Chapter 112

I am in the 5^th precinct. I am not under arrest, I am here under my free will. I have come to tell Doil that there may be a price on my head and he has to do something about it. The fact that I am loyal to the IGBI must count for for something, me reporting to him an all, what went down with Jenny Wizz of the IGIA.
'Load of fucking interfering fuckups.' says Doil. 'Once they are involved you can be sure that any operation will go tits up.'
'What about me.' I say.
'You are a king pin in our operation, if you don't come up with the correct sequence of notes we can all say goodbye to life.' He bangs the table to emphasise the point.
'I will have to report this to the council, and they will deal with it, meanwhile we will put all your DNA, mind, and memories into the regeneration database just in case.'
'Oh very reassuring.'
'What's not to like, if you die we bring you back. Not everyone is guaranteed that. Some politicians would die for that.'
Doil laughs at his own joke, I just go cold.
I am waiting for a cab in Mott Street, when a limo pulls over and driver says to get in. I peer into the back and The Man is patting the leather next to him. I get in, what the hell?
He takes me to his headquarters, The Stork Club. It is empty.
'Look around you Fats and take it in.' I do as I am told and see empty tables, empty bar, staff with empty eyes.
'I need something to pull in the punters, and I figure you can do that for me.' I look surprised considering our past history.
'We can let bygones be.' He shrugs, 'When it comes to business I am the forgiving type. I give you a four week residency and you can name your price.'
Naming my price would entail him dead and me free do as I wished. I take my time.
'Does it have to be me? What about that Limey key man who filled the joint?'
'You heard about that. Yeh he was good but a nobody, a no name a a fly by night fucking Limey Bastard.'
'Phew he certainly doesn't like him, better stay as Fats for a while.'
'I would like to help you out but I am booked up.' (As for as the IGBI is concerned that is.)
'So unbook.'
'It will cost.'
'So surprise me.'
'I choose my own side men.'
'Deal.'
'They get union rates plus 50%, double time over 2 am, all drinks and food supplied from the menu. And a ride home.'
'Deal.'
I am on a roll so I ask for twenty percent of the takings. He haggles me down to fifteen but I would have taken ten, so the deal is struck.

Chapter 111

'Well what do you expect?' I say to Doil. We are in his squad car. I am in the back with Getz, Doil sits next to the driver, a uniform, with a thick neck and acne scars. Another IGBI agent. The windows are steamed up and the car smells of stale cigarettes, whiskey breath and manliness. Doil ignores my question, and winds down the window to toss a butt into the gutter. The rain has eased to a steady downpour and hits the roof of the Buick with fingered prods. I sigh. Doils turns around and gives me a don't sigh at me look and tells the uniform to drive on. It's about four a.m. And incongruously a water cart passes us on the other side spraying the side walk. 'I could eat a fucking horse' says Doil. He tells the uniform to swing a U-turn and head for Haarlem. 'There's a good one on 3rd and 116.' Wait a mo, that's my Diner.
'I hope you've got the true Fats under lock and key,' I say, 'As he will get a big surprise when I walk in.' Doil instructs Getz to contact IGBI, and find out where the true Fats is at. 'Not a problem.' says Getz. 'Put him on ice myself. Sleeping like a baby.'
'And another thing,' I say. 'What about Fats's reputation, he can't be seen with the Bulls from the 5^th. Not unless he is cuffed.'
'If you insist.' says Getz and cuffs me up. Me and my big mouth.
****************
The streets of Haarlem smell fresh and clean after the downpour. I have walked the block or two to the East river and looked back. A full half circle rainbow hugs the City and as the storm drifts west it slowly fades. I am still prossed up as Fats and the Cat House awaits, but I feel fresh and breakfasted well, so a little past prandial promenarding is very welcome. The warehouses along the waterfront are opening their doors for business, people forget that New York is a major port, not just Music and booze. It has a bustle and energy and the opportunities from rags to riches are numerous. Some do it by hard work and long days, some do it the other way. I've walked for some time and come to Max's bar on Fulton Street. It is open for business so I pop in for a beer. Sitting at the bar is Jenny. Not in her airboard outfit but dressed as a flapper out for a pick me up.
I pretend I don't recognise her. After all why would I? I take my beer to a booth by the window and watch the stevadors. Finally she comes over.
'So ignore me why don't you?
'Have we met?'
'In the future.'
'What do you want?'
'I want information.'
She looks good in her bead dress and silk stockings, her long toned airboard legs have a sheen to them that attracts the eye. She stretches one out and rests it on my thigh. 

I ask a question that has been bugging me. 'The IGBI and the IGIA are both agencies of the Inter Galactic Coalition, so why don't they talk to each other?'
She shrugs. ' They do at government level, but both of us have a brief to not trust anyone, not even each other. The idea that the end of the Universe can be averted by Fats Waller playing a certain sequence of notes at a certain time in the 20^th century, is if you think about it, pretty far fetched. It's been worked out by the techies at IGBI central, but one of them might have an ulterior motive to take over a few planets in the panic, when the end is nigh. Then hey presto the crisis is averted and he's in the money.'
'Now that is pretty far fetched. I thought the IGIA had eyes and ears everywhere.'
'If people paid their taxes we would have all the funds we needed to bug the Universe. But they don't and it is cheaper to recruit informers.'
'I don't know any techies and I'm no nark.'
'We all have our price and your price is me. Or should I say me and your life.'
'Let me get this straight. If I don't become your informant, you will kill me.'
'And you get to a good lay out of it if you do.'
'I do all right in the sac as it is.'
She suddenly looks dangerous, beautiful but dangerous.
'I'm not into necrophilia but then if you're dead you wouldn't know who was sucking your dick.'
This is getting weird. I could do as she asks and report to Doil and Doil can tell me what to say. Or I can accept her offer and just report to her. Or I can do neither and die. As beautiful as she is I think she is mad. She needs wiping clean and re-educating. I decide to call her bluff.
'So kill me.'

Chapter 110

The IGBI have a sonic bomb which they throw into somewhere and it destroys all electronic devices including bugs. So my apartment is now free of these listening devices. Brian was given a sonic shield to protect him from the effects, more is the pity, and is functioning as normal. Veronica is lying next to me on my lava bed, not to every ones taste as it can provoke nausea, and she has a plan for me. The cloned Fats that I sent in my place took his job too seriously and raised hell in a few gin joints, and had to be decommissioned. The cops have the bemused real Fats in the Pokey, and all is not well with the IGBI world. They are going to spring him and put him into suspended animation as I take his place.
**************
The room smells of fish. Fried fish, cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. A ginger haired bull with a lived in face stands by the door, hands in his trouser pockets with his trench coat pushed back behind his arms. His tie is pulled down with his top shirt button open. It is hot in the room, ninety percent humidity. On the couch sits a woman with dirty blonde hair and red nails. One arm dangles down over the arm rest, her legs are open, one shoe on one shoe off, her skirt is ruffed up showing french nickers, her legs are bare, her best feature. By her side stands a large black man in a tailored three piece, black highly polished shoes and a trilby hat. He is smoking a cheroot. By the open window is a piano at which sits Fats wearing his public uniform of shirt, wide tie, waistcoat and Derby hat. In the back of his neck, quite close to his third vertebra, is a small scalpel scar which is the slot for his Waller chip. The rain falls in waves , turning the pavement to deep rivers of water and trash. He is lit by the flashing neon sign above the drug store across the street, red green white, red green white. The fish is dispensed from a trestle table by the kitchen door, by a fat woman in a tied head scarf and flowered apron , who may or may not be a spy for the IGIA. In fact all the people in the room may be spies for one agency or another. The IGIA, IGBI, IGRS, IGTA, IGDIA. Along the hall is a room full of hookers catering for all tastes. The fleet is in and it's time to turn a trick. Some sailors are already here playing craps in the back room, they are in high spirits, pushing and nudging their opo. The black guy pulls the blond upright and tells her it is time to go to work. She rises straightens her skirt, puts on some lipstick and heads for the back room. The sailors ignore her, just shooting craps. She crouches astride over the dice palms them and throws a seven. The sailors look at each other not sure if she used her hand or something else. 'Did you see that?' She smiles serenely and goes back to the couch. What they didn't know is that this was a switch. The dice are now loaded. A bold sailor comes over and asks her to roll some more. She refuses and her pimp says if he wants more he must pay, and says, if she can do that with the dice think what she can do with his schlong. He needs no more encouragement and she leads him to the room down the hall. She is replaced by a high yellow. The night is warming up. Detective first class Doil arrives with a Veronica Lake look-a-like. He is dripping wet from the storm, but she has just a few spots of water on her shoes. He takes off his storm coat and his hat and hangs them over the banister. His police special is revealed as he does so, in a well worn shoulder holster. The noise is rising from the back room with shouts that the dice must be loaded. A fight breaks out which Doil and the Ginger cop break up. Doil asks for the dice and a skinny sailor with his hat pushed back hands them to him. Doil rolls them a few times, one always comes up seven.
'These yours?'
'Nope.'

