126

I have come to the conclusion that I am not a songwriter. It is bloody difficult, getting the hook. My problem is that I can't simplify the notes. I just jazz them up all the time. If you break down all the hits at the moment to their chords, they are basic progressions. Not something I have done since 3^rd grade in music school. At my side is Mo, a distraction to my thinking process. She is dressed in dancers tights and leggins, soft ballet shoes on her feet. If that is not bad enough she warms up by placing her right leg on the lid of the baby grand I am sitting at, and stretching her muscles. Her crotch is in my line of site. She admonishes me in her soft brogue for not coming up with the goods. Song wise that is.

I play a simple melody in time to her movements, she is quietly humming the tune to herself, and adds some words.

If I were as glamourous as Harlow,

and had mystery like Garbo

If my hair was like Hayworth,

and I had eyes that made your heart ache

Would you have made the same mistake

'Fucking hell, that's it the first number.' She continues.

I’m not the prettiest of girls

No pearly teeth or tight curls

but when it comes to amour

Je t’adore

'Keep going', I say

If my legs were like Grable, and I my hair was like Sable

If I could dance like Fontanne and was exotic like Anna May Wong,

You would not do me wrong wrong

And if I pouted like Veronica Lake

You would give and not take

I’m not the prettiest of girls

No pearly teeth or tight curls

but when it comes to amour

Je t’adore

I get up from the stool, spin her around to face me, she gives me a look that says hands off bud.

'Write it down, that is it the opening number.'

I sit back down at the piano and play the melody again. She grins.

'You mean you like it.'

'Like it, I fucking love it, and so will all the Angels. Write it down before we forget it.'

Mo takes a pair tap shoes from the chair and puts them on, then picks up the rhythm with her feet singing along to it.

'Don't need to write it down, so,' she says as she hoofs her way across the floor, 'I've a good memory for a tune, so I have.'

The rest of the day is not as productive, still a tune a day is not that bad. I have an idea for the theme of the musical. It will be about immigrants passing through Ellis Island and what becomes of a few of them. A Jew from Lithuania becomes a rag trade millionaire, an Colleen from the bogs becomes a high class call girl, her brother a priest. A Glaswegian builds a railroad, etc. all with a theme song and a story. Good 'eh? It knocks the bollox out of 'Top Hat,' even though 5 numbers from that show, feature in the top 15 song sheets bought. Mick joins us and appologises for his absence due to the attentions of Madame Victoria.

'Jazus, burst in and gave me a hand, job, so she did. Me having a little soak to relax.'

I am overjoyed by this news as it might mean she has swopped her affections to another, I do hope so.

***************

Mo doesn't need any persuading to get into bed.

'Sure I haven't had a good shag since I left Ireland,' she says as I finish. 'It was like being beaten with a Knobkierie'

'What the fucks a Knobkierie.'

'Have you heard of a Shillelagh, now?'

'You mean a cops nightstick?'

'The same, and used with about as much finesse.'

I don't know wether to take it as a compliment or not.

'It's the first time my cock has been described as a blunt instrument.' I say

'And not the last, I hope,' Say's Mo.

*****************

You know how it is, no sooner have you got your feet under the table of life, feeling content with your lot, than something comes along to spoil it. I have been called back to Mars. When I say called, I don't mean, 'High we need you please come back!' but a summons from the IGBI, to get back here pronto or else, type of call, and when you're wearing a wrist band that can be controlled by whoever has the key, it's one second Manhattan, the next Mars City.

I have been swept inside and out for 20^th century bugs that might devastate the planet, and declared clean. You would think with all the progress man has made, that a machine could be invented that sweeps your body for bugs that doesn't entail a probe being shoved up anus. Or maybe there is one but they do it just for kicks. Anyway as I say, I am declared clean. I step into the teletrans, in the lobby and dial my home. Either I miss dialed or some one has stuck his pinkie in the works. I am greeted by an armed clone who beckons me to follow him. The corridor is grey, grey walls, grey ceiling, grey floor, and disappears into an infinite grey dot. There is no sound as we walk. I bang the wall with my hand and stamp along behind the clone. Nothing. I cough into my hand. Nothing again. This very disconcerting as my tinnitus has disappeared also. The clone stops and turns to face the wall. He presses his hand flat against it and a door swings open. He pushes me through it. I am sucked upwards, or it could be downwards, it is hard to tell, and am deposited into a room containing a desk, a chair, and Doil. I know it's Doil by the size of him, but he is standing gazing out at the stars, with his back to me.

