Chapter 122

I didn't need my noon call. Doil has thrown the sheets back, and is slapping my face. 'Bloody Hell where's the fire?'

'Get dressed pronto, we'll be in the car.' We, being him and Getz, who has smirk riding his kisser. My suitcase is over the road in the French House, so I pull on the shirt from last night, smelling of cigarettes and sweat, but leave off the tie. It fits in with my days growth of beard and unwashed neck. From sophistocat to hobo in a few hours. That's New York for yah.

Doil is at the wheel, Getz in the back. I get into the car and sit next to Doil. He has a don't mess with me look. So I don't mess with him, just sit. The atmosphere is tense. Getz is smoking for Virginia. The air in the car is thick and lacking oxygen. Doil lets the window drop and turns to me.

'Why a Derringer? Not much use in a gun fight. You can do more damage with a pea shooter.'

I am too shagged to get into an argument with a New York Bull/IGBI operative/ all round smuck. I take the Derringer from my sock and hand it to him. He turns it over in has big hands like it's a dog turd. Then throws it out of the window. Getz laughs and ends up chocking on his sixth Camel.

'Time to get to work.' says Doil.

***********

The room smells of fish. Fish and cigar smoke. It's about 85 F and as muggy as a Florida swamp. A cat in a grey suit with a broad pin stripe sits on the arm of a sofa legs crossed and intensely shined two tones, black and white, one on the end of a swinging leg the other just touching the floor with the toe. He has a fat tie around his neck knotted with a windsor knot and a diamond sticker. His hair is greased back with pomade. He has slightly bulbous eyes, a pocked face, thin lips and big yellow teeth. Not a looker, but who needs looks with a big schlong. Next to him sits a bottle blonde with dark roots. Her eyes tell a tale of long substance abuse. She has good legs, dancers legs, and a deep cleavage. Her stare is blank and unfocussed. She is smoking a cheroot. The room is lit by a single naked bulb and the neon glow from the drug store across the way. The window is wide open struggling to let in some air through the curtain of rain. By the window sits a large black man in a brown Derby and a red and white striped waistkit. He is playing an upright piano made in Leeds England. The gold leaf lettering on the front says Appleson & Sons Leeds. This is the only piano in the States from Leeds. Another mystery. By the door leaning on the jamb is Getz. Detctive Getz, back from the dead. The smell of fish intensifies as a 280 pound black woman in a flowered panafore places a platter of fish under a sign which reads.

Cat Fish $1

Hooch $1

Hooker $ 5

She may or may not be a time traveller prossed up as a cook.

It is early, no real action is taking place. It is anticipated. The cook takes a piece of fish and swallows it in two bites and says 'de-lish-ous', then turns to the man in the Derby hat,

'Free to you, Fats. Don't eat it all now.'

Fats takes a long pull on the jug of gin, and places it back on the piano top. The piano top is scarred with rings of assorted sizes that have eaten into the varnish with black etched edging where cigarette buts have burnt down to ash. The ivory keys are wet with sweat, but Fats's shure fingers don't miss a note.

A white sedan rolls up against the torrents on the pavement, creating a bow wave as high as the wheel hubs. A pointed wing tip shoe of The Man steps into the water. One of his gorillas jumps from the running board and holds a futile umbrella over him. A Rocoon skin coat is draped over his shoulders, continetal style, the hem soaking up water as he dips undercover. In the lobby of the tenament, one heavy relieves him of the coat whist another hands him a dry pair of shoes and a starkly white hankerchief with which he flicks water from his trousers. He walks up the two narrow flights to the first landing and steps into the Fish Fry. The pimp shakes his hand and leads him to the back room.

A black sedan comes from the other direction and faces the white sedan headlights catching the rain as it bounces off the hood. Saul Brown waits until the door has been opened by one of his aids, then dashes for the entrance. He is quick but the rain is quicker. He ascends the stairs leaving a water trail behind him. The pimp greets him with a handshake and says, 'The Man is here.'

Fats plays on.

Both sets of soldiers eye each other, from opposite sides of the room. The Man and Saul parlay behind the closed door in the back. The meet has been set up to try and settle the war without bloodshed. With Saul unwilling to give up his territory, and The Man being a greedy bastard, it don't bode well. The contrast between the two sets of soldiers sets them worlds apart. It's not just the colour of their skin, but the stance and attitude of the body language. And there is too much testosterone in the room.

The Pimp hauls his woman to her feet and takes her out of the room. If there is to be shooting he doesn't want his meal ticket holed.

The Mans Veronica Lake look-a-like, meanwhile is getting bored back in the Limo, and decides to eat some fish. She has been told to stay put, but, she is an independant modern woman, so she can do what the hell she likes. The Man's soldiers aren’t happy with this but she tells them to go to hell. Anyway she and Fats are old acquaintances. Fats being me of course, Joe Coolz from Mars. She looks more like Veronica than ever. But the class is missing. She still has the air of a girl from the Bronx. All New Yorkers have a brash confidence about them,and she more than most. She takes a plate of fish and comes over.

'You hungry, Fats. I could eat a horse.'

'Nah, I'll stick to the booze.'

Babs takes a fish by its tail, tilts her head back, and feeds the fish down her throat, chewing as it departs. I've seen Dutchmen on the wharf eat herring like that. I tried it once but it made me retch, Babs makes it look natural. The only way to eat catfish.

There is the sound of raised voices from the back. Both sets of heavies move toward the door. Standing either side, ears cocked as well as pieces. Tension rules. I try to lighten the mood with one of my comedy numbers, gurning and grinning for all my worth. I might have saved my fingers.

The door from the back is tugged open and The Man exits and says.

'Get the wheels this monkey is a Smuck. A fucking black Smuck at that.'

Saul stands in the doorway.

'No so much of the Black', he is grinning as wide as the sidewalk, waving goodbye to the retinue from the lower East side.

'Be sure to call, now.' He sees Babs standing by me.

'Wan't a job, lady?' You could make a Century per with those legs.'

I got a job Honey, but if I'm ever desperate I'll phone home.' She pecks me on the cheek,

'see you later, Fats, don't take any wooden nickels.' and goes after The Man.

I look out of the window and see The Man's limo speeding off, leaving Babs behind. Unfazed she steps into Saul’s car.

This is an interesting development. Has she taken up the offer of a job? Saul tips his hat at me and leaves. I lean out of the window, I can just see his feet from under the umbrella one of his side kicks is holding it over him. He steps into the motor and few seconds later Babs is standing in the road the rain soaking her silk dress moulding it to her body. The Limo drives off leaving her in its ish. I call out.

