You must think I'm an idiot."
"Look at me. You think this is what I had in mind when I was your age? Living in a cantina, parting fools from their credits? Biding my time 'til the real currency comes in? Don't end up like me."
"Ah, the cautionary tale," Jonas nodded. "You must want something pretty bad to start playing Dad at your age."
Darmas twisted his glass between his hands. Jonas recognized the inherited gesture and frowned into his tumbler.
"I'm curious—why didn't you tell your wife about me?"
"You're nothing to me, why would I?"
"Fair enough," Darmas sighed. "Look, I've made mistakes—but saving you wasn't one of them. If that's all you take away from our chat, I'll be satisfied."
"You would've blown that freighter regardless of whether I was on board or not—the job—that's all that's ever mattered to you. That's what this is, isn't it? You want back in the Empire. You think you can use Lana to stage a comeback."
"I've spent thirty-seven years in the Republic—practically as long as you've been alive. I don't even sound Imperial anymore, there's no going back for me, but I'd like to fix things, I'm not getting any younger. Ask yourself, how I know your demons so well—it's because I've been on a first name basis with the same ones for years."
"You'll forgive me if I'm skeptical."
"Just think about it—see if you can find it in yourself to give your old man another chance."
Jonas refilled his glass and threw it back. "I have my reasons for being here and you were never one of them."
"Ah yes, on to the reason for your visit then. You're here to find the infamous Dr. Kimble and his lovely wife. Or shall I say, Master Kira."
Jonas choked on his drink. "They got married?"
"Oh, it's not common knowledge of course, but what sort of information broker would I be, if I didn't know what was happening right under my nose? They've got a kid too, about yay high," Darmas held his hand about a meter above the floor.
Jonas's brows met pensively. "You might be right about Lana—there's no way this is a good idea."
"And another petal to the mystery unfurls," Darmas drawled over his glass.
"Yeah, whatever. Do you know where they are?"
"Of course. Master Kira—continues to cling to the Jedi way and is helping the less fortunate. She protects them, keeps them clothed and fed—sees to it they get free medical. Pretty sweet gig for Nar Shaddaa's most unwanted."
"Makes sense she'd go back to her roots, they took her in as a kid. What about Kimble?"
"That's where things get a little complicated."
Jonas rolled his eyes and sighed. "Figures. What's his deal?"
"Good deeds don't come cheap. Someone has to foot the bill."
"Let me guess—whatever he's into isn't legal."
"There may be hope for you yet, m'boy."
"I'll have you know I was this close to being Assistant Director of the SIS." Jonas pinched the air for effect.
"The SIS is not Imperial Intelligence. My point still stands. I take it you've heard of the Face Merchants?"
"I thought they were shut down years ago."
"On Coruscant—but they too, believe in fresh starts. You didn't think the Black Sun would give up just because they were caught?"
"Farking idiot. He's in deep isn't he?"
"You don't get much deeper, that's for sure. He's swapping faces faster than Rodians lose at Pazaak and making a fortune off thugs and kingpins alike. I'd actually considered seeing him myself—but why mess with perfection?"
"Why indeed?" Jonas said, his voice stony.
Darmas swirled his drink. "If you want my advice, I suggest you start with the Missus. Figure out how you're gonna cut loose those lost souls she keeps as pets. I doubt she'll leave them willingly."
"She might if she knew what her worse half is up to."
"People see what they want. She's probably gotten good at rationalizing over the years. I'd spin the guilt angle myself—make her see this is no place for a kid to grow up. If that doesn't work—you could stage an abduction to drive the point home—and while the tyke and his mother are away, a well-placed thermal detonator would take care of the rest of the problem."
"Stay out of it," Jonas barked. "I'll handle it—my way."
"When will you learn? Asking nicely doesn't work."
"Killing innocent people isn't the answer either. What the hell was Lana even thinking coming to you?"
"You'll find my information is accurate and my suggestions while unpalatable to you, are effective. My informants tell me Master Kira was last seen near the High-Security Lockdown, in the Alien Outreach Center—your friends in the SIS post there might be of use if things get dicey."
"I just want to know one thing. What are you getting out of this? You're not doing it out of the goodness of your heart…you'd actually need one for that."
"Your wife has quite the list of people she wants found and believes she'll be compensating me with an adequate amount of credits, but I assure you, my endgame is far more valuable than money—it's you."
"You'll pardon me if I don't find that comforting."
"I hope this isn't the last we'll be seeing of each other, m'boy. Got a place to stay?"
Jonas nodded. "Yeah. I'm sure you know where."
"Y'know, that's your greatest flaw—you get attached—to people, places. Stop being sentimental. Take my advice. Get out of that three-room hovel and get a new place. Start fresh. I guarantee that's what your mother would've wanted."
Jonas finished his drink and sprang out of the booth. "I got what I came for, party's over."
"You know where to find me when asking nice doesn't work out," Darmas sipped the last of his drink. "Keep the bottle."
Jonas left the bottle on the table out of spite and left the way he came. On the roof of the cantina, he took in Nar Shadaa's gaudy cityscape. The artificially generated breeze carried the smell of exhaust, flat beer, and premium deathsticks and then he saw the source. A party barge drifted past, and the retro hit from the band Eloo and the Stinky 7 blared through the gyrating bodies on board.
The song took him back to the night he and Lana barely escaped Acina's death squad. They'd holed up in his safehouse and worked together on a way to free Theron from his captors. His lip crept up with the memory. He climbed down a fire escape and dropped into the alley below.
The lingering smell of booze and deathsticks haunted him and his attention landed on an after-hours club he knew well. He'd been down that road enough times to know it would end on a cloud-soft bed with too many limbs draped over his body and his mind dulled with a stupid joy that would fade too quickly. His gaze fell on the white flesh where his wedding ring had been and Lana's last words to him whispered in his mind.
Think kindly of me while you're away.
He turned his back on the club and retrieved his speeder bike from behind the dumpster and sped off toward the safe house.
((to be continued…))