'Recognise all this,' Says Doil, turning and sweeping his arms wide.

'No.'

'You should it's one of yours.'

'One of my what?'

'One of your fleet of Star ships that you have leased to the IGBI.'

This is Brian's doing I think. Not content with scrapping Star ships, he's gone into leasing them out.

'Is this why you have brought me back from my very comfortable life on Earth.' I look back with regret at not saying goodbye to Mo.

Doil waves me to the chair.

'Sit, sit.' I do as I'm told.

'Like it?

'Very comfortable.'

'This is your new office, you are suspended from field ops for now, until we can get the Finks to give us a plan.'

'Are you serious?'

'Of course I'm not fucking serious, now get out of my chair.' I stand, he sits. 'Do you know that you have made that sweet Irish girl pregnant.'

'But I only did it once.'

'If she has a child by you the whole of future mankind will be altered, but we don't know how. A person from the future fathering a child in the past. Disaster.'

'Maybe that is the solution to the end of the Universe.'

'Don't talk bollox. But it would probably mean, you and I don't exist. Nor anyone else on the fucking planet. But it cannot alter the events that lead to the end of the Universe, cause they are not human related events, but existential phenomena. What we at the IGBI want you do is go back and make sure she loses the baby before it is born.'

'How, she's Irish, she won't agree to an abortion.'

'So shoot her.'

**************

I have popped home to see how things are at Coolz Mansions. Brian recieves me with the usual enthusiasm.

'Oh hello it's you!'

I ignore his indifference and ask where Zeno is.

'Zeno is at college, Sir, attending an Einstein lecture. She has a disertation to write on the development of space travel.'

'Don't tell me she has gone all “Miss Smith”, on me.'

'I doubt that, Sir, judging by the amount of Star Ship Mechanics she entertains.'

'Okay, plan B. I'll go back to Earth.'

'So long,' says Brian.

125

****************

I don't rise early, about three in the afternoon is a good time to start the day. A shave at the barber shop on the corner and eat ham and eggs at the Diner. I sit over my second coffee and scan the wanted list in the Times. If you read between the lines, you get a feel of the underbelly of the Town. Half way down the collumn is a box with a black border, in which are a telephone number and a graphic of a piano keyboard. Have the compositors missed out the rest of the information, or is it something else?

It's intriguing, but no so intriguing that I want to rush over to the kiosk and call the number. I file it for future reference. Mo slips into the seat beside me and gives me a thank you smile. Mick sits opposite.

'Does your generosity stretch to breakfast?' asks Mo, her leg touching mine with slight pressure. 'I could eat for Ireland.'

I pick the menue out from it's position between the ketchups and hand it to her. As the waitress stands pencil poised, they order the lot. Ham, eggs, hash brown,s flapjacks, maple syrup, muffins and a side order of fries.'

'You forgot the horse,' I say.

Mo smiles her baby smile, and Mick looks embarrassed.

'We've only had bar snacks since we landed.' He says.

'Eat your fill, I know what it's like to go hungry.' I say. This of course is a big lie. I have no idea what it's like to go hungry, as Joe Koolz, Martian, but as Joe Koolz Liverpudlian, I would know. Best stay in character. For all their poverty, they know how to eat properly. Knife and fork in the correct hands, none of this American inefficiecy of cutting the meat then swopping hands with the fork, to put it into the mouth. Even high society dudes eat like peasants.

'Talk me through this Hells Kitchen,' says Mick.

It's the area within 34th. and 59th St. and 8th Av. and the Hudson, an Irish ghetto. In the past there was always a fight going on. Sean and Pat, two Irish cops were standing there watching it all happen, this is a long time age mind, anyway, Sean says to Pat,

'This place is Hell.' Pat say's,' Hell is balmy compared to this place. This is Hell's Kitchen.'

'Ah you'll believe any tale, us Irish are peacable folk.'

Mick mops up the last of the ketchup and grease with half a muffin on the end of his fork.

'It must be the other reason then.' I say

'Go ahead, so.' says Mo.

'A German immigrant named Heil owned a Diner popular with the Irish stevadors, named his Diner Heil's Kitchen. Take your pick.'

'Shure it'll be the German's fault.'

'Just take the Metro to Penn Station, or Times Square, and walk into any bar, you'll be at home.'

Mo squeezes my knee. 'Wish us luck, me Darlin.'

