127

Not everyone is allowed to time travel. If they could it would be chaos. But my DNA and iris pattern have been given to the WMD operators who can check my credentials instantly. I can go back to Earth in the 1930's but not to anywhere else, in the past or in the future, and of course I am not allowed to get anyone pregnant. I forgot that in the 1930's the way not to get anyone pregnant is to pull out, have anal intercourse or wear a rubber. Non of which I am partial to. I will need all my guile and cunning to get the embryo out of Mo's womb. But if she is pregnant I might as well use my night stick on her again. Wait a mo, all I have to do is slip her a morning after pill, easy, if I arrive on Earth when Miss O' Conner and me are having our post coital breakfast, I can plop one into her coffee, and hey presto, no baby. I feel relieved, as I won't now have to kill her.

I tell Red my problem, and ask her to set the MWD, precisely to the moment when I wake up next to Mo.

'Can't you keep your dick in your tights,' she says.

'You now I can't, remember, you and me and sister makes three'.

'I am the sister.' Told you they were identical.

'You can help me out here.' I say. 'Do you by any chance have a morning after pill to hand?'

Texas twiddles some dials and presses a few buttons.

'Is she as good as us?' she asks on behalf of both of them.

I feel obliged to lie, as her and Red are alike as two fleas on a dogs bum'.

'No,' I say. Texas opens her purse and hands me a strip of pills.

'Take a few you may need them,' then a moment of euphoria and I am back in the French House, lying next Mo, who is still asleep. I'll wake her when I've shaved, we have songs to write.

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

It's a Sunday, and Mo tells me she has to go to St. Pats. for communion first, and confess that she has been fucking out of wedlock. Apparently it's okay to commit a sin and confess to it, to wipe the slate clean. What is the point? Mo says the point is that a confession is a cleansing of the soul. A restart, “So she can get all the fucks in she wants before the next confession.” Sounds good to me, not that I would confess, it's the fucking bit that excites me. I am interested enough to see these rituals to be dragged along. On Mars all religion has died the death of reality. A few fanatics follow a Guru out to make a fast Buck, and get taken for their life savings, but most just keep to the rules of life.

On the way to St. Patrick's I take her via the Diner for coffee and doughnuts where I slip the abortion pill into her drink. I will her to finish it, which she does so saving me and all of creation, as I know it, from oblivion.

St. Patrick's, is a tribute to the Gothic school of architecture, I have played in a facsimile copy of it on Eirinovia, set out as a vast concert hall, so I am familiar with it's layout and rose window. The stalls are packed with red faced Irish men and their familly. All ready to renounce the drink and beg forgiveness for beating up their wives on a Saturday night. The men sit with straight backs and starched collars pushing up their adams apple. If it wasn't for them and the Mohawk Indians, Manhattan would be still mud huts and log cabins.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it is the most boring hour I have spent on earth. There is one disconcerting thing though, I am sure Doil is sitting three rows in front of us. He is bigger and broader shouldered than most, so easy to spot. He doesn't turn to see me, but if it is Doil he will know I'm there.

I hurry Mo out and hail a cab to Club Hot-Cha, so we can get some songs down, and before Doil has time to corner me and send me on another, doomed to failure, IGBI mission. Some hope Doil takes my elbow and guides me into a Drug store doorway.

'What now?' I ask.

'Listen Smuck, you are only here because we want you on Earth.' Mo turns from the cab and sees me being manhandled by an ape and takes it for a mugging. She arrives and aims a kick at Doil's shin. Doil smacks her in the gob with the flat of his hand.

'Tell your girlfriend to back off, before I ruin her career.' I take Mo's face in my hands and kiss her.

'Ouch.' she says. I tell her it is Okay and Doil is a business associate. I give her a C note and tell her to carry on the the Hot-Cha, and I'll see her later.

'While you've been mucking about down here the Fink's have been sweating over a hot 5D matrix trying to solve our problem.' Now they think they have a way forward.' Doil looks at me and I keep my I'm listening face on whilst thinking about Mo and her bleeding lip. 'You have been prossed up as Fat's, how many times, and it hasn't worked.'

I shrug. ' They think that Fat's is still the key and a certain sequence of notes played by him will be the solution. You have been through his repertoire many times and nothing has happened.'

'Maybe the real Fat's should do it,' I say.

'Prossed up with the chip, you are the real Fat's, and exact copy right down to the smallest atom. No what we think is wrong is that you are playing Fat's numbers, and the run of notes is not happening, therefore we want you to be Fat's but play some other stuff. Classical stuff. You know Bach or Mahler.'

'At a Fish Fry?'

'Just throw it in casually, who knows maybe the punks will like it.'

