On his back on the bare steel bunk, Han felt tortured; he'd coughed until his chest buzzed with almost electrical discomfort. The damp cell didn't help, though Madine had left the metal door open, preserving the illusion that Han wasn't exactly under arrest. He was allowed to keep his clothes, his jacket and boots, although they took his knife. In return he was issued toothpaste, a cheap toothbrush. Then Madine said he had things to do before he could talk with Han. Sure you do, Han thought, cynically observing this power gambit. For an hour or so Han sat, knees under his elbows on the bunk, not wanting to send signals of weakness by resting. As the night wore on, Han began to wonder: had Madine forgotten about him? Was he ever going to ask Han any questions?
Suddenly, Han felt a new chill, deeper than his fever-shivers. What if Madine was on the take? Lots of the vice dicks were. The guy could be on the phone right now to Jeb Hutt, who would call his man Boba Fett...
Han took a breath, trying to gird himself. Fuck it. Fuck it. It was worth it. On the drive to the station, in the cruiser, Madine had told him he'd delivered Leia safe to Chewie, no harm done to her. But he'd added, "You were right: that blond kid is a real handsy prick. Poor little thing, she was just about out."
This had made Han's own hands curl into helpless, trembling fists. God, if—if—he shook his head, to rout the terrible possibilities. It hadn't happened. So if this was what it took, to see Leia safe, fine. Han would do it this way again every time.
After a couple hours, Han brushed his teeth, splashed his face and tried to sleep. He maybe did; it was hard to distinguish dream from sick struggle to process the last two days. Leia was there. All night. Always. He'd lost Leia, somehow, and had to find her. Then he'd see her, and she'd recede, no matter what he said or did. This went on and on in a maddening, grievous cycle that left Han twitching and whimpering as he dozed. "They didn't ask me any questions," Han kept babbling at her, at dream-Leia. "They didn't even ask me any questions."
At about seven am a desk-cop escorted Han to a small room, seated him at a table. There was no window, no tape recorder, not even a pen and pad of paper. Madine entered, with coffee. He paused inside the doorway. The kid was sprawled with almost hostile indolence, chair tilted back against the wall, index finger worrying at a chip in the paint. One long leg was bent against the table, the other outstretched, foot planted on the floor. Madine enjoyed Henry Solo's nervy style. Still, the attitude was a hard sell; the kid was obviously ill, shivering and pale.
"Henry. You don't look so good."
Madine shut the door; he looked fine, even cheerful. Han scowled, realizing Madine had gone off home and caught himself a night's sleep. Huddled into his pilot's jacket, Han said, "It's Han."
Sitting in his own chair, Madine plunked a coffee in front of Han. "That's not what your ID says."
Casually Han reached out for the steaming mug, refusing to display any need or gratitude. "Henry is the name they gave me in Corell Home. But my name is Han. My mother called me Han."
Madine cocked his head. "You were in Corell?"
"Yeah." Han drawled. "Think anyone'll adopt me?"
Madine's lips twitched. "How long?"
"Three to eighteen." Han said flatly, and tried his coffee. It was surprisingly good. The older man sipped his own, made a thoughtful sound. "Busted that place a few years ago."
Han looked sharply up.
"Corruption. The old guy who ran the place was skimming government funds. Thing went full feds."
"Shrike's...in jail?"
Madine shook his head. "Shot himself."
Slowly, Han lowered his chair legs to the floor. His fingers went unconsciously to his scar.
"Where'd you go when you aged out?" Madine asked.
"Army."
"See action?"
"Korea. Chosin Reservoir. Me an' Chewie."
"Huh." Madine eyed Han. Chosin, he knew, was an ugly, gruelling campaign. "Heard it was cold."
Han said, levelly, "Enough to freeze the guns." He glanced at Madine, gauging his age. "You in the big one?"
Madine nodded. "Air force. Rear gunner." He glanced at Han's pilot's jacket. "You interested in flying?"
"Yeah, I—" Looking around the room, Han seemed to come back to himself, his flare of enthusiasm contracting into suspicion. He set his lips, hunching deeper into his jacket.
"Look, Henry. Han." Madine sat forward, catching Han's eye. "You got the wrong idea about what's going down here. I'm not interested in fucking up your life. I just want you to tell me what happened with you and Jeb Hutt. Off the record."
Han blinked. "Off the—what good does that do you?"