'You'll knock em dead', I say

*************

The rain has turned to snow, a minor blizzard hits my face with stinging points of ice, as I leave the Diner. I think of Mo in her thin summer dress and shudder. I run over to the Victoria Hotel dodging the honking cars in the slush. Mme Victoria is in the lobby, hair piled up into her official receptionist beehive, wearing a severe two piece and low healed pumps.

'Lovely weezzer for les canards.' she says in her pronounced accent. 'I ave an oilskin for you, if you wizz.

I do wish and hope I don't have to pay her back in kind, as I have other ideas about who to favour with my body.

Suitably attired in oil skin and galoshers I walk to the corner looking for a cab. In this weather taxis are as rare as uncooked chicken. I stand around for about ten minutes with no luck, feet like blocks of ice and snow gathering on my shoulders. I have no plan for tonight as I am without a gig, I thought I might go to a Broadway show, Porgy and Bess has had rave reviews, but the idea is fast loosing it's appeal. I retrace my steps and head for the Cat House.

I am greeted by the familiar fug of cigar smoke and perfume. Saul is talking to Mo and Mick. That didn't take him long. Saul waves me over. I am more than a little disappointed to think Mo has been seduced by the glamorous life of a hooker.

'Meet my new stars.' says Saul.

'We've met.'

'I have an idea for a musical.' Says Saul. 'Featuring,' pointing at Mo, 'The new Fred and Ginger.'

'Are you serious. A Broadway show will take millions to put on. Do you have any backers?

'We can use my club during the day for rehearsals. Then when we are ready, book a Theatre. I may even buy one.'

I ask him if he has a name for this show, and any songs.

He takes a toke on his cigar and blows a long stream upwards.

'I'm sure George and Ira will write some for a fee.'I'll call it, 'Hells Kitchen-The Musical. Perfect for two Irish hoofers'

I realise this is my big chance to make a name for myself, in 1935.and be close to Mo.

'Why don't I write the musical numbers?'

'Better make 'em good', says Saul.

*************

The snow is still falling in thick white blankets.. The cars sneak past in muffled convoys, a few kids are making snowballs and aiming them at anything moving. But inside the cat house the girls are scantily dressed, and the Johns are relaxing over highballs and beers, in front of a roaring fire. All is well with the world. I take my seat at the piano and just noodle away. Thoughts elsewhere, mainly who is Veronica. I can't get it out of mind that someone as perfect as her is not a humanoid. Perfect skin, even white teeth and glossy hair. It takes hours of preparation to look that good if you are human. And her powers of recovery are sensational. Mars in the 40.000^th century, can work medical wonders, but fuck, she's a miracle. I for one will be very disappointed if she is a humanoid, not that I have anything against having sex with them. They are very good at it. But you don't fall in love with a humanoid, especially if you want children, and there could be many more in the box, just waiting to emerge and be fucking someone else whilst an exact copy is writhing on top of you.

Saul says I should come up to his club to hear Monk do his stuff, but it's cold outside and I'm comfortable, in the warmth of the Cat House. Johns leave John's come money changes hands and the flesh is serviced. As Tony Bennet will sing, 'It's the good life.'

    *****************

124

Saul has bought a club on 134 & 7^th. The “Club Hot-Cha” The cats are Jitter bugging with steam rising from their bodies and the whole joint stinks of weed. The fug is enough to get you high without the expense. I am billed as the “Limey from Poolville' With my suit newly pressed and my shoes shined I the look the business. My side men are the house band comprising of John Williams with a basic drum kit of snare bass and one tom tom and a cymbal plus cow bell and wood block. Those of you who are used to the ten drum kit of the Men from Alpha, the hottest act on Mars at moment, may think it is a little too basic, but in a small club on a small stage it is all that is needed, and on bass is Slam Stuart. Who could ask for more? Well I get more. Dina Shore in fact. This is a long time before she becomes famous singing for Dorsey and the likes, so the cats on floor don't know how lucky they are.

As you know I am not one to sing my own praises, but I make the whole ensemble click, and what is more fill the dance floor with every number. It's an art, to do this, feel the mood and play accordingly. When the dancers start drifting off through exhaustion, play some slow numbers, then when they have recovered, up the tempo.

The girls in short dresses and low healed pumps, brown skin glistening with sweat, are thown around by high stepping Guys in baggy trousers and loose shirts. Some with a bow tie some open to the waist. There is no wonder the Whites like to slum it in the Haarlem clubs.

