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. 

Chapter 90

The room smells of fish. It is raining. The window is closed but the room is hot and airless. Water runs down the panes inside and out. A large black man sits at an upright piano. He is wearing a brown derby hat and a silk striped waistcoat. He drinks from a large jug of rye then places it carefully back onto the piano top. A very fat woman in a flowered pinafore enters the room from the kitchen carrying a platter of fried catfish. She places it onto a table by the wall above which hangs a sign which says
FISH FRY
FISH $1
WHISKEY 50c
By the door stands a heavy set white guy in a trench coat and trilby hat. He takes out a zippo and lights up a Marlborough. The flame illuminates his face showing a scar from mouth to ear. On the sofa sits a blonde with tight bangs and red lipstick. Her skirt has slipped up to her thighs showing a garter belt. One shoe is on the other off. Maybe she is drunk or high. Next to her stands an elegant Dude in tailored three piece and highly polished black shoes. There is a bulge under his left arm. He is a high yellow with a thin Errol Flynn moustache and gold ring on his third finger. His film star looks are lit by the single bulb hanging from a centre rose and the flashing neon from the drug store opposite. The piano player is just doodling not playing any particular tune. The street is awash with water the rain is incessant. A black and white pulls up to the pavement and two bulls and a woman dodge the rain to get into the building. The first bull is large and red haired, the second is large and wearing a pork pie hat. They drip water up the stairs. The woman, the dead spit of Veronica Lake, removes her oilskins, hangs them over the banister then follows them in to the room.The guy by the door pushes his hat back and greets the bulls.
“Hey Doil thought you were on the dog shift.”
“Miss Lake here wanted to see some action so I've been seconded.”
“Gee are you THE Miss Lake?”
“Sure am buster.”
“What kinda action you looking for?”
“A little excitement it gets kinda dull making movies.”
The elegant Dude in the suit grabs Veronica by the arm.
“Care to dance. Hey Fats up the tempo, Tango per favore.”
Fats obliges and they dance close and passionate. Doil watches and takes a piece of fish.
“That'll be $1 mister, no exceptions”, says the cook. Doil takes out his shield.
“I said no exceptions, if you were the President hisself, I'd say the same.” Doil replaces his shield with a dime note. The cook takes it and put it down her dress.
“You can have five pieces.”
Doil laughs and asks for three shots of rye. She hands him a half full bottle.
“That should cover it.”
Doil hands the bottle to Getz, then takes a pull himself.
“Man this weather will be the death.” He walks over to the window and draws a gun in the mist. Fats comes to a crescendo. The Dude bends forward and drapes Veronica over his knee, then pulls her up close eyeball to eyeball. She pushes him away and goes into the back room where a no holds barred game of five stud is in progress. She pulls back an empty chair and sits in. The radio in this room blares out solid dance band music heedless of Fats's playing.The doll on the sofa gets agitated and mouths off at the Dude, he smacks her across the kisser with the back of his hand. Blood spurts from her nose and splash's his shoes. Now he is really mad and takes out a flick knife and swipes in the air close to her cheek. Doil pulls out his piece and pistol whips him. He drops to the floor and stays still. The doll bends over the Dude bloodying his suit. Doil kicks him in the crutch. The doll goes for Doil screaming in his face.
“Sonofabitch”
Doil holds her arms aloft as she tries to kick him. Getz and scarface grab her around the waist and lift her off her feet, then throw her down the stairs. It's not her day. Veronica walks back into the room followed by a news flash on the radio, she is counting a wad of C notes.
“Not bad for the first hand. Give me a drink. Got any gin.” The cook hands her a tumbler of clear liquid. She downs it in one.
“Best bath tub.” says the cook and cackles back to the kitchen. Veronica choke's on the stuff and wipes her tears with a silk scarf. Fats plays Gin House Blues, and rolls his eyes. There is a sudden commotion from the back room. A sailor in full kit shouts out.
“The fucking Japs have bombed Pearl Harbour.”
The Dude stir's takes out his saturday night special and aims unsteadily at Doil. He fires twice. Veronica drops to the floor with two neat red holes in her back.
“Keep playing Fats”, says Doil. “You know the drill.”
***************

