The Last Hot Time

by John M. Ford

  "Good night and good hunting," Lucius said, picking up his coat. "See you in the funny papers." He drifted out into the night.

  Danny said to Ginny, "Where do you think we should start looking?"

  "Do you think you could find my place? I mean, up the stairs and everything?"

  "It's worth a try."

  Ginevra's apartment was small, and tidy. No, it was austere. Ginny went into the kitchen to make tea, and Danny absorbed the details: a portable CD player and a few dozen discs, classical and old rock and folk; paperbacks on bare wooden bookshelves, plays and poetry and illustrated travel books; cardboard bins of magazines about travel and history. The rather hard chairs were softened a little by throw pillows, and a small orange rug lay precisely in the center of the polished wood floor. The only wall decoration—the only decoration at all, really—was a framed poster of an ornate, domed building with a tower, in the middle of a foreign city. Fl-RENZE, it said.

  Ginny came out of the kitchen, holding a tea tray. Danny swallowed. She was wearing black cotton pajamas, a high-collared shirt and long trousers.

  "You don't mind my getting changed," she said.

  "No. 'Course not. It's your house." Shut up, he told himself.

  She put the tray down, sat in the one comfortable-looking chair; she was scrunched over to the side, leaving room. Danny sat on the floor. She smiled oddly and tucked her feet up beneath herself. "There's nothing in this room really big enough, sorry."

  He shrugged, shook his head. It was clear enough what she

  meant: there would be only one other furnished room in the apartment, and there was no bed in this one.

  But he was happy just to look at her, the curves of her body under the cloth. She handed him a teacup.

  Danny said, "Do you think this is what Lucius had in mind?"

  "Maybe," she said, with a hint of a laugh. Then she said, "He seems so lonely. He's at the club a lot, but he's never with anyone, unless it's someone he's talking to for a story. Or Kitsune Asa."

  "Is there really a typewriter there for him?"

  She nodded. "That's part of what I mean. He'll be in really late, sometimes the last person there, typing, like he didn't have anyplace else to go. As if going home were like dying." She rubbed her hands on her teacup. "When he told that story, tonight—I wondered where he was going, when he got lost." She shifted again, looked at her bare feet, looked at him, smiled. "Tell me a story. Doc."

  "What about?"

  "About you. Tell me something nobody else in the city knows about you."

  "Oh—"

  "Come on, please. You must have done things before you came here. You must have had friends."

  "Robin was my best friend at home," he said, too quickly.

  "What was she like?"

  "No, Rob was a guy. He was about my size, sort of blond. I'm sure he was a lot better looking. He sure didn't have freckles."

  "Hmm."

  "But, see, the thing about Rob was that he could really talk to people. You always knew what he meant, know what I mean? See, I can't do it."

  "Go on. He was your best friend. You took twirls out together, that kind of thing?"

  "No. I mean, nobody did, really. We were all a long way apart, and nobody had cars. We had bikes—bicycles, not motorcycles— but where can you go on a bike? The only place close to go, really, was when there was a social at the school, ami then everybody's folks went too." He took a swallow of tea, bur ir didn't stop him: he was started now, and knew he was going to tell it all. The in-

  credible thing was that he hadn't told it before now.

  Ginny tucked herself up tighter in the chair. Danny put his cup down so he wouldn't spill it. Quickly he said, "What happened was, we were haying on Danny's folks' place. We—were you ever on a farm?"

  "No."

  "We all did that. Help's always short, and they don't use the machines too much, now, but—well, there was a mechanical baler. That's a machine that bundles up the hay with wire. Rob got caught in it. I don't know how, nobody saw what happened, but he yelled, and you could see blood. . . .

  "A couple of us got him out. He was really messed up bad. I'd read some first aid books—I kind of wanted to be a doctor, I guess, but it wasn't going to happen."

  "Why?"

  "What?"

  "Why couldn't you be a doctor?"

  "Because you have to go away to school for a long time," Danny said faster than he could think, "and my folks didn't want that." He paused. "I don't have any brothers or sisters. I had a little sister, but she died of flu when she was four."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Yeah." How could he explain that he had felt nothing? That she had been there, and then she wasn't, and at six years old Danny had no idea what all the fuss was supposed to be about?

