131

If it is going to be the end of the Universe in a Mars weeks time, then I had better put my affairs in order, just in case there is life after oblivion. I am at home. Brian has changed sex. He is now called Bronwen and speaks in a high pitched Welsh accent. I find it extremely grating.

'You know, Sir that I crave a body.' He takes my silence to mean carry on.

'I thought maybe if I became a woman, that seeing as how you are very fond of women, you might let me have a body. You know, like, Shirley Bassey, for instance.'

Now I like Shirley Bassey, but Brian wearing a Shirley Bassey body suit, going around the apartment singing James Bond theme tunes whilst he Dyson's the living room. Forget it.

'No, and get rid of the accent before I dump you on Electronics world to be recycled as a Barbie Doll, and make me a drink.'

A Campari and Soda appears by my elbow.

'Thank you, Brian. I wish to review my affairs, so give me a resume of how I stand financially'

'Do you want it in detail or a ball park figure?'

'Ball Park will do.'

'Think of that ball park with a number one on the pitchers mound and noughts running from it the length of a curve ball being hit out of the park, like a comets tail.'

'Wow that is a lot of noughts.'

'Multiply this number by the number of seats in the stadium, and you are getting close to how many credits you have, just in the bank of Uranus.'

'Zillions,'

'Yes Sir, Zillions'

It sounds a magical figure, a sum that would mean I could do anything, buy anything, be anything, except that in a month's time it will mean Zitch, unless Fats can come up with the goods. I suddenly feel exhausted, and I have a sore throat. I get Brian to call up the Medibot to check me out. It's probably some ancient strain of cold virus that I picked up in Atlantic City. I strap the Medibot to my arm and it sends it's findings to my home computer, Brian.

'What's the diagnosis, Brian?'

'You have a cold, Sir.' The rest of the phrase hangs in the air. 'And?' I ask.

'And a resistant strain of Gonorrhoea.'

'What?' I turn around so violently that I crick my neck.

'Resistant. Resistant to what? Am I going to have a weeping dick for the rest of my life.'

'There is the umbrella treatment.'

'Explain'

'It is where a small closed umbrella is inserted, opened up and pulled out.'

I feel myself going dizzy. Then I twig. Brian is getting his own back for the banning of his Welsh persona.

'Got you there, Sir. The bot recommends honey and lemon, and has given you an anti viral shot of serum. You should be fine in a couple of hours.'

'Nice one, Brian. I won't forget it.'

'Thank you, Sir.'

************

I wake up feeling refreshed and ready for anything. I ask Brian to knock up some breakfast, and lay waste to scrambled eggs and smoked zablefish. It is early evening and time for cocktails. I step into the transopter and dial the co-ordinates for the Mars Bar in downtown Vegas on Pleasure World. The bar is a replica of the Savoy Grill, with additional touches of short skirted humanoids carrying drinks. The disconcerting thing is that they are all out of the same mould. Hair, jet black and cut to geometric prefection, sliced just below the ear, with a fringe, reminiscent of a space cadet's helmet. It's a design fault, the odd blonde or red head would have broken the monotony. I order a Jack D. and take a proper look around. Above the bar I see a sign, that reads, Licensed Owner, The SCR4P M3 Co. Manager Ms. Zeno Jane. I have a girlfriend by that name, and SCR4P M3 is the name of my spaceship scrapping company. Hey! I own the place. On my first glance Zeno is not in evidence, but she has such chameleon tendancies that she could be anyone in here. Tucked away in the corner is a baby grand. You know me and pianos. I only have to see a keyboard and my fingers start twitching and before you can wave a batton I am seated at it and playing an improvised melody. One of the humanoids comes over and stands by me, her perfume is distinctive and reminds me of Mars.

'Hi Joe, what kept you?'

'I suppose saving the Universe is not a good excuse.' Zeno laughs, 'Well we are still here, so it must have worked.'

'What happened to your love afair with scrap metal and that hulk Guy what's his name.?'

'Oh, Guy Buddy, was never going to be the great romance, not while you are on my list.'

'I am?' 'Still?' She hitches her skirt and sits next to me on the stool, places her hand on my thigh next to my Calvins, and gives me a little squeeze.

'I have to get back to work. I'll send one of my copies over to keep you company, see if you can tell the difference.'

Cloning, is and exact science. A clone these days can be made exactly, to the smallest atom, as the original, you see where I'm going with this? How do I know that the Zeno gripping my thigh is the real thing?

**************

HOLD TIGHT

Hold tight hold tight hold tight hold tight

Foo-ra-de-ack-a-sa-ki

Want some seafood Mama

Shrimpers and rice they're very nice

Hold tight hold tight hold tight hold tight

Foo-ra-de-ack-a-sa-ki

Want some seafood Mama

Steamers and sauce and then of course I like oysters lobsters too

And I like my tasty butter fish

When I come home from work at night

I get my favorite dish, FISH!