'Hey Babs come inside and have some more fish.' She looks up and shakes her head.

'Nah I'll walk.'

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

Red or her sister, is twiddling knobs on the Material Wormhole Destabliser. I am standing on the spot still prossed up as Fats. I am under orders not to move or I'll never be seen again, as Fats or otherwise. You know how when you are sitting on a public moonbuggy and some nutter sits next to you and starts reciting the Nano table, in Greek. And it is always you and not some other rider. Well I am the same with machines, if a machine has a bug or a broken gizmo it will go when I am using it. Ipso Facto the MWD has gone kaput when I am being tranferred from E to M. I have been here for some time, and my legs are sagging.

'It's the time lapse sequence, Says Red. 'You are here but not in this Century, if you step off the spot you will be on Mars in 1935. I may have to send you back and try again.'

'How long will that take. Will I have time for a quickie with Big Sal.'

'You and your Dick. In your body time it will be an instance. Not noticable. There told you.'

'You mean it's done. I can move.' I step of the spot. 'It's a wind up isn't it, there is nothing wrong with the fucking macine in the first place.'

'That's for standing me up for that silver haired fake.'

'You mean Veronica?'

'Yes. Now we are even do you fancy a surroundaround later. They have Gladiator on tonight. You can be Mel Gibson.'

I am not happy, my legs ache and I can't tell her why she is stood up. Not if I don't want the IGBI and all who sail in her on my case.

'Let me get my body back from the prossing depatment, and I'll call you from home.'

'so that's a No'

'It's a yes, but. I have a lot to sort out.'

'Half the studs on Mars are chasing me for a date, and I ask you and, get turned down.'

I shrug my big Fats shoulders, and say in my best Bronx.

'Life is sometimes a bag of shit Lady.'

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

Back in my own shape, and back in my apartment, which by the way has thankfully not grown larger; it is still too big for just one person and his faithfull electronic brain, but it's still home, I set about the task of finding out whats been happening.

Brian has laid some clean duds and I shower and dress. I am sitting at the baby grand in my bedroom and playing some Bach, when Brian interupts the mood.

'Nice to have you Bach say's Brian.'

'since when have you had sense of humour, Brian.'

'I've been practicing Sir. I've watched every comedy show on record and I think I have the hang of it.'

'so tell me a joke.'

'Why did the chicken cross the road.'

'To get to the other side?'

'No he didn't cross it, he flapped his wings and waited for the planet to rotate until it is under him. Good isn't on so many levels.'

'Have you told this joke to anyone else?'

'No Sir I am saving all my jokes for a comic writers convention. Would you like to hear more?'

'This new career of yours, when does it start? What about Scr4pm3?'

'I can run the two in tandem, I only need to devote one percent of my brain to each.'

'Good luck now, fuck off.'

'Did you get it?'

'No, fuck off.'

'That's because you have such a small brain. Sir'

'No it's because I have a sense of humour and the joke isn't funny. In fact it isn't as joke at all. It is a physics lesson. And it doesn't work on that level too. Doesn't gravity come into it somewhere?'

'That is the kernal of the joke. Sir'

'Oh now I get it. It's about nuts. Now do something useful and get me Chico on the vid. I need some piano action.'

Chapter 121

Apart from the sex The French House is as boring as a seven hour sermon. So I thank Madame Amie for her welcoming hand, and head for the excitement across the street. Something catches my eye in the dusty window of the pawn shop. It is a silver plated engraved Derringer with a pearl handle. A ladies gun. Or precisely a small gun with up and over barrels holding just one shot each. A gun that can be hidden about ones person without a give away bulge, and a snip at $20. Rod Steiger sells me a box of shells for a C note. He tries to sell me a colt spinning the magazine, and flipping it in and out of position, and squinting down the barrel. But I have my heart set on the Derringer, he grunts in disapproval and slams the grill shut.

With the gun tucked into my boot and the shells in my cardboard suitcase, I enter the Diner, and do a double take. One of my all time heroes of the piano sits with his brother Eddie and Oscar More in a booth with Art Tatum. Even if I couldn't see him I would know he was in the room. He talks like he sings. But man can he play the piano. The smell of Menthol Cools hangs around the booth. Nat is a three pack a day man. This is fucking unreal. Nat King Cole in a booth in the Diner. I have to talk to him, shake his hand and hope some piano magic rubs off on me. I've met Art before so this is my in. Can you believe it. Me a piano player from Mars in a booth with two piano greats. Nat is a gentleman and pretends to have heard of me. He's still a young man before his fame and I have to be careful that I don't acknowledge his future success. The fact that he was/is the first black man to have his own TV show an all.

'I heard about you Limey, Art here say's you play like one of us. He was only saying I should visit the Cat House to hear you.'

There is general laughter in the booth, who visits a Cat House to hear the piano player?

Nat is one of darkest black man I have ever seen. Big mouth and big teeth shining out and that dark chocolate voice. I am literally melting.

'What we need is place with three pianos', says Art. 'The we can have a jam.'

'I know where there is two.' I say. I hold my breath. Where did that come from? The place with two pianos is run by Hoodlums. Then I relax. What isn't?

'Sorry I can't go.' says Nat. He points to his brother and Oscar, we have a gig at the Stork Club.'

'How about that for coinceidence.' I say.

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

The waitress with the long legs dressed as a stork, and a pill box hat, serves our drinks, then walks back to her station, waggling her tail feathers.

To say Nat has an eye for the ladies is an under estimation of his lay rate. He downs his whiskey in one and calls the waitress back. She bends over straight legged her tush in my face.

'You rang, Sir.'

'What time you finish, Honey?'

'Bout four.'

'Need a ride?'

'You talking Limo or horizontal.'

Nat turns to me. 'Aint she a blip.'

'Just keep 'em coming.' Says Nat. ' And get the floor man to set up the other piano, me and Art need one each, the Limey here can take notes.' Great pun if he meant it.

Anyhow it shows the confidence of Nat Cole at this early stage in his career that he puts himself at the same level as Art Tatum. A piano genius. Does it get any better Nat “The King” Cole and Art Tatum on the same stage. I would have paid good money to be here right now. Eddie and Oscar are already on the stage tuning up by way of jamming on 'Groove Juice Special' one of Slim Gaillard's “Rooty” tunes.

Art as, you know, is classed as legally blind, so he asks me if I wouldn't mind leading him to the piano. Would I mind? I would have carried him on my back if he'd have wanted, and he is one stout mother.