'They smell fishy. I'll keep them', He reaches into his pocket and hands them two new dice.
'5^th precinct vetted, play nicely.' This has spoiled the pimps plans for a high roller game with him at the advantage. He sends the high yellow to do some business, if the sailors don't come across he will be out of pocket. Veronica lights up a cigarette and walks over to Fats, she takes the jug from the piano top.
'May I?' Fats gives her the OK and she tips the jug up and takes a long pull.
'I like a man who know his whiskey, no burn just warmth.'
'Best Speyside,' Fats starts playing the Blue Bells of Scotland to a stride beat. Veronica takes another pull.
'I owe yah.' Fats roles his eyes and wiggles his eyebrows, still playing the clown to hide his talent. The cook comes out with more fried catfish. Veronica eyeballs her, trying to fathom out if she is the real thing or an IGIA agent. There's a flash of lightning turning everything to black and white and as colour returns a pool of blood is forming under Veronica's foot. She slumps to the ground, a red stain growing on her belly. Doil slams the door shut and takes out his gun.
'Nobody move.'
The paramedics,on the scene immediately, put Veronica on a gurney , the blue flash of lights from service vehicles fill the room. Uniforms arrive in rain capes and round everybody up. Pimp, hookers, fish fryer sailors, Fats, are all herded into meat wagons.
Doil, says 'fuck', to the empty room.

Chapter 109

I step outside and it is raining. It is the 4 pm daily rain hour, and pulling up beside me is Jenny, on her air board. She has her rain shield turned on and offers me a lift.
'No thanks, your lot have just nuded my home.'
'Not us Joe you are mistaking the IGRS for the IGIA.'
'You are all fucking acronyms IGRS, IGIA, IGBI.'
'Don't be such a schmuck and hop on, I heard you're heading for the Mars Bar, and I'm going that way.' She gives me her best smile, and I remember our night of sexual high jinx, I hop on and grab her around the waist as she does an air loop with back twist, which brings my guts into my mouth, and heads west.
The Mars Bar is heaving, a little combo of three wave harps are getting into the groove. Not to my taste, too wavy, and too harpy for that matter, but the afternoon crowd seem to like it.
I order a Mars blaster for myself and Jenny wants a BloodyRsol. She waves her credit ring at the bill and says.
'My treat.' I don't argue, this is the year 40037, not 1935, when the man always picked up the tab. She folds her air board into her belt pouch and points to an empty table by the window, just vacated by a pair of gays heading, no doubt, to The Quarter. We swap pleasantries until she asks the billion dollar question.
'I thought you were on our side?'
'Who is our side?' I am four fifths down the glass, already, and the rain is still turned on.
'Mind if I get a refill?' Jenny downs her drink and I put the empties into the return scute. The refills pop up through the dispenser on the table top. Only the top bars can afford live bar staff.
She continues. 'The good guys, the IGIA, The Intergalactic Intelligence Agency.'
I splutter into my glass. 'Prove it.'
'We are the eyes and the ears of the Galactic Council. We answer to them only. We keep the Galaxy safe from the bad guys. The ones who want a world of their own at any cost. Why do you think the Galaxy has been stable for a thousand years. Not because the bad guys have all been bred out. But because we monitor everyones genes and tweek them, but a few get through in spite of us, and we have to hunt them down. We think you are mixed up with bad company. Veronica for one.'
'Is this a joke?'
'I wish it were.'
'Oh I see what is going on here. You are jealous of her. The little green thing in your head is pulling the strings. No way is Veronica a wrong un. She's been, shot and stabbed to save the galaxy.'
'Has she? She shows remarkable powers of recovery.'
'Are you saying all her injuries have been faked.'
'Don't take my word for it ask her. I am deputising you as a IGIA agent, go and ask her.'
'I have been trying to reach her for days, I don't suppose the all seeing all dancing IGBI know her whereabouts.'
'Nope, that is why we are recruiting you.'
'I don't want to be recruited, I am a piano player, not James Band.'
'Nice pun. You're wasted.' She finishes her drink and looks into the street. 'The rain has stopped, I'll be in touch.'
'I suppose a fucks out of the question?' I ask.
************
Two more Mars blasters later, I feel mellow enough to go home. The rain has sweetened the air and it is a pleasure to walk the 3 klicks to my block. In my absence the apartment has been refurbished, and there is a familiar perfumed smell that reminds me of Veronica.
Brian tells me she is in the first floor lounge. This is unfamiliar territory for me as I have never been on the first floor. I am impressed, the first floor is just one vast space with five full size grand pianos arranged in a star shape inside a circular bank of tiered seats. Under the tiers are cushioned loungers. Sitting at one is veronica. Like Monroe she is wearing perfume and nothing else. I am not one who thinks total nudity is sexy. I like something to hang my fantasies on. She stands up and puts on a long satin gown and ties the belt tightly at the waist. Thats better it's like strip tease in reverse.
'Veronica, I was only just talking about you a few moment ago.'
She puts her finger to her lips and hands me a piece of paper. It says. Your place is bugged and not just by us. She takes me by the hand and leads me back to my en suite and turns on the shower, she drops the robe and beckons me in. I quickly undress and join her. She whispers into my ear, 'If they are as good as us this will not stop them from deciphering what we say'
'Who?'
'Your new employers, the IGIA.'

'So what do we do now?'
'Oh I'll think of something.'

Chapter 108

It is now a few days after I asked Brian to get hold of Veronica and he has had no luck. I have also had a return call from the agency asking if I could be Mari Lou Williams for a gig on an outpost in the Pegasus nebula. It is mainly colonised by people of Afro American extraction. I accept. It is while I am prossed up as this dark skinned beauty, with composing skills that drew the likes of Ellington and Basie to her, that I am aware of a large hand on my buttocks. The hand belongs to beautiful black guy with the looks of a God and the physique of a Zulu wrestler. What to do? I am Joe Coolz prossed up to look like, no be a babe. I have breasts and a vagina, and no sane woman would pass up this guy. I gently remove his hand and place it on the piano. He smiles a great heart stopping smile and speaks. Talk about disappointing. His voice is high with a slight lisp, and he asks to be introduced to the drummer, Artie, as it happens, prossed up as Micky Roker, one of Williams's many side men. A forceful, dynamic drummer, Roker’s style is rooted in swing but has the urgent attack of the best of the beboppers. It must be this that has attracted the Zulu to him as Micky is nothing in the looks stakes. Each to his own. I call Artie over, and introduce him. They talk drumming. Maybe Artie will get lucky.
*****************
Back home the apartment is empty. When I say empty I mean there is nothing in it, beds recliners pianos, all gone. Brian coughs.
'Sir.'
'This had better be good Brian.'
'We had a visit while you were out.'
'Yes.'
'From the bailiffs.' I am stunned and I can't sit down.
'It is only a glitch. We had a call from the IGRS that there was tax due, but with one thing and another I forgot to send the credits.'
'You forgot?
'A human error, Sir.'
'I am the only human around here and I didn't make the error. You are just a mess of circuitry and soon to be dumped.'
'No need to get nasty, Sir, the credits have been sent and the new furniture is ordered, you just came home too soon. The Law says that they have to leave your bed and the tools of your trade. If you go to the the blue bedroom on the lower floor, Sir, you will find a piano and a bed. I suggest that you retire for a few hours and all will be back to normal when you wake.'
'Fuck that I'm going to the Mars Bar.'

Chapter 107

Back in my apartment, which by the way now covers two floors of the block, Brian is counting the months takings. When he gets to fifty trillion dollars I stop listening and take a swim in my newly installed pool. It is of Olympic length and juts out over the street to allow for its size. How Brian obtained planing permission is a mystery, but as the old saying goes, “Money talks.” It has a wave setting and Atlantic roller surf, but I don't care for all of that, a nice easy swim is all I want. A man could drown in his own home. I do my third tumble turn and realise that I am not alone, swimming next to me are two Dolphins. Back in the late 34^th Century, Dolphins were recruited to help with the colonisation of the Water Planet. For this they needed a speech implant, and now they sit on the Mars council, as vociferous participants.
'Hey Joe hows it hanging? Brian said we could use the pool anytime.'
'I don't mind so long as you don't fill it full of fish.'
'Ha, as if.'
They bounce off turning and leaping, I climb out and head for the sauna. I suppose that will be full of hairy lumberjacks and big blonds with thighs like beer barrels. I open the door and it is empty. I feel slightly disappointed.
It's no good moping, I miss Earth a great deal with all my new budies. Living in a Utopia has it's advantages, but I miss the adrenalin rush of the black and white sirens. My jailers in the 5^th Precinct, and especially Veronica. The Dolphins swim into their water cars and with a spout of water vanish. It's time to annoy Brian.
'How much am I worth now, Brian?'
'You could buy a minor planet, Sir, and use your own Starship to visit.'
'I have Starship?'
'A reconditioned one, we needed a flagship for our enterprise. It has a personal number plate. “SCR4P M3.”
'What happens if the S gets rubbed off in meteor shower?
'It won't Sir the name is lit up from inside the hull.'
'Or it blows a bulb.'
'E bulbs last for 10.000 years.'
Fuck him, now I'm wound up. Time for some R&R.
'Where is Zeno, is she around?'
'She has decided that she likes the wrecking business so much, that she spends most of her time with the wreckers. I think it might be the Abs, Sir. Or is it the pecks.?'
Oh great now my girlfriend is into muscles. Things I don't have.
Time to do some work.
'Brian call the Agency and see if there are any gigs going, I'm going to pop a Zoomer and relax.'
***************