Hold tight hold tight hold tight hold tight

Foo-ra-de-ack-a-sa-ki

Want some seafood Mama

*****************

Real thing or not Zeno is shoved from my thoughts as Doil walks in with Smith. Smith has changed from his uniform of silver blouson and black slacks, to a invisi cloak and rubber suit. Why? Don't ask me. The invisi cloak is supposed to make you invisible, but it doesn't work on rubber, so he is visible. As I said don't ask me.

'Been swimming?' I ask.

'Yeh' he replies as if that explains it. He removes his jacket and stands there as a disembodied pair of legs. Doil takes me to a quiet corner. His fingers digging into to my elbow. It hurts.

'Look don't spread this around but Smith has lost it. It's a lonely life being an agent. One day he was sane the next as mad as a a dog with his dick cut off smelling heat.'

'As much as I want to save the Universe, Smith's state of mind is not my concern, why drag him around if he has lost it?'

I look over to where Smith was and there is just a pile of rubber. He could be anywhere, and I don't give a shit. But Doil does.

'Watch this space' says Doil.

'Like Fuck', I think.

The Zeno, who might or might not be Zeno, who has watched the whole charade from a distance is now by my side.

'That is plod if ever I saw a size 13 foot. Are you in trouble?' Doil has been in my life for so long now that I forget that none of my close acquaintances know that we are colleagues, and I have no intension of dragging Zeno, real or not, into my brief to save the Universe.

'Never seen him before, I thought he might be one of your conquest, hovering somewhere down the middle of the Johnlist.'

'I wouldn't let a Dick put his dick in me for all the Zoomers in Zoomerville.'

Maybe she is the real thing after all but I don't have time to find out, I need to escape before Doil and the bonkers Smith return.

'Maybe he is a Cop, I don't suppose there is a transopter in the back that I can use.'

'Sure, anything for my number one.'

***************

This may be the future, but it is boring. Everything is so perfect. Engineered to make life as comfortable as possible for human kind. The shield that surrounds the planet is doing it's job silently and unobtrusively. It keeps the cosmic radiation off us otherwise we would all fry into cancerous oblivion. To keep us from dying of enui The Powers have devised occupations for us. There is no need for us to do this work, as machines could do it better and with less hassle. I have avoided being assigned a useless job by being a musician. Some say that being a musician is a useless occupation anyway, it suits me because I am a born entertainer, but it would never have made me rich. Brian did that, with a little help from Zeno.

Zeno is snoring gently next to me. We made love for four hours, aided by a few chemicals. Her head is resting on my chest, rising up and down with my breathing. Brian by now should have interrupted my thoughts several time with innate questions, but he is unnerving quiet.

'Brian?'

'I knew you would break first, Sir.'

'Break?'

'The silence, Sir.' I was having a bet with myself that I could make you contact me first.'

'Well you've won, now fuck off.'

'If I were to take you literally, Sir, I would require a body to do so.'

'Well fuck off anyway, in the non literal sense.'

'Sir...'

'This had better be good Brian.'

'The Agency know you are in Town, I told them yesterday, a little show of initiative, made me contact them, and now they want you to vid them back, they have a gig for you.'

For once I am pleased at one of Brian's unsolicited interferences. 'Get Chico on the Vid, I presume he is still in charge?' Within a nanosec, Chico is hologrammed into the room sitting behind a desk drinking from a long glass. He looks younger than when I last spoke to him, mid thirties, with sleeked back hair and sharp suited. He looks me up and down and with approval at Zeno.

'You heard of Teddy Wilson'

A silly question there isn't a keyman who hasn't. I nod.

'Fancy being him for a few weeks?'

'Any side men?'

'Nope, just Teddy sitting at a Steinway.'

A solo gig as Teddy Wilson, has to be a yes, immaterial of place, century, or money.

***************

Theodore Shaw "Teddy" Wilson (November 24, 1912– July 31, 1986) was an American who almost wholy invented the swing style of piano playing. Teddy Wilson was featured on the records of many of the biggest names in jazz, including Louis Armstrong, Lena Horn, Ella, Benny Goodman. With Goodman, he was one of the first black musicians to appear prominently with white musicians. In addition to his extensive work as a sideman, he led his own groups and made recordings from the 1920's to the 1980's

It has to be a select audience for Teddy Wilson to be the sole performer. And it turns out to be so. The room is small and intimate, I could be anywhere in any century. The piano room is the social club of a musical society formed from piano players, who book prossed up virtuosi each week to study their style, a sort of workshop. This week it is Teddy Wilson, me prossed up as him, with my Teddy Wilson chip in place. The members range from seven year old genius’s to old troopers with arthritic fingers. Around me are mini cameras including some set into the front of the piano just above the keys. As I play every movement of my fingers is displayed on screens around the walls. My arms are attached with sensors that monitor every muscle in my fingers. A signal is sent to receivers that can be attached to the arms of the watchers, so they play invisible keyboards along with me. Spooky but effective. These movements are recorded and used again. So with time each student has muscle memory that allows them to be a Teddy Wilson clone. Not very inventive, in my opinion, but they think it makes them better players. The place is set out like a speakeasy with dim lights a small dance floor and a bar lit by blue lights. Come nightfall the kid's are kicked out and the atmosphere changes. The barmen put away the soda's and start mixing cocktails. I sink a couple of Jack's and up the tempo. A almond eyed honey with cropped hair and red lips, rests her hand on my shoulder and ask's if I can play the backing to some show numbers. Never one to let down a Lady, I agree. She starts with a bit of scat that has the chords of Star Eyes, I take up the tune and lead her in. She has a soft voice with a slight huskiness. I like it, this is going to be fun. Sometimes on these gigs I am asked to play with some fog horn that hasn't an iota of subtlety, but barbecue has it in spades. She finishes with a note that in ordinary circumstances would be a bum one. But it works. I am impressed. We do a few more numbers then she walks of. I can't think of a better time the take a break, and as I step of the stage, I spot Chico at a table by the bar. He pulls out a chair for me and I sit.

