128

Yes I know we have been through this before. But think how I feel. How may times is it, three, maybe four, that I have seen Veronica killed. And then what happens, Doil gets the red mist, the IGBI cook up another plan and I get the ear bashing. I have to give writing a musical with Mo a rain check and pop back to Mars, year of the Horse 40037, says Doil, no loitering with horny Irish girls, shed Fats and await further instructions. In the Worm Hole Detstabliser room, Red is pleased to see me and says we should take in a suround-a-round. Flash Gordon is playing at the Roxy. I can be the Ming the Merciless and she can be Flash. That's another rain check then. Why can't I be Flash and her the princess Aura, as far as I know Ming never had sex with anyone. I go home via the Prossing Company and become myself once again. Brian greets me like a long lost brother, which makes a change from the surly hello I got last time. I suspect some thing is up but enjoy the moment. I left earth in the dead of night, dead being the appropriate word, now it is early morning on Mars, and I am welcomed with fresh Columbiana coffee and jello doughnuts.

'Baked them myself, Sir.' says Brian.

'What, shook flour onto a board added, eggs and sugar and hand rolled them?'

'Not exactly.'

'How not exactly?'

'You know that I haven't any hands.' (Here we go.) He waits for a reply which I don't give.

'They are delicious, are they not, but think how much better they would be if I had hand rolled them.'

'Impossible to improve on them.' I say, 'So no, you can't have any hands. Anything else I should know. Crashed any star ships in any planets, or upset the IGRIS?'

'There is just one small thing, Sir.' I await the revelation, with a mixture of dread and expectation.

'We have bought a Planet, it's a copy of the original, but a Planet never the less.'

'Wow we own a Planet. Is it habitable?'

'It has a license for habitation, but as yet no one has been on it, except the engineers who set it up.'

'What's the catch?'

'Non Sir, you will like it.'

Now I am suspicious, no catch, nothing Brian has done is without a catch or caveat. I wait for the but.

'The license is to run it as a brothel.'

I am utterly speechless.

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

Chico from the agency is on the holovid. I must be back exactly in my own time, as he doesn't look a day over thirty. Gone are the grey hair and wrinkles. He has a job for me on the artificial Earth pleasure planet. It's to play piano at the Sands, Las Vegas accompanying the Rat Pack. They won't be the real Rat Pack, but just as good. Frank, Dean, Sammy Jnr., with drop in appearances by Peter Lawford and Joey Bishop. The money's lousy, but I don't need it, rich enough to own my own planet n'all. I jump at the chance, this could be fun.

'Who am I prossing up as?' I ask. 'Count Basie was the original band leader.'

'Go as yourself, the audience won't know your not the Count.'

'But he was black, man!'

'So get a tan.' The holovid fades.

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

Before I go to the gig I drop in on Veronica. She is on the same floor in the same room. The girl at the reception desk smiles like we are old friends, she tells me that I know where to go, and the elevator door opens in the wall. She may be a humanoid, her demeanure is so nice. I step out into Veronica's room and she is sitting in a Miles Van Der Rohe chair staring out over a view of Hawaii. A sound of crashing breakers and guitar music floats up on the breeze.

'What kept you Joe, I've been holed up in here for weeks.'

'It was only yesterday that you were stuck.' I say.

'Was it only yesterday, it feels like weeks. They slow your whole metabolism down during the surgery, it is difficult to tell the passage of time.'

'You look well,' I say. ' She looks at me with a steady gaze her eyes pink without the coloured contact lenses she normally wears, giving me the don't bullshit me look.

'If were well, I would be sitting on a real beach on Hawaii, high ball to one side and a muscle man on the other.'

'Don't expect me to bulk up just to satisfy your fantasies.' She turns from me and puts on her dark glasses.

'You've done your duty and visited me you can go now.'

The brush off, I am very offended. I am so offended that I am stuck for something to say and stand where I am, starring at the her silky snow white hair, tied up in a chingion so her neck temps any man with blood in his viens to kiss it. Which I do. She turns around and kisses me full on the lips.

'I thought you would never come.' she says. 'It gets lonely in here. I can watch old movies, change the view, but nothing comes close to company. Especially good looking young males with a hard on.'

I look down. 'So I have.'

'Don't let it go to waste.'

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

The Sands gig is going well. The audience love the banter between Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. Below is the set list which we have to follow. It should be exactly the same as the original concert. But the Rat pack being The Rat Pack you cannot guarantee anything.

