Capter 47

Once inside my own apartment, back in my own skin New York in 1937 seems just a bad dream. Brian complained that he had been lonely and bored with nothing to do. I didn’t know computers could get bored. I thought they just put themselves to sleep or scoured the universe for comp porn. Savouring the delights of a naked diode in the throws of over heating. I showered and asked the transopser for a lightly cooked planet egg, over easy, and some toast. I also popped a zoomer as straitener.  I am looking forward to my gig on Italia as Oscar Peterson. Italia is settled by people of Neopolitan  lineage. The food is incredible and the morals Neroian. A roman bath house on every corner with a copulatorium in the back. I am playing the Coluseum. Is that enough Latin for you? The lingua Franca of the Universe is based on American English, but some planets just refuse to use it. Italia being one of them. The Italians speak a bastard Latin scattered with a few English words, mostly swear words, as in, “Questa the fucka you wanta?” 

I say this aloud and Brian says, 

‘A body.’

‘No fucking way am I having a walking computer in my pad’.

Brian gives a big sigh. ‘Worth a try Sir’.

Oscar Peterson was one hell of a piano player. I will need all my wits about me to do him justice. I go over to the piano and try out a few runs. As he was greatly influenced by Art Tatum I play Tiger Rag in Tatum’s Style. He could sing too sounding like, Nat King Cole, who also influenced his playing. I may throw in a few vocals at the gig, the Italians like a good sing song.

‘Brian, any call for me whist I was away.’

‘Not of any importance, Sir’

‘Are you vetting my calls too?’

‘It’s part of my duties Sir to shield you from cold callers.’

‘So who called?’

‘One from the Bank asking if you want to invest your money in Urainium mining stocks.

Two from your mother. A Dyson. And one from someone called Babs.’

Babs, that pulls a string.

‘Babs who? Are you sure it was Babs and not Veronica.’

‘I would know Veronica even if she was disguised as Orgon Sloth’

‘Oh I forgot you like her don’t you?’ I can hear him blushing.

‘And the message is?’

‘Watch your back.’

‘That’s it, watch your back?’

‘That’s all Sir, and no contact number, just watch your back’

A blond with a striking resemblance to Veronica told me to watch my back in the Stork club. Only then I was Fats Waller taking a message to the  Black Brothers not Joe Coolz. 

I remember the coded from before of 

c7 f#7  b-7  e-7  a-7  d7  g7  d-7 g7’

I play the chords in all keys, maybe there is another hidden message in there that I missed the first time.  These are the chords but not the tune, so I put the two together. I sing the lyrics in the style of Nat King Cole.

The stars may deceive you

May vanish and leave you

Be smart, only trust your heart

The breeze softly sighing

In truth, may be lying

Be smart, only trust your heart

The warmth of her kisses

May teach you what bliss is

But this is a faithless lover’s heart

Only trust your heart, not the firelight

That comes from the starlight

Be smart, only trust your heart

If the message means anything, it means to only trust who my heart tells me to. Not difficult, that has to be the real Veronica. And in my guise of Fats Waller, Big Sal. Definitely not Smith, nor Doil nor the IGBI.

‘Sir do you wish me to put that on loop as before.’

‘Good thinking Brian, It may conjure up someone. Veronica I hope, and make me a cocktail, surprise me, you know my tastes.’ 

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