When I come out of my relaxation meditation, there is a niggling thought that popped up and needs to be resolved. It is the second law of thermodynamics, which describes the limits to what the Universe can do. It tells us that the Universe has a bleak future. A desolate future. It can be expressed simply as heat will flow from a hot to a colder body. That is called entropy The formula is ds>0 (ds is measured by how much heat has entered a system, where s is the measure of the amount of disorder in a system.) Imagine the difference between ice and steam, both properties of water. The molecules in ice are stabler than in steam, the entropy of ice is lower than that of steam. How do I know this, because I looked it up. All engines steam, nuclear, star bust, all have inefficiencies built in. They all waste the fuels energy. Apply this to the Universe and this wasteful energy will eventually create an equilibrium, and for microscopic purposes be useless. Called “Heat Death” Is that what I am trying to stop. Is it that close, this heat death? Or is it some other calamity that I have never heard of? I need to ask someone who knows and that someone is Brian. He can hook up to any computer on Mars and beyond and the answer is not 42, as Big Brain said.
I ask Brian if he is familiar with the formula ds>0.
'The second law of thermodynamics, our nemesis. Yes of course I am all computers know about this law.'
'And the final consequences if the law is true, yes?'
'The final rest.'
'The final rest is the end of the Universe. No big bang or blinding flash, just coming to a stop?'
'Yes'
'As I have explained in the past, Sir, when one molecule moves every other molecule has to move, that is what keeps us all solid. When it all comes to a rest, when the Universe is in equilibrium, we will cease to exist. Will you want tea?'
'See if you can conjure up Veronica I need some answers.'
'So don't believe me.'
'It's not that I don't believe you Brian, but that I would like to hear it from a mouth that looks divine and could take you to the ends of the Universe on its breath.'
'Very poetic, Sir, and the tea?'
I hate it when he is in his Jeeves mode.

Chapter 106

******************
Well here we are again. Veronica's full of lead, Doil has me handcuffed to the desk, for my own protection, and the Universe is still to end. My life as Fats is full of danger. Fat's himself is lucky he is in suspended animation, memory filled with relevant facts without the nasty bits. Doil is worried. As the hombre on the ground, he has the responsibility of delivering the program, but all that happens is that their best operative keeps getting shot. Now the GIA are involved, and are not too happy that I have slipped their clutches. Being chained to the desk for my own protection is a bit of a charade too. Protecting from who? The Man is still out cold in Bellevue and his soldiers are either locked up or dead. Doil takes a phone call and says a lot of aHa's and mMm's. He replaces the receiver and says to me.
“Sorry Fats, but you can't go home. Not as Joe anyways. The big cheeses in the think tank suspect that the Fish Fry's have not been at the right venue, and want you to stick around to play other blocks.”
This is not such bad news for me as I don't have much to return to on Mars. Brian my faithful servant is making a fortune, in scrap and keeping my regular hooker in trinkets. It is much more fun here. Shootings, sex and music. Whats not to like?
Doil uncuffs me and hands me my hat, which has two bullet holes in it. In and out.
I feel suddenly cold. An inch lower and it would have been goodbye Charlie. Doil opens the door for me.
“We'll let you know.” he says.
******************
Doil hasn't let me know. I spend my time between the cat house and the Diner. Big Sal and I have become an item. She turns the occasional trick to keep her hand in, you can take the John out of the Cat but you can't take the Cat out of the Johns pocket. I meet up with the Musos in Town to talk the talk, and most of it is about who is with what band and how well they are paid. How many shows a day. And where to woodshed at night. I have only played one Fish Fry since V was shot, a private affair down the Bowery, with no incident. Non of the usual interruptions. No shootings, no Doil, and no money.
I am in the diner eating ham and eggs.
Prez, says. 'You know what's a gasser.' We all shake our heads, Prez has wisdom and we all learn from him.
'Jive talk for the law is the man you dig.' We nod our heads. 'Now that is the moniker that the big cheese down at the Stork Club hangs himself on. The Man. Makes me think he has a way into the laws pocket.' We non again. 'Or else he's from Hicksville. Now ain't that kopasetic?'
We chew this fact over. Pez is deep. I am trying to raise a band to go out to Montauk, I had a call from Elsa van de Bilt, saying she has a bash planned for the weekend and needs entertainment. I have so far Prez and his bro. The Hawk and Roy Eldridge, Slam Stewart. I am short a bone maybe a git box and an alto. I'd love to get Hodges but he's captured. Plenty of time anyhow some one will turn up by Friday. Meanwhile my eggs are stagnating.
****************
We take the train from Pen and change at Jamaica. The sun is shining and we are loaded. A couple of limo's transport us to the van de Bilt Mansion, and we are given rooms over the stables. Nice rooms with showers and hospitality. The van de Bilt's know how to treat a Negro. Alice van de Bilt gives us a visit. Her milk white skin contrasting the difference between us and them. She is nice and easy with us. The party is in her honour, an 18^th birthday present from her mother. We are asked over to the big house for drinks. The boys dressed in their DJ's look the business but never the equal. The van de B's are dressed in casuals fresh from tennis in the grounds. Tom Brown passes the drinks around, and whispers to me that he has something different stashed in his quarters if we want to indulge. As muso's we are not averse to a little smoke before the set, and we make our excuses and leave the upper classes to their cocktails. Although born in Woodville Mississippi Prez settled in Kansas City where Tom Brown originates. They get into a huddle and talk about the Jim Crow Laws, and the clarinet. The afternoon is warm with a cool breeze coming off the bay. A nice day for a stroll across lawns you could play pool on. I find a bench overlooking the rollers and smoke a cheroot. A pair of manicured hands cover my eyes, soft as chamois and smelling of Chanel.
'Guess who?'
It could only be Veronica. 'Wow they patched you up quickly this time. You are out before I could visit.'
'No time to waste the end of the Universe is nigh.'
'One thing I haven't asked as yet is when exactly this event is due to happen. Next week, next year, next whenever, and if its next year who's year is it? An Illuastian week is 20,000 Earth years so a year can be a long time.'
Veronica sighs. 'Not allowed to say, but take it from me it is urgent.'
I change the subject as this one is going nowhere. 'Who do you like me best as Joe Coolz or Fats?' Either way I win I think.
'Alan Ladd'
'Alan Ladd, I've never been Alan Ladd.'
'So be him.'
***************
The gig is held in the ballroom of the house. All stucco and cherubs. Yuck. Much too schmaltzy for me. The Vande V's and their friends dig us though. With pee breaks of half an hour or so we play until dawn. The aftermath looks like a whirl wind has swept through it. Bottles upturned into coolers, shoes and underwear strewn about, and the tell tale streaks of white powder on the glass tables. We start to pack away our instruments when Mrs Van de V walk's over looking like she has just stepped out of Macey's beauty parlour.
'Don't be in such a hurry boys we would like you to stay awhile. Leave the instruments there they will be safe.'
Prez enlightens her to the fact that we don't trust no one with the horns. They are like an extension of our minds and need to be with us. Lee Young, Lester's bro, packs his cymbals into their cases and his sticks into their pouch, to emphasise his point.
'No offence Misses but I sleep with my sticks.'
She laughs. 'That must be some threesome.'
She turns away.
'I'll leave Tom to see you out.'
I am wondering what has happened to Veronica. Her sudden appearance was not a shock, she has that ability just to turn up, but always with a purpose. This time she has not shown her hand. I leave the boys with Tom, and go wandering. The ballroom is vast and at one end are floor to ceiling French Doors leading onto a marble patio with Venus de Milo copies on plinths. Leaning against one is Veronica smoking a Balkan Sobrani cigaret in a short holder.
'What kept you?'
'So what's with the Houdini act. Now you see me now you don't?'
'It's very tricky being me. So many women want to look like me. Babs The Mans broad for one. Not a bad copy, but lacking in the brains department. Or she wouldn't be with him.'
'Am I still supposed to be Alan Ladd? A bit difficult prossed up as Fats Waller.'
Gloria gives me a don't be so stupid look, and blows a plume of sweet smelling smoke into the air.
'The boys in the back room up at IGBI H.Q. Need some reference points to see how near we are, you are to play a Fish Fry on every street in NY then they can pin point where to concentrate your appearances.'
Fats's bright demeanour gets pinpricked. I as fats am not happy with this turn of events. There are over 215 streets in New York, if I play a Fish Fry a day that's a lot of fish.
'You may get lucky and hit the right note early on, so better get started. We will set up the addresses, all you have to do is turn up and play.'
'Will you get it every time?'
'Ever heard of robo copies? They are expendable.'
She gives me a peck on the cheek. 'Don't worry about me Honey, I can look after myself.'
*************
Of course I have heard of Robo copies, which is why I am back on Mars. With my scrap wealth I can afford several. Not everyone can order a Robo copy, but with my IGBI get out of Jail free card I apparently can. It's strange to see 5 Fats Wallers sitting on a bench. Only one at once will be used I don't want to flood New York with Waller Doppelgängers. I know what you are thinking. 'How will Doil and the IGBI take this?' Well the IGBI being what they are, all seeing, all knowing, all interfering, have probably given their blessing, as the transaction went smoothly, but I expect a call from them is imminent.