They start with 'Tea for Two'. The tune that made Art into a star. In the second chorus Nat breaks into song. Tatum grins and nods in approval. Now you know where Anita O'Day got it from.

When something good is going down in the Apple, news travels fast. It only took a couple of hours for the bush telegraph to have the Stork Club bursting at the seams. This is an event. Hookers, Pimps, East side hoods, Show girls, Wall Street shysters, all want in. Fights break out at the door, Cops are called, noses broken, night sticks wealded. People have to be reminded that this is a social event, in a Classy Joint, not a Fish Fry in Harlem. Finally the Fire Dept step in and say it is a Fire risk, so would we mind clearing the joint before it goes up. Some hope. Order is finally restored when The Man arrives.

Like Moses parting the Red Sea, a path opens up to his table, at which I am sitting.

' Take liberties, why don't you.' pointing at me.

One of his Gorillas lifts me out of the chair and makes to punch out my lights. The fist is raised, the elbow high. I can see a heavy silver ring on his middle finger. I close my eyes and wait for the pain. Then a familiar voice stops the action.

'Hold it right there Buster, he's with me.'

I open one eye then two. The Gorilla lets me down and I am looking straight into a set of violet eyes. It's The Man's ex old lady. Babs. Gone is the Ginger Rodgers look-a-like, it's once again, Babs the Veronica Lake look-a-like, and she's got everthing, the nose, the eyes, the hair, except the voice. You can take the Bronx out of the girl, but not the Bronx out of her voice.

'Beat it.' Says The Man to the Gorilla, then to me.

'What ya doin here Limey. I thought you were holding hands with Saul. You're persona no grata in my club, unless you have some information for me like I requested.'

He did request that I spied for him, as I remember, but what with being Fats and dealing with Brian and his Scrapshipsrus business, it slipped my mind.

'I'm not on any side. I am strictly neutral, like Switzerland, and I'm Tatum's eyes for the night.'

Babs tries to calm the situation

'Leave him be Honey, he's just a muso, look at those hands. They couldn't hurt a fly.'

'Ah what the hell, get us some bubbly, I'm in the mood to celebrate.'

Relieved I sit down.

'Not you Limey, you can take a hike.'

The waitress with the long legs meets me halfway to the bar.

'Message from Tatum, says to tell you to come over.' I look to the stage and see that he is alone at the piano.

'I finish at four.' says the waitress.'

'So you said.'

Tatum sits with that upright head cocked look that blind men have. His ears are his eyes. I don't know if he hears me or senses me.

'Sit down Limey let's have a four hand.'

'You want me to play at the same keyboard as you?' I ask with incredulity in my voice.

'Sure, why not, I heard you had a bit of Waller in your style. I'll take the top two octaves you can have the rest.'

This will be something to tell my grandchildren about, supposing the IGBI don't wipe my memory banks.

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

Jeeze I'm whacked. Keeping up with those two piano geniuses has sapped all my energy. I can feel the sweat cooling under my arms. It's around four in the morning. Nat and Art have left for a clambake someplace, and the waitress with the long legs has changed into her day clothes. Pleated grey pants, white shirt and fitted jacket. A floppy red Breton beret is set at a slant over her bangs. I need a Zoomer to pick me up if I'm to get it up so to speak.

'You look all in,' says the waitress, 'I hope you are not going to be a disappointment.'

'Not if I don't have to do all the work.'

'Got a Name?'

'Yeh, Joe'

'That ordinary Huh?'

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

The disappointment is hers. I take a cab back to the Cat house, and fall instantly asleep in the lounge. It takes a few seconds for the Madame to wake me.

'A Bull from the 5^th has been nosing around after you. Says to call him or else. Had a red headed bozo in tow. I recognise him, used to be in vice.' She hands me a card.

'Doil and Getz. Bleedin plods.I'll call them in the morning'

'Got news for you Joe, it is morning.' She sees my look of weariness.

'Okay, shack up with Big Sal, I'll call you at noon.'

As I fall asleep a thought crosses my mind. Doil has all the power of the IGBI behind him. Why did he not know where I was. I dream of rusty starships.

Chapter 120

The operation, was painless and cost me three trillion smackeroonies. But as Brian pointed out. 'Tax deductable.' You have to earn it to pay it. And Chico as good as his word has got me a gig here on Mars. I am playing a five tier keyboard, in the Handbag Club. The music is a cross between, Mali rock and Cuban big band. I am prossed up as the greatest exponent of this genre, Vrank Mahn. Not to my taste but the cats seem to like it and boogie their socks off. The other members of the band, are newer graduates from college. Five trumpets, five percussion, three sax's, lead and rhythm guitar, bass fiddle, a tuba, two Kora's a Bolon, three backing singers and a caller to set the dance steps. The room is hot, and the incessant beat sends the dancers into a trance, spinning like Dervishers on one foot. Maybe I could get used to it. Anyhow, we can't keep it up forever, and have a break after 3 hours. The interval band is more of the same, they are suckers for this kind of thing. I head for the Green room for a drink to thin out my blood. The rider is set out for the youngsters, an asortment of pills and syringe or two. I popped a couple of zoomers before the start so I just need a Coke. You won't believe this but the taste of the Coke is just the same as it was in 1937. No wonder they own half the solar system.

Vrank Mahn, is tall and slim with jet black hair and black rimmed glasses. I keep seeing his image in all the shinny surfaces and do a double take, 'cos I'm so used to being prossed up as Fats. It's uncanny, and it's a wonder I don't go mad, being two people at once, and not the two I think I am. I take my coke to the exit doors and step into the street. It's cool out here, a Martian night should be near absolute zero, but the mechanics of the climate are controled by the boffins at Mars central. So it could be a night in June on earth. Most of the cats inside wouldn't know a night in June on Earth from a hole in the ass, but I do and it's kinda comforting. It's at times like this that Veronica or Doil, or both, should materialize out of the night and ask me to do something to save the Uninverse, but its just me and the stars and my my nightmares. Where are they? Is the Universe saved? Fucked if I know.