Fanfare And Introduction - The Rat Pack Live At The Sands

Medley: Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes/I Don't Care If The Sun Don't Shine/I Love Vegas (Paris) - Dean Martin

Monologue - Dean Martin

June In January - Dean Martin

Monologue - Dean Martin

Via Veneto - Dean Martin

Medley: Volare (Nel Blu, Dipinto Di Blu)/On An Evening In Roma - Dean Martin

Introduction: Ring-A-Ding Ding (Instrumental)

I Only Have Eyes For You

Call Me Irresponsible

My Heart Stood Still

Please Be Kind

I Have Dreamed

Luck Be A Lady

Dialogue

Medley: Marianne/Dance With A Dolly/You Are Too Beautiful/You Made Me Love You/Carolina In The Morning/Beautiful Dreamer/Dancing With Tears In My Eyes/Maria/Try A Little Tenderness/What Is This Thing Called Love

The Lady Is A Tramp - Sammy Davis Jr.

All The Way (Impressions) - Sammy Davis Jr.

Dialogue

Guys And Dolls

For instance. During 'Luck be a Lady Tonight,' from the musical Guys and Dolls Frank comes over to the piano and sits next to me and throws some dice onto the floor. Dean shouts, 'Snake Eyes, I win.' Frank stops the band with a wave of the hand and goes over to Dean. 'Who're you calling snake eyes?'

'You' drawls Dean. 'I've had so much wine that it's all I can see.' That's Dean's act, his forte, he pretends to be drunk all the time, but is as sober as a Quaker matron. Frank turns back takes two steps, then turns again as if he is going to start a fight.

'No good hitting me,' says Dean I'm Anithset..., anithes..., won't feel a thing.'

The audience love it. Frank strikes up the band and carries on where he left off. Dean gropes for his stool and wobbles on to it aided by Sammy Davis.

Back in the band room the banter carries on because they all have a chip in the neck that makes them their character. All except me of course I have played the set as Joe Coolz.

Frank suggests that we hit the town. What he doesn't realise and I know, is that there is no town. We are on an artificial planet that has famous venues for entertainment, such as The Sands, The London Palladium, The Moulin Rouge, The Reeperbahm, catering for stag parties and works outings. The punters know it is fake. I know it is fake, but whoever is prossed up as Frank doesn't. I would think this is a mistake by the owners. Think of all the extra business a whole fake Las Vegas would make. Not to talk of the gambling receipts, money from prostitutes and drugs. I must have a word with Brian when I get home. We have an empty planet, with a license for prostitution.

I say my goodbye's pop into the John, and press the return button on my watch. A moment of ecstasy and I am back on the black spot. Red is at the controls, and tells me I'm late. 'For what?' I ask.

'Our date.' she replies. “You know the see Flash Gordon, with you as Ming the merciless.' She swings her hair with a toss of the head. Her magenta lips opening to reveal her perfect teeth. 'With me as the princess, Aura.'

'That is the trouble with time travel, you don't know what day it is.' I say, 'is it still on?'

'Fortunately for you, yes. I would never have forgiven you if we had missed it, pick me up after my shift finishes at twelve.'

127

Not everyone is allowed to time travel. If they could it would be chaos. But my DNA and iris pattern have been given to the WMD operators who can check my credentials instantly. I can go back to Earth in the 1930's but not to anywhere else, in the past or in the future, and of course I am not allowed to get anyone pregnant. I forgot that in the 1930's the way not to get anyone pregnant is to pull out, have anal intercourse or wear a rubber. Non of which I am partial to. I will need all my guile and cunning to get the embryo out of Mo's womb. But if she is pregnant I might as well use my night stick on her again. Wait a mo, all I have to do is slip her a morning after pill, easy, if I arrive on Earth when Miss O' Conner and me are having our post coital breakfast, I can plop one into her coffee, and hey presto, no baby. I feel relieved, as I won't now have to kill her.

I tell Red my problem, and ask her to set the MWD, precisely to the moment when I wake up next to Mo.

'Can't you keep your dick in your tights,' she says.

'You now I can't, remember, you and me and sister makes three'.

'I am the sister.' Told you they were identical.

'You can help me out here.' I say. 'Do you by any chance have a morning after pill to hand?'

Texas twiddles some dials and presses a few buttons.

'Is she as good as us?' she asks on behalf of both of them.

I feel obliged to lie, as her and Red are alike as two fleas on a dogs bum'.

'No,' I say. Texas opens her purse and hands me a strip of pills.

'Take a few you may need them,' then a moment of euphoria and I am back in the French House, lying next Mo, who is still asleep. I'll wake her when I've shaved, we have songs to write.