**********

The room smells of fish. Frying cat fish. A blue haze of smoke hangs over the room. A single 60 watt bulb swings idly from the ceiling on a long cord. Also illuminating the room are beams of red and green light coming through the window from the drug store across the street. Outside it is raining with the occasional flash of lightning. The rain hits the sidewalk with penny size splashes, and fill the gutters into a torrent of water. Either side of the door stands a bull from the 5^th precinct, specials conspicuous as they lean into the wall. At the piano sits a large man skin colour a darker shade of black. He wears a bright yellow vest and baggy trousers, on his head a brown derby hat. His face beams with pleasure as his eyebrows flick up and down in time to the riff he is playing. To one side is a couch with a bottle blonde spread legged showing garters and silk panties. She has track marks up her arm and one shoe has left her foot and lies on it's side beneath her. A cigarette burns down to the cork between her fingers. Her pimp, a song, in blue and cream suiting sits on the arm beside her. He smokes a cheroot with one hand whilst tossing a dime up and down from the other. His shirt is the colour of midnight with a sunburst tie. Gold fronts his smile, or is it a knowing grin? Two other cats lean lazily on each other in the middle of the room. They sway in time to their own beat, oblivious of the piano players rag time progression. It's a slow night. The fleets in but the sailors are a no show. A game of Texas hold 'em is going on in the back room, just four players so the game is slow too. Along the hall stands a long legged barbecue, skin the colour of milk chocolate, in fishnets and red heels. She is by a door which opens into her office, furnished with a king size bed and a a chez longueur. She taps her foot in boredom. Back in the main room a fly crawls slowly up the jamb around the door to the card game. The pimp pockets his dime, opens a flick knife and throws it across the room pinning the fly to the woodwork. The dancers keep dancing and the piano player keeps playing. They have seen death before. 'Hey mind the paintwork.' shouts the cook as she places more fish onto the trestle. The pimp retrieves the knife, closes it and looks with unconcern at the cook. She retires back into the kitchen muttering curses. Detective first class Doil, pushes off the wall and steps out in to the hallway, leans over the rail and drops a spit ball through the void between the banisters, the action takes him back to his childhood. Detective Getz joins him and drops one of his own. Bulls eye. The piano player adjust the arm bands keeping his shirt cuffs above his wrists. In his neck is the minutest of slits, into which is inserted a personality chip which completes the change into Fat's Waller from his real self. The rain intensifies as a the thunder shakes the tenement dropping plaster from the ceiling. Doil takes of his hat and shakes the debris of the brim, hunches his shoulders and gives the girl down the hall a wave of the hand. She pushes her hip out and blows a kiss. She may or may not be what she seems. Gets blows a smoke ring and drops the butt down the well, it hits the floor and throws off sparks that are soon extinguished on the damp floor.

'Fucking weather, fucking New York,' says Doil and goes back into the room.

One of the poker players, a very overweight man with a mid European accent, Polish maybe, walks out into the hall and uses the phone at the top of the stairs. He drops in a dime and dials a Brooklyn number.

'Were the fugh are you, these yensers are pulling my dick with their low stakes. Tort you were bringing some guys with bank rolls. Okay I'll give you ten then I'm dust.' He slams down the phone and goes over to the fish, tips back his head and drops one whole into his mouth. Then two more. Fat's plays on.

Three uniforms arrive, capes dripping on the lino. The fuzz now outnumber the the rest. The pimp gives them a look and starts to clean his nails with the shiv, his charge is still zonked out, but beginning to stir. Getz gives the uniforms a nod of recognition. They don't belong to any precinct, but to the IGBI. IGBI, humanoids. Impossible to tell from the real thing unless you check out their zero sperm count. At last a dozen sailors tumble up the stairs, mostly teenagers but one old salt is in the van. He has a grizzled beard and Popeye forearms. Behind them come the hookers smelling pay dirt. Now the room is full. The sailors dance with everyone, themselves, their mates, the hookers. Fats ups the tempo and starts rocking in his seat, smile as wide as the Hudson, hat tipped back, fingers stroking the keys with a surprisingly light touch. One of the hookers, a Latino in her middle 20's, with big breasts and a big butt, hair as black as the night, curly, and down to her shoulders, grabs Popeye by one of his immense forearms and swings into him. She is his type of woman, something to grab hold off, hair like squirming eels and a firm grip. As requested by the Finks, Fats goes into a jazz waltz and drops in a few bars of Strauss, then 8 bars of Bach, finishing with Liszt.

'Hey Bub, cut out the fancy stuff,' says Popeye. The Latino parts her scarlet lips and smiles.

'Leave him be, I like a bit of classical, it gives me the hots.'

Fats ignores both of them and slips into some Borodin, by way of a Russian folk dance. Two of the sailors squat down and start kicking their legs out shouting 'hey hey hey'. The others form a circle and clap in time. They are lit by the flashing neon sign of the Drug Store across the way. Green Red Green Red. Doil talks into his wrist band. It is time for the grand entrance. Veronica Lake steps into he room followed by the high rollers for the back room. She walks over to the piano.

'Hey, Fats, hows it going.'

It is a rhetorical question. An announcement of her presence. A dude in a charcoal suit spats and a kipper tie decorated with a nude lady in full colour, speaks to veronica.

'Hey Lady fancy your chances at the table?'

' You don't want me in the game, I'll skin you all. He shrugs his padded shoulders.

'It's you funeral.' he says and goes into the back, his two heavies keeping an eyeout for trouble. Veronica follows them and susses out the table.

'I'll deal, anyone needs a helping hand with the pot. It's ten per in cash.' She sits down at the head of the table takes a wad of C's from her bag, then cuts the pack.

'Name the game?'

'Texas hold-em Aces high', says Spats. He slams the door behind him and sits down opposite Veronica.

'You handle those cards like a Casino dealer, what's the angle?'

'Just making a living,' says Veronica. 'Now let's play poker.'

The pimp, makes a call from the pay phone to his stable. Ten minutes later three dames dressed to thrill, take a sailor each and lead him down the hall to the bedrooms, past the tall hooker in the red shoes, who is on her third tar. She has no need for a pimp she can look after herself. The pimp smiles quietly. This he likes, business is picking up. He sees another fly crawling up the door. He opens his flick knife and throws it just as Veronica opens it to take a break. The knife sticks her in the chest. She looks up in surprise then down at her chest. Bright red arterial blood stains her white dress. Before she hits the floor the paramedics enter the room and take her off.

'Fuck', says Doil.