FISH
FRY 52nd
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 1st
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 113th St and 3rd 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 5th 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 49th 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 52nd 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 1st 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 113th St and 3rd 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 52nd
& 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 7th
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 20th
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.