Chapter 119

I am in a small room somewhere on Mars, maybe. Don't ask me where because I don't know. I was just scammed here. I stepped into my travellator to go to a bar downtown and ended up here. The room is set out like a lecture theatre in the round. All the big cheeses from the IGBI and the IGIA are seated in the front tiers, I am between Doil and Jenny Wizz, in the back row. In the bowl of the room sit the Finks in front of a 4 dimensional model of a Fish Fry. They are messing with the scene, pushing moving holograms through time and space. The movements are played out on a big 3D screens on the walls. They are so quick that it is like a Holovid on very fast forward. I began to feel dizzy and close my eyes. Doil yawns and Jenny reaches for my hand. Are we the only people in this room that think this is absurd? Plus I need a piss.
Suddenly the Finks jump up and the scene freezes, and is then replaced on the screens by names and co-ordinates. The room gives a communal sigh. The Finks shake hands, bow and leave the room. General B. All GM. GS.and Oak leaf, stands up walks over to the frozen scene. Fats with his middle finger on F sharp, the pimp and the hooker on the couch two bulls by the door and Veronica between them.
'Here at last is the final setting for our venture to stop the Universe coming to an end. There will be a debrief in ten minutes for all control room staff. The rest of you are dismissed until needed. That is all.'
'Pompous prick,' says Jenny and stands up. 'I need a drink.'
**************
I don't like going home any more. The apartment is too big and impersonal, What do I need a whole block for? A bed a shower and a piano, is sufficient. Who wants a pool with Dolphins? Dophins are nice people, don't get me wrong, but I don't want them in my pool. When I dive in all I can think of is that Mr and Mrs Dolphin have been fucking in it, and to be honest it puts me off. The basement is full of junk from star ships. The, “It might come in useful”, department of the household. I have to draw the line somewhere, and storing human egg incubators is repugnant to me. If I have children, and that is a big if. I want to do it the old fashioned way, sex and nine months wait. Men can carry an embrio now. It has to be a cesarian, obviously, but the baby comes out healthy and wailing. As I reach my apartment, I see Zeno sitting on the stoop,wearing her ship wreckers outfit. She looks up at me but says nothing, then shifts over and makes room for me. I sit down and light a Camel with my Zippo. This is habit I picked up on Earth, it marks me out as a time traveller, but what the fuck who's watching? Only the whole of Mars. Democracy has it's drawbacks. Anyone can now access the data base of all the cameras, and watch in real time my activity on the street.
So Mr and Mrs Nobody of Nowheresville can watch me smoke a Camel cigarette. Big Deal. Whatever turns them on.

'What's up Zeno, Brian locked you out?'

'No he just drives me nuts, going on about a body all the time. Why don't you just let him have one, and we can all have some peace.?'

'Are you nuts, he's insufferable now, think how pompous and overbearing he will be if he has a body. Mind you I don't have to give him a human form. He could be a Dolphin, or piece of slime. Shall we go in?'

The apartment is eirilly quiet, but I can guess why, Brian has been listening in again. Then he speaks.

'Piece of slime indeed.'

'It's a living thing'

'Not what I had in mind.' Zeno is taking off her work clothes and I am distracted, but Brian is insistent. 'Sir'

'What did you have in mind, Brian'

'We have enough money to buy the best, a copy of the latest Bat Man actor, you know George Clooney MMXI, would be ideal.'

'You know he's not real, don't you?'

'It's difficult to tell who is and who isn't these times.' says Brian with a sigh.

'I'll think about it, Brian, now fix us a drink. I'm going to join Zeno in the shower.'

****************
I am relaxing in my suroundarama lounge watching The Count Basie Band in rehearsal, the 3D image is so real that I can see the needle marks on their bare arms. The Count has a wide grin on his face as the music comes together. I move the control so I have a good view of Basie's fingers. His touch is light but in command. They are half way through Splanky, when Brian interrupts.
'The Agency on the vid, Sir.'
I switch the controller over to incoming. The sleek form of Chico the booker appears. He dresses in the latest Martian fashion, not my taste, too in your face. I turn down the contrast.
'Hi Chico, whats occurring?'
'A late one just come not much Gelt but I think it is up you Strausser.'

'Not Fats Waller, I hope.'
'Right era ish wrong fingers, and it's here on Mars.'
'Spill it Cicho.'
'The President is entertaining a delegation from Earth and needs someone with taste and a sense of occasion to put a band together. Eating music to start with, then dancing.'
'What kind of dancing, give me a clue, is it Fred and Ginger or the Saturn Ring dance?'
'The invite says “Venetian Masked Ball, dress appropriately. Recreation Drugs only”
I think about it for a second.

'OK I'll come as the Duke, he played for The White House, wrote some good tunes too.'
'Chico fades, and I dial up The Duke Ellington Orchestra, to get in the mood.'
In the bedroom I open my desk drawer where I keep my personality chips. Look under D for Duke, but find it under E for Ellington. Thank Mars I'm not a band librarian, it is a nightmare. There are so many tunes beginning with, “The”, or “A”, that some just file them under the second name or third, so “The Theme from Rocky”, would be filed under “Rocky”. Anyway I obviously file Duke under E. I rope in Artie as Ben Webster, and Zeno as Rosemary Clooney and ask Artie to fix the rest of the band, he's more in touch than I am; what with one thing and another.
*************

