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.'