  Ginevra said, "Rob got hurt in the baler machine."

  "Yeah. Like I said, I knew a little first aid, and I got tourniquets on, so he didn't bleed to death. But he lost his left arm, and most of his left leg.

  "Rob's folks were really grateful. His dad was on county council, and he helped me get my EMT card; the county paid for the training, and I worked at the hospital, and then for the fire department after I made paramedic. And, uh, they helped me buy the TR3 from a sheriff's sale. I don't think my mom and dad were too happy about that."

  "And then you came up here."

  "Yeah. I hauled some stuff downstairs, and we yelled at each

  other, and I said they could shoot me if they wanted to but they weren't gonna stop me.

  "I couldn't stand seeing Rob, see. I'd go visit, because we were friends, right? And I'd see him at school, and church. And he'd just sit there in the chair. I told you, Rob was good at letting you know what he meant. He sure did. He hated me 'cause he hadn't died."

  "Did he have a girlfriend?"

  "No. Not really. Nobody did, much." He tried to follow the question. "He was okay, wasn't cut up—you know, there."

  "Was he gay?"

  "What?"

  "Im sorry," she said, sounding frightened. "I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

  "No, it's okay. Really, really, it's okay." He wanted to hold her, show her it was all right, calm her fear, stop his own. "The thing is, you're right. One day—this was maybe a year before his accident—Rob said, 'Let's go for a ride,' and we got on our bikes and just rode. I don't know how far, five miles at least. That's when he told me." How would she understand? She came from the other side of the earth, and lived here, even farther away. "We didn't have 'gay people.' Sometimes you heard somebody was a fag. You know what decent people do to fags in Iowa?"

  "I know what they did in Ohio," she said quietly. "Probably not much difference."

  "Probably not," Danny said, and shut himself up for a moment. Suddenly Ginevra seemed much closer to him, maybe close enough to touch.

  He said, "I guess that's why he hated me so bad. If he could have gotten out, come here, or anywhere, who would have cared? But now he'll never get out. I didn't let him die, and I sure didn't save his life. Like I say, he knew how to tell you things."

  "I think you know how to hear things," Ginny said. Damn. with no answer for that, took a swallow of the tea. It had gotten cool, and bitter. "I think I ought to leave/'

  "Do you?" She unfolded, arching her feet on the floor, opening a lap to sit on. "Nothing's found us yet We could keep looking."

  "No, I'll go." She seemed about to say something: would she

  ask him, straight out? He shifted uncomfortably. Could she tell he was hard? If she— begged him—

  He stood up. "I had a really good time tonight, Ginny. Thank you."

  "Oh. Hey, it's your birthday." She stood up. "You still have a hug coming."

  He nodded. She put her arms around him and pressed. She was naked under the pajamas. His crotch tightened some more.

  She pulled him down to the floor. They bumped knees, elbows, scraped ankles. She was on top of him, soft, so soft. He held her; he couldn't stop.


  He said, "I just don't—"

  "This is your birthday hug," she said, her breath warm against his ear, her hair blinding him. "You say when it stops." Her hands played his ribs like a piano. "Or how tight it gets."

  This was good, he thought, relaxing. This was fine, he could do this. He didn't want to let go; he didn't seem strong enough to pull away. They stayed there, just holding, until Danny's head bumped the floor and he realized he was almost asleep.

  "I should go."

  "Go? / think you should—" She stopped, pressed her face against his shoulder. "What should / do, Doc? What do you want me to do?"

  He almost told her. His hands were near enough to pin her shoulders in a moment, to lock around her slim strong wrists. He shook.

  He looked down at her, and saw the brutalized elf-woman from the night before, clutching and pleading. He wanted to crawl under a rock, away from his thoughts.

  "Doc . . . ?"

  He said, "Just. . . don't be angry."

  "Is that your safeword, Doc? 'Don't be angry'?" she said, smiling.

  "Maybe." It came out a whisper.

  "I'll never be angry with you, Doc." She unwound herself, sat up with her hands around her knees.