Chapter 105

The room smells of fish. A sign on the wall says
FRIDAY NIGHT FISH FRY
$5
BOOZE $1
NO GUNS OR NIFES
The room is clammy, outside the rain beats down in sheets and thunder is in the air. The window is open and to the side of the window is an upright piano with the middle C key missing. At it sits a large black man in a red striped waistcoat yellow bow tie and brown Derby hat. In his mouth is a chewed stogie and on the piano top is a row of empty glasses and a jug with WHISKEY written in bold type on it's side. The piano player has a pencil moustache. A flash of lightning lights up the room bleaching out a figure in a trilby hat standing by the door. On the sofa sits a blonde, with long legs, open, and her head between them. Her hair hangs to the floor. The legs are bare, ending in four inch open toed red pumps. Toe nails to match. Along her arms are needle tracks. Sitting on the arm of the sofa is her pimp, dressed like Cab Calloway. He is fully tooled up, expecting a war. Derringer in his sock, colt under his arm, five inch blade in his pocket, and a long hat pin in his hat band. Along the corridor is an open door by which stands a six foot hooker with tits and a schlong, as black as the night. Business is slow. In the back of the fish fry is a small room in which a high roller poker game is in progress. Five men sit in front of stacks of notes, there must be $10,000 on the table. The dealer is a woman who is the spit of Veronica Lake. She is in for 5% of the action, it's her game her rules. Aces high. Jokers wild. Her manicured fingers caress the cards, reds nails scratching the surface. The room is smokey and hot. The men perspire, while she looks and is cool. Fats plays some boogie, then a slow waltz. He is hoping to hit a sequence of notes that will reverberate through time. There is the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. The Man enters with four foot soldiers. The pimp stands and blocks his way. The soldiers draw their pieces. The Man smiles.
“Relax bud, it's the dealer. She's needs to pay her dues.”
The pimp stands aside and The Man continues to the back room. The guy in the trilby pushes himself off the wall undoes his coat and adjusts his police special and shoulder holster. His name is Doil. The Man stops at the table behind a very fat man with sweat patches, and looks across to the dealer.
“My turf, my game.” he says. Then realises that the dealer is so much like his number one heart throb that it must be her.
“Veronica Lake”
“Sright, buster who's asking.”
He taps the fat man on the shoulder and tells him to beat it. Then takes the seat.
“Deal me in, you can call me anything you like, but to others I'm The Man.”
“OK Mr Man, aces high jokers wild, no limit. I take five per of the pot, like it or beat it. Lets see the colour of your money.”
The Man clicks his fingers and the lead soldier hands him a wad of C notes.
“You can use what was Fatso's hand or we scrub the deal.” Fatso is having non of this and says so. The lead soldier takes him by the arm and explains that The Man can do as he likes.
The game continues. Doil goes back to his position by the door and the pimp pulls his hooker upright. He has to make a living.
Soon the room is full, the Fleet is in and the salts are looking for some action. The hooker with the tits and schlong soon has a queue down the corridor catering for all tastes. Fats goes through his repertoire and more hookers arrive, it is going to be a busy night. Two black and whites park over the road by the drug store, just in case. Doil heads down to the basement and drops a couple and nickels into the payphone. The room is too full for him to handle alone, he needs some help. As soon as he hangs a high pitched scream has him climbing the stairs two at a time. The hooker with the tits and schlong is holding a rating by the throat some inches off the floor. Doil takes out his gun and motions that the rating be let down.
“He tried to cut my dick off, fucking motherfucking psyco.” The rating is turning blue and his mates are beating the hooker with their fists. Doil fires into the ceiling.
“Let him down and the Navy; back off.”
He tells the rating to hand over the knife.
“He has no knife, he used his motherfucking teeth .”
Doil couldn't help, but smile. “Maybe you were just too big for him. Ok shows over if you want his services get your wages out or, git.” The discouraged ones pushed past Getz and two more bulls on the way up.
“What kept ya?' says Doil.
The Man is on a losing streak and and not liking it. He is down a couple of G's. The pile in front of Veronica just gets bigger.
“You dealing from the bottom?” he asks. Veronica gives him a stare that would freeze hell. As much as he loves Veronica Lake, he loves money more. He snaps his fingers and number one soldier hands him a silver Beretta, which he points at Veronica. The other players remove themselves pronto.
“Just you and me doll face. Deal.”
“Dealer don't play. House rules.”
“Deal”
Veronica deals him a hand. Two aces, hearts and spades.
“Flip”
Veronica turns over the other two aces and a joker. The Man picks up the joker tosses it in the air and holes it with one shot. Doil reacts and pistol whips The Man, he falls unconscious on to the table, his soldiers draw their weapons and bullets fly everywhere. Mostly into Veronica.

Chapter 104

I am relaxing in my living area, when Brian buts into my thoughts.
“You know that air boarder, Miss Wizz.” It is obviously a rhetorical question so I blank him because he will go on regardless.
“Is she going to be a fixture around here.”
“Why?”
“No reason.”
Now he has my attention.
“She is very pretty.”
“I don't sleep with ugly women.” If they exist. Cosmetic adjustments are made at birth here on Mars. No doubt on some far away pioneer planet there may be an ugly woman, but a bearded prospector will be glad of her company.
“No Sir, I was just curious if you had a list. A preference list so to speak.”
“Is there a serious point to this, or are you winding me up for some reason?”
“You see when I have a body, I will be able to make love, and want to know how to choose between them all.”
“You mean you want to sleep with one of my women?” He ignores me as he is on a roll.
“My body will be out of the top drawer, as will my facial features, so I will have to pick one from all of the women who find me irresistible.”
'Ah I see.” I could let him down lightly, but fuck it.
“Well you will never have to make that choice as you will never have a body, now leave me in peace.”
************
My momentary life of peace and tranquility is too good to last. Sitting across from me is Veronica, legs crossed at the knee her right foot gently moving up and down. Standing to next to her is Doil in full official bull tec's clothing. Hat, mack and all. They are interrogating me on my switch of allegiance, forgetting that they had sacked me.
Once in the IGBI, one is forever in the IGBI, apparently. Because I was let go it is no excuse to join another organisation, apparently. I am a member for life, apparently. So what now?
Well the Universe is still going to go 'pop'. And I am in the frame to stop it. I am the appointed saviour. No pressure. Just that every cat, dog, woman, man, Alusian bog beetle, et al, is reliant on me to save them. It is a hell of a weight, just 'cos I can be Fats Waller. I think you can guess what comes next.

Chapter 103

What do you know a gig! It's a Count Basie revival with all usual suspects.
It will base it on the radio broadcasts by Count Basie's Orchestra during the halt in commercial recordings caused by the Musician's Union strike of 1944-45. And include the return of Lester Young to the line up. The band is a different band from the one heard in the 1930's Kansas City days. The music is heavier, harder hitting, and tighter. However, a buoyant swing throughout is paramount. Vocals by Jimmy Rushing, Thelma Carpenter, will add a romantic touch, and Lester Young's lyrical playing will make this set as classic, his light, airy tone will create solos that almost overshadow the songs. Highlights will include the moonstruck ballad 'I Dream of You,' and the foot stomping 'Circus in Rhythm.'
Musicians prossed up and ready will include, depending on who we can get at short notice:
Me as Count Basie (leader, piano)

Harry “Sweets” Edison Trumpet
Jo Newman Trumpet
Freddie Green Guitar
Lester Young Tenor sax
Buddy Tate Tenor Sax
Marshall Royal Alto sax
Earle warren Alto Sax
Rudy Rutherford Clarinet & Baritone sax
Al Killian Tromb
Dicky Wells Tromb
Eli Robinson Tromb
Walter page Bass
Jo Jones Drums
Some line up eh? Those of you who know will no doubt point out that some of the above never played together. But they were all in Basie's line up at some time. So who's complaining? Not the punters on Scrap Planet IV. Oh, didn't I say that it was Brian who got me the gig. Hidden depths, Brian. This scrap planet is somewhere in Ursa Minor. A mere tick away using the MWD. When we are all prosed and the chips in place, we are the Basie Band. Even Basie's wife Catherine Morgan couldn't tell us apart.
The Opera House on Scrap Planet IV, is based loosely on The Pompidou Centre in Paris France back on Earth, now a rusting edifice. That is to say all the parts are reconditioned bits from various Galactic Cruisers and Merchant Men, with all the functioning bits strapped onto the shell. The concert hall itself is lined with fabric gleaned from the interiors and sewn together, a magic tapestry of colour. We do the sound check, then go sight seeing, as far as the nearest bar. Everywhere else is too noisy with the sound of metal being crushed, sorted and packaged for export. The bar is decorated with holograms of famous jazzers through the centuries right up the latest graduates from Leeds Jazz College. This all bodes well for our set. Todays graphic designers are a clever bunch, animating old photos that were originally hung on London's famous Ronnie Scotts walls, even one of me relaxing.
The surprise is that the audience is dressed up in 1940's clothes. We start up with 'Motion Swing', and the seats move back to reveal a dance floor. The scrappers take to it and the fun begins.
One 'o Clock jump, Jumpin at the woodside, April in Paris, All of me, we just keep rolling those hits. Soon the seats disappear into the walls and all the auditorium is a dance floor filled with jiving bodies.
Jimmy Rushing calms it down a bit with 'Going to Chicago' but mostly it is a gas. We finish with an extended version of 'One O Clock Jump', with solos by Lester, Buddy, Joe, Marshall, Earl, Dicky, well just about everyone. Boy those cats can play.
I met the real Lester Young in the Diner back on Earth, so I know his penchant for jive talk. I leave him with the rest and go to see the management for our share of the gate.
Brian's representative on terra firma is Zeno, which I had forgotten, is his PA in Scrapships R Us, and my occasional girl friend. She looks stunning as usual in a metallic two piece silver thigh boots and chain mail yashmak, which she unhooks to let it hang from one side. My surprise on seeing her is evident. I Turn down Basie to reveal more of myself. Standing to her right is the biggest man I have ever seen that is in proportion to a regular guy.
I can't resist asking.
“Is he human?”
“Shur am; Guy Buddy at your service; and you must be Joe Coolz, inside that Basie skin.” He holds out a paw the size of a baseball glove. His handshake is light engulfing my whole palm digits and elbow.
“I know your hands are your living so I took it easy. I run things around here. Wish I could play myself but there isn't a piano big enough” He laughs and the glassware on the desk tinkles in unison. He turns to Zeno.
“I gave the takings to the little Miss here, first full house since we had Cliff Richard. He is something of a God on Scrapworld. It must be his ass. He laughs again.
Who is Cliff Richard, I think? Guy leaves almost bending double to miss the door jamb.
“You should see the size of his dick,” says Zeno. “Too big for me.”
“Cliff or him?”

