Chapter 8: New Dunsmuir, Beaumond
Ezra Standish sat at the bar, sipping a glass of Chablis. Like everyone else in the room, he watched a giant screen hanging above the bar.
Wherever mankind went after leaving Earth-that-was, horses came with them. On the Inner Planets, they were the pampered pets of rich men's daughters. On the Rimworlds, they were transportation, plow-beasts, occasionally food sources. But wherever men and horses gathered, there was racing.
Standish watched as a dozen horses ran around the muddy track. The racetrack was mere meters away; Standish could easily have stepped outside and watched the race in person. But outside it was cool and drizzly. In the bar, it was comfortably dry, and the company was excellent -– all the movers and shakers of New Dunsmuir society, indeed, of all the planet Beaumond.
A strawberry roan stallion pulled ahead of the other horses, first one length, then two. He crossed the finish line. Outside in the stands, the crowds cheered. Those in the bar were too well-bred to exclaim with victory as their horse won, or to shout obscenities if their horse had lost. But there were mutterings galore, both joyous and angry, and many drinks ordered either to celebrate the victory or drown their sorrows.
Standish glanced at the man next to him. By his pleased expression, he'd bet on the strawberry roan. "Quite a horse, eh?"
The man nodded. "Only too be expected. His sire was Bonnie Prince Charlie out of Fa Mu-lan, by Sultan's Shadow."
"Men or horses, blood will tell," Standish agreed sagely. "I remember seeing Sultan's Shadow race. Left the rest of the pack in the dust. Eli Slocum, at your service. "
"Kirby Detterschmidt, at yours."
Standish already knew Detterschmidt's name, of course. His research had been meticulous. He knew of his interest in race horses and horse breeding, the breweries he owned, and his hobby of art collecting. The two chatted of horses and races past.
For a few moments the screen was filled with the jockey, the trainer, and the horse's owner all being interviewed. Then an announcer said the next race would not be for half an hour, and a news broadcast began.
Standish pulled a gold pocket watch from his vest pocket. If Mal's friend with the odd moniker had done his job, his opportunity should be coming up in just a moment.
For a few minutes a reporter droned on about a minor local scandal -– something about the city council and some rather clumsy bribes. Then a picture of a jade statuette appeared on the screen.
"At the Harada Museum of Fine Art, a jade statue of Kuan-yin was nearly stolen. Although the thieves escaped, the statue -– which was carved on Earth-that-was in during the Sing Ling Restoration - was recovered by the guards.
Standish lowered his voice. "They're putting a brave face on it, aren't they?"
"What do you mean?" Detterschmidt asked.
"They didn't recover the statue. The thieves had already made the substitution. That's a fake they have there on display."
"How do you know?"
"I know someone who knows someone." Standish lowered his voice again, speaking in a whisper. "The thieves are out of their league. Their usual fences can't handle anything so valuable. If they try to ransom it back to the museum, they'll be arrested. Would you believe my scapegrace kinsman actually thought I would help his … associates find a buyer for the Kuan-yin? 'With your social contacts'," Standish mimicked in a whiny voice. "He's lucky I haven't turned him in. If he weren't my second cousin …."
Detterschmidt's eyes lit up.
The fake newsfeed that Mr. Universe had slipped into the broadcast ended, going back to the actual local news, and then on to the next race. Neither Standish nor Detterschmidt noticed.
This would be the fifth time 'Eli Slocum' had sold the same statuette.