  Danny stood up. "Will I see you at the club on Halloween?"

  "No. I'm helping sit some of the little kids in the building, so their parents can go out."

  "Oh."

  She laughed. "Night of horror and suspense, huh."

  He said, "Next Friday's some kind of special show at the Laughs. Stagger Lee keeps talking about it."

  "What is it?"

  "I forget. Somebody named Corvette."

  "Not really."

  "It's something like that. Want to go?"

  "It's on."

  The air outside woke him up, but it did not make him cold.

  L

  ate on Halloween afternoon, there was a knock at Danny's door. It was Boris Liczyk, carrying a small leather case and a garment bag. "I've brought your costume, sir."

  There were slightly baggy trousers, a high-collared white shirt with a ruffled front, a velvet string tie.

  "Shall I manage that for you, sir?"

  "That'd be fine, Boris."

  Danny faced the mirror; Liczyk stood behind him and effortlessly spun the tie into a shoelace bow. Boris held up the jacket, and Danny slipped his arms in; it was a long coat, nearly to his knees, with a narrow waist. The slightly stiff fabric was deep forest green, the collar of a lighter green velvet. Liczyk did a bit of pinching and the fit was perfect.

  Then he brought out a long cloak, dark brown with a golden satin lining, adjusted and tied it around Danny's shoulders. "You might wish to walk about for a while, sir. Men don't wear such things nowadays; moving gracefully requires a bit of practice. Please be quite careful on the stairs—wouldn't do to lose our physician.' 1

  "I'll be careful."

  Boris held out a pancake of dark green silk. "Observe, SIT." He flexed the object, and it sprang into shape as a top hat. "Just like Mr. Astaire," Boris said, smiling. He put it on Danny's head, showed him the proper tilt. "I am to remind you to earrv your bag as well. sir."

  "To the party? With the costume?"

  "Yes, sir. That's all I have for you: is there anything else I can do?"

  "No, I don't think so. Uh, Boris?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Shouldn't formal stuff be, you know, black?"

  "Not for you, sir. Black isn't a red-haired gentleman's color. Which reminds me, we must fit you for a dinner suit soon. It'll only take an hour or so."

  "Sure. Thank you, Boris."

  "My job, sir. I enjoy this." He bowed and went out.

  Danny looked at himself in the mirror. Okay, what was he supposed to be? The ruffled shirt and tie had a sort of Western look; he'd thought of Doc Holliday. But surely not the top hat and the cloak. And he was supposed to carry his bag. Was he Doctor Jekyll?

  Oh. Of course. He got the bag, took out the dissecting knife.

  The phone rang.

  "Hello, Jack the Ripper here."

  There was a burst of laughter. Mr. Patrise's voice said, "Good evening, Jack. Would you join me in the office for a few minutes? Bring your costume things—we'll go straight to the party."

  "Certainly, sir."

  Danny went up a flight. Boris Liczyk was right: the cloak was dangerous on the stairs.

  Patrise's office was a long, high-ceilinged room with geometric carpets, Deco furniture of glass, chrome, and black wood, artwork on the walls. The desk was a spotlit, L-shaped block of white metal with a black marble top. Patrise sat behind it in a leather swivel chair. He was wearing an ornate brocaded jacket, like something from a Shakespeare play, and his hair was combed straight down on to his shoulders all around. It never seemed so long, tied back as he usually wore it. He waved a hand, with rings on all the fingers. "Hello, Hallow. Happy birthday. Drink?"

  "Not just now, thanks."

  "We'll just be a moment. I was thinking about Ginevra Benci, and I wanted to ask you a question or two."

  "Yes?"

  "You've spent some time with her. Certainly more than I have lately."

  "Well, we're friends—"

  "Of course. I'm sorry she couldn't be here tonight. I tried to make arrangements, but. . ."

  "I'm sure she'd have been here if she could."

  "Oh, it isn't her fault. Almost anything can be purchased in the Shade, but a trustworthy babysitter is beyond an elf-lord's ransom. Perhaps I should enter the business." He played with one of his rings. "Ginevra is a talented woman; obviously bartending doesn't begin to challenge her." He looked at Danny's bag. "I imagine she could learn first-aid nursing in not much time at all. I'm sure Lucy Estevez at the hospital could arrange something."