Boy do I know the drill how many times has V been shot knifed or glassed. I've lost count. As usual the para's were on the scene before V hit the deck. New York is in chaos, the pride of the navy is lying sunk in Hawaii. Anyone slightly yellow or slanty eyed is being cursed or worse. I head up town to the cat house on 116^th. My home from home when prossed as Fats. I stink of fish, but as Fats I am recognised, and hugged and kissed by any passing cat in a zoot suit. I finally reach the corner of 116^th and Third, within reach of my destination when I am grabbed and pushed in to the back of a black and white. Doil is in the back and Getz upfront riding shot, scarface at the wheel. We all stink of fish it's like Fulton fish market in here.
“What now Doil I've done my bit.”
“Button it Fats we've had a message from the IGBI that we were as close as we ever were to the butterfly moment today. They want us to repeat the performance.”
“What about Veronica?”
“We are time travellers she will be patched up in the future and sent back.”
“ Some fucking life. Can we repeat it some other time I'm fair tuckered out, or better still get the real Fats to do it. Maybe that is why it is going wrong. Ersatz Fats ergo no butterfly.”
“Let me slug him.” says Getz. “ Fucking mouthy prick.”
“ Arn't you supposed to be dead, the first time you were shot and dumped in the river.” Scarface turns to me.
“Let's all slug him.”
I am just about to prove a truism, that all fat people are light on their feet. I open the door and head for the cat house. It has taken them all by surprise and I make it pretty dam quick. I rush up the stairs and lock myself in Big Sal's room.
I hear raised voices as my three pursuers follow me in.
“He went out the back says the Madame into the alley.”
I sit on the bed with it's familiar smell, of perfume and bodies, and me smelling of fried fish, the room is not for the faint hearted. There is a light knocking on the door. “Fats it's me Sal, the cops have gone let me in.” I get off the bed and open the door. Sal is pushed aside and Doil grabs me by the wrists and cuffs me. Sal gives me a what could I do look.
“OK wise guy, get moving and no funny business or I'll take away your watch.” He means my bracelet, my ticket back to my own time. I give Sal a Fats eye roll and eyebrow wriggle to show there is no hard feelings and get pushed back down the stairs.
*****************
The detectives room of the 5^th precinct with it's familiar smell of tobacco smoke sweat and cheap aftershave gives me the willies. Nothing good has ever come from a visit here. In the twentieth century smells evoke the place. In my time, all smells are eliminated at source and substituted by personal preference in apartments and general inoffensive odours in public places. I am still cuffed as Doil has better things to do than watch me 24/7. I still have the key I used last time, but decide against a Houdini act until I have a better exit. I can still reach the return button on my wrist band, but it is turned off. So I'm stuck. Doil comes back from whatever was so important and puts his foot up on the desk next to me. His size 13s catching the light from the desk lamp as does the butt of the derringer strapped to his ankle. The other bulls in the room are all either typing up reports or chewing the fat. Doil hauls me up out of the chair and takes me to interview room 1.
“This won't take long.” he pauses to adjust his shoulder holster. Getz is guarding the door, scareface behind me. I have a strange feeling of calm. I expect a beating, but Doil just hands me a piece of paper on which is an address in the Bowry.
“The next venue, date to be advised, so git.”

Chapter 89

I take the long route back to my apartment. It's about 3 hours until the rain so I have ample time to walk through the park and think. But it is no use all my thoughts just return to Veronica. If this is love they can stick it. There is a cure of course, there is a cure for everything on Mars. I dial Zeno in my head and her image pops up in my brain.
“Hey Joe waddau know?'
“Zeno how is the list?”
“It's shorter by one name, - yours.”
“ I know it's been a long time and there is an explanation which I will reveal to you one day, but right now the IGBI have my tongue.”
“Gee that sounds serious.” I ignore the heightened incredulity in her tone.
“Bout as serious as it gets, but I have time to kill and I wondered....”
“On my way lover boy.”
****************

I cut short my walk and find the nearest booth. Zeno is already making herself at home as I demat in. She has changed her look. Dark skin with green hair, green lippo and nails, through her transparent shorts I can see that her vagina hair is green too. Not a look I am used to. She is holding a cocktail glass full of green liquid.
“Brian is a genius with the shaker.” she says saluting me with the drink. “Here I had him make one up for you too.” She hands me a tumbler that is frosted with vapour rising from it.
“Drink up baby, Brian tells me you are in the money, so you are back on the list.”
A passing thought, is he up to his old tricks? He has been conspicuous by his silence. Now is not the time I have better things to do.
“I'll just take a shower, back in a nano.”
“I'll join you,” says Zeno I become a discord in the wet.”