Chapter 102

Well I have been relieved of my commission. The IGBI have sacked me. Or put me on hold, or something. But, and you may have guessed this, Jenny Wizz dropped by and recruited me into the IGIA. Thats how spies do it. They seduce you then recruit you. She will drop by occasionally to “debrief me” otherwise I can “act normal.” I have forgotten what normal is. But I start with a call to the Booking Agency to see if there are any jobs going. Brian is talking figures with Zeno on the vidphone. So far so normal. He is so engrossed in scrap metal that the loss of contact with Veronica just washed over him. The Booking Agency will call back. So I mope. Then I decide to go out. It is the wet hour. I put on my waterproof shield and step into the rain. Without my shield I would be soaked within a minute, but the water skims of me like a greased oilskin. I walk slowly letting my mind wander, and eventually end up at the steps of the music college. My Alma Mata. The entrance is shaped like a harp with the doors between the strings, each one opening into separate tutorial rooms. I choose the one between the e and f strings and wait for it to recognise me as a friend. Ex pupils are always welcome into the building, and the door opens. The inside is bigger than would appear from the pavement. Disappearing into the distance are open booths in which within each stands a Yamaha grand. The booths although open are soundproofed. In some pupils are being tutored. No sound comes out. I walk down the line until I reach my old practice space, it is empty and I can't resist entering and opening the lid of the piano. The keys gleam invitingly. I sit down and play a blues that I wrote when I was a student. It is a simple 12 bar with scope for improv. I play with my eyes shut and remember my days here. I was such an innocent. A virgin in every sense. I change the time signature to waltz time and just let the music play itself, as it can do if I am in the right mind set. This is freedom. No IGBI, no IGBA, no fucking initials acronyms, prosed bodies or guns. Just me and a piano. It can't last.

Chapter 101

I take a walk by the East river, and watch the gulls fight over some fried chicken. After an hour I've had enough of fresh air and head back to 116^th St. Saul and the madame are in deep condensation so I sit at the piano and play some blues. There is a familiar figure in the corner but it takes me while to place him, until he speaks. It's Saul's father Tom. He doesn't know me from Adam as he last met me as myself pretending to be a Limey from Liverpool. We played some hot jazz together, with him on the Licorice stick. He asks if he can sit in on it. I wave him over and we play Barrel House Blues. Saul looks over in annoyance and asks us to keep it down as can't think with all that racket. Tom gives him the finger and starts up Lime House Blues in Bb. I just play the chords until its my turn to vamp it up. By now some Johns have happened along and joined in. Soon we have a full band complete with a snare drum and washboard. Saul sees he is beaten and hands round a bottle of hooch. Now we are on our way. The Madame sees dollar signs and calls the girls down. Even though it is November, the party can't fit into the room, and takes up much of the pavement. Steam mixes with the cigar smoke as the jivers shake their moves. It can't last without the cops involvement. They try to break it up, but are outnumbered and call for reinforcements. Soon the street is blocked off by black and whites and people are hanging out of the windows to see the fun. Doil arrives with Getz and forces his way into the parlour. Getz slams the piano lid down missing my fingers by inches. Tom takes exception to this and punches Getz in the face. First blood to the whorehouse. Getz draws his gun and pistol whips Tom to the floor. Now Saul is mad, but Doil restrains him. An uneasy peace follows.
“We'll just take Fats.” says Doil, fitting the cuffs.
“Why me?” I think.
**************
“Why you? Because you can't stay out of trouble. I gave you licence to be Fats and enjoy it. But it seems that you as Fats is a combination that ignites the night.”
The room is the same. The same scarred and stained desk. The same smell of stale bodies and over brewed coffee. The same cage in the corner, with its door agape waiting for occupation. The chair I sit on is too small and my ass cheeks hang over the edges. It is uncomfortable and I want to stand. But Doil is no mood to allow it as it may be a sign of aggression, so I suffer.
“ I think you should go back to Mars until we decide what to do with you. I am thinking that the Coolz, Fats combo is what is not working. I shall report to the geeks and see if you should be relieved of your position as an IGBI agent, and get the real Fats to do it.”
I am shocked I've haven't done anything they haven't asked for. What they want is a chance moment. And chance being what it is the moment could take a thousand years. I may never see Veronica again and that would upset Brian. Every cloud etc.

Chapter 100

Breakfast. The diner is busy. The smell of bacon and the pungent aroma of coffee fill the room with nostalgia for days when hunger was the only worry. All the talk is of the attack on Pear Harbour. Everyone has a relative or a friend of a friend who maybe at the end of a Zeros sights. I have left Big Sal sleeping and find a booth with one empty place. In the booth are fellow musicians who greet me with hand slaps and howya doing. Lester Young, the “Prez “ is next to me elegant and slim enough to allow me and my big ass to sit in comfort. His pork pie hat rests easy on his head. I order bacon three eggs muffins and maple syrop. My belly rumbles like the engine on track nine. Prez is talking shop. He has no interest in anything military. His world is the invention of jazz slang and lyrical sounds. He is the cat that lays it down.
To talk to Prez is like talking to a cat who invents a language. More sophisticated than French and more descriptive than Shakespeare. If you get into his groove he can transport the mind. As with his sax playing, it is a light touch that a single word can be a paragraph as a single note can be a symphony.
Prez speaks. “Hey Fats, see you're barrelhousing with the bagnio.”
“Home from home, Prez.”
“Hear your special squeeze is a hummer.”
“Sure is Prez. She keep me warm at night.”
“She your barbecue now.”
“When I'm in the Apple.”
“You beat it out in the sac?”
“Like a timp mans foot.”
Sitting opposite is Lee Young, Prez's younger brother. He plays the suitcases for him now Prez has left the Basie outfit. Lee plays for me too, so we are acquainted, in my guise as Fats that is. He is one hell of dresser. Lapels so sharp you could cut paper with them. A little pencil moustache on his upper lip and pomaded hair slicked back. His teeth gleam as he listens to his brother beat out the jive.
The freedom I feel amongst these cats gives me the notion that Harlem is a great district in which to live and so long as I can afford to eat drink and whore around I don't want to be anywhere else. Anywhere else being the Stork Club, Mars or my extended apartment at 1000 Red sea Boulevard . These cats from the Big Bands are my kind of people prossed as Fats or just myself masquerading as a Limey key man I am one of them. Maybe I should ask Doil to put the real Fats on ice for ever so I can be him for the rest of my natural? My grease arrives, the waitress, a yellow high cheek with lots of attitude, places the platter in front of me and gives me the come on. Now fats is not a looker, he has charm and a wallet of C notes, but high yellows are supposed to be classy and above his station. So what gives? Prez has the answer, and tells me she wants to be a singer with the bands. Up from Tennessee on a one way Greyhound, her only other option is open her legs for a greenback, or stay a waitress. She turns and wags her ass. I like what I see but I like my grease too. So she will have to wait. Before I notice my plate is empty and am wiping my mouth with a napkin. Prez says.
“That's why I call it grease.”
Lee laughs. “No it aint brother, you call it grease since I was a knee high to a base drum. You always were in another country.”
“You sure got your boots on brother.” says Prez.
I could translate but if you got this far I needn't. The waitress comes over with more coffee. The other seat in the booth was occupied by JJ, but he stood for the John, so she takes his place. “I could be as famous as Billy Holiday, all I need is a break.”
“We don't need another Lady Day, but try some woodshedding and you could be your own.”
I try to let her down gentle. Countless songbirds have bussed it into Harlem to make a name for themselves only to end up disappointed.
“Or the Amateur night at the Apollo, let the populace decide. If you survive that you're home and dry” She pours more coffee and stands up.
“Tried that, I bombed.”
What can I say, the Apollo can be a testing time. The audience know their music. If they call you off you might as well give up and go home. It's a hard lesson from which it is difficult to get back onto the boards. JJ comes back and calls her over for more coffee. She has the grace of a dancer and maybe that should be her calling. I tell her so and JJ agrees, Prez and his bro are talking shop. I order apple pie and ice cream. This is the life.

