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.
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.'
'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.
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.
'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.'
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?
****************
'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 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.'
**************
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.
'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.
'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.'
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. '
'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.'
'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.
'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.
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.
'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.'
****************
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.'
'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?'
'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.'
'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 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.
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.
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