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

It's a Sunday, and Mo tells me she has to go to St. Pats. for communion first, and confess that she has been fucking out of wedlock. Apparently it's okay to commit a sin and confess to it, to wipe the slate clean. What is the point? Mo says the point is that a confession is a cleansing of the soul. A restart, “So she can get all the fucks in she wants before the next confession.” Sounds good to me, not that I would confess, it's the fucking bit that excites me. I am interested enough to see these rituals to be dragged along. On Mars all religion has died the death of reality. A few fanatics follow a Guru out to make a fast Buck, and get taken for their life savings, but most just keep to the rules of life.

On the way to St. Patrick's I take her via the Diner for coffee and doughnuts where I slip the abortion pill into her drink. I will her to finish it, which she does so saving me and all of creation, as I know it, from oblivion.

St. Patrick's, is a tribute to the Gothic school of architecture, I have played in a facsimile copy of it on Eirinovia, set out as a vast concert hall, so I am familiar with it's layout and rose window. The stalls are packed with red faced Irish men and their familly. All ready to renounce the drink and beg forgiveness for beating up their wives on a Saturday night. The men sit with straight backs and starched collars pushing up their adams apple. If it wasn't for them and the Mohawk Indians, Manhattan would be still mud huts and log cabins.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it is the most boring hour I have spent on earth. There is one disconcerting thing though, I am sure Doil is sitting three rows in front of us. He is bigger and broader shouldered than most, so easy to spot. He doesn't turn to see me, but if it is Doil he will know I'm there.

I hurry Mo out and hail a cab to Club Hot-Cha, so we can get some songs down, and before Doil has time to corner me and send me on another, doomed to failure, IGBI mission. Some hope Doil takes my elbow and guides me into a Drug store doorway.

'What now?' I ask.

'Listen Smuck, you are only here because we want you on Earth.' Mo turns from the cab and sees me being manhandled by an ape and takes it for a mugging. She arrives and aims a kick at Doil's shin. Doil smacks her in the gob with the flat of his hand.

'Tell your girlfriend to back off, before I ruin her career.' I take Mo's face in my hands and kiss her.

'Ouch.' she says. I tell her it is Okay and Doil is a business associate. I give her a C note and tell her to carry on the the Hot-Cha, and I'll see her later.

'While you've been mucking about down here the Fink's have been sweating over a hot 5D matrix trying to solve our problem.' Now they think they have a way forward.' Doil looks at me and I keep my I'm listening face on whilst thinking about Mo and her bleeding lip. 'You have been prossed up as Fat's, how many times, and it hasn't worked.'

I shrug. ' They think that Fat's is still the key and a certain sequence of notes played by him will be the solution. You have been through his repertoire many times and nothing has happened.'

'Maybe the real Fat's should do it,' I say.

'Prossed up with the chip, you are the real Fat's, and exact copy right down to the smallest atom. No what we think is wrong is that you are playing Fat's numbers, and the run of notes is not happening, therefore we want you to be Fat's but play some other stuff. Classical stuff. You know Bach or Mahler.'

'At a Fish Fry?'

'Just throw it in casually, who knows maybe the punks will like it.'

**********

The room smells of fish. Frying cat fish. A blue haze of smoke hangs over the room. A single 60 watt bulb swings idly from the ceiling on a long cord. Also illuminating the room are beams of red and green light coming through the window from the drug store across the street. Outside it is raining with the occasional flash of lightning. The rain hits the sidewalk with penny size splashes, and fill the gutters into a torrent of water. Either side of the door stands a bull from the 5^th precinct, specials conspicuous as they lean into the wall. At the piano sits a large man skin colour a darker shade of black. He wears a bright yellow vest and baggy trousers, on his head a brown derby hat. His face beams with pleasure as his eyebrows flick up and down in time to the riff he is playing. To one side is a couch with a bottle blonde spread legged showing garters and silk panties. She has track marks up her arm and one shoe has left her foot and lies on it's side beneath her. A cigarette burns down to the cork between her fingers. Her pimp, a song, in blue and cream suiting sits on the arm beside her. He smokes a cheroot with one hand whilst tossing a dime up and down from the other. His shirt is the colour of midnight with a sunburst tie. Gold fronts his smile, or is it a knowing grin? Two other cats lean lazily on each other in the middle of the room. They sway in time to their own beat, oblivious of the piano players rag time progression. It's a slow night. The fleets in but the sailors are a no show. A game of Texas hold 'em is going on in the back room, just four players so the game is slow too. Along the hall stands a long legged barbecue, skin the colour of milk chocolate, in fishnets and red heels. She is by a door which opens into her office, furnished with a king size bed and a a chez longueur. She taps her foot in boredom. Back in the main room a fly crawls slowly up the jamb around the door to the card game. The pimp pockets his dime, opens a flick knife and throws it across the room pinning the fly to the woodwork. The dancers keep dancing and the piano player keeps playing. They have seen death before. 'Hey mind the paintwork.' shouts the cook as she places more fish onto the trestle. The pimp retrieves the knife, closes it and looks with unconcern at the cook. She retires back into the kitchen muttering curses. Detective first class Doil, pushes off the wall and steps out in to the hallway, leans over the rail and drops a spit ball through the void between the banisters, the action takes him back to his childhood. Detective Getz joins him and drops one of his own. Bulls eye. The piano player adjust the arm bands keeping his shirt cuffs above his wrists. In his neck is the minutest of slits, into which is inserted a personality chip which completes the change into Fat's Waller from his real self. The rain intensifies as a the thunder shakes the tenement dropping plaster from the ceiling. Doil takes of his hat and shakes the debris of the brim, hunches his shoulders and gives the girl down the hall a wave of the hand. She pushes her hip out and blows a kiss. She may or may not be what she seems. Gets blows a smoke ring and drops the butt down the well, it hits the floor and throws off sparks that are soon extinguished on the damp floor.

