“We were shorthanded. I was working myself to get the stuff in the hold where it was supposed to be. Better to do it right and be a few seconds late.” He jutted out his chin, faintly defying the holograph to disagree. He’d come up with an easy explanation if the metal detectors spotted that he didn’t have his hook in his belt; it’d gotten stuck in the last bale and he’d left it behind. There was no need to tell the boss about Batman.
“You’ll shorthanded all the way through this next deal. I don’t want any extra bodies nosing around, and no one on that ship who’s not completely expendable.”
“Gotcha.”
“Is everything progressing according to the plan?”
It had to be a trick question. The Connection knew more about the plan than Tiger himself. But like all trick questions, it had to be answered correctly.
“Yeah, yeah. No problems. The Bess-Arabs are in town. I collected their collateral—two shit-painted pieces of wood in cheap gold frames. Who pays for this stuff, boss?” he asked rhetorically, not expecting an answer. “Anyway, I put ’em in the vault. I fly out the day after tomorrow; the ship picks me up tomorrow night. The merchandise is all sealed up already and waiting for us. I make sure it gets loaded on, then, ten days from now, I drop it over the side, put a radio buoy on it, and, bingo, I’m back in town to collect that third piece of shit. Eleven days and the deal’s history.”
The holograph nodded and shuffled papers, looking for one in particular, which it found. The effect was entirely the paper he held up was blank and faintly translucent.