Chapter 99

I am still prossed up as Fats. I have been left to my own devices and take a cab uptown to 116^th St. I need food so step into the diner and bump into Big Sal. I was hoping for this. I have missed her charm and her body. She kisses me full and long on the lips.
“Been a long time stranger.”
Has it been a long time? It is difficult to tell with time travel. I take her word for it.
“Things to do people to see, but I'm here now and in need of eggs. Then?” The question hangs in the air. I give her my eyebrow waggle and my irresistible impish grin.
*****************
Saul Brown is also pleased to see me. The room hasn't changed much a Chinese rug on the floor and a lick of pink paint. He looks even more prosperous with a new gold tooth. He is dressed for an evening at the opera, and I swear he is wearing Chanel perfume. But there is something wrong, then I spot them. Bullet holes. They run in a gentle curve from the floor to the ceiling.
“ I see you've spotted the redesign of the wall. We had a little trouble with The Man, nobody killed but it spoilt my décor. He is due a visit from us to the Stork Club. It is inevitable. I would prefer to negotiate, but The Man likes to play rough. Looks like we'll all be drafted soon, and could be dead anyway, so what the hell” He smiles showing off his new tooth. Not to my taste, but I think Fats likes it.
“Mind if I stick around, my crib is under siege from the bailiffs”
“Always welcome Fats, so long as Big Sall here is happy with a big lunk in her crib. Now I must see the Police Chief about his kickback. Sheesh talk about greed. My wife needs a new hat, the dog needs a horse doctor. Take take take. Just for a little hands off.”
He is cut off form his rant by a banging on the door. “That will be my escort.” Sall opens the door and a uniform and a bull stand there. “ So long wish me luck.”
The madame joins us and takes my hand. “ If I was a clairvoyant I would say you were in trouble.”
“You know me easy come easy go.”
“For six years?” Now she has me. This is 1941 and my last visit was 1935 by her reckoning. Now wonder Sal looked surprised to see me. I shrug. “The States is a big country, must have been in every hick town, playing broken pianos, for what seems like years.”
“Six”
“Well I'm back now, so lets have a show, the bush telegraph will soon fill the house, once they know I'm back.”
I sit at the piano and go into Fat's routine. Within hours the Madame has a smile on her face as all the girls are busy and the money rolls in.
************
During our six years apart Big Sal has lost all her puppy fat and grown into a beauty with a full figure. The old bed has gone replaced by a king size with Irish linen sheets. Perversely most of her clients are shorter than her barely reaching her breasts, she has cornered the market in rich Jews out for a bit of whatever they are starved of. It feels good to once again snuggle into her. The sheets, fresh from the Chinese Laundry on Mott Street, crackle with starch. Boy have I missed this. The future may have its advantages, but Big Sal in clean sheets is Fats idea of heaven. She rolls into me and whispers in my ear,
“You can take your hat off.” This is not an invitation to a bareback ride but for me to remove my Derby. She takes the offending bowler and sits astride, placing it firmly on her head. I hang on for fear that I might wake up in a cage in the 5^th precinct, with Doil loading shells into his police special. Am I paranoid ?

Capter 98

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Chapter 97

The apartment smells of fish. The neon glow from the drug store across the street flashes red to green to white. An upright piano stands by the window with a white guy dressed in a zoot suit playing Fats Waller numbers. The room is hot and humid. Condensation runs down the window glass into which has been written the words Fish Fry. A notice on the wall written in red marker says
FISH FRY
$5
BRING YOUR OWN
HOOCH
The room is full against one wall is a pink sofa on which sits a Red McGee in a blond wig. Her twin sister also in a blonde wig leans over her and lights an electronic cigaret with an electronic match. They are dressed alike in short beaded dresses, silk stockings and round toed strapped shoes. It is impossible to tell them apart. By the door stands Artie in DJ and black tie. Around his neck is the thin strap of a sax sling. In his hand he holds a, Conn alto underslung. Other musos are in the room instruments on their stands by a drum set in the corner. A group of dancers fill the centre of the room each couple taking turns to wow the rest. The band members take to the stand and play Tommy Dorsey's theme tune, “I'm getting sentimental over you”. It's all lush trombone and high viv sax's, with me Joe Coolz playing a short piano solo. It evokes the time and the place. New York 1935. The dancers cling together in a slow fox trot. Buddy rich on drums for once holding back his power sticks. A skinny kid steps up to the mike and sings, “East of the Sun and West of the Moon,” with Bunny Berrigan hitting the sweet spots on trumpet. Then we swing into Cye Oliver's Opus One. The dancers go wild Lindy Hopping all over the room. The party is taking off.
Brian is out of his sulk and playing Maitre D. announcing the late comers.
“Miss Veronica Lake.”
Veronica is her usual radiant self, no sign of bullet wounds. It is though she has her own spotlight. She slides over to the piano and rests her hip lightly on my arm. I am pleased to see her but too much the professional to let the tempo drop. She too is too much the vamp to let the weight drop. Eventually my arm begins to ache and I have to move up the stool, she sits next to me and whispers in my ear.
“Is this wise?” It has undertones of a threat.
“Just fancied a party to celebrate my expanded pad.”
“But a fish fry complete with Jenny Wizz in the kitchen.”
“She offered, turns out she's not only good in bed but an expert with the frying pan.”
“She works for the opposition.”
“In the words of LBJ, keep your enemies in the tent pissing out.”
“That still makes it soggy when you leave.”
“We could turn her.”
“Ha! Forever the optimist. The IGIA have just as much power as the IGBI and probably more mind tools than us. They are spooks we are just policemen.”
“Are you trying to frighten me?”
“Yes.”
She gets up from the stool and goes into the kitchen and picks up a plate of cat fish.
“That'll be $5” says Jenny.
“Run me up a tab. The names Veronica, Like in “I Married A Witch”
“Yeh I heard,” says Jenny. Veronica replaces the fish and adds. “Maybe later”
She returns to me and I feel her warm breath on my ear.
“She's no sleeper. Take care Joseph, you are letting your dick rule your head. I think I will have to stick around.”
“If the end of the Universe is nigh shouldn't you be on the same side.”
“Oh we are, but with different agendas. They want to find out who is muddying the water we just just want to stop the big bang.”
“Does that make me an enemy.”
“In their eyes if you're not one of them you are the enemy. They trust no one.”
“Not even the IGBI?”
“Especially not the Inter Galactic Bureau of Investigation.”
“Maybe I should join the IGIA?”
“Stick with us Joe, we are the heroes.”
“Why can't we all just hop into a teleporter and live the day before.”
“Thereby lies madness, which is why we are keeping the general hoi poloi ignorant of the end. ”
All this goes on whilst I am keeping time. The band morphs into The Basie Band and plays all the numbers from “The Atomic Mr Basie” How apt. All we need now is for Doil and Getz to burst in and make a mess. I speak too soon.
“Mr Doil and Mr Getz” announces Brian.
“Mmm, and very nice too.” Brian is obviously getting bored, and I am getting nervous. Veronica greets them and they have a huddled conversation then returns.
“We have to go, things are hotting up.”
“Now?”
“Now!”

Chapter 96

The Agency may have a job on a Star Ship as Harry “Fingers” Putz from 3009^th Century. They know I specialise in 20th Century players. It's not a job for me especially now I don't need the money. Brian suggests that I take an interest in the business and visit the Scrap Planet to see our latest buy being dismantled. I would rather poke my eyes out with a stick insect. Life without a music job or the excitement of an IGBI operation is tedious in the extreme. I mope about the ever expanding apartment playing each of my six pianos in turn. I started of in 93a, and I am now in 93,a,b and c. I don't need so much space. I am a single man. Then it comes to me. I can set up a recording studio. I have the room, and I have the means. Not just any old digi set up, but a true 1930's single take studio in one room and a 1950's analogue reel to reel deck in the other. I call Artie.
*****************
Artie is a wiz with electronics as well as being the best sax player on the agency's books. He can turn a cardboard box into a mixing deck in a flash. We try out the 1930's studio first. It has RCA above the door and a red light.(The 1950's studio has Elvis above the door.) The RCA studio uses the Magnetophon system as the BASF engineers, did in 1936. (They used the Magnetophon, to recorded Mozart's Symphony No.39 with the London Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Sir Thomas Beecham. The first tape recording of a full symphony orchestra, it was of surprisingly good quality.) With Artie as the recording engineer , I use the Bechstein pianoforte, a copy of the 1920's model, which gives me the sound I want. I lay down a couple of tracks in the style of Marie Lou Williams and listen to the playback. It is all purely for our own amusement. There are probably no more than a couple of establishments able to play back the recordings, the machines tucked away somewhere in the depths of a music college. However the sound is astonishingly good. Artie is the nuts.
He is in his element hunched over the machines twiddling knobs.
“We should get some of the boys over and see what happens, throw a party”. He says. “How about a Fish Fry?”
Now there is an idea a 40037 fish fry, give Brian something to do instead of wrecking star ships.
************
I call in a Vid set Art Director, and under my instructions she has converted the apartment into a facsimile of a tenement block of 1930's Harlem. Brian is not happy, he thinks it is a waste of shekles, turning his lovely apartment upside down. I am the boss, though, he is my servant, pandering to my whims. The success of the scrap business has gone to his head and he needs setting straight.
“It just stinks,” says Brian. “Let me spray it with something pleasant.”
“It is supposed to smell like this, it is the smell of life. Not something you know about of course just being a load of circuitry.” He goes into one of his moods.
“Well if this is life I am better off as I am. It is disgusting. The olfactory circuits are complaining. They can't work out whether to spray disinfectant or set the sprinklers off. It is worse than the putrid body I bought.”
“Brian, can it, it's my party, my house, my money. Have researched all about Fish Fry's in Harlem as I instructed.”
“Stupid way to raise money if you ask me.'
“Well no one is, have you sent out the invitations, with the dress code attached?”
“Yes Sir, some of the guests seem a bit suspect. though”
“And is there enough cat fish in the larder.”
“Complete with whiskers and fur, Sir.”
Ah that's better a bit of sarcasm, now we are ready.