The band dressed in black tails and me in white, are definitely out of place in the ballroom. All the guests are flamboyantly attired in fifteenth century Venetian courtiers costumes, all masked. The women, because of the anonymity of the masks, show more of their bodies than normal. Nipples rouged and merkins curled. The men sport elaborate cod pieces, in all manner of shapes from snakes to lions heads and the odd uncodded one painted with imaginative designs. The delegates from Earth stand out because of their reluctance to join in the vulgar excesses of the colonists. The meal is over and the band can get stuck into some swing, ballad time behind us. But before we do I improvise over “Mood Indigo”, so the heavy drinkers in the band can take a piss. When all the band is back on the stand, we take off with “C Jam Blues”, which lasts about twenty minutes, by the time all the soloists have taken two choruses. This gets the guests pumping, masks come off and so do some garments. I keep smiling in true Ellington fashion, and the band keep on keeping on. It's a while before I notice a couple not dancing, standing over by one of the large French windows that lead out in to the ornamental gardens. Although masked it is obvious who they are. There is no mistaking the stance of Veronica and the bulk of Doil. I suppose it won't be long before I find out as our stint is coming to an end, the Cuban band is setting up behind the curtain. When we come to our last number, the stage will be rotated around and the Cuban band will appear, segueing from us to them. An old Palais de dance trick, centuries old but still effective. Beats all your modern tricks of fades and laser slide ins. We finish with “Take the A train” and as we turn the Cuban band echo the melody alter the rhythm, bring in the congas and the bits of metal that they rattle, some of the boys can't resist it and join in, especially the trumpet section, who are always a headache. In the words of that great British band leader, Ken Mackintosh, The Sods Opera at the back. In the band room, I turn down the Ellington prosthetics and sling down a double shot of Burbon, and sure enough, Doil enters and beckons me out into the garden. Today the garden is set out like a Venetian secluded courtyard with colonnades and mimosa bushes. Veronica is seated on a bench under a fig tree trimmed like a pompom on a stick. She has removed her mask with the face of a Borgia and her freshly applied lip paint glows like a dying star. My heart gives a leap.
'I don't know who is the handsomest you or the Duke.'
'What's with the compliments? When you two turn up it is always trouble.'
'Have you heard of the I.G.M.I.B.'
'A bit of a mouthful, igmib.' I say it as one word.
Doil gives me a look and Veronica a half smile.
'I.G.M.I.B, are the initials of the Inter Galactic Misinformation Bureau. Their job is to alter any bad news subtly to make it seem a good thing.'
I look puzzled, I am puzzled.
'Give me a for instance.'
'For instance if there is a riot on a minor planet against the legitimate Government and we have to send in the Space Police, we don't want the rest of the planets following suit. So we leak misinformation to the media....' He pauses, but he has lost me already, then continues in case I maybe catch up. '...saying that the Space Police were there to protect the rioters, who had a legitimate grievance, about the Governor’s heavy hand.'
'What if the rioters have released their own side of the story to the Press?'
'We again misinform.'
'Seems very underhand.'
'It's better than Galactic War III.'
'I feel much better now.' I say, sarcastically and wait for them to tell me why is it of any importance to me. Doil obliges.
'Somehow news of the imminent end of the Universe has leaked out, and the I.G.M.I.B., are busy misinforming the Planets that it is not so, just a plot by some outerworld miscreants to destabilize the elected Council.'
'The rabbit is out of the hat and,...(I pause for effect)... don't tell me, you want me to put it back.'
'No we want you to go back to Earth and do some Fish Frys, but this time is it going to be a Blitz of Fish Frys.'
'Ah Super Waller, the Galactic hero to the rescue'
Doil turns to Veronica. 'You tell him'
Veronica taps the bench next to her and I obey, feeling her warmth and smelling her perfume as I sit down.
'You know all those clones you had made.'
'They are safely decommissioned in my lock up.'
'We want them fully working, plus you, plus the real Waller, simultaneously playing a Fish Fry.'
'How is that going to work? You can't have seven Fats Wallers, all being Fats Waller at the same time.'
'Yes we can, it's New York 1935, no surveillance, pay phones or spyflies, you could have a Waller in adjacent blocks and nobody would know.'
Who is she kidding? I've been there and the Bush telegraph on the West side is faster than a Mars news flash.
**************

FISH FRY, Clinton St , Between East Broadway and Delancey St
It's raining, raining so hard that Clinton Street looks like a river. A cop in a waxed coat and hat seeks shelter under an awning which is sagging with the weight of water captured on it. Above the awning is a neon sign that is spluttering on and off. The red part of the sign has given up the battle with water and just the green part flashes the end of the word. “MIST”. The cop hears the sound of a piano across the street playing “Aint Misbehaving,” and steps over to take a look. It has got to be better than getting a soaking. The street is quiet anyways, no one in his right mind would venture out on a night like this. When it rains in Manhattan it rains! He can smell the fish frying, the odour coming through the open window. His gut gives a rumble, he likes his grub this cop, six doughnuts for breakfast is not unusual. His gut is legendary. Large and round, overflowing his serge trousers, which have been especially made for him by a Chinaman on his beat.

FISH FRY Bleeker Street.
Steam and the smell of fried fish billows from the kitchen. A sign on the wall says
CATFISH
$1
BOOZE
10C
The fat man at piano is wearing a Derby hat and a fancy bow tie. His sleeves are rolled up and he has a cheroot in his mouth. His waistcoat has plain red silk on the back, and red and white vertical stripes on the front. On the piano top is a jug of gin. The piano is by the window which is open and the heavy rain splashes into the room. By the door stands a Bull from the Fifth Precinct, legs spread apart, hands in pockets, hat pushed back. The Bulls special is visible under his arm, the holster shiny and slick with use. On the coach sits a blonde with her legs splayed showing red garters. Her shoes are blancoed, with a dirty yellow, showing through. Her pimp, a man from new Orleans, sits on the arm of the couch, legs crossed at the knees, two tones swinging. The piano player a dead ringer for Fats Waller, plays, “Aint misbehaving.”

FISH FRY 49^th and Broadway.
A Black Limo pulls up to the door, of 124, 49^th Street. It gets as near as it can so that the occupants don't get a soaking from the incessant rain. Waterspouts spew glugs of water onto the sidewalk, waterfalls flow from the guttering, the sheets of water are lit by a neon sign across the ways that reads DRUGS, in gaudy red. A silver pump steps out of the Limo followed swiftly by a silk dress, the chauffeur holds a large umbrella over the woman and walks with her to the entrance of the project. She holds her dress above her ankles with white gloved hands, she waits by the doorway for her companion to join her. He is a big man in a long raincoat to his ankles, and a black trilby hat. From the open window on the second floor comes the sound of an upright piano, the tune is “Aint misbehaving.”

