Rain smeared the windscreen of my airspeeder like tears cried down by some bleeding heart deity mourning all of Nar Shaddaa's sins. And boy were there a lot of sins on this moon.
A slow parade of hover vehicles moved steadily forward, like rows of ants marching through the sky, and I was caught right in the middle. Traffic was one of the great equalisers on Nar Shaddaa. Whether you were a spice-lord or a dockworker, respected business being or blaster for hire, there was no escaping gridlock in the skylanes. I gazed pensively out of the driver's side window, one hand resting lazily on the yoke as I enjoyed the breeze of the air conditioning. An old cream and maroon shuttlebus hovered next to my speeder and puffs of smoke intermittently sputtered from its exhaust vents.
The traffic was fine by me. It gave me time to think. My head was thick with the dull ache of too much whisky and not enough sleep. It was going to be a long night and the fizziglug at Jool's hadn't had the refreshing kick I needed, but a hot cup of caf would cut through the noise.
I spied a neon sign up ahead, the glare of its blinking light smeared through the raindrops. It was diamond shaped, with the outline of a steaming cup flashing rhythmically above the text "Bivito's Diner". On, off, on, off, on, off, like some deep sea creatures lure drawing in its prey. This fish was ready to bite. I swerved the airspeeder out of the traffic, setting it down in a bay recessed against the walkway's rim.
Hopefully Bivito made good caf, whoever he was.
After switching off the engine I made a dash for the diner, pulling my jacket over my head. One of these days I would invest in an umbrella.
Despite the rain beings darted around puddles as they hurried to their destinations. There was nothing lackadaisical about the way they tried to navigate the downpour that splashed back up off the duracrete to their knees. Even a Mon Calamari pair, who I thought would welcome the wet, seemed eager to get in to the dry as they pushed past me.
The interior of the diner was decorated in the outdated, chromium panelled style fashionable in the last days of the Old Republic. A black and white checkerboard of tiles lined the floor, and a waitress droid rolled over it on one wheel with a mechanical grace. I queued behind the Mon Cals and patiently waited my turn. The sound of rain drummed on the thin tin roof. I was in no hurry. I didn't peg Heater as the type of guy to leave a bar til he absolutely had to. If he had already left, I'd make a decent bet he would return soon enough.
"What can I do for you?" The young Ithorian behind the counter said, his voice echoing from the two mouths either side of his large, hammer-like head.
"A large caf to go. Extra stim." I said. The poor kid looked tired, his eyes glazed over with boredom whilst the caf machine ground fresh beans. We both winced at the noise. He was probably having a long night too, only he was doing it for a pauper's wage. Handing me a steaming cup, I thanked him and left a tip that was probably too generous, but I was already out the door before I could regret it.
Stepping back outside into the deluge I hustled back to my airspeeder, taking a sip of the caf as I walked. It burned my throat, but not in the fun way a good whisky does. It was just damn hot.
I started up the speeder again, and the wipers returned to their tireless but futile battle to clear the rain from the windscreen. A green light flashed across the chasm that was the street, the distinctive sound of blaster fire barely audible over the rain. A body dropped off the side of the walkway, plummeting into the city's harrowing depths. A punk with a still steaming blaster disappeared down a dark corner. I guided the airspeeder to rejoin the traffic. Another day, another being lost to Nar Shaddaa's meat grinder.
I stayed with the traffic a while longer, then took a few turns to get to the heart of the New Vertica district. There she was; the Violet Poolia. I tucked the speeder in a tight alley, well hidden from view but still affording a good eye on the club's front door. I made myself comfortable in my seat and sipped my caf. It was cooler now, the air conditioning blowing against it had stripped it of its edge.
The main entrance to the Poolia was on the right edge of a small square. A ventilation unit sat near the edge of a deep shaft that carved out the middle of the space, and stairs led to walkways over the square that connected it to foot-tunnels through the surrounding towers. A three-eyed Gran huddled in a corner under one of the walkways, attempting to take shelter from the rain whilst wrapping sopping rags around him, but nobody gave him a second look.
The Violet Poolia itself looked disappointingly nondescript from the outside but the occasional splash of purple light that spilled out whenever the door opened hinted at a more lavish interior. The sign above the door was lit, but the letters didn't glow with the neon shine typical of such an establishment. If you didn't know this place was here it would be easy to pass it by. There were no bouncers, I noted. That probably just meant at least half the clientele were armed or on the owners payroll.
After an hour I lit a cigarra, took a drag and felt the entrancing taste of tabac smoke fill my lungs. It felt like the rain was going to ease a little, but the deluge continued unabated. Beings came and went through the club's wide doors: a skinny male Twi'lek, a long snouted Kubaz, a round headed Bith. A trio of humans crossed the square. None of them were my target but still something about them caught my eye. There was a formality to their step, the way two of them tailed behind the leader whilst staying equidistant from one another. These were no mere smugglers or lowlifes, and few mercenary groups held that kind of practised precision. I leaned forward, waving cigarra smoke from my face as I squinted through the windscreen and the rain. They were Imperials, I figured, dressed in plain clothes but not making a serious attempt to hide their allegiance. It wasn't unusual to see Imperials on Nar Shaddaa; many of the warlords had dealings with the galaxy's underworld, but it was still worth noting.