'Not a bad set.' He say's.

It's a long time since I sat with Chico and chewed the fat, I am curious as to why he want's to do it here, with me prossed up as Teddy Wilson.

He starts in.

'Do you remember that gig you did on the star ship in Saturn orbit. The one where the grunts rioted and you had to beat it pronto.' Chico leans forward in a conspiratory pose, as if what he is about to say is top secret and not to be overheard.

'I do remember it as you didn't pay me.'

He leans back and stays stum. Now he goes all coy on me.

'Spill it Chico, I say with exasperation.

'Well they are blaming you, and hence the Agency and not only are they refusing to pay up, but they are threatening to blow up the shop.'

'Will they take cash?'

' Don't be a shmuck. It would have to be a container load.'

Shit is that all, I have enough containers full credits to stretch from here to Neptune, will I miss one? I don't think so. I place my hand on Chico's arm.

'I'm loaded, Chico, go back to Mars and I'll tell Brian, to buy them a new ship and Scr4p M3 will take the old one of their hands.'

'You own Scr4p M3? The owners of Mars City Dodgers.' Apparently I do.

'Never mind about Spaceball, lets get hammered.'

**************

I pitch up at the whorehouse. With time travel I can dodge the end of the Universe by several millenniums. 1935 in New York, beats anything Mars can offer, Mars is so safe. Apart from the end of the Universe that is. No Hoods, no speakeasies, no Whores with dodgy habits. No Musicals, yellow cabs, or inky black jazz musicians without a neck chip. And no Big Sal. I can have all the perfect women I want back on Mars, but to snuggle up to Big Sal on a cold night takes some beating. I knock on the door and the spy hole slides back. It's a voice I don't recognise.

'Wadayouwant?'

'It's me, Joe Coolz, I need a bed.'

'Broads we got, beds we don't, 'cept by the hour.'

'Is Big Sal free.'

'She left'

The door slams shut. This is a big disappointment. What now? I feel hot breath in my ear. I am grabbed from behind and squeezed until I feel dizzy.

A voice I recognise say. 'Hi Hon.'

'Sal, he said you left.'

'He's from The Bronx, no fucking sense.' She laughs that big throaty laugh that makes her chest bounce. 'I did leave, but only for a bite in the Diner.' She relaxes her grip and kisses me full and long on the lips. 'I missed you Limey.' She stands back and takes my hand and puts it to her heart.

'Feel that Honey, it's all yours. Well your's and Fats's. The Fat and the Thin'

If only she knew.

130

When I play these gigs, I forget who I am. Joe Coollz from Mars 40037 or is it 40038 by now. But occasionally my memory of Brian is awakened by a small incident, or even a sound. This time it is the smell of fresh doughnuts just like the smell in my kitchen when Brian knocks them up. A flunky in a DJ sets a plateful down on the piano. They are still hot and the jammy sweetness of them gets up my nostrils and takes me back to Mars. I don't like them, they are for too sugary for my palate, but Brian thinks I should try them as he has made the effort. The same here, but the boys don't seem much bothered by my refusal, and soon clear the plate. It is, however, time for a break, and I head for the bar. Being white I have the run of the place, the rest of the boys in their tux's are fed up of being mistaken for staff, stay behind in the band room. Mo joins me, she is such a looker that every male's eyeball, and some envious female's follow her, mentally stroking her tush. She gives me a peck on the cheak, and I smell her perfume and gin on her breath.

'She's a broth of a girl, is Bab's,' says Mo. 'Say's she gives the best blow job in the East, which is why she still has all her teeth.' Mo looks around her. 'She reminds me of someone.'

'Veronica Lake.' I say.

'Jaysus you're right on the nail. She could pass for her in the street.'

Not when you've met the real thing, I think.

'Let's go and play the tables,' she says. 'I have the luck of the Irish, we could win enough to open our own hotel.'

'We don't have time, it's band call in thirty minutes.'

'More than enough time.' she says. 'Got any dollars?'

