CHAPTER TEN
“There’s no business like show business,
but there are several … like accounting.”
–
David Letterman
Over the last few days, Quark had found himself ruminating on the 77th
Rule of Acquisition: It pays to advertise. Sound advice, he knew, even in the
New Age his brother was attempting to institute.
And, anyway, this particular Ferengi was old school, and always
would be.
To appropriately promote his imminent extravaganza, Quark had at
first decided on a twofold strategy, the initial portion of which involved
commandeering the station’s communications network. Actually doing so wasn’t the problem: He’d
managed it (rather easily, in fact) once or twice in the past.
What worried him was aftermath and consequence.
He and Odo, despite their supposedly complicated, convoluted dance
of cop and crook, had precisely understood both each other and how the game was
supposed to be played. The rules were
simple, if never explicitly stated: Quark didn’t go too far, and Odo didn’t
clamp down too hard.
Kira Nerys, however, didn’t play
games.
No matter how untraceable his tampering or what unimpeachable
alibis he offered, Kira simply wouldn’t care. She’d just contact whichever
Bajoran militiaperson was serving this duty cycle as chief of station security
and have Quark dragged off to a holding cell.
Or worse, she’d come down and handle it herself; and considering
her mood of late, he might not make
it down to the security office—at least not conscious and undamaged.
Thus, Quark had delayed implementing that segment of his plan.
The second part involved a temporary (and, of course, unobtrusive)
override of certain Bajoran transceiver arrays, the better to broadcast the
news of Shomira’s performance sector-wide. This, too, would not normally have
been difficult: It was simply a matter of greasing the right palms in
sufficient numbers.
Latinum, after all, was
the ultimate lubricant, and the universal solvent.
Well, for those who like to be rubbed, anyway.
Quark thought of Kira again, and grimaced.
One problem, though, loomed large: His cash reserves were at their
lowest in years. He’d even dipped into his emergency stash—a little at first,
then more and deeper as Parihn had announced, in a tone that brooked no
argument, that she required various equipment, attire and accoutrements to make
this a night worth remembering, and a performance worth paying the truly obscene amount of latinum Quark planned
on charging anyone who walked through the doors Saturday night.
Tholian silk … portable holo mats … Venus drug for the backup
dancers … this had all better be worth it.
Quark had been careful to wait, endeavoring to strike a balance
between advertising prematurely and so allowing the Bajoran constabulary/judiciary
time to decide he’d gone too far (which might draw some sort of restraining
order or ad hoc morality clause), and
waiting too long, thus missing out on a full house.
His lobes told him that now
was the time to act.
Before hailing his contacts in the Bajoran bureaucracy, though, he
did a quick, final calculation on his trusty ACCU PADD … reached a total … went
through the equations again … and was, finally, forced to acknowledge the most
horrifying turn of circumstances possible for a self-sufficient Ferengi to
imagine.
He couldn’t afford it.
Quark shuddered … and let loose with a screech Nog probably heard
all the way in upper pylon two.
“That little Orion shavana’s bankrupted me! Now how am I
supposed to advertise?”
This wasn’t just a disaster. It constituted his complete, utter
and irretrievable financial ruin.
The dazed Ferengi staggered from his office out onto the barroom
floor and headed for the stairs. He would either tell Parihn not to bother,
since he couldn’t possibly put enough wealthy posteriors in the seats to make
her comeback worthwhile…
…or he would kill her for getting him to do this in the first
place.
[The fact that it had been his
idea originally didn’t occur to him, nor would it have mattered in the least.
After all, the 11th Rule of Acquisition clearly stated that “women are good for two things in
particular—giving oo-mox and taking
blame.”]
As he rounded the bar, Quark stumbled and would have hit the
floor—if not for Morn’s strong, steady hand.
You should have let me fall and crack my skull.
The Lurrian drew a breath, opened his mouth to speak…
…and in the instant before he began, Quark remembered the Second
Corollary to the 77th Rule: There’s only one thing better than advertising…
…and that’s free
advertising.
“Morn,” he said, taking his fellow conspirator and favorite
customer by the arm, “promise me you’ll keep your mouth shut…
“…and I’ll tell you a
secret.”
***
Despite
being a strong proponent of regular exercise, Gul Makar wasn’t particularly
enjoying his evening constitutional.
Perhaps, thought Lavek, it’s today’s venue.
Makar didn’t
bother disguising his revulsion.
“And the stench,” he continued, both his rambles
now well into their second quarter-hour. “The very reek of them—sickly, spicy sweet, like they all gorge themselves on
that disgusting pasty of theirs … what’s it called?”
