by Marvin Kaye
“Pay it to the order of the Bow Street Institute.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“Nonsense, Watson, nonsense.”
The great detective turned his back to us and stared silently out the window of his lodgings until we left. I looked up at him and waved before entering my coach. His only answer was a stiff bow.
That is the last time I ever laid eyes on Mr Sherlock Holmes.
d
Let Them Eat Cake, by Jean Paiva
S
helly Fullerton grimaced at the first sip, peering into the paper cup with a puzzled expression. “What is this, California Cooler? I asked for water.”
“What’s a California Cooler?” Jake Marks asked as he poured a fresh cup for himself. “It tastes like wine to me.”
“It is wine,” George DeBussy said as he spit out a mouthful, “and I’m Alcoholics Anonymous. I put the water on the table myself. Who’s the wise guy?”
Four members of the East Salisbury Theatre Group sat at the large oval table in George’s dining room, budgets and proposals in organized disarray before them. George looked around the table, an angry glint sparking his normally mellow mood — a state of mind attested to by the “One Day At A Time” and “Take it Easy” slogans framed behind him. To George, the prank was dangerous and could trigger his return to chemical dependency.
Shelly had her nose back in budgets, six months of performance plans, actors’ fees, copyrights and royalties, stagehands and prop costs kept her fingers flying over the portable solar powered calculator. Her cup stood, untouched except for the first sip, behind the whizzing machine spewing out a ribbon of numbers that never seemed to balance.
Jake Marks, the group’s Director, had swilled his second cup and was already reaching for a third. “Don’t look at me,” he said to George, “I haven’t had enough spare change for a bottle of wine all week. In fact,” he continued, tapping a finger on Shelly’s calculator to get her attention, “I was hoping to walk out of here with a few dollars in my pocket for groceries.”
“I don’t think Miss Fullerton has been able to pay our utilities bill for the last season,” intoned the group’s aging featured thespian, Hal Sparta, a minor star of years back. “If I didn’t own a delicatessen, I wouldn’t have groceries.” Reaching for his untasted cup, Hal took a deep swallow. “And you can rest assured that I wouldn’t have purchased this inferior wine, no matter how inexpensive it was.”
“Is there any more where this came from?” Jake asked, tipping the empty pitcher over. “I mean, I’m sorry George and all that, but why look a gift horse in the mouth?”
“You’re right,” George said, quickly grabbing the pitcher and heading for the kitchen sink. “About finding out where this came from. I filled this pitcher at the sink and added the ice.” The sound of the tap turning and running water soon followed.
“It’s coming from the kitchen tap,” George announced. “Hot and cold running wine. I don’t even have to taste it — I can smell it.”
The group crowded into the small kitchen, Jeff reaching for the container of straw colored liquid. “This’ll put a dent in Gallo Brothers stock, for sure,” he said as he sipped directly from the pitcher.
Tapping her chin with the now blunted pencil, Shelly continued to look at the running faucet. “Someone must have tapped into your line from outside, George. It’s got to be a joke.”
“Pretty expensive for a joke, I’d say,” Hal Sparta rolled the vowel-laden words off his silver tongue. “But another glass, purely for testing purposes, of course, would be fitting. Why let it all run down the drain?”
“The bathroom water is clear,” Shelly called from the next room. “The sink is running real water and,” a pause and the sounds of an ancient handle being turned, “so is the tub.” Shaking her hands dry, she concluded, “It’s only the kitchen sink that’s affected.”
Twelve eyes riveted on the aromatic flow bubbling from the open tap.
“Turn it off, it makes me nervous,” Shelly said.
“Either that or put a pot under the flow to save some,” Jake noted. “What a waste.”
George reached out and turned off the tap. “What the hell is going on?”
“George,” Hal Sparta rolled the name out, milking it for every nuance. “Perhaps putting a pot under it isn’t such a bad idea. After all, some of us do consume the beverage and it would be nice, for a change, to have our cellars stocked. So to speak.”
“Did you always have that purifier on your faucet?” Jake pointed to the chrome and white plastic attachment appending the unit at the end of its long metal arm; a detachable cylinder, for easy cleaning, containing a filter device noticeably protruded.
“About a month, and it was working fine. I could taste the difference in the water — the fruity taste was gone.” George puzzled at the faucet. “Until today.”
Momentarily mesmerized by the gleaming attachments, the small components taking on a life of their own, the group stood silent. Within seconds of each other eight hands reached for the questioned mechanisim, eager to discover the secret it held.
The filter now lay in pieces, each section carefully inspected by six pair of curious hands. The faucet, when run without the unit, ran cool clear water.
“With all of us checking, I don’t think we missed anything,” Jake bemoaned, “and there’s nothing that could account for the water into wine bit. If we could figure it out we could make a fortune.”
“What’s this piece?” Hal asked, any dramatic gestures momentarily suspended as the strange reality took precedence, and held up a small flat black disc. No more than an eighth of an inch thick, the component was, nonetheless, heavy. Tossing the disc on George’s weight-watcher scale it registered in at three ounces. “Pretty solid little thing.”
“I took this out of the unit,” Shelly helpfully added. “It was in between that part and that gizmo.”