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

Back home, it's just me and Brian. He is humming away being busy wrecking star ships and counting the proceeds. I am rattling around my vast apartment getting more and more paranoid. Where is everyone. Veronica, Doil, Getz, Jenny Wizz, The Finks, the fucking Dolphins. It is as if my life as an agent is just a dream. I don't even have the inclination to wind Brian up. I flop onto the couch and stare at my Yamaha grand. It seems to have a personality. The keys are laughing at me. The great gapped tooth grin is mocking me. 'Come on play me, give me some good notes. Set my heart racing.'
The fucking Japanese tWAt. I'll show it. I stand at the keyboard and give it some finger stick. I hit the keys with all my strength. It's as if I never played a good note in my life. My fingers are bleeding and my head pounds. Sweat drips from my nose onto the keys, adding to the dischords as my fingers slip on the plastic. Cheap shit. Eventually I fall exhausted to the floor and stare at the ceiling. I feel like the keys,-shit.

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

When I come to my senses, my new slot itches. It is so small now that I need a special tool to insert the chip as my fingers are too big to handle it. The chip is a pin head on the end of a 10mm silvered rod. Locating the slot, the size of a hole in a pearced ear, is nigh impossible without the tool. With it the chip slips in like a lubricated condom, until it locates the nerves in my spine, and I change from Joe Coolz to whoever. So until I can find it I am Vrank Mahn. I enlist the help of Brian. He says it is not in the appartment, and I must have left it at the gig. But he has a plan.

'All you need is a magnet, Sir'

'A what?'

'A magnet, a piece of iron that has all the electrons aranged in a north, south direction.'

'I know what a magnet is, how will that help and where will I get one?'

'If it is strong enough it will pull the chip out by attaching itself to the rod.'

'Will it not be easier to vid the surgeon for another rod? Get it wizzed over.'
'Yes, but not as much fun.'

'Since when were you into fun.' He gives a sigh.

' In your studio, Sir, you have some Wharfdale speakers from 1960's England. They have a large magnet at the back of the cone. Open up the cabinet and stick your head in.'

I do as he says and it is in this position, head in the speaker on my hands and knees, tush in the air, that I hear a familiar voice. I swear Brian is paying me back for not letting him have a body. I rise red faced but releived of the itch.

'Gone deaf?' she mouths. Her lips are as red as a Martian sunset and her skin as white as a Neptune Lilly.

'Veronica, am I glad to see you. I was going mad with bordom.'

'You have been on the missing list for 72 years, The Finks tracked you down eventually.'

'They are some use then.' Veronica looks at me as if I have skink dirt on my foot.
'Where have I been?'
'Texas.'

'I've been in Texas?'
'Texas, you know the twin. The one you bribed with half the gross product of Mars Industries. She sent you into a future of limbo, in case you regretted giving it, and you recalled the bank draft. She bought her own MWD station with it. You have to admire her chutzpa.'

'Am I now 72 years older?'
'Not anymore, we reversed the MWD settings and you are now not a day over 27.'
'The IGBI can do that?'
'We can do anything except stop the clock ticking to the end of the Universe. It would seem that time is finite.'

'Did Einstein predict that?'
'If you were to travel fast enough.'

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

The sales of Fat's Waller's records have trebled since the blanket coverage of him all over town. The IGBI have decided that there are enough Wallers in New York, and I am on standby as the Limey from the Pool just in case I am needed. The IGBI have a secret prossing depatment over on Church Avenue in Brooklyn, disguised as a boxing club. When needed I have to take the F line and drop in as me and out as Waller. Doil takes me over there and introduces to me to my contact. A little guy in a flat cap and a nose the shape of a soup spoon. His Bronx accent is so thick and adenoidal that I only catch half of his woids. The front of house, is seedy and smells of linament and sweat. In back it is all dust free and sparkling with the prossing machines humming gently. The machines take so much power that they have installed a small nuclear generator from a scrap ship. Maybe Scr4pshipsRus suppled it? I look for the SCR4PM3 logo. There is just a notice that says,

“DO NOT ENTER UNLESS GERM FREE.”

The cleansing process is too intimate for my liking especially the interior scrub. The things I do to earn a crust.
My room at the French House on E 116^th overlooks the Cat House. I notice that one of my Waller clones, or The Waller is very friendly with Big Sal. I am as jealous as Fuck, but what can I do? I put on a clean shirt and walk over to the Diner to see if there is any action I can pick up. It's late afternoon and the room is almost empty. Rather than sit at a table I lean on one of the stools at the counter. The short order guy fills up my cup with coffee and goes back to his scraping of the hot plates, wiping the released grease onto a copy of The Times. Saul Brown comes out of the John and sits at a booth by the window. He looks out of the window, but can see my reflection in the glass. He takes a sip of his coffee and takes out a cheroot.

'Hey Limey, got a match.'

I pick a card of matches from a box on the counter, they bear the logo of The Stork Club, and throw then over to him. He watches them as they land on the table infront of him. The scene freezes for what seems like a millenium, then he picks them up and lights the cheroot.

'Not bad for Limey, maybe make the Yankies, Seconds, come on over tell me where you're at.'

Where I'm at is a time travellor trying to save the Universe, but try telling that to a intelectual pimp. I take my coffee over to his table and sit over from him. He has one of those beautiful dark faces that have the history of the black man shining out. His gaze is assured and with a right of being that has never been granted in the US of A.

'Tell me Limey, what is so special about the French House. If you can break yourself away from Madame Tutu, you can have a room at the Cat house and earn your keep in the lounge playing to the Johns.'
I can do with the work, that is for shure, it will brush the cobwebs from my brain, but staying permanently in the Cat House. Now that is another matter. It is a twenty four hour operation. Comings and goings all night and most of the day. I know from my stint with Big Sal as Fats. Oh what the hell, what can go wrong.

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

Day five at the Cat House and I am at the piano. The Madame is sitting by the door and the joint is quiet. I am playing the latest popular music from the shows. The punters like it. But there are no punters. The girls are swapping notes. Who likes bondage or is into school girls. It would seem that most of Judicery is into one or the other. Saul has been absent for a few days, a big case on the East side is keeping him busy. A fixed up murder wrap, no pay but it's the principle. Black verses white. I give the piano a rest and join the girls. There is a little Peurto Rican who likes my accent and clings onto my every word with an open mouth, the bottom lip trembling slightly showing small white animal teeth. She has the body of a child but assures me she is twenty. She is very popular with the larger Johns. About 5 am she slips into my bed and snuggles up close. I put a fatherly arm around her and her snuffling sleep makes me think I might be a Dad one day. May be before the end of the Universe whenever that is. I sit by the window in Saul's chair and she comes over and sits in my lap. This is fortunate for me and less so for her as a bullet smashes the glass and hits her in the stomach and exits into the chair, just under my arm. Blood seeps into my crutch and she looks at me with round pleeding eyes. Where are the paramedics when you need them. Three of The mans heavies kick the door in and enter the salon guns held high. The Madame rushes them and kicks the leader in the shins. He swipes her to the floor and stands on her chest.