  "It'd be up to Ginny."

  "I'm perfectly aware of that. But she isn't here, and I wanted your opinion."

  "I think she likes her job," Danny said carefully, "a-a-and I wouldn't want her to think she was being moved around. Certainly not on my account."

  "Yes. That's a very considerate response. Thank you, Hallow. Now, we'd better get down to the party." He stood up and came around the desk. The "jacket" was actually just the top of an embroidered gown that fell in deep pleats almost to the floor.

  "Oh, by the way, Hallow. . . you're welcome to play your part as Saucy Jack if you wish, but he wasn't the original idea."

  "Oh?"

  "Boris never remembers these things. If it isn't cut on the bias, it might as well be made of air to him. You were meant to be H. H. Holmes. Local fellow of the same era. He put away a dozen times Jack the Ripper's total. Which shows you how fleeting fame is."

  "And you, sir?"

  "I'm Cesare Borgia. Do you know what I could have done to you for not knowing that? Come along."

  All the rooms on the ground floor had been rearranged to make party space. There were at least a hundred people there, all in costume, none alike. Danny thought of the Hallow ecu socials it home—half a dozen pointy-hatted witches, as main ghosts in per-

  cale, here and there a Frankenstein ragbag or a pumpkinhead. One year two kids had shown up as Dorothy and the Scarecrow from Oz, and been sent home by a couple of parents. Witches were okay, at least if they were warty and toothless, but subversive literature was something else. He wondered how many of these costumes Patrise had provided. Boris Liczyk had been looking a bit worn for the last few days, and McCain told Danny later that the tailor had the night and weekend off.

  McCain wore the flour-sack face of a scarecrow, a wooden beam across his already broad shoulders. From time to time he would laugh. It was scary. Cloudhunter was some kind of fantastical warrior, with leather armor and a black two-handed sword carved with mysterious figures. Another elf was Poe's Red Death, in a cloak the color of an arterial spurt, with bleeding gravewrappings beneath.

  The Tokyo Fox was dressed in a tweed Inverness cape and deerstalker hat. She hardly needed to produce a huge round magnifier and examine the mantelpi
ece and the other guests—or maybe she did, because somehow it worked, despite gender and height.

  She examined Doc's left sleeve. "Ingenious, Doctor," she said, with a curious Eurasian accent.

  Danny caught the cue. "Why, thank you, Holmes."

  "Indeed. I ask you to disguise yourself so as to divert suspicion, and you arrive in the guise of the most wanted murderer in London."

  There was a laugh. But Danny had this one. "Egad, Holmes, I'd hoped to follow your own advice on the subject of disguise, but do you know how difficult it can be for a naked man to hail a cab in Mayfair?"

  The crowd applauded. Patrise stared for a moment, face open with wonder, and then laughed out loud.

  Matt Black had a slouch hat and cloak, a scarf across his face, and two Colt pistols. Gloss White was wrapped all up in gauze, her features barely visible; someone told Danny that she was Resurrection Mary, the Archer Street ghost. Danny thought back to the night of the blood raid, and was glad not to see any close resemblance.

  Phasia was dressed as a spectral Marie Antoinette: a red cicatrice circled her throat, a thin trickle of blood seeping down. She did not speak, of course, but waved her fan with cool authority.

  Carmen Mirage was wearing a black silk cheongsam embroidered with a golden dragon; she had sheer black stockings, wildly high heels. Her hair was pulled back into a knot pierced with two lacquered pins, and makeup gave her eyes an almond shape. A narrow black scarf was around her shoulders: it was full of points of light, like a strip of the night sky.

  "And who might you be?" Danny said, trying to sound genially sinister.

  "Fah Lo Suee," she said coolly. "Perhaps you are acquainted with my venerable father, the Doctor Fu Manchu."

  Not much really happened during the evening; people played at their characters, occasionally danced a bit without music, ate, drank, and generally seemed to be having a good silly time. Now and then someone—or more often two someones—vanished. Now and then they came back.