There is one particular white skinned beauty that has caught my attention. She dances with full energy and abandon. Her partner is also white wearing a flat cap and suspenders. It is not only their skin colour that makes them stand out but the style of dancing, a mixture of Lindy Hop and Irish Jig. I call over to Slam and tell him to bow the Doghouse with a Jig rhythm. John plays the same rhythm with his sticks on the snare rim. I fill in with the melody. Soon the couple have the floor to themselves with the other Cats forming a circle whopping and hollering encouragement. They finish with her on his shoulders straddling his head, clapping encouragement while he hoofs his toes, Irish style.

Follow that? It's a show stopper so we take a break.

I join Saul at his table. Me and the Irish jiggers are the only whites in the club. But I feel at home.

'Some show, I knew you could do me right. But don't expect any extra pickings. This is strictly a one off. I got a key man name of Monk starting tomorrow.'

'Theolonious Monk?'

'That's the man. You know him?'

'I know his style, I wouldn't have thought he was right for a dance floor.'

'Comes highly recommended, I asked the piano prof at Juliard, he says he can do it.'

I haven't heard Monk as a young man, maybe he can get them on the floor, it'll be interesting to be around when he starts.

I change the subject.and ask Saul if he knows who the dancers are.

'Irish, the blacks of the British Isles,' he says laughing, 'there's no discrimination in this club. All are welcome, so long as they have a roll.'

He looks over to where they are sitting. 'She's a barbecue, ain't she? With those legs, a looker like her would bring in all the Mick's from County Hall.'

Saul waves me away as one of his musclebound bodyguards leans over him and whispers into is ear.A sign for me to go.

You can't trust the IGBI. Someone with the girls tallent could be a plant. The two of them have a table by the bar, I saunter over and introduce myself. She gives me a broad smile showing small teeth and a bit of gum. Very childlike as if she still has her milk teeth. She tells me her name is Maureen, but I can call her Mo, and, pointing to her partner, this is my brother Michael.

'I'm from the Pool, that makes me nearly Irish,' I say and add, 'Mo & MICK, I can see your names in lights, on Broadway'

'The Bowery more like,' says Mick.

I spot two suitcases under the table, they may be pretending to be imigrants looking for a new life. As brother and sister. The IGBI can be very sneaky as I have found to my cost, but by now you should know how my mind works, always looking for a new addition to my list, and Mo is probably unattached.

'If you're looking for a lodging I know a flea pit run by a Frenchie, cheap and clean, not far from here on East 116^th. I stay there myself, we can share a cab.'

'I've just spent my last dime on a Soda', says Mick. 'We'll be sleeping under the stars tonight.'

'As well as dancing, any other talents?' I ask

'We're Kelly's Uncle at the Irish music, Mo here, plays the fiddle and has a voice as sweet as a Kerry Morning, I play the pipes and the whistle.'

They need to be Midtown in Hells Kitchen, it's knee deep in Irish Bars.

I offer them a night, on me at Madame Victoria's and say they can pay me back when they are in funds. They accept graciously, maybe they are not an IGBI plant.

123

The Ice Planet, again, they love me here. I am prossed up as, guess what? Nobody. That's right I am in my own skin playing Joe Coolz. Artie is on sax's and Zeno on Bass. It's a similar line up to the Bill Evans, Eddie Gomez, Getz line up. Artie can do Getz likes he's in the room, but tonight we are doing our own thing. I put in a few Evans touches, but the main phrases are mine. Zeno's bass playing is like Gomez, which is why we are doing the gig in this form. We start off with “You and the night and the Music,” then slow it down a bit with “But Beautiful.”

The bar at the Glasshouse Restaurant, is carved out of ice which must be a million years old. It has a bluish sheen and glistens where the lights hit the salts embedded in it. The temperature is constant minus 5, so we have to wear our thermal skin suits under our DJ's. These suits check the outside temperature with our normal body heat, and keep us comfortably warm. They are like a second skin and don't interfere with any of our senses, so my fingers really can feel the ivory of the keys.