After two hours, I opened the glove compartment, pulled out a bottle of whisky I reserved for situations like this and took a hearty swig. The Imperials exited the club about forty minutes after they arrived, leaving the square down one of the tunnels that cut into the surrounding building like blaster wounds. Curiosity simmered in me like a pot on the boil, or was it impatience? Boredom was creeping in. The Gran had fallen asleep, and the rain tapping hypnotically on the roof of the airspeeder threatened to lull me into a similarly uncomfortable doze. More drunks spilled in and out of the Violet Poolia, clearly having a lot of fun as they grabbed giggling young dames by the waist both in attempts to stay upright and out of lustful possession. Still Heater remained elusive.
Three hours in, my smooth talker Opun McGrrrr swaggered out of the club. His fur coat was immediately flattened by the rain. It still looked angry. How he could wear such a thing in this heat was beyond me. He ambled towards the chasm, swaying at the precipice and I had half a mind that he would fall in when a cloud car pulled up and stopped in front of him. It was a single seat Bespin Motors Storm model, with a rounded hull painted a gaudy orange and an enclosed cockpit. Heater evidently had some nostalgia for his days on the gas giant. The domed canopy slid open and a youthful Weequay jumped out. I caught a glimpse of McGrrrr's fat face as he slipped the valet some credits and clambered in the cockpit. Even at a distance he looked just as ugly in person as he did in the holo.
I quickly corked the whisky bottle, now missing a good third of its contents, and stowed it back in the glovebox. Then I took one last drag on my latest cigarra and smothered out the remains in the pile of other stubs, giving Heater enough time to drive off a little ways before taking up my discreet pursuit. Tailing was an easy enough job. Even easier if you had the right vehicle and my airspeeder was well suited to the task. It was a MandalMotors Buirk'alor; an older model but not so old as to stand out. Law enforcement on a hundred worlds used tuned-up version of them as patrol vehicles but mine was as stock as the day it came off the assembly line even though it had a litany of previous owners.
I guided the yoke to make it fall in step a few vehicles behind Heater. We continued along the main arterial skylane for a short while. The traffic had eased a little since earlier in the night, but was still dense enough to keep me concealed. Spotting him pull away from the main skylane, I gave him a bit more distance before taking the same turning. The towering spires with neon signs gave way to rows of warehouses and needle-like chimneys that belched smoke into the rain and the traffic continued to thin as he headed towards an industrial zone. I dropped further behind, watching him turn down a tight crevasse between two factories.
Before I could follow, a garbage hauler pulled out in front of me from a concealed entrance, blocking my path. It was dirty, dented, and too damned close.
I slammed on the brakes and my airspeeder jolted to a halt. The driver of the hauler waved at me politely, oblivious that he had almost caused a crash, and slowly guided his bulky scow away. The blasted things were everywhere and nobody ever gave the floating junk boxes a second look. Nar Shaddaa created enough trash to feed a nest of dianogas for a lifetime, and moving it was almost as lucrative as smuggling spice.
Cursing the garbage hauler under my breath, I punched the throttle and raced between the factories to the junction at the far end, looking round desperately for my man. I spotted him off to my right, his distinctive orange cloud car cutting through the rain like a spearhead rending flesh.
Back on his tail, I saw him set down outside a low roofed warehouse. It looked the same as any other on the street, just one of thousands of identical prefabricated structures in this megablock. I drew my speeder to a stop some distance away and killed the engine.
McGrrrr alighted his vehicle, jumping to the ground. I felt sorry for the duracrete - if it could feel that would have hurt something mighty. I certainly wouldn't have wanted a man like McGrrrr to jump on me.
The warehouse's large shutter lifted and McGrrrr ambled inside. He was hidden from view now. If he was smart he'd keep the holos on him, and I was tempted to barge in there and confront him, but then what? He could have a dozen goons in there, and I doubt they'd take kindly to me walking in. As a rule, gangsters were very protective about their warehouses.
No way was I going to die over some holos, especially before being paid. The play was to wait, and so I waited.
Turns out I didn't have to wait long. I heard a low rumble from behind me, growing louder until a gang of swoop jockeys thundered past; a motley crew riding vehicles that amounted to little more than engines with seats. There were five of them, wearing thick leather jackets without sleeves, all seemingly unfazed by the rain that must have lashed against their skin. I made a mental note of the logo emblazoned on their backs: a lithe, pale woman with a tattooed face wearing loose, revealing robes and feathered wings erupting from her back. The text arcing above the image read "Shadow Angels". Each one pulled blasters from their jackets and their engines roared in unison as they throttled up and sped towards McGrrrr's warehouse.
I had a bad feeling about this.