“But hanging back and waiting is playing it Girls Rules,” he growled in a sudden anger that made the cat jump. “This crise has got to be attacked with action, which means I’ve got to find her first. How? I don’t go looking for her. I go out with a blank mind, thinking nothing, and wait for her to happen to me. I keep every sense open and, by God, the antipattern must force her happening.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Search
For ‘tis a truth well known to most;
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In every cranny but the right.
—William Cowper
He left the Beaux Arts to drift aimlessly through the Jungle-Mother, at random, without design. And yet Winter’s serendipity imposed an unconscious pattern on him. If you can recognize it, send in your answer and you may win one of five giant cash scholarships to the Solar School of Sleuthery.
He ran into Ching Sterne, editor and publisher of Solar Media, who was carefully avoiding stepping on the pavement cracks to protect his money.
“Rogella, bubie! What are you doing out, at large? You should be sweating over your hot computer. Bologna deadline, remember?”
“I’m not going to meet it, Ching.”
“Oi!”
“I’ve got personal problems.”
“Since when did you ever let a girl stand between you and a check?”
“How’d you know it was a girl?”
“A woman’s the only thing that can make a man forget money.”
“Any idea who she is, Ching?”
“No. The only idea I have is splitting her skull. You’ve never missed a deadline before, Rogue.”
“She’s worth it.”
“No girl’s worth it. Damn her, now I’ll have to reschedule. Love? Pfui!” and Sterne continued toward the Media offices, still avoiding dangerous cracks.
Winter noticed a mule tethered before the “Forty-Mule-Team Tavern,” which had been watching the encounter with stolid concentration. He went to the animal and spoke softly. “Demi? Demi?” He pulled the gold seal ring out of his pocket and displayed it. “Here’s your engagement ring, Demi. State flower of Virginia. Would you like to try it on?”
No response. The mule continued gazing off at nothing. Winter made a face and was about to drift on when he saw a ranch brand on the animal’s flank. It was a circle over a cross which might almost be a sunburst. He was startled and induced to enter the tavern, maybe to have a drink, and jigjeeze if there wasn’t Hasty Harry bending the ear of the blonde bargirl.
Harry was a colleague, a brilliant writer who talked the greatest story in the world but—for whatever reasons—could never deliver. He lived entirely on the advances and loans he received for his persuasive proposals. Consequently he was constantly on the run from editors clamoring for their stories, and creditors hollering for their money. He was into Winter for five thousand.
“Hey Rogue—Hi Rogue—Whatchadrinkin’?” Hasty Harry’s delivery was in machine-gun bursts. “JustbeentellinBlondiehere—Gottagreat story—Circulatinglibrary—forbrains—Renta brainfor anypurpose—Have it stuckinya skull—dig—But this guy—he’sthreemonthsoverdue—onnis rent—so theywanna repossess—”
“And you’re three years overdue on my five yards, Harry.” He turned to the bargirl. “Straight ethyl on the rocks, please.” Then he noticed she was wearing a sunburst pendant on a chain. Again startled. “Demi?” he asked.
“Martha,” she smiled as she served him.
“That fivegrandbaby,” Hasty Harry said. “Nocando—brokebustedbankrupted—But—Gotta great offerfrom Brazil—onnascriptIsoldem—Thisguycomesintathistown—Hassagreatbash—Townfallsalloverhim—Moneywomenhonors—Findsoutitsadead ghosttown—Lonely—Try’nto keepimthere—Makemillions—OnlyIgottahire Portugeesytranslator—”
It cost Winter another loan to learn how “The Town That Haunted a Man” turned out.
“Poor Harry,” he muttered as he left the tavern. “All he can do is sell his stories. Why can’t he ever write ‘em?”
He stopped thinking and drifted aimlessly, senses receptive but not searching. Then he became aware of a sound following him, a tap-tap-tapping. He stopped and turned curiously. It was a tall, slender figure, dressed in tatters with a ski hood over the head and a tap-tap-tapping cane in one hand. A sign hanging from the neck read:
DEVOID OF FACULTY
OF SPEECH & SIGHT
PLEASE HELP
There was a cup attached to the sign. The woolen ski hood had no eye or mouth openings. It was decorated with a woven Swedish design of a sunburst.