Zeno does a two Minuit intro into “Blue Eyes” then I come in when she plays a walking base line as Artie weaves in between us using alternate fingering to get the octave over the normal Tenor register. It's a tour de force from him and I am content to let him swing away up there just keeping the chords coming. The people in the bar have not come to just hear us. They have come to get drunk and the background noise is begining to take over, so we take a break ourselves and retire to the Green Room. Here the ice is as it says, green. We all have a ghostly pallor cast by it. This is contrasted by red upholstery, made of some kind of soft animal skin, that could be from anywhere, but most likely grown in vats of protein on an orbiting asteroid. I flop into a high backed chair with wings sipping a highball, I picked up the Highball habit in Manhattan. Arty heads off to chat up a floosey he noticed is giving him the glad eye, leaving me alone with Zeno. When Zeno and I are alone it usually turns sexual. She slips out of her mini-dress and starts doing some yoga poses. Her thermal suit is like a second skin and leaves nothing to the imagination. She ends up in the Lotus position directly facing me.

'It's been a long time.' she says.

'since we played together, you as Ella if I recall.'

'No, since we fucked.'

'Oh that.'

'I thought you and Brian were an item now.'

'Business partners, Brian hasn't a Dick,.

'He can fuck up your brain though.'

Artie interupts us with a tall blonde in tow. She is dressed like Robin Hood in green tights, thigh boots and a jerkin made of velvet, open to the waist. Around her neck are five tight strings of pearls.

'Meet Marion', says Artie, 'she is a big fan of your piano playing, so I brought her to meet you.'

Marion bends over to shake my hand, and Artie gives me a wink and a smirk over her shoulder. He has been known to play the odd prank, and I can't quite figure this one out until Marion speaks. She has a deep voice, and the pearls are there, obviously, to hide her adams apple. I am not phased, it takes all sorts.

Zeno, asks what I am thinking.

'How do you hide your Dick.'

'I don't', says Marion. 'I really am a woman, I just had my vocal chords worked on to sound like Billy Eckstien.' And she does.

***************

Back on Mars. Getting rather bored and thinking I might just go back to Earth and sink a few Whiskeys with the Cats, when my musings are stopped by the appearance on the Vid of Guy Buddy. You remember him, the owner of Scrap World. What the fuck does he want?

Brian has turned the return signal off and is panicking.

'Don't tell him I'm here, says Brian.

'How can I do that, you are a computer immoveable, attatched to this building by bolts.'

'Yes but he doesn't know that. He thinks I am a real person.'

'Brian, you are supposed to have a brain bigger than Mars, and you haven't thought this out. If you are not a person, what is the worst he can do to you. He can't break your legs, can he?

Silence.

'What have you done that he would want to?'

'I sold him a ship to scrap, that isn't ours to sell.'

'I'm involved?'

'Well you are the titular head of Scr4pm3, and he can break your legs.'

Now I'm panicked. I can see Mr Buddy on the Vid flexing his considerable muscles and getting agitated.

'Brian take the call and tell him you will wire the money immediately.'

'It's not the money, Sir, it's the ship.'

'Yes?'

'It is an IGBI Starship, number IG 297900135, and it should have been the IG 29790013S.

'Fucking hell Brian.'

'I know, Sir.'

'Just tell him the sign writer got it wrong. I'm off to Earth.'

******************

Red is not happy that I am turning her down to go back to Earth in 1935. She can't see the attraction. All those fumes and insanitary bathrooms. I am standing in the middle of Brooklyn bridge in a thunder storm, my Saville Row cut suit and Grenson brogues not taking the soaking very well. But us Limeys are used to inclement weather. A Caddy pulls up along side and the door opens. An invitation to get in I presume.

'Sit over there and don't drip on me.' says Saul, pointing to the seats facing the wrong way. I do as he says and start to steam. Soon the windows are fogged up and Saul draws a gun in the mist. It is pointing at me.

'I get an anonymous call that you are on the bridge and have some very important information for me. So spill it.'

I stare at him blankly. Who could this snitch be. I've only been on the bridge for a few minutes. Saul adds to his art work. A circle of smoke around the business end and a bullet flying out. I decide the best way is to tell the truth or a variation of it.

'I have only been on the bridge a few minutes.'

'Look Joe, I like you, so don't piss me off.'

My mind races and from nowhere I say. 'The Man chucked me out of his Limo, the prick offered me a lift back to the French House, but decided I needed the exercise, and dumped me. He must have had it in mind all the time, and got one of his bully boys to call you. You know something I am better off in the 'Pool, hitting the keys on Lime Street, this town is a shit 'ole.'

Saul leans forward and pats me on the knee.

Relax Man, I am just passing and saw you dodging the raindrops, I'd recognise that hairdo anywhere.' You should wear a hat, like a true New Yorker.'

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.'