Phule’s Paradise by Robert Asprin

“Hey! You can’t unload here!”

“Who says I …”

The driver’s words died in his throat as he turned and took in the six musclemen between him and the door.

“Hey, I don’t want any trouble,” he said, holding up his hands as he backed away.

“No trouble, friend,” Stilman said easily. “You just got the wrong address is all.”

The driver frowned. “This is the Fat Chance Casino, isn’t it?”

“Maybe you don’t hear so good,” Kong said, moving forward slightly. “The man said you have the wrong address! Something wrong with your ears? Something we should maybe try to fix for you?”

“What the hell’s going on here?”

Kong managed to keep a straight face as the men turned to confront the white-aproned cook who had come charging out of the kitchen door. It was about time someone inside had noticed the activity on their loading dock. Security should be close behind him.

The urge to smile faded as he recalled their “no rough stuff” orders.

“Nobody unloads here until you hire some union help,” Stilman was saying, moving to confront the cook directly.

“What are you talkin’ about?” the cook said. “There aren’t any unions on Lorelei!”

Kong was distracted from the conversation by a small, dark-skinned figure who emerged from the kitchen behind the original cook. Completely ignoring the raging argument, the little man strode over to the open delivery van and shouldered a quarter side of beef, then turned back toward the kitchen.

It occurred to the thug that he should stop the unloading, or at least call it to Stilman’s attention, but he was loath to intrude on the verbal brawl or take individual action while the headman was right there. Fortunately the decision was taken out of his hands. The laden figure passed close by the two arguing men on his way back to the kitchen, and Stilman spotted him.