Chapter 118

The room smells of fish. By the door to the kitchen is a sign that reads
SATURDAY NIGHT
FISH FRY
$1.50
BRING YOUR OWN BOOZ.
Down the hall way is an open door at which stands a tall high yellow in a Basque and 5 inch heels. Her hair is licked back with a side parting. From her ears hand large brass rings, and she has a tattoo on her arm of a redwing. She is smoking a cheroot and taping her foot to the music. Back in the room, a large black man in a brown Derby and and spotless white shirt, sits at the piano, his wide tie swinging from side to side. On the piano is a jug of gin, just within arms reach. The room is highlighted every minute with a lightning flash. The storm is directly overhead and the boom of the thunder drowns out the music. The window is open and the drapes flap wildly in the wind. The rain falls in continuous rods, flooding the sidewalk. Across from the room is a neon sign that splutters in the wet but gamely reads in alternate red and green “DRUGSTORE”. By the door leaning against the jambs are two bulls from the 5^th precinct. Identically dressed in raincoats and trilbies. They both pack a police special. On the couch sits a blonde with a habit. Her beauty is fading but she still can turn a head. Her red silk dress has ridden up to show a milky thigh above her nylons. One shoe on, one shoe half off, she swings her right leg, crossed at the knee over her left, in time to the music. She had been a dancer once before her new profession, taken up to support her habit. In the back room a high roller game of five stud is in action. No winners or losers yet.
The piano player looks exactly like Fats Waller except for a small slit in his neck into which is placed a chip that makes him an exact copy in mind and mannerism. The cops are called Doil and Getz. They both turn at the noise of footsteps on the stairs. A tall Negro, elegantly dressed, enters and nods at the bulls. They are not interested in him, although he controls all the girls this side of the Broadway, they are just observers, and if needs be, troubleshooters.
The Negro, doesn't need to use muscle, he controls by force of will. The blond sits up and adjusts her dress. He bends over her and puts his hand under her chin and lifts it up so her eyes meet his. Satisfied that she is not too stoned to work he lets her go and sits on the arm of the couch.
'Hey Fats, stop fooling around and give us a tune we can dance to.'
Fats goes into Black Bottom Stomp, flashes a cheeky grin and steps up the tempo. The high yellow leaves her station down the hall and enters the room.
'Business is slow Saul. I need a drink and some eats.' She takes a plate of catfish and lifts the gin jug to her lips, gulping down a good four fingers. As if on cue a bunch of Matelots from the French fleet on courtesy visit, tumble up the stairs. She grabs one, with bench pressed muscles, and takes him down the corridor. His ship mates grin and nudge each other not one over twenty. 'Easy pickings,' say Saul to the blonde. 'Get to work I'll call for reinforcements.'
I've watched all this and have one thought. 'Where is Veronica?'. Through all the many variations of Fish Fry's, Veronica has been a constant. Me and my big mouth. The bench press Matelot enters the room screaming in French. Now my New Orleans Creole knowledge is rusty but the gist of it is that the high yellow is in fact a tranny with a big Dick. The Matelot grabs a chiv from one of his mates and heads of back down the hall. Doil and Getz don't speak Creole, but smell danger when it comes at them, and draw their specials. Just at that moment Veronca climbs the stairs dressed in a black tailored costume and white fur stoll. The high yellow gives the Matelot a sharp jab on the nose and the knife jumps through the air and lands point first in Veronicas chest. Hard to believe I know but seeing is believing. She looks down in disappointment, she has hardly had time to step inside before she is maimed again. Doil and Getz cuff the Matelot, then paramedics arrive and take away the still body of Veronica. I just keep playing, maybe the magic note is in this next riff.
************
It's been a hard day at the office, prossing up as Fats has become something like a 9 to 5 and I'm in need of some relaxation. I can't go home to 1000, Red Sea Boulevard, my address on Mars, as Doil wants me to stay around Manhattan for a while. He says the Finks are on the way to cracking the problem and I need to be on hand. So what to do? I settle for the Stork Club on 10^th. The Man will be pleased to see me and so will Lady Day, who is resident at the moment. I hail a cab and feel a hand on my back.
'Room for another?' It is Jenny Wizz prossed up as a swinger, she could fool most but I have a good ear and recognise the voice. She snuggles up to me on the seat her bead dress falling in folds over her thin frame.
'I know it's you Jenny, they should have changed your voice as well. Who you supposed to be, some chick from the sticks or a bit of class?'
'I'm a dancer in The Broadway Melody 1935, Jack Benny and Sid Silvers are fighting over my favours. We're we going?'
'I'm heading for the Stork Club, didn't invite you.'
'Don't need no invite, me and The Man are acquainted.'
'If you get too close, he'll turn his plastic surgeon onto you, cut you into his latest crush and then dump you.'
'I could do with a boob job, this outfit is a bit too skinny for me, I like a bit more flesh on my bones, but what the hell it's only a body from the pross. Factory.'
I pay the cab off and the bell boy stops me.
'Entertainers round the back.'
'Yes Sir, Boss, sorry Boss, I mistook this for New York.' I touch my hat.
'No offence Fats, but I have my orders.'
Who am I to get this working man into trouble. I give him one of Fats's best eyebrow wriggles and head for the stage door. You get a better class of person through it.
Billie Holiday is on stage accompanied by Teddy Wilson. Jenny and me stand in the wings and take it in. Teddy has the light touch that all accompanist’s should have. Not too many notes just the right ones in the right place. They finish the set with, “Good Morning Heartache” It is achingly beautiful. The applause is sparse. Schmucks!
Me and Lady day go way back, as Fats that is. We went to different schools together.
Teddy and Billie are using the Stork Club to wind down after making an album featuring some of the true Jazz greats of the time, with Roy Eldridge, trumpet Benny Goodman, clarinet Ben Webster, tenor John Trueheart, guitar John Kirby, bass Cozy Cole, drums. It will sell a million with that line up. I'm jealous as fuck. Joe Coolz can only dream of getting a band like that together.
'Hey Fats, though you were appearing at the Reno?' Shit I have to think fast. Is the real Fats really on at the Reno Club? Surely the IGBI would have this covered. I introduce Jenny.
'She's new in town, hoofing it for the Broadway Melody.'
'With that clown Silvers?'
'A very funny man.' says Jenny. 'You know he had about 10 brothers.'
'Now that would keep you on your toes.'