“Very good, babe. Your precise description leaves me in awe of your mechanical skills.” Jake put his arm around her to take some of the sting out of his jibe. Picking up the disc he held it up to the light. “This thing is solid. No water could pass through this. It can’t be part of the filter.”
“I took it out and I’m positive it was right between these two pieces.” Picking up the cylinder and the tap attachment, Shelly pointed to the joint where the disc had fallen from.
“It’s not part of the unit. I installed it myself last month. Besdies, it’s solid. The water wouldn’t be able to flow through it.” George was interrupted by his ringing phone and went to the living room to take the call. Before any of the others had a chance to begin speculating, he was back in his kitchen.
“That was Harry. Apologized for not making the meeting, then asked me, in sort of a roundabout way, if anything odd was happening. I told him about the water, joking. He said the same thing was happening at his place. He doesn’t have a filter but is taking the faucet apart now and said he’d call back.”
Long minutes ticked away on the kitchen clock before the phone rang. This time everyone filed back into the living room to hear the conversation.
“Yeah, a little black thing … We found one, too … That’s it, solid and heavy … I have no idea who could have messed with it … Hang onto yours, we’ll bring them to the university and maybe they can figure it out … Okay … I’ll pick you up now … this meeting is shot … Jake can’t even see straight … Bye.”
* * * *
T
he short ride to Salisbury University was not normally considered particularly scenic, a curving road first through East Salisbury, then met on both sides by farmlands, but today the distractions were numerous. Shelly Fullerton had abandoned all efforts to balance the group’s meager budget and insisted on coming along. Jake, as expected, had continued his rapid consumption and was last seen in a reclining position somewhere between the living room and front door. Hal, his merchandising side shining gallantly through what others would fear, was filling every possible c
ontainer with the pungent and potent liquid.
After picking up Harry Eames in his own manicured community, George headed to the campus via the town route. At the Texaco station, the owner and proprietor, Dean Smyth, barely stood on his own, supported by the large high octane pump. Waving merrily at the passing cars, Dean refreshed himself from the small canteen slung across his chest.
The Missus Cransdales, widowed sisters now referred to by their maiden names, sat rocking on their porch, tall iced glasses stationed between them. Never known to promote sociability, the sisters now smiled and yoo-hooed at passing pedestrians and motorists alike.
With variations the scene was replayed time and time again; young mothers carelessly pushing carriages while tottering on high heels, teens listening to blaring music on lawns and in parked cars, drivers weaving dangerously into oncoming traffic and ignoring stoplights, and shopkeepers closing storefronts while they were still able to insert keys into locks.
“There seems to be a lot of it going around,” Harry noted, absently flipping the disc.
“I should check on Mayor Grandall,” George said. “He’s in my, ah, group.”
“He’s right up ahead, and his car is in the driveway. Pull in.”
After braking behind the dusty sedan, George moved to the front door, a sinking feeling in his stomach. The door was open and Tad Grandall lay passed out on the sofa. If Tad were in this state, especially with his to-date impeccable sobriety, George knew that it was a pretty sure bet most of his recovering alcoholic pals would be also — either from an accidentally caused relapse or an opportunity intentionally taken.
Heavy drinkers, moderate drinkers and even non-drinkers were succumbing at an amazingly rapid rate.
“There’s nothing I can do here, let’s get to the university.”
* * * *
T
he campus lawns, normally busy with students traveling between classes, now belied any activity. Still covered with students, what looked like the entire student body now lay napping or nipping in the late afternoon sun. Directly ahead, the agricultural science building stood open.
Cool and quiet halls, devoid of the normal hustle, waited. Voices from a ground floor classroom at the far end of the long corridor reached them.
“Shit, I’m not up to facing another bunch of drunks,” Harry noted.
“Keep your fingers crossed,” George sighed. “Someone’s got to want to stay sober.”
“I’m not so sure why,” Shelly said, having been unusually quiet on the ride over. “This is like the one big party we always wanted to have but were afraid to pull off. It looks like most everyone finally figured it was enough of an excuse to let go.”
“I’m beginning to wonder about me. Why aren’t I enjoying this while it lasts?” Walking to a nearby water fountain, Harry peddled on the cool water and took a long sip. “I think this is a better vintage than in town,” he pronounced and returned his mouth to the steady stream for a second long drink.
George and Shelly moved to the end room, set up as a small but efficient looking laboratory.
“We already tracked the water supply to the reservoir and it’s clean there. It has to be this device.” The voice from the room belonged to an efficient looking fortish woman, clad in a white smock.
“Impossible. A filter that size could conceivably color and maybe even flavor the water, but there’s no way it could ferment it in the time it takes to flow through,” commented the only other alert figure they had thus encountered.
“It’s happening, though.”
Between the two white-coated figures lay a small pile of black discs. Coughing, George waited until they turned to him and held up his own disc.
“In town, too. Now that I know it can’t be done, I’d like to know who did it,” he asked. Holding out his free hand, he added an introduction. “George DeBussy, and Shelly Fullerton. It seems all of East Salisbury has been gifted with a bountiful supply of wine, though according to someone who managed to make it this far with me, our quality is not up to yours.”