The room with the tables is a vast hight roofed copy of a Chateau's ballroom. Slim pillars topped with capitals made from gilded cherubs hold up a domed painted ceiling. The mural is of a turkish bath house with towelled men, waited on by semi naked handmaidens handing out plates of $100 chips. Mo stops at the only table with a male dealer, and puts down my hundred dollars on the beize. The dealer, dark skined with delicate hands swaps the notes for ten dollar chips. Within twenty minutes Mo has turned the hundred dollars into five thousand, and turns to me and says with a smile. 'Didn't I tell you, so.' I pull her away.

'Time to go and sing for your supper, before you lose it all.' She scrapes the chips into her small purse as the dealer signals to the floor manager. He comes over and guides Mo into a back office, I follow. Sitting behind the the desk is Joe Masseria's killer, Lucky Luciano. His stare is hostile and aimed at Mo then me.

'You the pianoman?' I nod.

'You the Canary?' Mo gives him her best smile.

He stays stony faced. 'I don't like being taken for a smuck. You two are on some kind of scam, so give.' One of his goons snatches Mo's bag and empties it onto the desk. The contents skid around on the polished top. A lipstick, a powder compact, a pack of cigarets and 3 dollars in notes tumble out, but no chips.

'They must be on her person, boss.' say the heavy. 'Let me frisk her'. I feel into my pockets, and there they are, the chips, five one G chips. But I keep stum.

Lucky cracks a smile. 'I'll give you a choice'. He say's. 'You keep the doh and I keep the chick, or.' He pauses for effect. 'Or, I keep the chick and the doh, and I don't shoot you.'

He raises a quizzical eye brow. His goons roar with laughter.

I go cold. I take the chips from my pocket and put them on to the desk.

'No reason to shoot anyone,' I say. No one shafted the tables, she's just lucky.'

'You as Lucky as your name?' asks Mo. 'My luck against yours.'

Only a dumb broad would push it this far, I try and think of something but for once my survival instinct lets me down.

'What do you have in mind?' asks Lucky.

'One throw of the dice, highest wins. If you win you have me and the money, if I win I get to keep the money and a get out of Jail free card for me and Joe, here.'

Lucky thinks this over, his face is like Mount Rushmore, then a slow smile appears showing gold teeth.

'I like you, you've got spunk. You throw against Louis here, I never gamble, unless I am guaranteed a win, and I want to keep this legit.' He opens a drawer takes out a new pair of dice and places them on to the desk. You throw first.' Mo takes the dice blows into her fist and throws a pair of deuces.

'My balls are tingling already,' he says. The phone on his desk rings and he picks up. He waves to Louis to carry on and growls into the mouthpiece. Louis takes a pair of dice from his pocket and rattles them for a good ten seconds, crouches down and throws against the wall. The heavies crowd forward to get the first look.

'Snake eyes.'

Lucky covers the mouthpiece' You dum fuck, you were supposed to use these.' He scoops up the dice on his desk and throws them at Louis. They land ones up. Snake eyes again. What are the odds on that?

****************

The Blenhiem Hotel is one plush joint. Outfits by Elsa Schiapaelli and Lucien Lelong wrap the squeezes of the sharp suited Hoods. I don't know if the Hoods would approve of Dali, but the dresses incorporate many of his ideas. The hotel itself is a mish mash of ancient and modern. Doric columns and oak paneling, proliferate in the public rooms, with the restaurant capped with a domed glass and ironwork roof. Mo and me are seated to one side watching the players put on sophistication, acting like snakes about to shed their skin. I am into my second highball, when I spot Babs weaving her way towards us. As she gets nearer she morphs into the real thing.

'Hi honey', says Veronica. 'Small world.'

She hold's out her hand to Mo. Mo shakes it with a sideways glance at me. The sudden appearance of Veronica never bodes well, and she needs no introduction, but rather an explanation.

'Jo and I are old friends,' says Veronica to Mo, 'And you will go far, I caught your act last night. A little rough around the edges, but nothing that can't be cleaned up. And now if you will excuse us, Jo and I have some business to discuss.'

Mo gets up and heads for the powder room.

'Nice Ass.' says Veronica as Mo's tight slacks move along with her.

'I will dispense with the pleasantries, you have to go back to Mars, and to your own time. You may be messing up the time continuum.'

'And you are not?'

'Well okay, the higher command have got the needle that you are having such a good time, and want you to feel more responsive to the fate of the Universe.'

'You wouldn't be a little jealous would you?

'What of that Biddy from the Bogs? Take the her back to NY and then disappear. Tell her you have to visit your sick Uncle or something.' Veronica stands up and waves goodbye. Talk about a wet sponge.

****************

The WMD room is just the same. Same white walls, same white floor, same white desk, same black spot, on which I am standing. Both the McGee twins are behind the desk. Their flame red hair the only colour in the room. I can't tell them apart, maybe one of them is a robo copy? I have to stand here until they are satisfied that I won't become part of a black hole before they give me the hurry up. As I am me and not poossed up as Fat's once I get the signal I can go home. Red, it says RED on her lab coat, so I presume it is her, waves me of the black spot.

'Welcome home Joe, we've missed you.'

'Your cock too.' adds Texas.

'What is the word for male sexual harassment?'