Teddy links arms with Jenny and leads her to the bar. He's a smooth operator on or off the keyboard. Billie looked on edge. Maybe her habit was getting the better of her, on good days her skin glowed as if lit from underneath, tonight she had the frazzled look of withdrawal. I'm a booze man myself so I couldn't help. Billie liked a drink too, but was in need of more than a belt of whiskey. She leans into my ear and whispers with that low smokey voice of hers.
'I'm sick Fats, I can't face the second set.' I can feel her trembling through her thin dress. The air con is on but it's not that cold. I've seen people with the shakes before, mewling and pissing the place, so I tell her to go get straight. I rather she didn't shoot up but I couldn't see her in a mess.
I search for the stage hand and ask if there is another piano in the back. He points to one in the wings, so I have it wheeled on to the platform, nose to nose with the one Teddy was playing. I tell Teddy the plan. Me and him in a battle of notes with Jenny doing the splits.
He laughs. 'Outrageous Man.'
The Man arrives with a Rita Heyworth lookalike. All legs and flaming hair, and rocks on her fingers too big to be real. He sits at his table and crooks a finger. I point at my chest and mouth 'Me'.
'Don't be a schmuck Fats,... come and talk to the man with the Gelt.'
I walk over slow and pull up a chair.
'Did I tell you to sit down. Whatcha doing here anyways. Thought you were at the Reno Club?' (The IGBI must have this conundrum covered.)
'The fire department closed it down for the night, leaves me free to give this show some extra pizzaz. No fee needed.'
One of his gorillas grips my lapels. 'Shall I get rid, Boss'
The Man leaves me hanging for a enough time for me to get the willies. I land hard with my weight.
'Let's see what he has to offer. It's for nix ain it.' The gorilla lets me down slow, brushes my suit off, then taps me twice on the cheek. 'Play nice.'
***************
Well we did “Play nice”. I had to dig deep into my reserves of technique to keep up with Teddy. Jenny played her part by doing the splits in front of The Man and receiving a look from the red head. By then Billy had returned hopped up and ready. I said my goodbyes and left with Jenny. She says we should go back to Mars and see the Finks. But Doil says I should stick around. I can be in two places at once as Fats but as me, Joe Coolz, impossible.
'I think I have be here on Earth, this is where the Fish Frys are.'
'No matter what Doil says the IGBI are not in charge of this operation. The IGIA are running the show and I work for them, so what I say goes. Don't worry about Doil I'll deal with him.'
'And Veronica, I should go see her.'
'The Medics will patch her up good as new.'
'I suppose a fucks out of the question.'
**************
Jenny has a job to do back here on Earth, and that is a hoofer in a Broadway Show. I drop her off at the stage door, and press the return button on my wrist, an instant of ecstasy, then I'm back in the wormhole destableizer. A complete stranger is at the controls, no need to get pally, I go through the debrief scan, head for the pross department and I'm my old self, Joe Coolz, musician. I take a stroll home, it is time for the rain hour, and I want to feel it on my face. At the door to my apartment block, 1000 Red Sea Boulevard, I notice a name change. The block is now called “SCRAPME VILLAS.” As I show my retina to the vid, a voice says. 'Welcome home Joe.' and I am instantly standing in my reception room.
'What's going on Brian?
'Our company Scrap ships Rus, has a cash pool, so I bought the block. On your behalf of course.'
'Why do I need a whole apartment block. There is only me.'
'The block has a change of use.'
'Don't tell me there are scrap space ships in the cellar.'
'Not exactly, just the records of them. The IGRS are nosing around, so I had Zeno bring all the business in house, literally.'
'What happened to nebular computing. Even I know we don't need the records on the premisses. They could be kept on Computer World and we could have instant access.'
'But not instant wiping.' says Brian
I suddenly feel light headed. I ask Brian to fix me a drink and I head for the shower and a good dosing in Ivigo gel. At least the shower is still where I left it. I forgo the invigorating rub down and towel myself dry. As I bend to dry my toes, I feel a hand on my testicles. The touch is gentle but I have immediate ball shrink.
'Hi boss say's Zeno, you've lost weight down there.'
She helps me on with my kimono links her arm in mine a steers me towards the ten seater settee.
'Is this open house or something, can't a man have a bit of solitude without being touched up?'
'Some men would give me a years salary for that kind of introduction.'
She is in her mechanics outfit. Bib and brace, no top, and sky boots. Her hair is cut in a number two, with a red streak from forehead to nape, where she has a tuft, coloured green. No matter how she is dressed or made up Zeno always oozes sex appeal.
'You like it don't you?' She says turning.
'I like you, that is what counts. Are you here as a director of Scrapships, or my girlfriend?'
'Depends if you want a three way conversation, involving me you and Brian, or sex.'
'A conversation with Brian. Fuck no!'
****************
There is no override switch for Brian. He is programmed to turn his sentient self off when I ask him to. Then all but essential services are dormant. But Brian is not any old computer, he has proved himself extraordinary, not that I would tell him of course. However one can not be sure that he is not eavesdropping all the time. Zeno and me are lying side by side in after sex euphoria, when I decide to test him out. (See how I inevitably call him a he and not an it.)
'Zeno, this Brian and a body thing, I think I may have solved it.' Zeno sits up and leans on one elbow. She is incredulous.
'You are letting him have a body. He is insufferable now.'
'This is the plan. I will clone myself and let him have the clone. It would be good to have a double in my circumstances.'
Zeno looks at me as if I have lost it. I wink and put a finger to my lips. A slow smile turns into a grin.
'I think that is a very good plan, Brian will be beside himself.'
We let the thought hang in the air. Then he/it speaks.
'Sir I will be forever in your debt. I won't let you down.'
'I will have to make some minor changes, though, Brian'
'Oh I don't mind, Sir. Just to have a body and walk among you is enough.'
'I can't have you going around shagging all the women clones, so you won't have a penis.'
'I can cope with that, Sir.'
'No balls either, and you will be mute of course.'
Zeno starts giggling.
'Maybe deaf as well, I add.'
Zeno now starts hysterically laughing.
'Oh that's it, it's a big joke. After all I've done for you. Made a zillionaire.'
'Brian what is it you should do when I ask you to turn off.'
'I have to shut down all methods of intrusion into your affairs and........, oh I see, it was a test, to see if I had obeyed you.'
'Which you didn't or else you would not have overheard the suggestion.'
'I will turn off right away, Sir.'
'Too late Brian, now make us some tea.'

