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.'