'Misandry' says Red

'No misandry is the hatred of men, not sexual harassment of them.' says Texas

'It's probably, “tusher” then.'

'I wish I'd never asked.'

***************

I head immediately for IGBA headquarters. Stencilled on the wall in black ink are acronyms of the various agencies that are housed here.

IGBI, IGIA, IGMIA, IGRA.

They all want me. The Inter Galactic Bureau of Investigation, for my piano playing.

The Inter Galactic Intelligence Agency, for my information gathering about what the IGBI is up to. The Inter Galactic Misinformation Agency for exactly what it does. The Inter Galactic Revenue Agency for my cash. I tell the black skinned blonde on the desk who I am. He tells me to wait and someone will be down shortly. That someone is Veronica. She takes me to the open elevator and keys in the code for our destination. In a moment we step out into a vast room with a table that must be a kilometre long. At the far end are four hover chairs. Two occupied. The empty chairs float down to us and we hop on for a ride to join Doil and Smith. Then the Finks join us and pull out a couple of chairs from under the table, then Jenny Wizz, then the ten star General, General B. All, and before you can say, 'Whatsup', the table is full of important people who wish to save the Universe. Rachel Fink stands up and the room hushes. She takes out an Apple ilightpen and shines it on to the wall. A 4D image opens up.

'This is the state of the Universe at present'. The image gives me a strange apprehensive giddy feeling as I am shot through the Galaxies to end of the Universe. Then it goes black. A weird empty black that is neither there nor not there.

'And this is the Universe in a Mars week's time. Not long for Joe here,' she aims her ample breasts at me, 'to play the lost sequence.' She sticks the pen down her cleavage and sits down. Issy Fink stands up.

'Thanks, Rachel, very enlightening.' He laughs at his little joke. We don't get it. He continues.

'It would be impossible for our prossed Fats and the real Fats to play at the same piano at the same time. But that is what we have narrowed it down to. Two Fats Wallers playing the same note at the same time on the same piano.'

I put my hand up. Issy Fink tries not to notice, so I bang on the table. He looks at me as if I am a bit of slime. But I am made of sterner stuff.

'If it were possible for two Fats's to be at the same piano at the same time, it would be impossible for them to play the same note at the same time, unless it was an octave higher or lower. But the same note would mean a finger from each of them to be hitting the key simultaneously on a piano, possible with a double keyboard with each key set out exactly the same, and tuned to the same pitch. As to my knowledge no such piano exists. It couldn't happen, ever, never mind in a Mars week.' I look at Issy and ask him a question.

'Do you play the piano...?

' I play keyboards.'

'….An old world 20^th century upright?'

'No, but the principle must be the same.'

How can a man, supposed to be super inteligent be so so dumb about the advances in keyboard tecnics? I enlighten him.

'Unfortunately the future's strive for perfection in everything does not serve you well to achieve your aims, Issy. Keyboards have been improved until all the quirks and individuallity have been designed out. A 20^th century upright has it's own personality and idiosyncrasies. No two pianos are the same, especially the wrecks used in Fish Fry's. It is either the end of the Universe, or you have to come up with another plan. Two Fats Wallers at the same piano is a ridiculous idea anyway. What about Fats Waller and Fats Domino?'

129

Red is beside me in bed. Her perfect body stretched out alongside mine, arms above her head and crossed at the wrists, like a high board diver ready to take the plunge. I can't help comparing her to Mo. They are both red heads with the slightly translucent skin that shows the delicate blue veins on the underside of their arms. Red's freckles are a lighter brown than Mo's, giving her a slightly out of focus look. I casually mention my planet, and get her opinion on plans for it's being.

'Are you going to populate it with real people?' she asks.

'I haven't go that far, this is all very new to me. Brian bought the planet on my behalf or I should say bought it without my knowledge. I don't even have a name for it.'

'You can call it after him.'

'What call my planet Brian?'

'Why not? It is as good a name as anything. It may even sound exotic to someone who speaks Galitian.'

'Brian, I know you are listening, I am not calling the planet after you.'

'It has a name, Sir. I had to give it a name to register it.' I wait for it, fearing the worst. I have been on the end of Brian's mishaps before.

At last he say's. 'Brianus.'

'Aaaagh!'

**************

I now own a fleet of starships, a scrap spaceship business and an artificial planet called Brianus, and do you know what? I would rather be playing piano on Earth in the 1930's than playing tycoons. The women are as beautiful as in the present year and you don't have to worry if they are cyborgs or not. We have perfected cyborgs. Their skin is as smooth as a healthy eighteen year old's. The internal organs function as humans do. Heart liver kidneys all in place, the things missing are the wombs in females and semen in males. There is an incubating unit on the factory planet that turns them out to order. I don't know why Brian doesn't order one for himself and wear it when I am not around. It's not the same as having a brain and body as one unit. His brain would still be a box of circuits connected by bluetooth to the cyborg, and he would have to keep it safely somewhere to hand. But he has proved himself to be handy at all sorts of enterprises, so that shouldn't be a problem for him. However I digress. The one problem with New York in the 1930's is the street noise. Everyone and everything makes it, at high decibells. The El. The honking cars, the police whistles, at junctions. It is difficult to hear yourself speak. But everyone tries, at the tops of their voices. The cobbled streets, hawkers and blaring radios from open windows. I dive down into the Club Hot-Cha on 104^th St., to catch up with the song writing with Mo. She is at the piano, another surprise, working through a number sung by a Chicago meat packers wife, an imigrant from Ireland.