Chapter 117

I have the occasional nightmare that all my girlfriends, hookers, and casual partners are in the same room and I have to choose between them. I wake up in a cold sweat, and with a feeling of unease. That is how I feel after Jenny Wizz has jumped on her skateboard and flung herself from my balcony into the Mars night. I pick up the Conn and improvise on a melody that has been touring my head. I would have a swim but the Dolphins have taken more than a liking to my pool and moved in. The melody reminds me of my childhood. Ah, that is it. Three blind mice, I am not the first musician to improvise on this theme, John Dankworth, Coltrain, Biggy Whett, from the colonies. Now me.
Brian interrupts. 'Miss Lake in the lounge, Sir, and Zeno, has paid me a visit.'
Is my nightmare coming true?
The contrast couldn't be greater. Veronica all in white shimmering with her own aura, and Zeno dressed in a bib and brace, work boots and nothing else. They are discussing women's things like the best foundation cream, 'is it the one made from the mud lakes of Gamma III or the one produced by the Nuns on Italia?' They ignore me. Brian puts a Manhattan on the Bechstein, so I sit at the keyboard and play songs from My Fair Lady. Halfway through “Wouldn't it be luverly” Zeno departs, with the words, 'Evening class in dismantling techniques.' Taking with her a red toolbox. Veronica walks over, real slow, and leans on the piano, sticking out a hip. I expect a smile, but she gets serious and asks why I have gone over to the enemy.
'You mean the IGIA.'
'I don't mean the Girl Scouts.'
'They said you were all friends now and we have to pull together to sort the problem. Sounds a sane philosophy to me.'
'If only that were true.'
'What about the Finks and the 4 dimension stuff.'
'You are a bigger fool than I took you for if you think the Finks can come up with a solution. They are geniuses , no doubt about that, but as to resolving where we have failed, I think not. And the IGIA are being conned into bankrolling it.'
'Where does that leave me.'
'You enjoy being Fats and you enjoy his lifestyle, so be him and save the Universe.'
'And the IGIA.'
'Fuck em.'
***************
To complete the circle, Big Sal is sitting on my crown jewels. I'll say one thing for being Fats' he's not short of a few inches. Sal has her eyes closed and is rocking back and forth. The rhythm reminds me of a melody that will be a big hit in the near future. I'm in no hurry and wait for her to finish, which she does with a slight shiver. She steps of the bed and goes to the bathroom to wash. I look down at my body, it's big and dark. Fats' trouser size is twice my girth as Joe. My suits made by Mr Golberg in the Heights hang in the open closet and my shoes lovingly polished by Big Sal are set in a row along the bottom. This is becoming my second home. The fact that I am surrounded by Gangsters of both colour, affects me not. Wasn't I once kidnapped by Al Capone himself and made to play at gunpoint. He had some good whiskey though, and filled my pockets with greenbacks when he dropped me off, so I'm not complaining.
Down in the salon, the Madame is waiting for customers. Business is slow. The fleet has sailed and money is tight.
I tell her to open the door to the street and I'll play some numbers, if that doesn't fill the joint nothing will. Soon the place is rocking, say one thing about Harlem they like a good clambake. I'm joined by Buck Clayton and Milt Hinton. I don't have to ham it up with these cats, they is serious. The Hawk pops in for a blow, but has to scoot as he booked elsewhere.
Now the party's flying I have to beat it myself as the IGBI need my services.
************

Chapter 116

It's great to be home, sleep in my own bed and be surrounded by my pianos. The apartment has expanded somewhat now I am a trillionair, but the essentials are the same including Brian. He feels that I am in a mellow mood and broaches the subject of a body.
'Sir, I know that Brian, is a boy's name, but is there any reason why I couldn't have a body in a female form?'
'Is this a philosophical question or a request?'
'I have noticed that you are in a much better frame of mind when you have female company, and as your obedient servant I wish to please you in every way, I thought if I had a beautiful female body...'
'...we could fuck.'
'No, Sir, not at all, that would be abhorrent to me, I just...' He goes silent.
'Nice try Brian, but no body, OK. Is my sax back from Manny's?'
'By the white Bechstein on the second level. I gave the repairer a tip, as the work is of excellent quality.'
I can't wait to try it out. 'How does One get to the second level?'
'Try the lift.' says Brian with an edge to his voice. If he wasn't so indispensable and making me a vault load of gelt, he would definitely go. I step into the lift and say level two. There is no feeling of movement yet instantly I am on level two. The white Bechstein is by the window that has a view of Manhattan from Ellis Island before the twin Towers were demolished. The Conn is set up on it's stand next to it. I remove the reed and rest it in my mouth for a minute to give it some moisture, remove the excess by pulling it out with my lips closed then fit it back into the mouth piece making sure the tip is just a fraction below the end. OK here goes. I hook it onto my neck strap and adjust the length until the mouthpiece is comfortable in my mouth. Some players like to curl their bottom lip over the teeth, but I like to rest the reed on it, pushing it out slightly. This gives me a rounder sound.
I take a deep breath and blow. The moment of truth. I take it from bottom B flat to top F sharp. Perfect. The room echoes to a sound not unlike Cannonball, or is it Andy Mackintosh? I record the piano part to Del Sasser so that I can play it back and add the sax part. It is not beyond my talents to add the trumpet, bass and drums, but I am so in love with this Conn that I just play it solo until Brian interrupts to say we have a visitor.
I unhook the Conn and place on it's stand making sure that the mouthpiece cap is on. Once as saxman has found a good reed the last thing he wants to do is break it. I enter the upstairs lounge via the lift and step into the arms of Jenny Wizz. Her athletes toned body hugs me and lifts me off the ground. She whispers in my ear the immortal words from “I am the Walrus” 'You've been a naughty boy and let your knickers down,' then she drops me. I am puzzled, what she can mean. 'I've let my knickers down.' With whom, where when?
Is she being enigmatic, or is it a request for a song. I search her face for a clue, but all I see is an incredibly beautiful woman with a blank expression. I start whistling the tune. Brian takes it as cue and puts on the original Beatles track. The lyrics don't make sense, maybe they did to Lennon and McCartney, but to me they are just gibberish, I suppose you had to be there.
Jenny elucidates, 'Metaphorically speaking, it means you have been letting the side down.'
'Who's side exactly?'
'This is a serious business, saving the Universe, and you are treating it like a Holo game.'
'Just doing as I am told, playing the Fish Frys.'
'The IGBI have been too lenient with you, letting you fuck your way around Earth, playing at gangsters.'
'Gangsters! Don't you mean being harassed by gangsters. Every time I play a Fry some gangster pulls a shiv, or a piece, and the whole thing gets bloody. And by the way, why have I been sent to a game world, instead of the real thing. Surely I need to be actually there for it to work.'
'Exactly which is why we are taking over.'
'What no Doil, Smith or Veronica?'
'Oh they will be around, just not in charge, it's our show now. The Fink's are our people and when they have sorted this mess out we can try again.'
'So the IGBI don't need me. I can return to my normal life.'
'That is correct the IGBI have no more use for you.' She pauses for effect. I know what is coming next.
*************
You would think that a serious thing like the end of the Universe would concentrate all the various Bureaus co-operation from the start. From what I can see they have been getting in each others way and hindering the objective. Or am I missing something? The IGBI is basically a policing department and the IGIA, an intelligence gatherer, both answerable to the Galactic Council, which is itself answerable to the various star systems, and so on down to the man on the subway. One being one vote. So in effect they are answerable to me.
That's a laugh, as if I or anyone else lower down the pecking order than a Galactic Councillor, could have a say. Who say's that Fats Waller playing a sequence of notes at a specific time can set of a wave of incidents that avert the end of the Universe? From what I remember form my maths lessons it is not easy to predict anything precisely. Not to a nano sec. Einstein theories still hold true. It is impossible for anything to be accelerated to the speed of light. Because the heat produced in doing so acts as a drag. There is not enough energy in the Universe. So how come no mind, carbon based or artificial, can come up with a solution to this, but has had the idea that me prossed up as Fats can save the implosion?
IT'S FUCKING BULLSHIT