Winter waited for the beggar to tap up to him, then clanked coins into the cup and asked, “Demi?”
“Thah yuh,” came the muffled reply. “Ah Bah-Bah-Rah.”
“Barbara?”
“Yah. Ah Bah-Bah-Rah. Gah blah yah.”
And Winter watched her tap-tap away down the jostling street, quite unaware that he was being subjected to an artful exploration by Perce the Peacock.
Perce was a dip and preposterously vain. He blew half his take on clothes; Old Scottish cashmere in winter (he always claimed that he personally shot the cashmeres) and printed silk crêpe de chine in summer. He wore pearl necklaces and pearl dog collars (gold or platinum metals might sound a warning with their tinklings) but, of course, nothing on his slender wrists and fingers.
Unhappily for Perce, this day he was wearing a diamond-and-sapphire wedding band which he had liberated the week before. It was so glorious that he couldn’t resist the temptation to flash it, despite the fact that it was two sizes too large. Alas, when Perce withdrew his hand with Winter’s wallet, he discovered that he had left the ring behind in Winter’s pocket.
Perce was appalled. He followed the ambling Winter, wondering what to do. He glanced through the wallet but didn’t even bother to count the cash. To hell with it, there would always be another to lift; he wanted his beautiful ring. He snarled at a blind beggar clinking a cup, but that inspired a plan. He caught up with the drifting Winter, stopped him, and proffered the wallet.
“Scuse me, mister. This belong you? I think maybe you drop it, huh?”
Again a startle. Perce’s crêpe de chine was printed with a sunburst pattern.
“Dem—” Then Winter stopped himself. Obviously not. He took the wallet and examined it. “Yes, this is mine, by God. How did I—? I can’t thank you enough. Perhaps a reward? Name it.”
“No reward, sir, but—but, well, I was look for a ring I drop, my wife’s, which is how I happen to find your wallet. I—Did you maybe find a ring?”
“Sorry,” Winter smiled. “I wish I could return the favor, but I didn’t.”
“Oh, sir, maybe you do and forget?”
“Not a chance. Sorry.”
“Could happen, sir. You look absent-in-the-mind type. Maybe pick up and put in pocket without remember? You look, huh? Wife’s. Diamond and sapphire. Just look, huh?”
Not very bright, really, but his hands did most of the thinking for him.
“Hi! Nig!” Winter shouted. “Wait a minute!” Then, to Perce, “Sorry. Thanks again,” and he galloped across the road to join a charming albino lady complete with dark shades for her red eyes, wide-awake hat to protect her head, and full-sleeved body sheath to guard every inch of her skin against the sun. Nigelle Englund. Winter remembered well what was being protected by that sheath.
“Doctor,” he whined, “I got like holes in my head where I got kicked by a mammoth on Ganymede. Is there any hope for the mammoth?”
Nig laughed. She was a vet, analyst, specializing in the hang-ups and neuroses of the bizarre crossbred pets of the Solar, which produced some beauties. “No more Shrink City, Rogue,” she said. “I am now the Den Mother.”
“Who den? What den?”
“The city zoo. I’m the Gnädige Direktor.”
“Jigjeeze! And to think I knew you when.”
She gave him a look which he could feel stingi
ng him through her dark glasses. “Let’s zig it, tall, dark and handsome. The zoo is nudgering me.”
Then he noticed the sunburst rims of her shades. “Demi?” he asked.
“What?”
“You researched me, Demi. Maybe you heard about me and Nig?”
“The last time, Rogue,” she said in hard, level tones, “it was, ‘Solar’s sending me to Titan, love. Back in five weeks.’ What’s this Demi swindle now?”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Sorry. I’m loose in the brain. Just quoting a line from a story I’m working on. Leave us take off for your animal farm, if you don’t mind crazy company. God knows, I need a little aid and comfort right now.”
“Not from me, loverboy. You can pour your heart out to the animals. They’re a captive audience.”