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

After a lot of sex and a lot of booze Zeno leaves with a wad of my cash. I am at the piano playing some Cedar Walton originals. Brian leaves a pick me up by my elbow. So much so normal. Then he asks if I have anything I wish to ask him.
“Why?”
“ I was wondering, Sir, if wanted to know how I've been. What I have been up to in my spare time.”
“Apart from spying for the IGBI, seeing to my every need, keeping the apartment spick, and thinking up cocktails, you mean, and making amends for flooding the planet with uncut moon dust.”
“ You know how we computers have our own intranet. Well I've decided to rent out my spare capacity to the highest bidder.”
“Who is?”
“The Atomic Scrap Company.”
“Sounds innocuous.”
“Oh it is Sir, and it is doing the Universe a service.”
“Very commendable, and it won't interfere with the running of my life.”
“Not bit, Sir, and we can take advantage of it to make a killing.”
I hit a Cmin7 with my left hand and an Fmaj7 with my right. It is a signal that I am getting the worries. Brian continues.
“When a starship is ready for scrapping ASC inc. get a call to tow it into The Sun. But first all useable parts are stripped from it and recycled. If we buy the ship first, the scrap value is ours to sell to ASC inc.”
“Won't they get suspicious that you are getting inside info, by renting out computer capacity to them? And you keep buying the ships before they put their hand in their pocket”

“Our scrap company is registered in another galaxy with no connection to us, also we don't have to sell to ASC inc. There are dozens of scrap companies to choose from.”
“ Brian, I don't think you have thought this through. Even if you sell to other companies, ASC will take an income hit and then they won't need extra computer capacity, so terminate the contract with you, you loose your information source and go belly up. However if it is legal, and by legal I mean clean as freshly laundered pants in one hundred per cent bleach, then go ahead.”
“You won't be sorry, Sir.” He mumbles something about a new body but I have lost interest and stop listening.
*****************

I am woken by Brian from one of those deep dreamless sleeps that are almost an out of body experience. He informs me that Veronica is in the kitchen eating a bagel and cream cheese. For a moment I think I am back in 1935. Veronica comes into the bedroom and sits on the edge of the bed, she looks well, fresh and sweet smelling.
“ Don't get any ideas Honey, this is business.”
My heart is pumping a 180 beat rhumba tempo. I reach for the water glass and spill it down my front.
“Fuck it.”
“Calm down Mister.”
I am not used to being cold called by a beautiful woman who doesn't want sex.
“Get dressed we have a Universe to save.”
“Who am I this time? Captain America?”
“Just little old Fats. But the year has changed, December 7^th 1941”

Chapter 88

Brian informs me that I have $400 trillion in my account now and the grunts on the starships can't get enough of our product. The miners on Avir are on double shifts to supply us. They are picked because they have a gene deficiency that makes them immune to the effects of the dust. The quacks have the means to implant the missing gene, but they prefer the money to getting high. It takes all sorts. Brian says we are helping the economy of the outer planets of Sirus 6, and to feel good about our enterprise. I still feel guilty and that I am soon to have my collar felt by the MIRS and the Narc squad. Avir Moon Dust in it's raw form is a potent narcotic, hence a banned substance in our solar system, but it can be synthesized into legal drugs that can cure a lot of disease’s, a great boon to mankind.

Enough of this, I need a gig to keep my sanity. I vid the agency, who say I they have been trying to contact me for weeks but Brian has told them that I didn't need the work as I have come into money, but as it happens there is a gig on the Ice Planet on Sax. No piano work. I am itching to play music and feel the vibe so I accept.

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

The Quartet: Charlie Parker (as), Hank Jones (p), Teddy Kotick (b) and Max Roach (d).

As Recorded in New York City, on December 30, 1952. 