'Where is he?'

'Who I ask innocently?'
'The fucking black nigger bastard who is fucking with The Man.'

'Right behind you.' And so he is holding a baseball bat. Talk about the super league what he can't do with that bat. All three are disarmed and harmed. Blood and teeth everywhere.

I am parallised with fright. The Madame gets up and sees to the little girl.

'Passed right through her, she'll live.'

Saul turns to me. 'Limey take my Caddy and take little missy to the hospital. Have Big Sall go withyou.' He throws me the keys.

'Fucking step on it I want her to Live.'

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

I drive as if my ass is on fire. Jump a few red lights and pick up a posse of Blue and whites. They have their sirens going and lights flashing, but I ignore them because I am on an errand of mercy. A Blue and white comes at me head first. The lights dazzle and it's a game of chicken. Big Sal tells me to hang a right down an alley, I obey and exit onto Broadway.
“Where are we?' I ask.

'Head for Presbyterian Morgan Stanley Children's Hospital on Broadway between 165th and 167th Streets.'
'Where?'

'In Washington Heights, dummy, near the George Washington Bridge.'

I am heading north so 165^th must be about ten blocks away. I press my foot to the floor. I will either save Marias life or kill us all. I hope the hospital has a gun shot surgeon on call. No cell phones in this era, or vids. Maria's luck holds out. I pull up infront of the hospital and Big Sal picks her up and takes her in. The chasing cops spread me over the hood and cuff me. So what's new?

'Careful man I'm a piano player.'

******************
The surroundings are familiar. The scarred table with coffee rings and grafitti, the cage in the corner, it's door open rusty lock agape. The green door to the room with it's frosted glass and broken lettering which once read “Inicident Room 1” and now reads nicent roo., and of course Doil. He is in his usual uniform of raincoat and trilby. He hasn't said much so far. He just looks mean.

'You can at least take off the cuffs. I dont have the energy or the will to leave in a hurry.'

Doil gives me a look that says I am less than the dirt under his shoe. He takes a sip of coffee and lights a Camel. I have been here on Earth now for some time but I can't get used to the habit of inhaling burnt vegitation that New Yorkers have.

'Why can't you be inconspicuous, you are under cover, an agent from another time, and you get half the NYPD chasing you across Manhattan.'

'That little girl was dying, what do you expect me to do, let her bleed to death?'

Doil flicks the ash from his cigarette onto the floor and rubs it in with his foot. He sticks the lit end of it into his coffee.

'Don't be a Samaritan, a do gooder or anything but a jobbing piano man, Stay away from Hoods, Shysters and Pimps.'

'Not easy if you have a job like mine.'

'You know what I mean, stay out of trouble. Any day now we will need you.'

Do I detect a smidgin of sympathy in his voice.

'Now will you take off the cuffs?' I ask.

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

Ah the bliss of a warm bath after a night of bad breath and stale arm pits. Not mine, but the cops who finally let me go. Doil did a bunk and left me with the pavement ponders. I am sure they are all good citizens with wives and broods at home. But when they don't know the reason why I am banged up they can be a mean bunch. But what is passed is passed. As my cab drops me off at the Cat House the Frenchie is sweeping her step. Step sweeping is just a ruse to see what is happening on the street. And what was happening was me stepping out of a Yellow. She comes over and links my arm and guides me into the lobby.

'You don't want to be around those whores when a perfectly good room has been kept for you. Let me run you a bath and scrub your back.'

The way she says this with her French accentuation, makes me remember that she is not just a doss house keeper, but an artist with a soft touch. You get my drift. So now I am in the tub with the scent of jasmine soap and a soft hand on my back. I slip down the tub and she switches her attention to my prick. I just lay back and enjoy it. At this moment, Saul Brown, Doil, The Man, and Fats Waller take a back seat.

'Ah tu arrive n'est ce pas.'

The End or is it?

FISH FRY 52^nd and Madison.
The cook, a very fat black woman in a flowered apron and knotted turban made out of a dish rag, carries a plate of fried cat fish into the room with the piano player. She lays the platter out on a trestle table under a sign that reads.
FISH $1
The room is heavy with humidity of about 100 per., and smells of fried fish, cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. Fats Waller sits at the piano, or is it a clone? He has removed his jacket to show red suspenders and a white shirt with sweat stains under the arms. His Derby hat is cocked at an angle and his eyebrows wriggle like fighting serpents. A blond in a white silk dress enters followed by a big man. A Bull by the confident set of his shoulders and the bulge under his arm. She calls over to Fats, the light from the neon sign casting a red glow over her.
'Hey Fat's, play “Aint misbehavin'.” '
Fats turns and gives her a wink, maybe he's not a clone after all.

FISH FRY The Bowery off 1^st Ave.
Five sailors roll up the Avenue looking for some action. They ignore the rain which has soaked through their whites and the material clings to their body, like it has been sprayed on. One stops to light a cigarette, but gives up as the rain douses match after match. He looks up and sees an open window through which comes the sound of a ragtime piano.
'Hey Fellas, I think I found us a Party.'
His shipmates turn back and he points out the open window. Just then a woman with bleached hair sticks her head out and throws up over the sill.
'Hey honey, you want company?' The blond sways and is saved from falling by a black hand grabbing her dress. The man behind the hand says.

'If you've got a Dime in your pocket, don't be shy, the games just startin' and there's plenty of meat to choose from.'
'Whatjatellya.' says the sailor. The piano player plays, 'Aint Misbehavin,'

FISH FRY. E42nd St.
The room is hot and sweaty. Condensation has wetted the walls and started to form rivulets that meander downwards towards the bare boards A damp piece of yellow pad is pinned to the door of the kitchen that reads,
CATFISH $1
Beer $1
Shots $3
Jug wine $1
Around the room stand groups of swarthy men in sharp suits and fat ties. The Mans soldiers. The Man is in the back room where a game of Texas Hodem is in progress. He has a pile of notes in front of him mostly C notes but a few Dime notes and the odd one. This pile is deceptive, as he is not winning, and he is in a bad mood. The tension is enough to fire a crossbow bolt. By his side stands a redhead, who he tells to fuck off as she is bringing bad luck. She goes in to the room with the piano, and lights a cigarette. Her lips leave a red stain on the cork.
'Cheer me up Fats, play something I can dance to.'

Fats plays “Aint misbehavin.”