“I believe
you’re thinking of hasperat,” his
companion said, and received a curt nod as reward—not that she noticed.
Lavek, at
that point, had more pressing concerns: Raden Makar was neither a quiet man nor
particularly circumspect; as a consequence, his tirade had begun to attract
glares and murmurs from Promenade shopkeepers and, especially, Bajoran
passersby. One or two had even abandoned their own tasks and begun to
follow—less discretely by the moment.
The old gul
hadn’t realized … and, most likely, wouldn’t have cared in the least if he had.
While Lavek had for years been his most trusted companion, both in bed and on
the bridge, kanar had, of late,
become nearly as cherished.
And he had
clearly spent the morning with his second ‘mistress.’
“Then they
w–wash it down with that cheerfully
effervescent little drink that passes for alcohol around here…” He
gestured, again prodding her for the name.
“Spring
wine.”
“…and finish
it off with one of those skewered e–excrement confections.”
“A jumja stick.”
Makar didn’t
look very grateful for the aid.
“Yes.
“It took
five years, but I’d almost cleansed
myself of both odors. Then we recaptured Terok
Nor … and the Vandar was
reassigned here as part of its screening force.” Makar glanced about, then
added a furtive, “I tell you, Areva … I was actually relieved when Starfleet forced us to abandon it again. That
scent—that taint—has soaked into the
very bulkheads here.
“When we take
it again, I think it should be subjected to a baryon sweep—preferably with all
this Bajoran rabble still aboard.”
She winced,
and then hazarded a look behind her.
It wasn’t
encouraging: Two pursuers had already become three, and that last comment had pushed
the number to a half-dozen—one a merchant who threw up a ‘Closed’ placard and
rushed to catch his fellows. Six evidently constituted critical mass for
Bajorans: Each man’s anger fed off that of the others, and swelled; Lavek began
to consider the viability of an emergency beam-out.
It was a
difficult thing to care for (in either sense of the phrase) a crotchety old gul
like Makar: She had, early on, spurned more than a few opportunities for
advancement to remain at his side, and subsequently paid the price: His own
ambition had never waxed greater than to sit the center seat of a cruiser and
consistently avoid the baleful interest of Central Command. He’d eventually
managed to achieve both; unfortunately, those serving with him had also escaped
their notice—both kinds.
Thus,
despite her many gifts, she had remained a glinn
for more than a decade.
And what was
worse, Lavek knew that if her beloved commander kept running his mouth…
…she would
likely die one, too.
A huge throng had gathered
ahead, and for a panicked instant, she thought they’d been surrounded. More
thorough scrutiny, though, gave her hope: Though at least a score of races were
represented, there wasn’t a single Bajoran in the crowd, which milled about the
entrance to a local tavern of some repute … owned, she knew, by a smarmy,
scrawny little Ferengi of ill
repute—a place called, imaginatively enough, Quark’s. The proprietor himself stood just outside the entrance,
handling his guests’ ingress with the skill of a born entrepreneur … and a
fairly talented herdsman.
On an impulse she hoped would prove an inspiration, Lavek took a
startled Makar’s hand, and dragged him through the back ranks, which parted a
bit grudgingly at the site of two Cardassians. There had been a time not so
long ago, of course, when they would have given way and groveled while so doing
… but that time was now past, and would likely never come again. At least they
were still residually afraid … or, at
least for her purposes, afraid enough.
Quark gave them a measure of his attention … just enough to say,
“Sorry, this engagement is by invitation only … and has a substantial cover charge.”
She proffered her credit chit, snarling, “Check the guest list again.”
The Ferengi, while clearly not at all impressed with her
posturing, was unable to resist at least a look at her latinum balance. He
accepted the little device, glanced … did a double take … and then gave her a
smile that let Lavek know her substantial surplus was about to become significantly
less so.
Before that, though, Quark again perused his own PADD. Not
surprisingly, a few seconds later his eyes widened in the kind of overwrought
surprise that fooled precisely nobody, but at least amused the closest
onlookers. He might just as well have winked at everyone.
“Would you look at that?
Here you are. Please accept my profoundest apologies.”
He exacted a sum and passed it back; rather than immediately
subjecting herself to the agonies of loss, she simply confirmed his deduction
with a thumb, and stuffed it back into her pocket.
The repugnant little vole smiled once more.
“Welcome to Quark’s …
“…and enjoy the show.”
As they passed through the doorway, the oblivious Makar smiled at
her, and said, “You’re so good to me.”
Areva Lavek considered the Bajoran mob behind them, and the Orion
slut ahead.
Old man … I’m better than you know.