I am prossed up as Charlie Parker.

Charles "Charlie" Parker, Jr. (August 29, 1920 – March 12, 1955), also known as "Yardbird" and "Bird", was an American saxophonist and composer.

Parker was a highly influential jazz soloist and a leading figure in the development of bebop a form of jazz characterized by fast tempos, virtuosic technique, and improvisation. Some say it got it's name from an ipro. phrase ending in reebop. Parker introduced revolutionary harmonic ideas, including rapid passing chords, new variants of altered chords, and chord substitutions. His tone ranged from clean and penetrating to sweet and somber. Many Parker recordings demonstrate his virtuoso playing style and complex melodic lines.Many of his numbers had a latin influence.

Parker acquired the nickname "Yardbird" early in his career and the shortened form, "Bird", which continued to be used for the rest of his life, inspired the titles of a number of Parker compositions, such as Yardbird suit, Ornithology, "Bird gets the worm, and "Bird of Paradise."

Parker was an icon for the hipster subculture and later the, Beat Generation personifying the jazz musician as an uncompromising artist and intellectual, rather than an entertainer.

We Start with

THE SONG IS YOU
LAIRD BAIRD

KIM
& COSMIC RAYS

It's great to be playing again. I've been prossed up as Hank Jones on several occasions and now as Parker I get to play with him. Teddy Kotick on bass is also a joy to play with, he is with me on all the chord changes and sometimes leads me into territory that is challenging even with a Parker chip in my neck. As for Max Roach the best bee bop drummer ever, he keeps us all in check.

We finish the set with a stonking version of “All the things you are.” The ice packers go wild, the combo is hot enough to melt the whole planet. Back in the Green Room we all turn down our prosser controllers to a shimmer and talk jazz. Artie and me have swopped roles it seems as he reveals himself as Hank Jones, he is usually the saxo, to my key man. Artie seems a little disorientated and disappears into the Jon only to reappear refreshed. He has to be on something. He sees my quizzical look and offers me a wrap.
“Whats this?”
“Moon dust. Man it's so cheap now. The world's awash with it.”
I decline, but make a mental note to have words with Brian on my return to Mars. Somehow with Brian's input or not the Dust is getting back to Mars. I will have to put a stop to this before the Narcs lock me up and have me reprogrammed to enjoy road sweeping. You get a groovy ride on hover sweeper and a cool all in one, but it is still road sweeping.
******************

Brian was contrite, after I pointed out that he was on the verge of an overdose of sinning against mankind, and against ciber law, so the enterprise is stopped and all the drug money has been given to the Salvation Army space vagrants.
I visit Veronica. The view from her balcony is now of London in the 23rd century. The Thames sparkles as it snakes through the fields of blue around the old City walls. The smell of lavender wafts up on a warm breeze. She is on a lounger just inside the room. I sit at the white Bechstein doodling show tunes.
“Convalescing is the nearest I ever get to a holiday. Saving the Universe takes up a lot of time.” She takes a grape from the bunch on her side table and peels it using her nails to remove the skin.
“But I am being discharged tomorrow, then it's back to work.”
“With Doil, and Smith?”
“And Fats.”
“Another bullet another day.” She ignores my sarcasm.
“The fateful day is nearing and we must solve the puzzle.”
I want to ask her about the conspirators within the IGBI, but walls have ears.
“The IGBI's comps have been recalculating the timing of the butterfly moment and it may be that we have the year wrong even if we are out by a millisec the universe will go bang.”
“Maybe Fats is wrong as well, as much as I like being him, it always ends in a punch up at a Fish Fry, with him at the piano.”
“Fats is the only constant, we know it is him, but the timing is paramount.”
“And you getting a bullet.”
She waves her hand in a circular motion.
“Maybe.” 

Chapter 87

Brian is not glad to see me. He greets me with an “Oh it's you.” I am having non of his truck and set him to work. Drink, food and ablutions in that order. The Envigo shower gel is as good as I remember it. There are some things that are definitely lacking in 1935. Washed fed and watered I am ready for anything Brian can throw at me. Surprisingly there are no dramas. No dead bodies, no fire bombs, not even surliness. Just indifference. Indifference is a new emotion for Brian and it is un-nerving.

