It was a quiet weekday evening at Dancers Dock, and Morgan was transfixed by Lola. Wearing a short dress which sparkled in the spotlight, her long toned legs started a high heel off the floor and stretched endlessly up towards the ceiling.
"A star, is she not?" Oleg Dancer's question to the table hung in the air unanswered, his proud smile betrayed the truth everyone in the bar already knew.
She switched between the most delicate of songs to the heaviest of rock ballards effortlessly. She managed to spin popular songs in a fresh, original way which kept the gathered patrons on their toes. They loved the random change of pace, she was always seemless.
"That voice though," Oleg said again, "simply divine." Morgan looked at him with a smile of his own.
"Where did you find her?" Morgan asked.
"Back home," Oleg refered to the war torn hell of his birth. The same place most of his staff were rescued from. She would never leave Dancers Dock, that would betray Oleg, and Oleg rescured her from that hell. A shame for the rest of the bubble, a delight for the small group assembled that night.
Accompanied by the in-house band who loved playing around her as much as the crowd enjoyed being there, it was a carnival atmosphere on a small scale. These nights were never advertised, the regulars just knew, somehow. Word got around. "Lola's doing a set tonight," someone would let slip, and the place would fill up hours before start time and the doors would have to be closed.
She was there every night of course, but usually it was a few easy, quiet songs as background atmosphere, interspersed with a DJ, and recorded music. This night was a party, and as was customary, Lola was in total command.
Occasionally an outsider would squeeze in having heard the buzz. They'd be sure to return again in the future.
The crowd was clapping along to the beat, encouraged by the show girl with the booming voice and big personality.
She'd left the stage now. Dancing and singing around the tables, interacting with the regulars in the crowd who instantly jumped to their feet to dance and sing along with her. They'd always be invited to join in, with varying levels of muscial success. She had a presence. They loved her for it.
She was assigned security for her floor walks, but they were never called upon. More of Oleg's rescued army, blending in to the crowd, invisible - no one other than Oleg (who knew them all) and Morgan (the security expert) realised they were there. She had a way of keeping overamorous fans in their place all by herself anyway. Always friendly, always respectful, but always firm. They played the game, she set the limits, and they obeyed everytime.
The strippers had the night off on Lola's nights. Most turned up to watch the show, they were all good friends. She often invited a few on stage as backing dancers, some of the regulars even recognised them with their clothes on. They proudly accepted their role supporting Lola.
It was a strange environment for such a high profile security officer to find himself. Oleg, the crime boss. Morgan, the son of wealthy mining magnate and local politician. The cop and the mafia don. They shared a table for most of Lola's intimate gigs. Yet somehow the local media failed to pick up on the obvious conflict of interest.
It was almost as if someone had had words with the editors.
Almost, but not quite. It was more subtle than that. Once upon a time, a reporter had written about an occasion at Dancers Dock. On that reporter's next visit to the club, the bouncers politely turned him away. The same happened to every other reporter who worked with him.
Word quickly spread. The ban list grew no larger. Whatever happened in Dancers, stayed in Dancers, those who visited the club were keen to return.
Corruption comes in many forms. Ostracism is rarely acknowledged as one of them, but it worked for Dancers.
Besides, the last time the press went after Morgan, what they thought was a soft touch, an easy kill, turned into a trap that left them with oodles of egg running down their collective face. They'd left him and the de Nigh family alone ever since - lesson learned.
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Tonight wasn't about the entertainment for Morgan though. Oleg had invited along one of his many underworld contacts to enjoy the night.
"He's someone you might like to meet," Oleg had told Morgan a few days earlier. "These pirates you look for, I think he knows where they are." That had piqued Morgan's interest, his relationship with Oleg never ceased to reap rewards.
"Oh really, what's his connection?" Morgan had asked.
It was at that point that Oleg's expression had changed. He hadn't wanted to answer, that had been clear to Morgan. It took a while for him to decide how to respond.
"Complicated," was the best he could do. "He's a bit of a, errr," Morgan remembered watching Oleg's eyes examine the ceiling as if for inspiration, "he's a bit of a collector," he finished with sudden confidence. "Yes, yes, that's it. He's a collector."
He should have left it at "complicated" Morgan thought after meeting the man at Oleg's table.