Chapter 115

Headquarters turn out to be a satellite orbiting Jupiter. I am still prossed up as Fats, but he is turned down to an aura, to let myself shine through. Seated around the table is Doil, Smith, Veronica and Jenny Wizz. Next to her is a very tall very thin man with a beard down to his waist and his hair in a pony tail, and next to him a rotund woman with masses of jet black curly hair. They have label badges which read respectively Issy Fink and Rachel Fink. I've heard of the Finks, they are the Galaxy 4 dimensional chess doubles champions.
The room is dark as we have just watched all my Fish Fry gigs in miniature holographics.
When the lights go up we are joined by a ten star general in full dress uniform. He is introduced as General B. All, joint commander of the home fleet and head of the Galactic Council. He speaks first.
'The Finks are here because of their spatial awareness, we want them to assess all the Fish Frys and see where we can improve our chances of playing the right notes. The back room boys have hit a blank. The only thing they are certain off is that only Fats Waller can do the sequence. Mr Coolz prossed as Fats may already have hit the sequence but not at the exact time nor the exact co-ordinates. It is time to stop the wounding of agent Lake, and it is time that the IGBI and the IGIA stopped spying on each other and started to save the Universe.' He sits down and hands the speaking baton to Issy Fink who proceeds to tell us how he will tackle the problem.
'My sister and I will have to view the Fish Frys many times to set the sequence of events and the variants in our minds. Then we will shuffle the pieces around like a game of 4 D chess. Each participant in the settings will have an infinite variation of positions and moves. We will discard anything superfluous and arrive at a simplified scene, with each participant as a chess piece, then we shall play a game, using them and end up with a time place and a course of action. Simple.'
'How long will this take?' asks Doil.
Fink shrugs. 'I don't know.'
Let's hope it's a few weeks. I could do with some time as myself.
************
I'm on the black spot in the WMD and one of the McGee twins is at the console, don't move she says, something doesn't add up. I look down at myself and feel for all the vital parts. Everything seems OK to me. Everything in it's place. But Red is shaking her head.
'Are you Georgia or Texas, I can't tell you apart?'
'Georgia, and be quiet this is serious.'
I have a feel around again. Nope can't see anything wrong.
'The dials say you have just materialised from somewhere in the outer solar system, but you were on Earth, right?'
'Yup good old Earth circa 1935.'
'These dials don't lie you were not on Earth.'
'But you sent me there.'
'I know that is what is so odd. Somewhere down the line you have been diverted to somewhere that is an Earth clone.'
'This is wind up isn't it?'
'Would you mind indulging me, you won't feel a thing. I am going to send you back to these co -ordinates, then bring you back after, what to you will seem to be an hour or so but in reality will be just a second. Have a look around and take note of anything that looks odd or out of place for Earth 1935.'
I am about to protest but I am suddenly on 116^th St outside the pawn shop. In the window behind the steel mesh is a Conn underslung alto sax marked down at $10. A bargain. I am still prossed up as Fats, with the takings from the Stork Club. $10 won't make a dent in it. I push the door open and the smell of dirty clothes and stale cigar smoke hit the back of my throat. The narrow channel to the desk is lined with steel mesh, and what little light gets through the windows is dancing with dust.
'Wadda you want.'
The voice comes from somewhere at the back.
'The horn in the window.'
'It's yours for a dime note.'
'Any discount for a member of the musicians union.'
'If you were in the mothers union, in the buff with tits like melons, and offering me a piece, it would still be ten dollars.'
I put ten ones through the slot in the cage and after a few clangs and the rattling of keys the Conn is taken from the window.
'Come down the side and the horn will be handed to you by my assistant. I don't trust no one not even Fats waller. And don't slam the door.'
I do as he says and the horn is handed to me through a side door by a hand that quickly slams the door shut as I take it. I know, I know Fats Waller doesn't play sax, but Joe Coolz does, and finding a Conn underslung in good condition is like turning lead into gold. Mind you, we can do that now, on Mars. So far all as it should be. A pawn shop with a proprietor who acts like Rod Steiger. Buicks on the street and the Hotel Victoria open for business. I need to grease my corpse, as my ggrease box sounds like a Chevy with a crash gearbox. The waitress takes my order of double ham and eggs with fries. On the table is this morning's copy of The New York Times.
“Ruth recipient of lifetime pass, expresses his appreciation to National League for gift”
Well that sounds authentic enough. The customers look like customers. The waitress has the same sassy ass as she always had and I feel at home. This is Earth. The Worm Hole must have got it wrong. I hope I can get back. If the Worm Hole goes wrong and I end up in a Black Hole, I'll never see hear Brian again, every cloud. The grease arrives and I am just about to put a large piece of ham in my mouth, when I am back in the MWD control room. My hunger is real and I am miffed. Georgia lets me off the black spot and gives me an explanation.
'My mistake, I sent you to New York World. The coordinates only differ by one digit from the real thing.'
'You mean I have been playing Fish Fries in a game.'
'Yes sorry.'
'And all the shootings an' all have been make believe.'
'Fraid so.'
'Does the IGBI know this.'
'The coordinates are theirs.'
'Let me get this down. You sent me to a game world, on the IGBI's instructions.'
'Looks like it.'
'I've got to go home and have a lie down.'
*************
Brian, 'Had a good day at the office, Sir'
Me, 'Shut it Brian and fix me some ham and eggs.'
I go down to the pool and the Dolphins are having sex. Another Dolphin in a hover bubble is making a porn holo for distribution. Sex between Dolphins making a porno is not illegal, sex with Dolphins is, so I take my leave before they ask me to make it a threesome.
My ham and eggs are ready and waiting on the counter. I demolish them as if I hadn't eaten since Christmas.
'Feeling in a better temper now Sir,' says Brian. And you know what I am. My mood has lightened, I take the Conn out from it's case and fit a Meyer 5 mouthpiece with a 3 reed onto the crook. If all the pads are in good order it should play like a dream. I try a two octave run in C. Well it plays but more than one pad has dried out and leaking air. An old pro's remedy for this is to hold it under a faucet and let the water run through it and give it a good soaking, but if it has been in the pawn shop as a prop for a few years it will need more than that.
'Brian get this sax to the repairers and have it re-padded, back tonight.'
'Yes Sir. Manny's or Lewington's.'
'Manny's' I have an account with them. Well in 1935 I did.