"If that is all Sir, I will go about my private business."

"Private business, what private business? I bought you, I maintain you. The only business you have is seeing to my every need."

“Well it is your fault."

"How so?"

"You disappear for months on end, I get bored."

"Well I"m back now, so get un-bored."

"That is difficult Sir, I am in the middle of a transaction."

I am astounded. He continues.

"I have started up an import export business." I am truly astounded.

"Just wait a moment, Sir, until it is completed and I will fill you in."

Fill me in, I"ll give him fill me in. It goes quiet. I am unnerved. There is quiet and nothing. When Brian is quiet there is usually some thing going on in the background, you get used to it. It feels like nothing but it is there. Now there is absolute quiet. Apart from my tinnitus, which is an occupational hazard.

I listen to my tinnitus for while. A sort of inertia has siezed me. At time like this I usually sit at the piano and doodle, now all I can do is sit.

"That was all very satisfactory, a nice smooth transaction."

" I thought one of the rules of the computer code of being is that you are not allowed to be in business unless there is a human as the M.D."

"That is true, Sir, which why you are the M.D. I took the liberty of making you my boss."

I decide to run with it. "Do we make money?"

"I am very good at anything I lay my hands to."

"Yes, but do we make money?"

“Some."

"And the start up capital for this enterprise?"

Silence.

"Would you like me to repeat the question?"

Finally he answers. “A loan from the Bank of Uranus."

"My bank!"

"You have guaranteed the loan, Sir."

This is too much I may have to kill him.

"$90 trillion."

A large vodkatini is placed at my elbow. I down it in one. Then another, dispatched the same way.

"The rate is a very reasonable 25%"

"That's 2.25 trillion Dollars."

"I paid it back"

“You paid it back?”

"What are we importing and exporting? Khoinor diamonds"

"Avir moon dust."

"Drugs!"

"The dust is only illegal in our Solar system, Sir, there is a universe of opportunity out there."

"That transaction you just made, in my name makes me a major drug dealer, does it not."

"Yes Sir, but a very rich one. Now can I have a body?"

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

Brian says I have $200 trillion in my bank account. Two hundred trillion dollars. And no one has queried where it came from. The MIRS is usually on the ball. In the past I have only to bank a couple of gigs worth at once and I get a call from them. What to do with it? Should I spread it around all the banks on all the planets. A few million in every one. But you know me by now. That is too much hassle, so I'll leave it where it is accruing interest at 5%. When the narcs catch up with me I will need a good lawyer and they know how to charge. Then I have an idea. I could buy my own MWD. My very own Material Wormhole Destableiser. I could time travel without the IGBI knowing where I am or am I being too naif? Of course they would know where I am, they know everything. Depression is setting in. Fucking Brian. I need a good hit of moon dust but now I am a supplier I need to stay off it. That way lies disaster. Still a small nostril full won't harm. I am just about to sniff a load when Brian buts in.

“Sir, do you know how much that would fetch on a troopship in Gallaxy 3?”

“Not interested, you're the dealer.”

“It hasn't been cut, it will blow your head of.”

“Don't tell me you care.”

“Sir I am your servant, it is written into my code that I have to look after you, even to the detriment of myself.”

“So buying drugs in my name and tempting the Narcs and the MIRS to hound me down is looking after me?”

“ Don't worry about them, Sir I have paid them off.”

“And added bribery.”

“Mars forbid Sir all strictly Kosher.”

“And I still have $200 trillion in the Bank of Uranus?”

“Precisely”

“Suddenly I am feeling better.”

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

“What you need Brian is a companion, to stop you getting bored when I am out. A robot dog or cat, or even a female Brian.

“Sir?”

“We could call her Brietta?”

“Is this one of your jokes, Sir?

“No I'm serious you could take the dog for metaphysical walks. Empty the cat litter tray. Have meaningful conversations with Brietta. I have the money now.”

“Would these companions have a physical presence.”

“A body you mean.”

'Why not.”

“And me?”

“No I like you as you are.”

A metaphysical glass is thrown at the wall. Good job I ducked.