He cruised the natural habitats (the zoo was powerfully environment-minded); kudu, dingo, onager…
“Demi?”
“Demi?”
“Demi?”
No response. He stopped to watch a crowd of kids, visitors from all over the Solar, laughing, cheering and jeering at a remarkable life-size marionette show. The EcoArgument: This dirty, rotten ringmaster (HISS!) tortures animals into leaping through burning hoops, juggling, and riding contraptions, with a red-hot whip. (BOO!) Then a determined ape rebels, (CHEERS!) the other animals join the revolt, (HOORAY!) and they overpower the vicious ringmaster (LAUGHTER!) and force him to perform their antics with his own whip. (JEERS!) Music: “Carnival of the Animals.”
Winter wandered on; tatousy, dziggetai, geeko…
“Demi?”
“Demi?”
“Demi?”
Nothing. Babirussa, colugo, bandicoot, kiang, eft, peba…
“Demi?”
He was only half-hoping anyway. He stopped to watch a magnificent maritime carousel; sea horses, porpoises, whales, dolphins, giant mollusks, friendly sharks, and even an obliging octopus, all ridden by kids from the Solar (plus a few unashamed adults) to the music of “La Mer,” emphysema’d on the calliope. He was slightly startled to see the blind beggar mounted on the octopus, waving her cane in time to the music.
“Reminds me of the coronation joke,” Winter thought and resumed his random walk. Tiger, snow leopard, giraffe, catamount, lynx, dromedary, puma, cougar; and in a veld of black panthers, one came up to the barrier and regarded him with such soulful yearning that he was almost convinced.
“Demi, it has to be you. Yes? Now come on out, love, I’ve got a reward for you. Look. Your engagement ring.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a diamond-and-sapphire wedding ring.
He hooted with laughter; he’d twigged the entire caper in a flash. “Demi, if it’s really you, come out and share the joke.” But the panther had turned away. Winter searched to be sure he also owned the seal ring. “There’s only one thing I can’t dig,” he chuckled as he left the zoo, tossing the wedding band, “and I’ll have to ask the little punk sometime. I suppose he has a police record. I can look him up.”
There was no need. At the gate he collided with Perce and a tall, thin legal eagle, bursting in as though in hot pursuit, which indeed they were. “That’s him!” Perce cried, and without preliminary the eagle pointed the accusing talon of a district attorney at Winter and harangued him about stolen property, lawful pursuit, legal search, writs of replevin, and court action with damages.
Winter grinned and tossed the ring. “Quick work. What’s your name?” he asked the dip.
“Perce.”
“Perce what?”
“Just Perce.”
“Counsel claims this is your ring?”
“My wife’s.”
“How’d I get it? Found it?”
“You never!” Perce was indignant. “You pick my pocket when I give back wallet.”
“Do shut up, counselor,” Winter advised the ranting legal eagle. “Tell you what, Perce. Let’s drop the charges and countercharges. I’ll return the ring if you’ll tell me one thing.”
“What?”
“How in hell could you drop it when you were lifting my wallet?”
Perce actually blushed. He hesitated until he was reassured by Winter’s warm glance. “Slip off. Too big.”
Winter was grateful for his second laugh in an infuriating day. He handed Perce the ring. “Shouldn’t wear it in your line of work. Going to rip the streets again?”
“No action,” Perce confided. As usual, Winter had made another instant friend. “Better the carny, you think, huh?”
“Gig, Perce,” Winter smiled. “Let’s go.”
CHIEF RAINIER’S
INDIAN CARNIVAL
Russian trained bears, Swedish gymnasts, German Tanzsaal, Gypsy fortune-tellers, Basque pelota, Hindu magicians, Italian bocce, Turkish delight, French pastry, Alaska seals, English dog races—about the only thing Indian in the carny was Chief Rainier himself who was guarding the front entrance, resplendent in war bonnet, war paint, and breechclout. The baton he used to point out the attractions was a tomahawk.