The music was loud and Lola was belting out song after song to enthusiastic aclaim from the audience. It was hard to hear what their guests were saying. She was just coming to the end of a self written ode to her fans. For such a slim, young woman, her voice had ridiculous power and volume.
"You inspire me yeeeeeeeeeeeeeah," she filled the room with the final note, executed with perfect pitch, shaking the long blonde tassles of hair behind her. The crowd went wild.
Oleg was once again distracted from his guests by the girl he'd rescued, but no one noticed, all four pairs of eyes at the table were glued to the performance.
"Hello, I am Ch-ch-ch-Chance," the first guest had introduced himself earlier, during one of Lola's chatty interludes, and reached out his hand.
'As shifty as they come,' Morgan had thought, shaking the offered hand and then fighting the urge to count his fingers to make sure none had been stolen.
"And this is my w-w-wife," he'd added, pointing to his respectable looking companion.
"Hello, Guinevere," she'd said. "I work in redemptions."
An attractive girl Morgan had decided. Maybe secretary or niece, perhaps. Wife had not crossed his mind once until that point, definitely a mis-matched marriage. He'd fought hard to stop himself asking Guinevere "What are you doing married to that?" Such a question might not help gain the information he was looking for.
They talked for a while, during those brief moments where they could drag their attention away from the wonderful performance on stage. Morgan discovered that Oleg's despicable friend knew everyone in the local underworld. Morgan knew of them, names, occasionally faces, most by reputation, and Oleg dealt with many personally. This guy Chance though, he was on a different level. He was the guy that his crime boss friend went to if he needed an introduction.
"Those ant-tiq-tiq-tiquities you wanted have arrived," he told an embarrassed looking Oleg to break up an awkward silence. Morgan had raised an enquiring eyebrow at that news.
"From home," Oleg explained. "The war destroys history and monuments, I try save some." One thing he never lied about was home, Morgan knew. He might have abandoned his homeworld, but he'd never stopped caring.
"I have a smug-smug-smuggler bringing out a shipment tonight," Chance had chipped in. Oleg buried his face in his hands cringing.
"I think you should stop talking," Guinevere told her husband, wrapping a caring arm around his shoulders and kissing his cheek in encouragement.
Morgan was too busy laughing at his friend's embarrassment to care.
Chance was a fence, there was no doubt in Morgan's mind by the end of the evening. A dealer of stolen goods. No wonder he knew the pirates he was looking for. They were operating out of a nearby star system with some random catalogue name that Chance had written down for him on a coaster. It was the same bunch Morgan's friends had recently beaten in the Old Worlds, he wondered if they realised who'd be putting an end to their activities here.
Probably not, they'd have stayed away.
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The entertainment was drawing to a close.
"... so just leave me, and g g g," Lola didn't quite finish the last song.
"You know what, I never want to sing this last note," she told everyone, "because then it's the end," she added in a faux-grumpy sulk that brought plenty of agreement. "And then we have to go home, and it's all very boring."
The band played a crashing symbol of support.
"So how about I stretch it out for you all?" she asked them, they seemed keen. "How about that?" Whistles and agreement from the crowd.
Morgan looked at Oleg, and Oleg returned the knowing smile. They'd both seen a variety of endings from Lola like this over the years. Different every time, but always the same theme. Neither man was sure who wanted the show to stetch out most, Lola or her adoring fans.
"I realise it's very rude of me to tell you all to go home after a show," she sang it to them. Everything Lola wanted to say during her shows, was somehow sung. She could ad-lib anything, she often made up songs on the spot and they always rhymed and she rarely stumbled for the right word. "So I've changed the lyrics for you." And they loved that, they were in for a fabulous finale.
"I hope that you'll never ever leave meeeeeeee, stay right there, stay with meeee," then the music stopped abruptly, and she spoke sternly: "I'm speaking musically only, you understand - just to be clear on that one," she held a warning finger up to the audience who laughed along with the joke. "Don't be there waiting in my hotel room when I get there," the latter brought shouted propositions from one or two men in the audience, much to Lola's delight. "No, that just gets awkward," she argued with a cheeky wink over her shoulder.
"Don't you ever leave me, alone."
No one noticed Morgan slip away in the darkened room. Information gathered, it was time to report the findings and fill out yet another contact report headed "Location: Dancers Dock".
"Thank you for coming on down and goodnight, my lovelies," he heard the Lola show coming to a close behind him.