Chapter 86

The room smells of fish. Fried fish, sweat, cigar smoke and cheap perfume. It is also humid. 95% per. The window is open and the rain falls in curtains of water lit by the flash of lightening and the neon sign across the street. The sign flashes red, green, white SODA - ICE CREAM – COLAS. A large negro wearing a brown derby hat and a red and white striped silk waistcoat sits at an upright piano. In his mouth is stogie. By the door stands a heavy set white man in a trench coat and trilby. He is smoking a Camel cigaret. On the other side of the door stands an equally large negro in a French style rain coat, long to his mid calves all buttons open. His hands are in his trouser pockets, a gun is tucked into his waistband, handle facing to his left. One is a cop. On the sofa sits a blonde roots showing mouse, white skirt rugged up to her waist, showing black panty hose. Her red blouse is open and knotted at the waist. By her side is the makings of her latest hit. Her manager, just of the boat from Cuba, sits by her side in an inch striped suit, grey on black, two tone shoes and a fedora. He is cleaning his nails with a flick knife. Down the hall are two more of his stable. From an adjacent room a hight roller game of craps is in progress. The piano player is the dead spit of Fats Waller, except for a small blemish just above his collar. Only his mother would know. On his wrist is a watch, that isn"t a watch. From his vantage point he can see all who arrive and leave the fish fry. Two yellows pull up and a body of tars from the sixth fleet get out and rush through the rain to the stoop. They bang up the stairs and fill the room. They hold bottles of gin and rum. Not rolling drunk yet but give them time.

"Hey look fellas Fats Waller. Play Honey Suckle Rose." Fats obliges and goes into his Uncle Sam routine, rolling his eyes and wiggling his eyebrows. The sailors love it and fill his glass with gin. The pimp leaves and comes back with his other two hookers, one black in thigh highs and a basque the other a red head in short beaded skirt and spangled top. Fats plays a horn pipe which quickly transforms in to a tango. The sailors dance with each other ignoring the hookers. The blond on the couch gets up and adjusts her clothing, she has the look of Veronica Lake about her. She breaks up one of the couples and dances close. The abandoned sailor steps in and pushes the other aside. Veronica's choice takes a swing at the incomer, misses and hits Veronica in the mouth. She spits blood over his tropicals, the pimp steps in and sticks the sailor in the cheek. It's his turn to spit blood. Bad move. The other sailors jump on the pimp with fists and boots. The man with the gun by the door, fires into the air, two bullets stick into the ceiling one bounces of the light fitting and lodges in Veronica's neck.

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The hospital room is the same, from the balcony Naples at night. The sky is black, lit by streaks of lightning. Veronica lies still as death with a dressing on her neck and more tubes than Mars Metro keeping her stable. The heart monitor blips a steady rhythm at 72 per. I watch her intently for signs of life. I still grip the roses I bought, real ones grown in soil. I am a regular now, the stiff backed nurse on reception waved me through and went back to her screen.

When Veronica went down, Fats hit the street, passing the paramedics on the stairs, then pressed the return button on his wristband. By the time I stood on the black spot and de-prossed from Fats to Joe, Veronica was in her private room, drips attached and mending. Medics can do anything now, but it still takes time for a body to heal. A bullet in the throat is the most serious injury Veronica has sustained in the pursuit of saving the Universe, in my opinion, but what do I know? I have on my Apple surroundsound headset and playing some cat from 20136 called Jamie Cullam IV good but not great. More easy listening for the elevator than ground breaking. But it suits my mood. The roses need water. I present myself at the doorway to the adjoining bathroom and the door obligingly slides open. I find a vase in the linen cupboard and arrange the flowers into a circle the stalks crossed under the water. That could win prizes. The walls are all mirrored so it is impossible the avoid my reflection. I look frazzled. I take the vase and place it on the table by the window.

"Roses, how lovely"

Her voice is low and croaky. But the sound of it is better music than all my tracks on itunes. Veronica puts out her hand and I hold it. It feels cold. She catches my mood.

"Don"t worry Joe I wont peg out on you, we have unfinished business."