Chapter 95

“Sheesh what a fuck up.” Doil is leaning over the stained table in interview room 1. I am seated on the other side trying to dodge the spittle. A paper cup of stale coffee spins across the floor as he vents his anger on the inanimate contents of the room. His face is almost purple with popping eyes. I have lots to say, but instinct tells me that now is not the time. I Joe Coolz, keep my mouth buttoned and my head down. I know that Veronica will be taken good care of, but it is a step backwards. Every time she she is wounded presumed dead the clock clicks forward to the end of the Universe. I want to ask Doil about the cook, as she is now in IGBI custody, is she being given the full revival treatment or just enough to question her? She may not have anything to do with queering the pitch. She may just be a time tourist playing a part. A classy broad slumming it for kicks. Then I get my answers.
“Fucking Smith,” says Doil.
“I knew he was a wrong un.” I say
“Smith is on our side but not on our wavelength. His job is to upset people, to get at them. Well he has certainly done that. Smith put the cook in there, she is one of his humanoid pals prossed up to look like a cook. The fucking slimeball, did all this without telling us. He says she was planted to get some truths and to try and spot some anomaly in the set up that was stopping us getting the result we want. Well fuck me didn't we have enough personnel there ? Veronica, you, Getz, the bull by the door, me. How many is that? Five. Five fucking IGBI operatives.” He kicks the waste basket and lights up a Camel.
“Where is Smith now?” I ask.
“Up his own fucking ass.” says Doil. I realise that I am not going to get any sense out of him until he calms down so I try my wrist band, and a nano sec of ecstasy later I am back on the black spot, with Red behind the control panel. This is my normality.
***************
After I have been checked by Red for missing parts I head for my apartment. What surprises has Brian in store for me? I could just beam in, but I take a walk through Mars City's Central Park, it is modelled on the Bois de Boulogne in Paris circa 1900, the folks who first settled Mars built everything to resemble something on Earth. Just 'cos they'd wrecked it. The Poplar trees rustle in the breeze and the air smells of newly mown grass. Some air boarders glide past in the regulation air boarding uniform of flesh coloured ones's and coloured stars covering the naughty bits. One built like a burlesque dancer loops the loop and pulls to a halt blacking my path. Is this a shakedown? Her blood red lips pucker into a kiss and she blows it at me.
“Hi Joe, remember me?”
“Should I?”
“I was in the cradle next to you at Mars Infirmary.”
“Thirty years is a long time, do you have a name?”
“Sure Jenny Coolz, I'm your twin sister.”
This must be some kind of hustle. I don't have a sister, twin or not. I'm an only child, mother died in childbirth, father unknown.
“Nice try Lady, loop the loop in front of some other sucker.” She stands her ground.
“Look at me don't you see yourself in me?”
I'm beat I've had a hard day saving the Universe and I just wanted a quiet stroll home to a hot reviving shower and a large drink. But no I get accosted by some nutter who thinks she is my sister.
“ Ok I'll indulge you for a moment. Why take thirty years to get in touch?” She shrugs,
“I was waiting for you to make the first move.”
“It's a funny way to make contact, here.” I wave a hand around at the park. “That I am rarely in.”
“I knew it was you as soon as I saw you, it is fate.”
“What do you really want – money?”
“She laughs, O.K, it's not true, but you are Joe Coolz, aren't you and I was with you at birth. My mother breast fed you, so we are sort of related.”
“ Your mother was my wet nurse. This is even more absurd than you being my twin.”
She gives me a look then a 360 degree spin on her air board. She is a very pleasant sight, all pink limbs and blue stars.
“We share the same birthday and we shared my mothers milk, so we are sort of twins.”
She takes off into some aerial acrobatics, twisting and looping showing off her body, then returns to hover in front of me again. Impressive stuff, and not only her tush.
I think what the hell, you only live once and the end of the Universe is nigh, so I ask her back to my place.
****************
Scrap Ships R Us is making me very rich. What with Brian's surprising business acumen and Zeno, the public face, the business is booming. I am so rich that I practically own the Bank of Uranus. Still what is money if the end of the Universe is nigh. Jenny is in the shower and I am waiting for a report back from the IGBI. She may be one of Smith's plants. She is beautiful with a perfect body, but so have all humanoids. I am getting cynical, too much hanging around with Bureau agents and criminals. Humanoids are perfect replicas of the human race except they can't reproduce, but I am not testing this out in case she isn't. I'm not ready for parenthood yet. I get a 'for my eyes' only vid.DELETE ON READING: NOT COPYABLE, WILL SELF DESTUCT AFTER 1 MINUTE.
Jenny Wizz
Professional dancer and air boarder.
Born: 9 11 40007 Mars City Infirmary
Educated: Mars High School. Mars Academy of Performing Arts.
Seconded IGIA Date:1 1 40017, Programmed Sleeper.
I am staring at the screen when it goes blank, my minute is up. What does programmed sleeper mean? Is it that she doesn't know she is an IGIA agent or that she does know but not as yet in action? And what is more to the point does the IGIA want with me. From time immemorial Going back to the CIA and the FBI they don't see eye to eye.
“Don't ask me.” says Brian, reading my thoughts.
I throw her out and phone the agency to see if there is any work.

Chapter 94

The Stork Club is empty. V and I are the only clients. The barman takes V for The Mans squeeze until she puts him right, then he is all over us. He knows me from the stint I did as resident key man, and is now super impressed by my date.
“Wait until The Man gets in. He will be as green as a Mick on St. Pats night.” Veronica has a dry martini and I stick to scotch on the rocks. As is inevitable I gravitate towards the piano and do some impros., on the tunes from Pal Joey. Veronica sits beside me on the stool the warmth of her thighs pressing mine. She sits with her eyes closed and her head to one side her hair flopping over one eye. It's Veronica Lake in a classic Veronica Lake pose. She hums lightly along to my playing. She is as relaxed as I have ever seen her. She must be so confident that this evening is going to go her way. I am no mind reader but her demeanour is suggests that. I hope she is right because the whole of America is about to get a shock, from 100 to Zero-sen in one day.
It's leaving time when The Man walks in with his goons. In the gloom he sees me with Veronica and takes her for Babs.
“Hey Limey, thanks for keeping my girl company, but now it's time for you to pay the price.” He grins at his goons and they laugh to his command. Veronica gets up from the stool and walks over to him slow and sassy. She reaches him and flicks ash on his shoes.
“OK big boy, whats the beef?”
He is slowly turning red. His face is a picture of uncertainty. Veronica turns to me.
“Time to go Honey.” Then back to The Man
“Your broad must be one hell of a fuck if she's anything like me. I should hang onto her, we're pretty short on the ground.”
**************
The rain is now incessant, it rains like it will never stop. Drops as big as peas hit he ground with a force that sends up fountain splashes. My light leather Italian loafers leak as soon as they hit the pavement. The cheap dime umbrellas are as much use as a sieve. Veronica is wearing a Martian rain cloak. Not strictly New York 1941 but as it is invisible who will know? The room smells of fish. The windows are steamed up through which flashing light from the drug store across the street flits between red and green. Besides the cook we are the only two occupants. I go over to the upright Steinway, its front removed to show the works and test a few chords. It sounds good in tune and with a fortissimo sound. I like it. I sit at the stool and play some Waller. Veronica lights up a cigarette in a long mother of pearl holder and blows the smoke in to the room. It may have been the sound of the piano or just the time, but when I look around the room has filled up. All the usual suspects are here. The bull at the door leaning back with his coat open showing his shoulder set up. The hooker on the sofa is just shooting up, and her pimp is seated on the arm. This time he is in a white suit with a white tie and black button down, correspondence shoes and white silk socks, black hat. The crap game in the adjoining room is just getting started with the sound of dice and hollering between numbers. The cook is cooking and serving drinks. Nothing suspicious there. In fact it all looks as usual so far. Doil and Getz are yet to show up as are the sailors. I continue playing, maybe this is it, and I can retire. The pimp grabs Veronica by the arm and pulls her to him, this is my cue to play a Tango. Doil climbs the stairs and drips water onto the parquet. He looks around taking all in, staying schtum. He tips back his hat and opens his coat, then leans on the other side of the door to the bull with the shoulder set up. The sailors arrive pushing one another into the room. Each carries a bottle of spirits. The place is hotting up. The hooker on the sofa stands up and cuts in on Veronica.
“My man Lady” she says and hangs around his neck. He pushes her away and tells her to get to work pointing around the room at the sailors.
She takes a blade from her garter and lunges at the pimp. He dodges it and parries with a slap to the jaw. She tumbles across the room and falls at the feet of the bull. He hauls her up and as she rises she takes his police special from under his arm turns and empties the gun in to the room. The cook enters the room with a platter of cat fish. She takes the third bullet in the mouth. The first two hit Veronica in the chest. The rest just hole the walls. I keep playing as the medics arrive. They take away Veronica and the cook.