Chapter 113

When I get back to the cat house, I am dragging my knuckles on the floor with tiredness. I've been on the go for twenty hours, first the fish fry, then the debrief in the precinct house and finally the Stork Club. I am greeted by Saul Brown, looking fresh and sparkling. The Cat lounge is quiet with just the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
Saul pours a whiskey and hands it to me.
'Hear you've been with The Man.'
'Can you smell him on me?'
He laughs. 'The barkeep, with the latin looks, he's my eyes down there.'
I flop down into a chair and take a good pull on the shot.
'Relax, it suits me, if he's taking money it stops him hankering after my business. I like him to stick to his own territory. You made a good deal, maybe now you start paying rent. I think maybe half of your percentage is fair. Like an agents fee so to speak. You can keep the tips.'
Easy come easy go, I end up with seven and half per. Better than nothing and I still have all my fingers.
***************
I'm in bed with Big Sal. I can see my suit hanging over the chair with my loud broad tie around the collar and my Derby hat on the seat. My shoes are tucked neatly under it, laces still tied. The chair is a Lois XIVth copy. I have on my socks, under vest and pants. Sal is naked. She is sitting astride me combing my hair. As she moves the comb backwards through my hair, her breasts slap into my face. I am not complaining. When she has finished she shows me the result by holding a silver hand mirror up to my face. I have a side parting as straight as the highway across the desert, but my moustache needs a trim and my chin has a five o clock shadow. Five p.m. That is.
'Time to go to work Fats, I have clients waiting.'
This is the signal for me to rise and get my shit together. Sal runs me a bath and I shave in the tub. Then take my leave. The Diner awaits. I am almost salivating at the thought of ham and eggs and all the trimmings. In the lounge is Saul Brown and the Madame.
'Hey Fats give us a tune before we die of boredom. Business is so slow, I could chew my own fingers down.'
'I need some grease first, give me an hour and I'll do a set before I go to the Stork Club.'
'Sal looking after you?'
'No complaints, this house could do more like her.'
'You test 'em I'll hire 'em.' Says Saul. 'And give The Man my regards, tell him to keep out of my patch.'
I don't answer as I have no intention of upsetting The Man. He has a vicious nature and I like counting to ten.
The Diner is half empty and those seated are mostly muso's. I greet my side men in turn. Slick Jones on skins, Al Casey Git box, Cedric Wallace on doghouse. Me and Slick go way back, he knows my music and how to keep up the tempo, and what is more to the point he is pleased with the green backs coming his way. So I am the pay dirt kid for now. My grease, is served up fast and gratis, thanks to Slick. The ham goes down a treat, with the eggs and fries. Three cups of coffee and I am a new man. Ready for the Stork Club and hopefully a full house. We grab a cab down town, paying extra for the bull fiddle, as the driver says, 'It's bigger than my misses, she takes up two seats.' We pay the extra and stop outside the club. In neon, in ten foot letters is my name.
EXCLUSIVE FOR 4 WEEKS
FATS WALLER.
GRAND OPENING TONITE
9 O CLOCK
The queue is around the block. If I need any justification for being on Earth in 1935, this is it. My side men dig it too. This is going to put bread on the table. We have the usual hassle of using the main entrance, 'cos we is black', until I point out that it is my name in lights and unless we go in there will be no show. The slime ball on the door steps aside and we go in past the hat check, through the bar across the dance floor and onto the stage. Slick's drums are set up and he sets about tuning them. Cedric unwraps his fiddle and plays a slow walk as a warm up. Al picks up the groove then Slick. I like this they are in love with the music, and it bodes well for the set. It's too early for The Man, but some of his soldiers are in attendance. They eyeball us, but we ignore them as little more than roach's. The waitress comes over with drinks, she's a looker with a bit of class. Slick has an eye for the ladies and gives a low whistle. She rewards him with a smile, a wink, and flick of the hips. Slick rolls the snare and ends it with a kick on the bass drum. Corny but effective. Babs is by the bar, with a highball in her hand, I walk over and kiss her hand.
'My arn't we the Gentleman?'
I schmooze her after all she is The Mans barbecue. She looks in good nick too. No bruises showing, red nails, sleek hair and rocks on her fingers. If it wasn't for the Bronx accent she could pass for Veronica.
'A Lady needs to be treated like a Lady.'
Her hair drops over one eye, as she nods appreciation and I ask how it is that she has slipped the leash. Her reply astounds me. She is no longer The Mans squeeze. He has swopped his fetish for Veronica Lake to Ginger Rodgers, but as Babs owns half the club, she needs to keep an eye on her assets.
'I may let him buy me out at the end of your run. I should get a good price.' She laughs. 'Or he may slug me and drop me in the Hudson.'
The house is filling up and there is a nice buzz in the joint.
I start with “Don't let it bother you” to cheer Babs up, then go into 'Moppin and Boppin” which starts with a drum solo by Slick. In the future Fats will record this with Slam Stuart on bass, but Cedric does it justice.
