"Me name's Redman," he said. "Noble Redman. My father had a sense of humor." He grinned at me, giving me a good view of his pink teeth.
I grinned back. "Glad to know you," I replied. I gave the sharpies a hard look and they moved off and left us alone. The big fellow interested me. Fact is—anyone with money interested me—but I'm not stupid greedy. It took me about three minutes to spot him for a phony. Anyone who's lived out in the Drylands knows that there just isn't any gold there. Iron, sure, the whole desert's filthy with it, but if there is anything higher on the periodic table than the rare earths, nobody had found it yet—and this guy with his light clothes, street boots and low capacity respirator—Hell! he couldn't stay out there more than two days if he wanted to—and besides, the gold was refined. The lumps looked like they were cut off something bigger—a bar, for instance.
A bar!—a bar of gold! My brain started working. K'nar was about two days out, and there had always been rumors about Martian gold even though no one ever found any. Maybe this tourist had come through. If so, he was worth cultivating. For he was a tourist. He certainly wasn't a citizen. There wasn't a Martian alive with a skin like his. Redman—the name fitted all right. But what was his game? I couldn't figure it. And the more I tried the less I succeeded. It was a certainty he was no prospector despite his burned skin. His hands gave him away. They were big and dirty, but the pink nails were smooth and the red palms soft and uncalloused. There wasn't even a blister on them. He could have been fresh from the Mercury Penal Colony—but those guys were burned black—not red, and he didn't have the hangdog look of an ex-con.
He talked about prospecting on Callisto—looking for heavy metals. Ha! There were fewer heavy metals on Callisto than there were on Mars. But he had listeners. His gold and the way he spent it drew them like honey draws flies. But finally I got the idea. Somehow, subtly, he turned the conversation around to gambling which was a subject everyone knew. That brought up tales of the old games, poker, faro, three card monte, blackjack, roulette—and crapshooting.
"I'll bet there isn't a dice game in town." Redman said.
"You'd lose," I answered. I had about all this maneuvering I could take. Bring it out in the open—see what this guy was after. Maybe I could get something out of it in the process. From the looks of his hands he was a pro. He could probably make dice and cards sing sweet music, and if he could I wanted to be with him when he did. The more I listened, the more I was sure he was setting something up.
"Where is this game?" he asked incuriously.
"Over Abie Feldstein's hock-shop," I said. "But it's private. You have to know someone to get in."
"You steering for it?" He asked.