Chapter 93

We head off back to the theatre, to catch the last act, we get there in time to take in 'Bewitched Bothered and Bewildered' and 'I Could Write a Book'. Not the best two numbers in the show in my opinion, I rate, 'The Lady is a Tramp' as one of the best show tunes ever and I am disappointed to have missed Gene Kelly's version. We have time to kill before the Fish Fry opens, this time with me depping for Fats rather than me being him. The day is clouding over and no doubt the rain will come as all the other Fish Frys. The thing about New York is that there is an opportunity within very event. No sooner has the first rain drop fallen than the corner of every block and the exit from every subway station, appears an umbrella seller. They are cheap Brooklyn knock offs, but so long as they last a night who cares for dime. I protect Veronica from the increasingly heavy rain looking for an empty Yellow. The plan is to head for The Stork Club on on 10^th. Where I am known as the Liverpool Kid and where Veronica has an acolyte who wishes she was her and The Man who wishes he was laying her. We are not ones for a quiet life. Miracles do happen. A Yellow drops off a punter in front of us, and we fight off a Chinaman and a Hasidic Jew for the back seat.
“Where to Bub” says the driver, through a fug of steam and stogie fumes.
“West 22^nd. and 10^th.”
“The Stork Club. Could take a few chimes in this weather.”
“We're in no rush, just get us there in one piece.”
“O.K. Miss Lake, don't know the guy on your arm, but for you anything. Saw you in Sullivan's Travels. Love at first sight.”
“Keep your eyes on the road Bub, I need to adjust my décolletage.”
“Gee wish I knew what that was, so I could get one for the Little Lady.”
“She probably has one already, you just don't know it. Now drive.”

Chapter 92

Fulton fish market is where Fulton Street meets the East River. The quay and the street are cobbled and if you look East over the river you can get a good view of Brooklyn Heights and the bridge. Veronica is dressed as a New York socialite and me as her driver. We pick our way through the stevedores unloading the fish on the quay. Big men in white coats and assorted hats auction each case. Porters take the fish way to awaiting trucks and few hand carts. We don't look out of place as there are some evening suited men with ties unknotted Champagne bottles in their hands and high class broads on their arms, staggering about the melee.
“This is impossible,” I say. “We'll never spot her amongst all this.” I wave my hand around to take in the scene. “What about all the fishmongers with stalls and handcarts. She may never set foot in this market.”
Veronica looks down her nose at me as if my remark was the most contemptuous remark ever.
“Think positively buddy boy.” I am feeling gloomy by the minute, the overwhelming smell of fish is, well, overwhelming. It's OK for the habitués, it is their living and the smell of fish is like the smell of money to them. But me? I feel sick.
Veronica sees that I am going green and guides me into a bar, and orders two large Brandies. I down mine with one gulp. The barkeep tops me up immediately.
“Want me to keep em coming?”
“No,” says Veronica and hands the barkeep two photographs.
“Seen either of these two on the quay?”
He looks at the likeness's of our target, and throws the photographs back onto the counter.
“You a cop?”
Veronica laughs. “No private Dicks. Ones the maid the other is an heiress she went missing with.” She pauses and gives him the eyes. “There is a reward.”
The barkeep is interested now. “How much?”
“Ten big ones.”
“Wee,” he whistles. “Let me have another look.” He turns the photographs towards him.
“This one is a familiar.” He taps the picture of the cook. “Buys cat fish then a beer. Runs a fish fry every Saturday. Can't say where.”
Veronica hands him a C note and a card. “Call that number when she comes in.”
Then turns to me.
“See that is how it is done.”
“What about the reward?” says the barkeep.
“If we cop her it's all yours.
***************
Pal Joey staring Gene Kelly is playing at St James Theatre at 246 W 44^th St, and Veronica insists we take a box.
“What if the barkeep tries to phone whilst we are in the theatre?” I ask.
“I have my head phone.” Says V.
A head phone is something like a telepathic neuron that receives calls to the brain and transmits thoughts. A Martian mobile phone, neat eh? Not every one has one as they are limited and Apple Corp won't drop the price.
I have no objection to the show as it is filled with classic numbers that Frank and Ella would become synonymous with, such as, The Lady is a Tramp, I Didn't Know What Time It Was, I Could Write a Book, There's A Small Hotel etc. All of which I have played in one guise or another. It will be be fun to see what Gene Kelly sounds like in the flesh.
We have no sooner settled in the box when Veronica says we have to get down to the bar as Miss Fish Fry has come in and ordered a beer.
We hail a cab and he takes us down Water Street to Fulton. Veronica shoves a dime note in his hand and tells him to step on it.
“What bar in Fulton Street, I know them all.”
“Max's”
“ Yeh I know Max's fulla bums.” The taxi drops us off at the door Veronica tells him to keep the change. “Was gonna anyway.”
We step into the dark and the barkeep points to a booth by the window. Sitting at it is the cook. We take over another beer and our Brandies.
“Mind if we sit down?” asks Veronica. The cook shrugs.
“It's a free country.”
Veronica pushes the fresh beer towards her. “Hear you run a Fish Fry.”
“You slummin or sumting?”
“Yeh we want to see the real Harlem”
“Might not be in the land of darkness.”
“Wherever.”
The cook looks Veronica in the eye, and takes a slug of her beer.
“I seen you before, in the movies.” Veronica puts a finger to her lips. “Not so loud, as you say I'm slumming.”
The cook dips her finger in the beer and writes on the table. It's an address in Harlem.

Chapter 91

My apartment doesn't look like my apartment. For one it is twice the size and it has all the latest furniture from Conran Inc. The sofa hovers a foot of the ground at just bum height. The walls are not walls but moveable screens that can be tuned to any colour or any scene. Brian is pleased with himself. As a surprise he has bought the apartment next to mine and knocked through, paid for by my earnings in the scrap space ship business.
“What do you think, Sir? It gives us room to breathe.”
I like it but I won't tell him that. The most impressive thing is the full size grand. A Yamaha from the 21^st Century, fully restored and tuned to perfection. The plastic keys have been replaced by Ivory made from the DNA of African elephants. It is overwhelming, Brian the computer that I constantly slag off has done this for me.
“ I will let it grow on me Brian before I offer an opinion, the scrap business must be doing well. A piano like this has to come to millions.”
“ Billions actually Sir, but we can afford it. A Star ship the size of a planet has enough scrap in it to pay for ten of them, with a billion or so to spare, even with tax deducted. Would you like a cocktail Sir while I fill a tub for you?”
“Any messages?”
“One from the Bank inviting you to an investment seminar, and two from Zeno saying you are slipping down the list.”
“Get Zeno on the vid.”
I try out the Yamaha. The ivory keys are sensual with no slip. In fast tempos my hands sweat. It's a perfect match of man and machine. The contrast between my private life and saving the Universe is worlds apart. In one I am a very rich man and in the other a bit player in the pay of the IGBI. I know which one I prefer.
Zeno drops in via the vid. Gone are the startling colours and wild see through apparel. She is soberly dressed in a tailored suit, court shoes and feathered hat.
“What gives with the outfit?” I ask.
“Didn't Brian tell you. I have given up my old profession and I am now the face of SCRAP SHIPS R US.”
“Scrapshipsrus?”
“I work for Brian. He is very generous.”
I am speechless. She carries on.
“I still have my list for old times sake. I am on my way over.” The vid turns off and a second later she is sitting on my hover sofa in the flesh. I have to admit that I am a bit turned on by her Miss Smith outfit. Sex in the office will be a novelty.
****************
For once Doil has done me a favour. He wants a meet at the hospital. Zeno is great in bed but limited in the conversation stakes. I leave her talking scrap with Brian. It can't last. However that is Brian's problem. Veronica looks as good as ever. You wouldn't know that she has been wounded. Shot stabbed glassed. She always comes up refreshed and stunning. I wonder if she is the same person. Cloning is rife in the colonies but there are strict rules here on Mars. No cloning. Ever. One body, one person one life. The doctors can make you live for hundreds of years, but cloning. Shot on sight. The view from the balcony is of the Ice planet. A wilderness of white. High mountains of ice shaded in various blues. From deep azures to tints of cyan. Just looking at makes me feel cold. Veronica has a hooded suit of fox fur. DNA fashioned of course, that shows nothing of her body but oozes sex. Doil stands by the window smoking a Gauloise cancer free cigarette. Why take risks, a new lung is the price of a house on the Maldeves planet. Just the three of us. No Smith. Something is going down. Doil flicks his stub out over the scenery then turns the vision off. The balcony is just a void now. Then he plays the last Fish Fry. I am tas me. Doil is there dressed as Doil, the pimp, the hooker, Getz, scarface, the sailors. All there. The cook. Wait a minute the cook. She is not the cook I remember. The cook I remember is black, with a flowered apron, big buxom and hearty. This cook is white, slim and, beautiful.
“Spot anything wrong” says Doil.
“Is this a movie?” I ask.
“A deconstructed, playout of the last Fish Fry.”
“So the cook is real”
“Yup”
“As am I.”
“Correct, we have applied an anti prossing filter to the playback, which is why you are as you are, and why the cook is as she really is.”
“Do you have any idea who she is?”
“Nope we were hoping you would help us there.”
I ask them to play it again with freeze frames. The cook is not anyone that I have encountered but I would like to. She has all the classic beauty of Ingrid Bergman without the heavy breathing. I tell Doil so and he shrugs.
“Just a chance, you being a pross expert and all.”
“ I might know twins who do”, I say. I am surprised that Doil hasn't thought of them himself, him being a security expert and all, with all the power of the IGBI behind him.
“Ah yes, your red heads. Well they have been quizzed as have the prossing department and they have no record of anyone like the cook”
Veronica wraps the fur around her and stares out into the void. Doil takes his leave with a task for us. Find the cook.
****************
Thats easy for him to say with all the resources of the IGBI at his disposal, but I have an idea. We can re-enact the last Fish Fry through the magic of time travel and change the order and the timing, so neither Veronica nor me are maimed and we can follow her home or something. Am I a genius or not? Well not apparently. Veronica has a better idea we arrive the day before and check out the fish market for a fat Moma or a Nordic beauty.