Halfway through the set The Man enters and sits at his table. With him is a Ginger Rodgers look-a-like, then I take a second look and see that a Fred Astaire clone is with her. Maybe it's a dance act? I look over at Slick and he raises his eyebrows and nods towards the table. It's etiquette in these clubs to give a heads up to any celebrities that make an appearance, if they are not the real thing, then it will be embarrassing and possibly dangerous. But what the fuck. I stand up and point to The Mans table.
'Ladies and Gentlemen, we are privileged to have a famous dance partnership in our midst. Miss Ginger Rodgers and Mr Fred Astaire.' The other tables give them a standing ovation. Fred Astaire stands up and bows graciously and comes over to me.
'Play me a quickstep, 'Let's face the music and dance,' know it?
Know it I fucking wrote it, another tune that was ripped off from me, but then he's not to know that Irvin Berlin was stuck for a show stopper, so he took one of my melodies and stuck some words to it. Fred sings. 'There may be trouble ahead.' Glides over to The Man's table and takes Ginger's hand. They give us the full routine. As Ginger famously said 'I do everything Fred does, but backwards.' I have to admit it was good, backwards or forwards they could really lay some iron. They are some very cool dudes. Neither seems to break sweat, or breathe heavy. No ersatz copies could do it like that, so I must conclude that they are the real thing. Follow that! I don't think we can so I announce a short break and head for the bar. I'm chewing the fat with the Latino Barkeep, Saul's eyes and ears, when Astaire taps me on the arm and leans in close. Oh ho, I think, here comes the put down, upperty Nigger playing the MC. But no he wants to congratulate me on my playing, and buy me a drink. A heavy tip would be welcome too, I live in hope. Fred and Ginger, make an early exit. No lingering goodbyes, but a tip of the hat and a so long. Are they missed? Not by the drinkers, as they have come to see me, Fats Waller, it's my name up in lights not Fred and Ginger.
Come 3 'o clock, only the band and The Man are left. He has drunk heavily on champaign and whisky, not a match made in heaven. Fortunately Babs is on hand to wheel him away, then it is just me and the band. Or so I think. Doil and six uniforms burst in and look around with looks of. 'Where is everybody?' Doil tells the uniforms to leave and leans on the bar, pushes his hat back and says. 'Mine's a Jack on the rocks.' I play some Bach and look serious. The last thing I want is another Fish Fry, especially as I have a high paying gig for a month. But that is me thinking like Fats. Thinking like Joe Coolz, I don't need the bread as I have a thriving scrap spaceship business.
'Having fun here playing for The Man?' says Doil.
'It's a living.'
'Well we need you back at headquarters.'
'Where exactly is headquarters?'
Doil answers by cuffing me.
'Nothing to worry about fellas', I shout to Slick. 'The precinct want me for a charity do. Their idea of a surprise.' I feel the chip in my neck give a little buzz.

Chapter 112

I am in the 5^th precinct. I am not under arrest, I am here under my free will. I have come to tell Doil that there may be a price on my head and he has to do something about it. The fact that I am loyal to the IGBI must count for for something, me reporting to him an all, what went down with Jenny Wizz of the IGIA.
'Load of fucking interfering fuckups.' says Doil. 'Once they are involved you can be sure that any operation will go tits up.'
'What about me.' I say.
'You are a king pin in our operation, if you don't come up with the correct sequence of notes we can all say goodbye to life.' He bangs the table to emphasise the point.
'I will have to report this to the council, and they will deal with it, meanwhile we will put all your DNA, mind, and memories into the regeneration database just in case.'
'Oh very reassuring.'
'What's not to like, if you die we bring you back. Not everyone is guaranteed that. Some politicians would die for that.'
Doil laughs at his own joke, I just go cold.
I am waiting for a cab in Mott Street, when a limo pulls over and driver says to get in. I peer into the back and The Man is patting the leather next to him. I get in, what the hell?
He takes me to his headquarters, The Stork Club. It is empty.
'Look around you Fats and take it in.' I do as I am told and see empty tables, empty bar, staff with empty eyes.
'I need something to pull in the punters, and I figure you can do that for me.' I look surprised considering our past history.
'We can let bygones be.' He shrugs, 'When it comes to business I am the forgiving type. I give you a four week residency and you can name your price.'
Naming my price would entail him dead and me free do as I wished. I take my time.
'Does it have to be me? What about that Limey key man who filled the joint?'
'You heard about that. Yeh he was good but a nobody, a no name a a fly by night fucking Limey Bastard.'
'Phew he certainly doesn't like him, better stay as Fats for a while.'
'I would like to help you out but I am booked up.' (As for as the IGBI is concerned that is.)
'So unbook.'
'It will cost.'
'So surprise me.'
'I choose my own side men.'
'Deal.'
'They get union rates plus 50%, double time over 2 am, all drinks and food supplied from the menu. And a ride home.'
'Deal.'
I am on a roll so I ask for twenty percent of the takings. He haggles me down to fifteen but I would have taken ten, so the deal is struck.