Your breath is cold
and freezes my heart
Your eyes have lost their fire
And cooled your desire
But until hell freezes over, I’ll burn with your love.

Cold wind, from Chicago blows through my life
Legs of a dancer and a heart of ice,
Cold wind, that cold wind, that oh so cold wind.

With icebergs in her eyes
And snow in her heart
The temperature drops
Its where ice-flows start
But until hell freezes over, I’ll burn with your love.

Cold wind, from Chicago blows through my life
Legs of a dancer and a heart of ice,
Cold wind, that cold wind, that oh so cold wind.

I listen intently and when she has finished I clap and ask what it is called. Mo looks up in surprise and a big smile lights up her face.

'Where have you been stranger. I began to wonder if the little people hadn't stolen you.'

'I've been around, I had some things to take care of.'

'Well I'm glad you're back, I've missed your dick.' She pauses, 'And the rest of you of course. It's called “Cold Wind.” Needs some work but it has potential.'

I can't help comparing her to Red back on Mars. They are very similar. Red might be a distant relative. I am so interested in her that I fail to spot Saul sitting over by the bar in shadow. If it wasn't for his white shirt he would be invisible.

'She's almost good enough to be black.' He says. His comment is coming from the premise that all blacks, have rhythm, and whites have two left feet.

'Hang around,' he says with a grin,'I'm expecting a visit from The Man. My spy in his camp tells me he is plotting to shoot this place up.'

I try to see into his eyes. Is he trying to frighten the shit out of me, or is it on the level?' I take a good look around. The joint seems deserted . No bodyguards or massed defenders. Just us three.

I give a nervous laugh and go over to shake his hand. His grip is warm and firm.

'I get it, a piano player, a Lawyer and a Colleen from the bogs are going to hold off the massed hoods of The Man.

'Why not, like that Greek cat, Horatius on the bridge holding off a whole army, with just a sword and a shield.'

'I suppose that Jason and his mob are waiting in the wings, and a wooden horse in the shape of a Paddy wagon full of goons is parked in the Alley.'

Saul is beaming now, banter with classical references makes a change from low life's and heavies speaking nothing but Dames and dimes. Mo drops the piano lid and comes over to join us. She wears her body with an easy grace, and both Saul and me watch her with appreciation. When she has pulled up a chair, Saul asks her if she knows any Greek Myths.

'Only that they are good lovers,' she says. Mo has wit as well as beauty. She will go far in this town where wisecracking is an art form. I can see Saul is impressed.

'Do you have an education?' he asks.

Mo is silent for a while, she is troubled by this question. At last she says, 'Will it make a difference.'

'Just asking,' says Saul. 'No ulterior motive.'

'I went to University to study musical composition. Before that I was taught by Nuns.' She sighs. 'Sure isn't everyone in Ireland. Then me and Mick decided to seek our fortune in America. And here I am.' She gets up from the table. “I'll give you some Mozart.'

'The hell you will.' says Saul. 'I hate that shit. It reminds me of all that is wrong with New York's elite. Play that Chicago number. Now there's a town.'

'You sing I'll play.' I say. Mo looks offended. 'Typical man. Always ready to take over.' Mo gives me a dig in the ribs. You stay here buster, I'll do both.' Saul laughs. 'That's telling you, man.'

Saul gives us ride back to 116^th St. in his Caddy drops us off at the French House. Saul has a date with with the district court in has capacity of an attorney, and says hell be back around seven chimes.

I leave Mo to get on with her evening bath and swing into the Diner, avoiding the pile of instruments by the door and being hit by the hubbub of musos talking shop. Prez is seated with his brother Lee by the window.

'Over here, man.' Lee calls patting the only vacant seat in the whole joint, I sit opposite Prez and Little Jazz. I couldn't have better company to kill time with.

'We have a paying gig over the water, and need a key man, and hey, you walk in.'

'When you say over the water where is that exactly, England?' I ask. Lee laughs, 'Yeh England New Jersey. The Italians have a wedding planned, two families joining forces in matrimony. The Bishop of St. Pats. Doing the tying. All we need now is a bull fiddle and a canary. Bam's out of town, and all the Canary's are tied up with the big bands.'

'I can't do it,' I say 'I'm on at at the Club Hot Cha. I got me a new canary all the way from Ireland, she is gonna be a big star, but.' I shrug my shoulders in a hopeless gesture.

'Don't let your bread fall butter side down, man.' say's Prez. 'This gig's a Dime factory.'

'Saul will be back around 7 chimes, I'll ask for leave.' I say.

'Now you're cooking.' says Lee.

