Like anywhere else, Coronet City's black market could be roughly divided into two types.
One type was the low-end kind hidden in the city's dark corners—tucked into some remote alley near a legitimate market, or buried inside an abandoned underground district. This kind of black market typically dealt in business that couldn't be dragged into the light: flesh trade, spice trade, illegal weapons, stolen goods, and the like.
The other type was the high-end, private black-market auction circuit frequented by the upper class. This kind of black market dealt in higher-tier versions of the same can't-be-seen trades.
A down-on-his-luck widower might spend two credits at a half-closed door in a back alley to buy a few minutes of warmth. A successful Corellian socialite might casually throw down thousands—tens of thousands—of credits to bid on a Twi'lek model's "first night."
An addict would skulk into a dim underground corner to buy one or two doses of low-purity, low-grade spice. Meanwhile, the real power brokers—those who could move between the legal world and the criminal one—would sip a well-aged Abrax Cognac, smiling and chatting, while bidding for regional distribution rights to a new designer spice.
What Max wanted—a midi-chlorian blood analyzer—was a restricted device tightly controlled by the Galactic Republic and the Jedi Temple. You couldn't buy it through normal channels. On the black market, though… anything was possible.
It was Galactic Standard Year 3, which meant 32 BBY. The Republic had less than thirteen years left before it collapsed into something else. In this era, the rot you see in declining states was already spreading everywhere—corruption had become routine in every corner of the Republic.
In medicine and public health, the situation was worse—collapse-level worse.
On paper, universal free healthcare. In reality, if you went to a public hospital on most worlds, "free" came with a queue. Some tests had a "short" wait of five or six months. Longer waits stretched into years. If you were sick and wanted to rely on your Republic citizen entitlements, you lined up and waited.
Too long to wait? Can't wait?
Then you suffered. Sometimes you died.
Didn't want to wait, and didn't want to die? There was a solution: private hospitals. You just had to pay more credits.
Brand-new medical equipment would roll into a public hospital in the morning, get processed as "scrapped" by noon, and by afternoon it would be sitting in a private clinic owned by someone's close relative—still sealed in the original packaging.
In an environment like that, it wasn't impossible for a midi-chlorian analyzer to leak out.
If the person flipping it understood what it really was, it might end up in a high-end private auction, where ambitious buyers fought for it.
If the seller didn't recognize it and treated it like ordinary medical hardware, it might just as easily show up in a low-end street black market.
So Max wanted to check both.
Lord Fieg was generous. He not only pointed Max's security team toward several low-end black markets, he also gave them a token that could grant entry to the high-end private auction circuit. That was the advantage of old money at the top: the Fieg consortium's influence on Corellia ran through both the legal world and the criminal one.
There happened to be a private auction tonight, but it was still hours away. So Max decided to take Christopher Ryen, Eldon Awood, and Bazel Elda to try their luck first in a low-end market.
"Looking for spice, brother?" At the mouth of an alley, a young man drifted over with a streetwise swagger. "Got Kessel pure, glitterstim, and Felucian stock."
Max frowned slightly and waved him off. "No."
"Hah. No?" The spice pusher lifted his chin and wagged a finger. "Outsider—spice is the admission ticket to Bliss Street. If you don't buy spice, you don't get in."
Max had done his homework. Bliss Street didn't have any such rule.
He shook his head, pulled a toy blaster from his coat pocket, and pressed it to the dealer's forehead.
The moment Max drew, the other three moved.
Eldon slid left, Bazel slid right, and Christopher turned his back to Max, facing outward. In a heartbeat they formed a tight triangular security posture, shielding Max and enclosing the dealer inside their protection arc.
"What are you doing—who are you trying to scare—"
The dealer started to push back—until he saw Max lift his coat hem with his right hand, revealing the Westar-35 blaster pistol in a quick-draw holster on his belt.
The dealer's hands shot up immediately, and his mouth stopped being tough.
"Westar-35… best blaster pistol in the galaxy… one of those can sell for—"
Click.
The sound of a mechanical safety was like a switch that turned the dealer's mouth off. Max glanced sideways. Eldon and Bazel both wore faint, satisfied smirks at the corners of their mouths.
Their coats were a common Corellian style provided by the Fieg consortium. The dealer had clocked them instantly as outsiders in local clothing and tried to squeeze them. When the situation flipped, he instantly recognized how bad it was for him, then started pumping out flattery to lower their guard.
Interesting.
Max made a decision. He put the toy blaster away and spoke low.
"Answer what I ask. Don't create problems for yourself."
The dealer ducked his head and gave a stiff little salute. "Understood."
"How much do you make in a day selling spice?"
"Twenty credits."
Max said nothing and slid his index finger toward the Westar-35's trigger.
"Ten—no, no. If I actually make a sale, three to five credits in a day. If I don't, it's zero."
"Think before you answer next time."
"Doesn't need a next time, boss. I won't lie again."
"Take us to Bliss Street. You get fifty credits as a guide fee. If the Force smiles on us and we find what we're looking for, you get another fifty." Max flicked a coin toward him. "Deposit."
"Thank you, boss! Thank you!" The dealer caught it with both hands and bowed repeatedly.
"Move. You lead."
"Boss—uh, honored sirs—this way, please."
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PS: In Star Wars, "spice" does not mean culinary seasoning. It refers to illegal narcotics, or the raw materials used to produce them.
PPS: Abrax Cognac is a well-known Star Wars liquor with a striking sea-blue color. The New Republic Y-wing ace Horton Salm is known to be a fan of it.
PPPS: Kessel pure, glitterstim, and Felucian spice are all varieties referenced in Star Wars media, including the spice dealer scene in the Obi-Wan Kenobi series.