"I want to see the full Jeb Hutt picture," Madine said, his voice low. "So I want your puzzle piece. That's it. And for now, that's a picture I want to keep to myself."
Han folded his arms, smirked. "You don't know what I did, yet. What if I did something real bad? You just gonna let me walk outta here?"
Madine snorted. "Save the hard-boiled routine, kid. I've seen real bad. And real bad doesn't risk jail to protect some girl." He checked his watch. "Time's ticking," he added, looking slyly at Han. "See-your-girl-time."
Han cleared his throat.
Back from Korea, Han had got work on the Baltimore docks. Because he was bright, he was quickly promoted to work in international shipments. He helped allocate incoming material, boarding just-docked ships to inspect and classify freight, then pass it through. It was an open secret that Jeb Hutt had a strong presence on the waterfront; Han knew the game, knew to look the other way when crates contained weapons or drugs. That hadn't bothered Han. He'd been drunk most of the time, and at that point even his own life had seemed to have little to do with him, let alone the arcane dealings of gangsters.
"You get kickbacks?" Madine interjected.
"It was never obvious as that, right? Sometimes there'd be more in my pay packet, yeah, a coupla bottles in my locker. And I knew why, and I sure as hell didn't give it back. But no one ever came up and said, 'Hey buddy, let this through for Hutt and we'll slip you some bucks.' Nothing like that. It was just...understood. You let this in, you keep your guts." He looked at Madine. "C'mon. You know."
Madine conceded this point by gesturing at Han to proceed. Han shifted in his hard chair, dragged his fingers through his hair. He was sweating again, the blurred edges and harsh colors of fever making the ugly memory still uglier. It was last spring, he finally explained. In a dark adjunct hold of a ship just in from somewhere in Europe, Han had stumbled on a clutch of women. Girls. Very young, starved, catatonically scared, cut, bruised; clothing torn; some bound, some weeping; they huddled together in a filthy steel shipping container. Han had gone back up to the light, his face carefully empty, and walked off the docks. There was a payphone on the main wharf, but he didn't use that. Instead, he'd jogged up several blocks and called in an anonymous tip to the cops.
Madine fought to control his expression. He'd been on that raid. Those girls, headed for Jeb Hutt's topless bars and brothels, his notorious private parties, had ended up in social services. One of them was twelve. "Where was that phone?"
"Outside the Buck Wynn grocery," Han said, promptly.
Madine, who remembered the traced phone records, acknowledged this passed test.
Then Han had, with elaborate calm, walked back to his apartment, already hearing the scream of sirens. Chewie had moved to New Hope, and Lando, seeing a chance to finally get into the bar business cheap, had soon followed. Han was left living in the city alone, the din and night and loneliness closing in so tight that sometimes he'd have to drive back the dark with a bottle, with a woman. As he'd thrown his clothes into his army duffel, he'd shuddered to picture those huddled girls. Han needed women, yes. Maybe he used them, even, he admitted to Madine, had admitted to himself as he'd hauled out of town in Millie, trying to get some distance before anyone connected him to the raid. But any women he'd used had cheerfully, equally used him back. Han had never used—would never use—a woman like that. It was—slavery. It turned his stomach. So no: Han didn't know why he did it. He just did, and then ran for his life, ran to Chewie, the only person on earth he trusted.
Then, that is.
Madine sat back. None of this was new information; nothing Han Solo had told him could make a case. But the kid had kept up his end of the bargain. And he'd made the call in the first place. Madine had always wondered who that anonymous tipster was; certainly there had been other human shipments that many people had let pass. Madine had always wanted to reward the caller. Good for you, Hank, Madine thought, splitting the difference on this funny kid's names. Good for you. Madine would let Han Solo go, let him put his stubborn crazy ass to work on getting right with his girl.
Getting into the black-and-white for the ride back to the kid's truck, Madine invited Han into the front seat, this time.
"One thing I always wondered, about that case," Madine said, as he drove. "When you called, you didn't say you'd found a bunch of abducted foreign girls. You said there was a violent crime in progress, on that ship."
"You'd get there faster," Han said. "And I didn't want to say Jeb Hutt, and red-flag any corrupt cops."
Clever bastard, Madine thought, again. "But you said rape. Why that? Why not a fire, or a fight, or a murder? You called it in as rape."
Han shrugged, looked away, out the window. "You sayin' it wasn't?"