*************

Saul says he has musicians lining up to play his club, so I can have the night off. Lee drives us onto the ferry, Prez next to him, me and Mo in the back with Jimmy Blanton, his bull fiddle strapped to the roof and Lee's drum kit in the trunk. We go from pier 39 to Hoboken then drive south to Atlantic City. It's about a 3 hour drive and a bit cramped in the back. We stop off at Toms River for gas and a welcome leg stretch. The locals in the area are somewhat funny about mixed race travellers, but a bit of name dropping, like Capone and Luciano, has the gas hop, dancing in attendance. He gives us a pack of Bud, on the house, and we continue our journey sipping the beer.

We arrive at the Blenhiem Hotel with a few hours to kill. The receptionist, a bottle blond wearing too much make up, assignes us rooms on the 4^th floor. Prez and Lee in one, me and Jimmy in another and Mo a double on her own. This arrangement is soon changed, as I move in with Mo and leave Jimmy with a double, a bed for him and one for his bass.

I go through some show songs with Mo. The wise guys will wan't us to play most of the current hits from Broadway. We have to be on our toes as they will want blood, literally, if we fail to please, and it is usually the piano player that takes the bullet. It is soon show time and we go down and meet up with the rest of the band in the lobby. I spot someone I know, at first glance I think it is the real Veronica, but a second look tells me it is Babs, The Mans Squeeze. And where she is The Man is not far away. She comes over and I introduce her to Mo. Mo is dressed to kill, long shimmering green gown. Bare shoulders and back and silk gloves up above her elbows.

'Who's the Canary?' asks Babs.

'I can speak for myself.' says Mo.'No need to ask the hired hand.'

'Hey sweetie, with that attitude, you'll go far or killed. Come with me I have someone who would love to meet you.' Mo looks at me for some guidance.

'You are in safe hands with Babs here,' I lean in and give Babs a peck on the cheek. 'Nobody better to show you around.'

'Thanks, lover boy', says Babs. 'Pitty we never got it together.'

'In another life, on another planet.' I say. She leads Mo off and leaves me nursing a scotch on the rocks, eyed suspiciously, maybe with recollection of our last meeting, by The Man's goons.

Prez and the rest of the band are setting up on the stage behind a thick velvet curtain, I shake the goons off and join them.

'Where's The Canary?' asks Prez.

'Gone off with Babs , The Man's barbecue, 'Swopping bed time stories by now.'

'Okay we start slow without her, lets just ease into this gig. Soon we're as tight as a choirboys tush, and the curtain opens.

128

Yes I know we have been through this before. But think how I feel. How may times is it, three, maybe four, that I have seen Veronica killed. And then what happens, Doil gets the red mist, the IGBI cook up another plan and I get the ear bashing. I have to give writing a musical with Mo a rain check and pop back to Mars, year of the Horse 40037, says Doil, no loitering with horny Irish girls, shed Fats and await further instructions. In the Worm Hole Detstabliser room, Red is pleased to see me and says we should take in a suround-a-round. Flash Gordon is playing at the Roxy. I can be the Ming the Merciless and she can be Flash. That's another rain check then. Why can't I be Flash and her the princess Aura, as far as I know Ming never had sex with anyone. I go home via the Prossing Company and become myself once again. Brian greets me like a long lost brother, which makes a change from the surly hello I got last time. I suspect some thing is up but enjoy the moment. I left earth in the dead of night, dead being the appropriate word, now it is early morning on Mars, and I am welcomed with fresh Columbiana coffee and jello doughnuts.

'Baked them myself, Sir.' says Brian.

'What, shook flour onto a board added, eggs and sugar and hand rolled them?'

'Not exactly.'

'How not exactly?'

'You know that I haven't any hands.' (Here we go.) He waits for a reply which I don't give.

'They are delicious, are they not, but think how much better they would be if I had hand rolled them.'

'Impossible to improve on them.' I say, 'So no, you can't have any hands. Anything else I should know. Crashed any star ships in any planets, or upset the IGRIS?'

'There is just one small thing, Sir.' I await the revelation, with a mixture of dread and expectation.

'We have bought a Planet, it's a copy of the original, but a Planet never the less.'

'Wow we own a Planet. Is it habitable?'

'It has a license for habitation, but as yet no one has been on it, except the engineers who set it up.'

'What's the catch?'

'Non Sir, you will like it.'

Now I am suspicious, no catch, nothing Brian has done is without a catch or caveat. I wait for the but.

'The license is to run it as a brothel.'

I am utterly speechless.

**************

Chico from the agency is on the holovid. I must be back exactly in my own time, as he doesn't look a day over thirty. Gone are the grey hair and wrinkles. He has a job for me on the artificial Earth pleasure planet. It's to play piano at the Sands, Las Vegas accompanying the Rat Pack. They won't be the real Rat Pack, but just as good. Frank, Dean, Sammy Jnr., with drop in appearances by Peter Lawford and Joey Bishop. The money's lousy, but I don't need it, rich enough to own my own planet n'all. I jump at the chance, this could be fun.