FISH FRY 113^th St and 3^rd Avenue

The room has a blue haze. Most of it from tobacco but some from the vapour from frying fish. The window is open the bottom sash thrown upwards and wedged with a baseball bat. The rain outside falls in a curtain blurring the view of the drug store opposite. The sign above the door flashes red and white. Drugs, Sodas, Drugs, Sodas. The light from the sign is diffused through the rain and the droplets of water magnify the colour to resemble a bead curtain. By the window is a piano at which sits a large black man in a Derby hat and red suspenders. His jacket is hung around the bent wood chair he sits on his large legs enfold the seat. He has a grin the size of the Brooklyn Bridge and he hums to himself as he plays. Most of the people in the room don't care that he is the best piano man on the Island. They have came for the cheap booze and maybe to get laid. But mostly for the booze. The pimp on the arm of the sofa has his own reason to be there. His best money maker has a habit, and it gets in the way of her making enough to keep her in needles never mind his hand made suits and expensive silk shirts. She sits by his side , long legs, high bust and slender arms. A beauty going to seed. Maybe a couple of years left if she doesn't clean up. He needs another slit in his stable.
The piano man plays “Aint misbehavin”

FISH FRY, Clinton St , Between East Broadway and Delancey St

The cop enters the building, the stoop is slippery but like lots of big men he is light on his feet, so he takes the steps two at a time. The smell of fish is more pronounced now he is in the damp lobby. The lobby is small barely five foot square, and tiled with raised flowered ceramics, showing the buildings pedigree as a substantial town house. The inner door has etched glass in a paisley pattern, it is only open half way, as it is warped and it scrapes the floor as he pushes it fully open. The last final heave cracks the glass, the crack runs slowly upwards, neatly splitting the pattern in two. One half falls out with a sound like fairy bells. Not his problem.
FISH FRY Bleeker Street.
The Bull is of duty, he likes to slum it, and he likes fried cat fish. He has no family to go home to, one room in the Bronx, is where he takes his shoes off, John down the hall, and no douche. His locker at the 5^th holds more of his belongings than the suitcase under the bed. Once or twice a week he visits Mannies bath house for a scrub and a massage, picks up his clean laundry from the Chinaman in Mott Street and gets a free one from a working girl he knows over the East River. It's a life.

FISH FRY 49^th and Broadway.
Once inside the building the blonde turns to the man and says.

'You know whats wrong with this town?' He shakes the water from his hat.
'The weather. If it's not raining enough to float Noah, it's snowing, and if it's not snowing, it's damp ragtime. Then there is the summer. Sheesh, I will be glad when it's all over and I can go choose my weather. If I want snow I go to the Ice Planet. If I want rain I go to the Water Planet.' She steps up two stairs until she is on eye level with Doil. His eyes are shaded by the trilby, but she can tell he is just as pissed off as she is.
'Shall we?'

FISH FRY 52^nd and Madison.
The blonde has class. She moves with the deliberate walk of a Hampton's High Society hostess. All eyes follow her as tush rests lightly on the edge of Fats's piano stool. He shifts to the left to accommodate her. She swivels around and eyeballs the room. A pimp in a fawn suit with electric blue lining, likes the look of her and saunters over, his walk just as slow as hers. She takes out a cigarette from a gold case and fixes the end into an ivory holder. The pimp lights it with his Zippo, snapping the lid shut an inch from her nose. He is near enough for her to smell his perfume. Not cheap.
'Friend of yours?' He nods to Fats.

'Yeah we share a Father, but someone scrambled the egg.'
The pimp looks puzzled then breaks into a grin.
'Albino?'
'Listen Bub, I like a man with a sense of humour, but being an Albino is no joke. Now move aside you are blocking my view.'

Meanwhile the Bull she came in with, slowly slides his hand under his arm and rests his hand on the butt of his pistol. The pimps, breadbasket, a hopped up high yellow, on the couch, calls out to him and he turns and tells her to beat it and get to work.
'Bit outa your league, n'est pas.'
He's been to New Orleans and learned a bit from those Frenchies, but chooses to use good old Anglo Saxon.
'What the fuck do you know.'

FISH FRY The Bowery off 1^st Ave.
The sailors, pockets full of dollars, are east meat for the sharks waiting in the Fry. A game of craps with loaded dice in the back room. A tall willowy coloured hooker in fishnets and basque has a surprise ending for an exciting encounter. She stands legs apart at the on the landing. The Boson, older but not wiser than the others tries her out first. The rest pile into the main room to become players in a choreographed nightmare. The piano player ups the tempo and the young tars dance with one another until joined by more girls from the pimps stable. The room already steamed up from the frying takes on the atmosphere of a bath house for fishermen, lit by the one bulb gently swinging on its chord and the flashing neon of the drug store across the street.

FISH FRY. E42nd St.
The Man is down to his last hundred dollars. The blond, a double for Veronica Lake, has most of the winnings. He is a Veronica Lake fan, so he is caught between two emotions. If it is veronica Lake, then he can't upset her and ruin any chance he might have of getting her into the sack, or does he just accuse her of rigging the stack, get his boys to kidnap her and when they are alone. Who knows? She shuffles the pack and places it in front of him to cut. He is fascinated by her hands. Delicate and nimble fingered. The Dark red of her nail varnish the same colour as the spots on the red cards. He taps the deck with his forefinger, takes the deck in hand and bends it, until the cards spew out, machine gun fast, into the air.
'New deck.'

FISH FRY 113^th St and 3^rd Avenue
There is a commotion on the stairs. Five musos, without a gig hear the piano and decide that it is good enough to warrant a sit in. Alto Sax, Bflat trumpet, trombone, guitbox and tuba, have got entangled in the banisters. Not of them wants their horn damaged. Not many on the scene have a case to protect their instrument, just arrive and blow. The tuba is the base drum of Dixieland, but a hell of a horn to lug around. The others are not sympathetic, and tell him to get the hell upstairs. He is used to this and just carefully pulls the bell from the spindles and tests for dents then ambles into the room. Fats is playing a riff on Beal Street Blues, the trumpet takes up the theme first, the bone puts in a few rasps, the guitman picks up the chord sequence, the tuba underscores the base line and the sax heads for the drinks table buys a a slug of gin then completes the ensemble. No one in the room complains, but will it spoil the note sequence to save the Universe?