“Dr. Siegle,” the woman announced. “And before we analyze the vintage it would be beneficial if we could track the source.”
“Frank Masters here, also a doctor,” he added with a tolerant look at his associate. “Please call me Frank, and knowing the cause is definitely a priority. Once these discs are removed, the water flows clean.”
“The water isn’t the only puzzle,” Dr. Siegle formally added, squaring her shoulders a tad more, adding, if possible, to her already military stance. “Loaves of bread — baked on campus — came out of the ovens filled with candied fruit and raisins. And in far greater quantity than planned.”
“Is the bread tainted, like the water?” asked Shelly.
“No,” Frank Masters said as he offered a piece of densely textured bread, packed with large chunks of dried fruits to Shelly and George. “It’s delicious — probably the best bread I’ve ever had. Its nutritional value looks exceptionally high; carbohydrates, low sugar, protein. We haven’t analysed the vitamin content yet, but I’ve a suspicion it’ll probably come in near the standards for minimum daily requirements.”
“The water into wine bit is frightening in its debilitating effects,” Frank said, “but at least there’s a tangible, if not inexplicable, explanation with these filters.”
The woman nodded in agreement. “And it’s this way elsewhere,” she said. “Besides nearby, which you’ve just verified, I called a colleague on the west coast and his campus has been in shambles since yesterday. Nor was he in condition to be too coherent. Radio broadcasts are catching up, and some seem to think this is … well, listen,” as she clicked on the table radio.
“… and a call from a listener in Great Oaks reports Pinot Chardonnay flowing at their house and invites us over to party. The address is 435 Acorn Drive and bring your bathing suit — the pool is open and filled with chlorinated Chablis — oops, our host says don’t bother with the suits.”
Hitting the off button, she shrugged.
* * * *
“
How’s Lucy?” asked the distinguished gray-haired man sitting across the wide desk. Facing him, in front of the carefully-draped flag, sat a quickly aging and tired looking man. Just days before, this disheveled person had stood in front of the cameras, addressing the nation from his well known office. His words had reached billions, promising a time of strong leadership in light of the present disturbances. Now, he looked, well, hung over.
“Ever since Betty Ford, First Ladies seem to be less afraid to ‘let the world know,’ so to speak. She’s been popping those aspirin like candy since yesterday.” Rubbing his palm over his unshaved stubble, he shook his head to clear the buzz he’d noticed when he awoke. “Has the official analysis come back on them yet?”
“Meprobromate, pharmaceutical quality. Above 100mg per tablet.” The Secretary of State looked up from his report. “And its in all the aspirin. All. Not only in your private quarters, but the staff’s. We’ve even tested the unopened packs in the dispensary. Pure meprobromate.”
“Shit, one pill’s enough to zonk her — no wonder she’s smiling all the time.” As the realization sunk, his anger grew. “It’s obviously a plot. Who could have planted them?”
“There’s something else,” the secretary began, unsure of how to continue.
Trying to focus his watery blue eyes, the president gave in and closed them. “What, pray tell, else is there?”
“It’s not just in the White House. It’s everywhere. Seattle to Miami to, believe it or not, Moscow.”
“Shit,” repeated the slowly fading president. “Let’s have some of that water and think about it.”
* * * *
T
he geostationary communications satellite cast an earth shadow on the craft behind it.
“How long do you think?”
“About seven sun cycles. According to the legends we’ve monitored, they think it took that long to build it.”
“Ah, legends. It’s so refreshing to find a culture that is ripe with usable lore. The bible was a gold mine, not to mention that trojan horse, the french revolution, and especially all the wonderful fiction and film they’ve produced.”
“Even better is to find a civilization that ignores their history.”
“We could multiply fish, clear their air, heal their ailing and come back in a generation or so to pick up the pieces.”
“No, the seven cycles should do for our purposes. Besides, why take chances? It’s just possible they would learn to benefit from their resources.”
“I doubt it. They never have, their history is quite clear on that point.”
“There’s always a first time.”
The Little Blue Dog, by Marc Bilgrey
“You can let me off right here,” I said to the cab driver.
He came to an abrupt stop, I tossed some dollar bills at him, ran out of the taxi and into the emergency room entrance of the hospital. The harsh fluorescent lights made me squint.
I walked up to the bullet proof window and said, “Tim Gleason.”
The overweight nurse stared at me through a pair of bifocals. “You a relative?”
“Uh, no.”
“Only relatives,” she said, sniffing. “Next!”
I glanced back at a small line of people that had formed behind me, then looked at the nurse again. “Can you at least tell me how he’s doing?”
“What was that name again?”
“Tim Gleason,” I said, inhaling the smell of sweat that permeated through the room.
She shuffled a few papers then pressed some keys on a keyboard. “Tim Gleason came in twenty minutes ago. He’s still in the E.R. Condition critical.”
I moved away from the window and felt myself go numb. This isn’t happening, I thought, as I slowly found an empty chair and sat down. I stared at the shiny linoleum floor and thought about Tim, my best friend, fighting for his life. Best friend. A funny phrase for a thirty-five year old man to be thinking.