'Who am I prossing up as?' I ask. 'Count Basie was the original band leader.'

'Go as yourself, the audience won't know your not the Count.'

'But he was black, man!'

'So get a tan.' The holovid fades.

***************

Before I go to the gig I drop in on Veronica. She is on the same floor in the same room. The girl at the reception desk smiles like we are old friends, she tells me that I know where to go, and the elevator door opens in the wall. She may be a humanoid, her demeanure is so nice. I step out into Veronica's room and she is sitting in a Miles Van Der Rohe chair staring out over a view of Hawaii. A sound of crashing breakers and guitar music floats up on the breeze.

'What kept you Joe, I've been holed up in here for weeks.'

'It was only yesterday that you were stuck.' I say.

'Was it only yesterday, it feels like weeks. They slow your whole metabolism down during the surgery, it is difficult to tell the passage of time.'

'You look well,' I say. ' She looks at me with a steady gaze her eyes pink without the coloured contact lenses she normally wears, giving me the don't bullshit me look.

'If were well, I would be sitting on a real beach on Hawaii, high ball to one side and a muscle man on the other.'

'Don't expect me to bulk up just to satisfy your fantasies.' She turns from me and puts on her dark glasses.

'You've done your duty and visited me you can go now.'

The brush off, I am very offended. I am so offended that I am stuck for something to say and stand where I am, starring at the her silky snow white hair, tied up in a chingion so her neck temps any man with blood in his viens to kiss it. Which I do. She turns around and kisses me full on the lips.

'I thought you would never come.' she says. 'It gets lonely in here. I can watch old movies, change the view, but nothing comes close to company. Especially good looking young males with a hard on.'

I look down. 'So I have.'

'Don't let it go to waste.'

**************

The Sands gig is going well. The audience love the banter between Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. Below is the set list which we have to follow. It should be exactly the same as the original concert. But the Rat pack being The Rat Pack you cannot guarantee anything.

Fanfare And Introduction - The Rat Pack Live At The Sands

Medley: Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes/I Don't Care If The Sun Don't Shine/I Love Vegas (Paris) - Dean Martin

Monologue - Dean Martin

June In January - Dean Martin

Monologue - Dean Martin

Via Veneto - Dean Martin

Medley: Volare (Nel Blu, Dipinto Di Blu)/On An Evening In Roma - Dean Martin

Introduction: Ring-A-Ding Ding (Instrumental)

I Only Have Eyes For You

Call Me Irresponsible

My Heart Stood Still

Please Be Kind

I Have Dreamed

Luck Be A Lady

Dialogue

Medley: Marianne/Dance With A Dolly/You Are Too Beautiful/You Made Me Love You/Carolina In The Morning/Beautiful Dreamer/Dancing With Tears In My Eyes/Maria/Try A Little Tenderness/What Is This Thing Called Love

The Lady Is A Tramp - Sammy Davis Jr.

All The Way (Impressions) - Sammy Davis Jr.

Dialogue

Guys And Dolls

For instance. During 'Luck be a Lady Tonight,' from the musical Guys and Dolls Frank comes over to the piano and sits next to me and throws some dice onto the floor. Dean shouts, 'Snake Eyes, I win.' Frank stops the band with a wave of the hand and goes over to Dean. 'Who're you calling snake eyes?'

'You' drawls Dean. 'I've had so much wine that it's all I can see.' That's Dean's act, his forte, he pretends to be drunk all the time, but is as sober as a Quaker matron. Frank turns back takes two steps, then turns again as if he is going to start a fight.

'No good hitting me,' says Dean I'm Anithset..., anithes..., won't feel a thing.'

The audience love it. Frank strikes up the band and carries on where he left off. Dean gropes for his stool and wobbles on to it aided by Sammy Davis.

Back in the band room the banter carries on because they all have a chip in the neck that makes them their character. All except me of course I have played the set as Joe Coolz.

Frank suggests that we hit the town. What he doesn't realise and I know, is that there is no town. We are on an artificial planet that has famous venues for entertainment, such as The Sands, The London Palladium, The Moulin Rouge, The Reeperbahm, catering for stag parties and works outings. The punters know it is fake. I know it is fake, but whoever is prossed up as Frank doesn't. I would think this is a mistake by the owners. Think of all the extra business a whole fake Las Vegas would make. Not to talk of the gambling receipts, money from prostitutes and drugs. I must have a word with Brian when I get home. We have an empty planet, with a license for prostitution.

I say my goodbye's pop into the John, and press the return button on my watch. A moment of ecstasy and I am back on the black spot. Red is at the controls, and tells me I'm late. 'For what?' I ask.

'Our date.' she replies. “You know the see Flash Gordon, with you as Ming the merciless.' She swings her hair with a toss of the head. Her magenta lips opening to reveal her perfect teeth. 'With me as the princess, Aura.'

'That is the trouble with time travel, you don't know what day it is.' I say, 'is it still on?'

'Fortunately for you, yes. I would never have forgiven you if we had missed it, pick me up after my shift finishes at twelve.'