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

The Finks sit in front of a bank of 4 dimensional screens. Each Fish Fry is being carefully monitored. The weather on Mars is as controlled as ever, but there seems to be a disturbance in the air. Something like the pressure that can be apparent just before an electrical storm. Issy Finks hair is cut short on one side whilst the other hangs down like a side curtain over his left cheek. Rachel sits upright, her voluptuous body hidden by an ethnic tent, richly embroidered with ancient symbols. They move the pieces with swift precise action. They are enjoying this, not because they want to save the Universe, but because it is a true test of their brain power to control seven boards at once. One lapse of concentration and whole expensive operation could end in disaster, and a premature big bang. Not everyone in the room is as involved. Two Centurions from the presidential guard are speculating on how big Rachel Finks breasts are and if she wearing any underclothes. They don't know why they are in the room, apart from their orders, not to let anything under any circumstances disturb the calm. They communicate through their helmet coms, so the bets on the size of Rachel's boobs are not common knowledge outside the intranet. Doil, Smith and Veronica overlook the room from a viewing gallery soundproofed with oneway glass. They too are bored, the game is in realtime, and nothing yet has happened of any importance. All the sequences, so far, have a familiarity, they have lived and nearly died through in the past. The only difference is that they are not part of it this time, just their clones.

****************
The action is getting near the finale. All the Fish Frys are being guided towards a communal performance. The pieces around the periphery of the of the main action, are incidental, and just pawns to an end. The King, Fats, must be at the piano, not in the John, nor in the kitchen eating fish. The Queen, Veronica, is heading towards her demise. The Knights, Doil and Getz, have to move fast and with precision. The Bishops, The Man, and the Pimp, will be castled with the white and black hookers. This is what the Finks were put on Mars for. Issy is sweating and a droplet clings to his nose. Rachel has removed her outer tent and is sitting in shorts and tee shirt with F--K hand painted in red lettering across her back. She is excited and her nipples as big as mushrooms poke through the material. The two Centurions grin behind their helmets. Rachel sits upright and twist her long black curls in to bunch at the back of her head, pushing out her chest, then lets her hair fall as she moves Veronica at The Bowery venue.
'No, no,' shouts Issy. 'Wrong move.' It should be E42nd St. first. Turn the clock back.'
It is too late the game is moving away from them. Veronica is grabbed by the Pimp and pulled close to his chest. They Tango. The hooker on the couch, don't like what she sees and pulls a chiv. Veronica falls to the floor a red stain on her chest. Doil and Getz, take out their specials and order the hooker to stand back. Issy Fink stands up and kicks the boards over. The sky over Manhattan darkens as a bolt of lightning hits the Island. In seven Fish Frys people tumble over each other, crashing into walls as the floor rears up. Rachel quickly turns the clock back to just before her move. In seven venues on the Island of Manhattan memories of the end of the world are erased. Issy Fink returns to his chair and resumes his crouched position. Rachel Fink also resumes her position, face flushed, she moves Veronica at E42nd St.
*****************

FISH FRY. E42nd St.
Veronica takes the wrapping of the new deck, removes the two jokers and cuts the cards with them.
'In or out?'
'Leave em in, let's make the game more interesting.' say's The Man. Veronica shuffles the cards and then places them in front of The Man.
'Cut.'
'Will it make a difference?'
'Sure what was on top will be inside, just like you.'
'Smart ass, I've pistol whipped a Dame for less.' He hands the pack to the man on his left, a pro Gambler from Nevada.
'Deal.'

The Nevada man deals. He thinks he is in control but it is Rachel Fink who gives him the ace of hearts and a joker. Next to the Nevada man is a rich Jew from the Hamptons. He gets the ace of diamonds and a joker. The Man gets the ace of clubs and the ace of spades. Veronica gets two queens, the queen of hearts and the queen of clubs. The Jew puts in a C note. Veronica matches it and raises it 200. It's 300 to stay, not a fortune, but The Man is already down 10 G's. His head says stay out it's fixed, but he ups the bet to 500, he could be onto a full house or even four of a kind. Rachel Fink is enjoying this much more than he is.
**************
Fish Fry 52^nd & Madison
Issy Fink moves the pimp towards the couch. A bunch of sailors wander into the room and drip water onto the bare boards. The rain outside has not let up and keeps ponding against the window, which is open just a crack at the bottom. The wind pushes the rain up the sill and into the room. The room is hot and this is a vain attempt to cool it a little. Veronica is still on the stool next to Fats. He starts playing “When they begin the Begine” with a strong rhumba beat. A thin dark hared sailor, young, maybe, seventeen, with sullen latino looks, sashays up to veronica and politely takes her hand and asks with his eyes if she wants to join him on the floor. Veronica stubs out her cigarette in a cold plate of fish and stands up. She is a head shorter than he is. He puts his arm around her waist and pulls her in close. She places her hand on his chest and pushes him back a few inches, the parameters set, they rhumba.
**************
Although I know it, I don't know it. I am prossed up as Fats, with chip inserted. So I am Fats. I am also Joe Coolz piano player and general good egg. All the other Fats's are being manipulated by the Finks. I am just Fats, and I suppose, although this is a guess, the real Fats, is also just Fats. That means that the five Fats clones are only doing what the Finks allow them to do. Whereas me and the real Fats are free agents. I can play a Bb when I want to and so can Fats. You go figure this out, how can five clones, an ersatz Fats and one real one save the Universe. Are we all supposed to play the same note at the same instant? If that is how the cakes baked then maybe the real Fats and me are being shoved around by the Finks. Makes you think don't it?
***************
The amount of gin I have drunk, must go somewhere, my kidneys and liver are working overtime and I have to take a leak. The jon is down the hall a ways with a line stretching back to the stairwell, a line of junkies waiting to find a vein. I head for the street instead. It may be raining heavy, but it is warm and I need to cool down. Fats is a big man and generates heat. I grab a golfing umbrella left dripping in the lobby and head outside. On the stoop sits a red head in a thin dress that clings with a wet sheen. The stetson she is wearing has a river of water spilling from the brim. I ignore her and piss against a fire hydrant.
'Sounds like my horse,' says the redhead.
I recognise that voice. It's Georgia mcGee, Red to you.
'What you doing here, did the Finks send you too?'
'Never heard of them, but there was so much action in the WMD that I thought I'd take a look. After the 7^th Fats Waller went through, what ever is going down may be too good to miss.'
'Do have a spare return wrist band by any chance, I need to check on my life on Mars. The IGBI sent me here minus the return trip.'
'You mistaking me for my sister, Red. You may have a thing with her but I'm not her.'