“How!” he grunted. “Where sun rise, white man’s land. Where sun set, red man’s land. This red man’s land. Ugh! Me pay all tax. Me got all license. Red man smoke peace pipe. Why white man police come scalpum red man? Want more wampum? Ugh! No can do. Chief Rainier’s tepee empty.”
“But we’re not the fuzz, chief,” Winter said. “We’re just plain paying customers.”
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Forgive me,” Chief Rainier apologized. “I’ve been much harassed by officials who, I’m sorry to say, come crunching for payoffs. What poet said, Temptation hath a music for all ears’? Come in. Enter. Box office on the left. Enjoy yourselves.”
“Now that’s a good Indian. How could you possibly rip his show?” Winter asked, but Perce was already gone about his business. “Dedicated,” Winter murmured, making sure the seal ring and wallet were still with him.
He wandered, admiring clowns, contortionists, tumblers, sword-swallowers, snake-charmers and, particularly, an “Ecumenical Belly-Dancer” God save the mark! The carnival catalyzed remembered laughter of Rabelais:
The Games Of Gargantua
Then the carpet being spread, he played
At the chess.
At blind-man-buff.
At trump.
At the beast.
At nivinivinack.
At the hardit arsepursy.
At the tarots.
At thrust out the harlot.
At bumdockdousse.
At rogue and ruffian.
At the unlucky man.
At the unfortunate woman.
At the torture.
At the last couple in hell.
And suddenly Rabelais didn’t seem so funny.
Then, alongside a hairy Bulgarian fire-eater who was also billed as a fire-walker, he saw a tent with a lurid banner. It displayed a smiling sun which was unquenchably Paddyfaced and whisky-red. Each of the twelve green flames bursting from the sun ended in a sign of the Zodiac.
MADAME BERNADETTE—SEES ALL—KNOWS ALL
“An Irish gypsy,” Winter exclaimed. “A tinker!”
He entered the tent just in time to hear a whale cough next door and see a fireball bounce on the tent roof and explode. He heard wild shouts. Evidently the Bulgarian had goofed. The ancient, dry plastic flared like tinder, blasting down heat and smoke. The tinker crone was clutching her crystal ball and staring up at the inferno as though it was the wrath of God. By the time Winter got her out they were both charred and steaming, but she never let go of her crystal ball.
“You should be Aquarius,” he told Madame Bernadette, “or else insured. If you’re Demi, serves you right. Are you Demi?”
No answer. He shoved through the excited crowd, left the carnival and limped to ffunky ffreddy’s ffashions, where he negotiated for an instant replacement of his wrecked clothes under a sign warning him that ffreddy was guarded against shoplifters by Vigilant Video, Inc. To drive the point home, their logo was a sun with an eye in it and a motto printed aroun
d it like a solar corona: While We Watch, You’re Never In The Dark.
Ffunky ffreddy’s advertised in Solar Media and Winter was recognized as a celebrity. They were delighted to help him clean up and fitted into new clothes. He was refreshed and grateful when he left the tailor shop, yet wrapped in a thunderous gloom over the failures of that exasperating day and furiously uncertain about how to cope with the disaster into which he and Demi had been plunged. A distant tap-tap-tapping sounded like time running out.
Then three Triton soldiers hit him.
Winter raged past the two apprentices in the orchestra salon and burst into my studio where I was struggling with the reluctant virginal, still trying to get it up to true concert pitch. He looked like a Cockney “Pearly King,” said pearls being his skin showing through rents in his wrecked clothes. He was so furious that the sunbursts on his cheeks glowed. Every inch the killer king, or a mad bull sea lion (Eumetopias lubeta) in search of his harem.
“All right, Odessa,” he growled. “Your plan of op. Let’s have it.”
“Sit, baby, and cool it. I think maybe you need a drink.”
“I’ve had enough today to launch a fleet.” He was shaking. “What’s the plan?”
“Drink,” I said firmly and rang. He glared. Barb came in, carrying a tray with one hand, tap-tap-tapping her cane with the other. That froze him. He gaped at her, at me, and would have sank onto nothing if I hadn’t shoved a chair under his butt.
THE DECEIVERS Page 11
