Phule’s Paradise by Robert Asprin

“Got it, Harry,” the butler shot back. “Do you want him to get back to you when he’s done?”

“Tell him not to bother. I’ll get back to him later if I can.”

“Harry, are you in trouble? You sound-“

“Just tell the cap’n,” the ex-biker said hurriedly, and broke the connection.

Stilman had just gotten to his feet and, after one last round of handshakes, was heading out the door.

Forcing himself to move casually, Harry strolled behind the bar.

“Can you cover for me for a few, Willie my man?” he said. “I gots to slip out for a minute.”

“I suppose so,” the other bartender said. “It’s not like it’s real busy, or-hey! What’s up?”

Harry had been fishing around under the bar, but now he straightened up holding a sawed-off pool cue loosely in one hand. Effectively a lead-weighted club, it was kept to break up fights and happened to be one of Harry’s favorite weapons.

“You really don’t want to know,” he said with a wink. “In fact, you haven’t seen a thing, sight?”

“If you say so.” Willie shrugged, and pointedly turned his back.

Holding the weapon close to his side so it would not be noticed easily, Harry headed out of the bar, hurrying slightly to make up for the lead Stilman had on him.

Tiffany looked smaller stretched out in the clinic bed, the sight tugging at Phule’s heart and conscience as he had known it would. He had been stalling making this visit since he heard the doctor’s appraisal of the extent of the actress’s injuries, even to the point of prolonging his conversation with Doc. The stuntman had been in surprisingly good spirits, remarkably good considering his two broken legs, and had even succeeded in putting the Legionnaire commander relatively at ease over the incident. That feeling had fled, though, upon first viewing Tiffany’s bandaged face, draining away as if someone had pulled a plug in his mind and let his hastily constructed defenses run out like so much water.