'What about the threesome we had, don't that count for something?'
'Nope'
'Will a trillion dollars help.'
'Step this way Joe Coolz, we is on our way.'
***************
You may think it odd that the Finks should let me leave my post, when I am supposed to be saving the Universe. The thought did cross my mind, but then with time travel I can be back at the piano, the instant I stopped pissing. This is why WMD's are in the hands of the IGBI and not available to the traveling public. We have our local booths to get about, but need a special pass to go anywhere to anytime.

I arrive back in my time just as the wet hour has stopped. The streets smell fresh and clean, so I decide to walk home. It's just a couple of blocks, twenty minutes max. I walk a a block incident free, when a hover cop pulls up alongside.
'I.D.'
He shines a light in my eyes for a retina scan. Then consults his chip.

'Okay Bub, you can go, files say say you are clean.'
Well strike me down with a piece of moon candy, “clean.” The IGBI must have wiped all my penalties. My step is lighter, even jaunty.
As I turn into Red Sea Boulevard No.1000, my apartment block has gone, and in it's place is a star ship. Well not exactly a star ship as they are as big as a small planet, but a miniature replica of one and on it's frontage in large letters SCR4P M3 Inc. A hover cart comes towards me and says 'Welcome home sir, please get in and I'll take you in.' Home is only 10 meters away, a short walk or a long hover. I pat it on the hood and tell it to go away. Well if hover cart can sulk, this one does. It turns around and slinks away. Of course what I don't know is that I can't get into my home any other way. No doors just very tight security. I walk the length of the ship and there is no obvious opening. This is all Brian's doing and I am not happy. I kick the ship in frustration and a door slides open a few feet away on silent runners. I step in and Brian says 'Welcome back, Sir it's been a long time.'

The interior is just how I left it. No air locks, control boards, just my apartment.
'Do you like what I have done?' says Brian.
'Do you know something?' I would like to come home to my home, no changes, no surprises, just a warm bath and a large highball. '

'The outside is just an illusion, the Agency said we should advertise.'
'What agency?'
'Saatchi & Sons.'
'Is that the best they can come up with. A miniature space ship.'

'We have covered this sector of the Galaxy with our logo. Holograms of the SR4PM3 are beamed onto all the moons. We are known as the come to scrappers for toxic waste.'

'I used to be known for my piano playing.'
'I'll tell Maurice XXIV to push that side of us.'
I decide that I don't care, after all the end of the Universe is nigh, and what's all this “us” business. Since when have Brian and I been an item.

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

The dolphins have gone, leaving a voice note, that says 'Solong, it was nice.'
Well at least I have my pool back. Brian assures me the water has been changed and a fresh tanker full shipped in from the water planet, so I dive in and complete a couple of lengths in glorious solitude. Well that is enough exercise for one day. I need to put in some serious practice on the piano, the dilemma is which one to play, one of the Yamaha's, the Bechstein, the Roland key board, or my 1952 Hammond organ copy. There are others but I can't remember what. The Hammond is up in the bar and I want a drink, so that decides it. As you know I specialise in 20^th century key men, and Jimmy Smith is one of them. I play his 'Walk on the wild side' note for note. I should do more Organ work. I'm good at it. Fats played the organ you know, but they, the IGBI, always set the scene up with a piano. Maybe that is the way. I will make a note to tell them about it, if I can be bothered.

So what now, I've exercised, practiced, had a few Martinis and I have not been vid-ed, or interrupted in any way, just been left to get on with it. It is odd, very odd. Eery even. I ask Brian. He answers in the negative. I never thought I would miss the interruptions to my life, but I have to face it I am bored. I tell Brian to get the agency on the line. Chico answers and tells me that I have been removed from the books as I've been away so long. In fact they thought I was dead.
'How long have I been away?' I ask Chico.
'Long enough for me to go grey and think about retiring.'
'But you are only 24.'
'Multiply by four.'
'Ninety six! You can't be ninety six.' I check my reflection on the smoked glass wall. A young man looks back at me.
'Tell me you are joking, Chico.'
'On my grandchildren's life.'
I hang up. This explains why I have had no contact with the IGBI. The WMD has sent me back to the future. Which means that I did save the Universe, or the end wasn't as nigh as they said.

'Brian I'm going out and I may be back some time.'
****************
I have to check this time lag thingy. I step into the transporter and dial up “All that Jazz” then step out. The girl on the reception is the same girl, but plumper with obvious cosmetic work. She looks me over, then with a, don't I know you expression, but can't quite put my finger on it look, she says,
'Joe Coolz?'
'In the flesh, is Chico in?'
'You must give me the name of your cosmetic guy, you don't look a day older.'
I tell her the truth. 'I've been time traveling.'

Chico comes out of his office at the sound of my voice. He is still straight backed and handsome but his once jet black hair is the colour of ash. He grabs my hand and leads me to the piano.
'Sit, sit, play something. Play like Lennie Tristano. No no wait a minute, that is too easy, give me some Monk. Play Roundabout Midnight.
'Do you want me to hum the 'Train sax part, and tap out the drums with my feet.'
He laughs, 'Now I know it's you, we're you been man? Step into my office we have some catching up to do. Hilda, no calls.'

He sits behind his desk and steeples his fingers, pushing them lightly onto his lips. His black eyes look straight into my soul. I feel compelled to speak.
'I can't tell you man. Just say I've been on an errand to save the Universe.'
'And did it work?'

'What year is this?'
'40109 A.D.'
I do a quick calculation. 72 years. I can't have been on Earth for 72 years.
'Must have.'

'Joe, I have wisdom now I am older, and let me tell you that, you only stay young if you have friends in high places. Very high places. Youth is only granted to those worthy of it or by corruption. A lifespan of 150 years is enough for most humans, because by then all parts have been replaced at least once which is beyond most Martians pockets. When you came to me from the Academy I spotted you had talent, a gift. But saving the Universe, was not on your Curriculum Vitae. So stop dicking me around. Do I look like a Smuck?'
I shrug. 'One day Chico you will know all, for now just give me a gig to stop me dying of boredom.'
'Not much work around for your chosen era. Peoples taste have moved on, they are into the cats from the planet Loco Latino a couple of centuries back. You know, Los Cosmos, and Thep Blaer.'

'I can do them, just pop in the relevant chip and I'm as good as any of them.'

'You think? Your slot is way out of date, the new chips won't work with it.'

'I'm a rich man I can have it replaced.'

He holds his hands up in surrender. 'Fine give me a call when it's done.'
He rummages in his desk drawer takes out a calling card. 'This guy will fix you up.' He throws it across the desk at me. I don't trust his choice. Only a quack surgeon would have a calling card.