Chapter 85

Phew it's a laugh a minute back in 1935. New York in 40037 is a tamed animal. It is a utopia. Of course only the elite live there, looked after by humanoids and robots. I"ve only been once to play at The Village Vanguard at that time, as a piano player from the 30555 era called Harvey Wallenburge. Not really my bag but it paid the bills. Now I"m on the payroll of a mob boss. It is kinda exciting, especially as I have a get out card, my trusty wrist band. I run a bath and play some arpeggios in my head whist I soak. I fully expect the Madame Victoria to make an appearance but I am left in solitude. I suppose she has to spend some time with her husband. I have two round bruises on my chest where the goon prodded me backwards with my colt. The colt is resting silently on top of my clothes, within reach, on the bathroom stool. I lean over and take it to hand. I read the inscription on the stock. "NYPD issue 0612. Nice. A knock off. I point it down the bath and take a bead on my my big toe, my finger tenses on the trigger. It is tempting.

There is a rustling behind the door, so I swing it to the left and take aim dead centre. Madame Victoria comes in holding clean towels.

"Don"t shoot Monsieur, I will do anysing."

I bet she would too.

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Whichever way I turn I am involved now. As me Joe Coolz resident of Mars 400037, 1000 Red Sea Boulevard apt 93a now living on Earth in 1935, I am on the books of The Man, detailed to spy on Saul Brown proprietor of the Cat House on 203 E 116^th St. and probably a Harvard graduate in Law working for the Mayors office, but still not proven. Then as me again but prossed up as an ersatz Fats Waller working for the IGBI, I am the saviour of the Universe. And as said Fats Waller as a spy for The Man too, because I play piano as both people in the Cat House, not to mention that I also play the Stork Club. But Saul thinks I am on his side and has given me a gun. The Man wants some or all of the action in Harlem and Saul won"t let go. So is it more fun to be me or Fats? These thoughts are keeping me awake when I should be resting, saving my energy, for whatever the night throws at me. They say that a man thinks of sex every three minutes, well my thoughts are far from it. My thoughts about Veronica don"t involve sex. After our private un-bugged conversation in the carriage they involve what is she cooking up next, and how can she keep her suspicions to just us. Why of all the people she must know in the IGBI she should confide in me Mars knows. Surely not everyone in that organisation can"t be trusted.

Smith and Doil seem to be part of her gang, Doil especially is always on hand to call the paramedics when she is hurt. Getz too. I feel my brain is about to explode, so I pop a zoomer. Yes I know I should have left them on Mars, bringing things in from the future is carefully vetted. The WMD should have spotted them. But when you have a girlfriend who works the thing...nuf said.

It is now mid day and I have slept fitfully for a few hours, I might as well get up as lie here looking at the ceiling. There is not much jump and jiving going on at this time of day so maybe I should take in the sights. Bessie Smith is appearing at the Appollo Theatre, I could head for that. The dilemma for the moment is whether to strap on the colt or go unprotected. In my opinion guns of any description only lead to trouble. I wander over to the Diner and pick up a Tribune on the way. I look in the entertainments column and search out where Fats is playing. He is back at the Reno Club on fifth. I order ham and eggs and hash browns. The Diner is quiet with a couple of street cleaners on the stools. My grease arrives pronto, I stab the eggs and dip in the ham. I am down to the last piece and wiping it around the plate when Doil slips into the seat facing. This is a downer. Doil always spells trouble. He waves over the waitress and orders a coffee and doughnut.

"Mind if I join you?" Rhetorical to say the least.

"As if I had a choice."

"Time is slipping away, the impending demise of the Universe is nigh." He sounds like an Old Testament Prophet.

"Who gives a fuck?" Only the gooks in the IGBI, I am beginning to think it is all a blind, something else is going on."

Doil laughs.

"When the Universe ends all is gone. Past present future, snuffed out. Do you want that? Big Sal, gone. Red Mcgee, gone. Zeno, gone. Veronica, gone. Joe Coolz, gone.

"If I do another Fish Fry, will it be as me or Fats."

"It has to be Fats. Fats is the key."

"Then why not use him, not me prossed up as him?"

"If only it was that simple. We could use him as you say, but if he gets shot and the right combination of notes have not been played, then that is the end. If he is dead then it would mean, the notes could never be played, because..?"

"He is dead." I say

"Right."

'so I have to do it."

"Right again. We have to keep the real Fats alive."

"What if I get shot?"

"Tough."