'Fucking weather, fucking New York,' says Doil and goes back into the room.

One of the poker players, a very overweight man with a mid European accent, Polish maybe, walks out into the hall and uses the phone at the top of the stairs. He drops in a dime and dials a Brooklyn number.

'Were the fugh are you, these yensers are pulling my dick with their low stakes. Tort you were bringing some guys with bank rolls. Okay I'll give you ten then I'm dust.' He slams down the phone and goes over to the fish, tips back his head and drops one whole into his mouth. Then two more. Fat's plays on.

Three uniforms arrive, capes dripping on the lino. The fuzz now outnumber the the rest. The pimp gives them a look and starts to clean his nails with the shiv, his charge is still zonked out, but beginning to stir. Getz gives the uniforms a nod of recognition. They don't belong to any precinct, but to the IGBI. IGBI, humanoids. Impossible to tell from the real thing unless you check out their zero sperm count. At last a dozen sailors tumble up the stairs, mostly teenagers but one old salt is in the van. He has a grizzled beard and Popeye forearms. Behind them come the hookers smelling pay dirt. Now the room is full. The sailors dance with everyone, themselves, their mates, the hookers. Fats ups the tempo and starts rocking in his seat, smile as wide as the Hudson, hat tipped back, fingers stroking the keys with a surprisingly light touch. One of the hookers, a Latino in her middle 20's, with big breasts and a big butt, hair as black as the night, curly, and down to her shoulders, grabs Popeye by one of his immense forearms and swings into him. She is his type of woman, something to grab hold off, hair like squirming eels and a firm grip. As requested by the Finks, Fats goes into a jazz waltz and drops in a few bars of Strauss, then 8 bars of Bach, finishing with Liszt.

'Hey Bub, cut out the fancy stuff,' says Popeye. The Latino parts her scarlet lips and smiles.

'Leave him be, I like a bit of classical, it gives me the hots.'

Fats ignores both of them and slips into some Borodin, by way of a Russian folk dance. Two of the sailors squat down and start kicking their legs out shouting 'hey hey hey'. The others form a circle and clap in time. They are lit by the flashing neon sign of the Drug Store across the way. Green Red Green Red. Doil talks into his wrist band. It is time for the grand entrance. Veronica Lake steps into he room followed by the high rollers for the back room. She walks over to the piano.

'Hey, Fats, hows it going.'

It is a rhetorical question. An announcement of her presence. A dude in a charcoal suit spats and a kipper tie decorated with a nude lady in full colour, speaks to veronica.

'Hey Lady fancy your chances at the table?'

' You don't want me in the game, I'll skin you all. He shrugs his padded shoulders.

'It's you funeral.' he says and goes into the back, his two heavies keeping an eyeout for trouble. Veronica follows them and susses out the table.

'I'll deal, anyone needs a helping hand with the pot. It's ten per in cash.' She sits down at the head of the table takes a wad of C's from her bag, then cuts the pack.

'Name the game?'

'Texas hold-em Aces high', says Spats. He slams the door behind him and sits down opposite Veronica.

'You handle those cards like a Casino dealer, what's the angle?'

'Just making a living,' says Veronica. 'Now let's play poker.'

The pimp, makes a call from the pay phone to his stable. Ten minutes later three dames dressed to thrill, take a sailor each and lead him down the hall to the bedrooms, past the tall hooker in the red shoes, who is on her third tar. She has no need for a pimp she can look after herself. The pimp smiles quietly. This he likes, business is picking up. He sees another fly crawling up the door. He opens his flick knife and throws it just as Veronica opens it to take a break. The knife sticks her in the chest. She looks up in surprise then down at her chest. Bright red arterial blood stains her white dress. Before she hits the floor the paramedics enter the room and take her off.

'Fuck', says Doil.

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.'