The suspect responded thusly: "What?" And then: "What for?"
"Being drunk and disorderly," said Copper A.
"Fair cop," said Sheila, as sotto voce as she could manage. Of course, Hudson was pretty disorderly stone cold sober.
"Hush," says I, and I gave a sharp tug at the fishhook I was holding. Well, it came loose. So, from the sound of it, did Patrick’s tonsils.
Attention shifted from Bobby to the sight of Patrick weeping silent tears and clutching at his wedding tackle, and of me holding up that stupid tin fish that had until so recently been indecently attached to him.
"Go't 'uke owt!" I grinned, bright as could be. I normally sound a fairly urbane fellow-you could etch glass with my public-speaking voice-but at need I have a Lancashire accent you could use to promote the growth of roses. The great thing about which is that, like any thick, rural accent, it makes you sound stupid and harmless to urban sorts like a couple of cockney coppers. I might have been abroad o'nights in London, but my accent was leaning on a five-bar gate somewhere, chewing on a hay-stalk. I could see the filters marked "Northern Monkey" clicking into place in front of the coppers' vision as they relaxed.
Bobby wasn't having any, alas.
"Ishmael!" cries he. (I gloss over, here, the name I actually had at the time, save to observe that fool Hudson used it in the presence of the arresting officers, not something that particularly helps your lawyer.) "I need a lawyer!"
"Speak to the duty solicitor," I said, knowing my stock of goodwill with the firm's professional indemnity partner nowhere near high enough for this.
"Hold on!" said Hudson. "I thought you weren't allowed to refuse a client?"
"That's barristers," I said, nodding in Patrick's direction.
"And I'm too drunk to act and you have to go through a solicitor to get to me," said Welch, taking the conversational ball with a smoothness that continues to serve him well in court.
"You're not his solicitor, then?" asked Copper A.
"No," I said, ostentatiously eyeing his shoulder number-he had just realised there were two lawyers present and he'd better behave, no harm rubbing it in some, eh?-“just a solicitor. Not acting for him at all."
"Is she all right?" asked Copper B, pointing at Rowen.
Sheila was leaning against a handy fence, tears streaming down her cheeks, shaking, silent and weak kneed. She was turning blue due to an inability to inhale. She appeared to be maintaining continence, but it was a close run thing.
"She's fine," said Patrick. “Just needs a moment to compose herself."
Dubiously, Copper B studied the tattoo on Sheila’s left forearm.
"What are you doing out here anyway?" asked Copper A, as he pulled out his handcuffs to their appointed purpose.
"Fishing," I said, suddenly and acutely aware of how lame it was as an answer.
"Ah, after the Pike, then?" said the Copper.
Dumbstruck? You bet I was…
Sheila looked smug.
She would, at that. Her damned fish story backed up by the law, no less!
I gave her a look to say not a fucking word, sunshine, and Patrick did likewise.
"Yeah, the Pike," said Sheila, not heeding the warnings. "My dad caught him back in the 'seventies."
"Her," said Copper B.
"Her?" we variously chorused, and "How do you know?" added Sheila.
"She's stuffed and mounted in a pub up Carshalton way," says Copper B, grinning with rather more malice than I thought was proper in an officer of the Queen's Peace.
"Get away!" said Sheila. "How come it isn't in the record book, then?"
"She was a couple of ounces under the record, it turned out, when she was landed the second time."
"When was this?" I asked, mentally leafing through those neurons marked sporting trivia, meaningless, statistical, angling, part of a neuro-linguistic complex that can constitute anything up to forty per cent of a male brain by mass and one of the few unaffected by alcohol.
"About ten years ago," said Copper B.
"Explains it, then" said Welch. "It isn't the same fish." This last, you'll appreciate, delivered with the flat forensic finality of counsel-in-training.
Copper B just raised an eyebrow. "You mean you're after-?"
"The very same," we all agreed. Well, all save Hudson, whom Copper A had well on his way upriver to the paddy wagon by this time.
Copper B shook his head. "Myth, pure myth. You're better off hunting pigs in the Fleet ditch, or griffins in Brentford."
He shook his head again. "Anyway, is one of you going to take this?" He indicated the tackle box.
"Ain't mine," said Patrick.
"Nor mine," said Sheila.
"Belongs to your suspect," I added, with a degree of schadenfreude for which, in retrospect, I feel mildly ashamed.
Friend copper's face fell. He'd have to give an inventory of the whole thing. The whole, damned thing. The custody sergeant would write down every one of a thousand items or so, his ears burning with Hudson's helpful comments on his spelling and identification of items. The sergeant's ears might burn, but their heat would be as nothing to the focused, high-energy plasma of the gaze that would sear smoking holes in the unfortunate plod who brought in this over-equipped fool on a penny-worth charge of threatening behavior.
I like it when this happens. Arrests, detentions and other impedimenta of state repression should, in my view, be larded with as much ballsache and paperwork as the wit of man can devise. Thus are the exertions of state force limited to when they are absolutely necessary. It is red tape that is the stuff of civilization, you may depend on it. It stands, I say, to reason.
Anyway, muttering darkly, our constabulative sceptic stalked off, visibly listing under the weight of Bobby's tackle.
"We going to accompany him to the station?" asked Sheila.
"Nah," I said, "I come out without me harmonica."
"What if they insist on searching his flat?" said Patrick, suddenly recalling the existence of Part I of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. (Under which, in certain circumstances, an arresting officer can take the suspect home and insist on a search of his premises; it's rare, but it happens.)
I weighed it up. I dealt with this stuff more than Welch.
"Not really," I said, "but it'd be funny if they did. Especially if they got a WPC along to help search."
I have a twisted mind in this way. I can, somehow, spot the most embarrassing potential consequence of any situation (those Dr. Pepper ads used to speak to me on a very basic level). We all turned it over in our minds: Bobby Hudson, watching while officers went through his video collection for "evidence" (the boxes frequently turn out to contain the suspect's stash).
I suppose he could laugh off an ordinary por
n collection, even if it was female officers (for maximum points, good-looking ones with huge tracts of land) doing the searching. But The Naked Orchestra? Even Hudson's hide ain't that thick. Just picturing Bobby's response to that (or the one with the dwarves, which I shall not even try to describe) being held up by a lady in uniform, she raising an eyebrow and saying nothing.
Priceless.
Well, the whole sorry episode more or less finished with us going for a wander through south London in the wee hours, arriving at Brixton nick along about dawn or a bit later, waiting around for a couple of hours while they finished messing up Bobby's night, He'd had a nice warm ride, the gobshite, gave his name and address and, apparently, fell asleep in the custody suite and had to be carried into the drunk tank.
So he'd had a couple of hours sleep, while we stood outside Brixton nick, trying to see if we had enough cash on us to get something to wake up with and if not, did we have the energy to find an ATM. I was getting ratty by this time on three grounds. I was cold, damp, and tired. All my cigarettes were too wet to light, and smelled of river-no clear mountain brook, either-and everyone else was out.
We got through to about a quarter of ten, considerably refreshed-cafes had opened, and I don't think the McDonalds there ever closes-and returned to the copshop to find Hudson emerging blinking into the light.
Fond hopes of serious police brutality were dashed. He'd had a few hours' sleep in the warm where he'd dried out, a free breakfast and access to a washbasin. Final result, a caution for being drunk and disorderly, and when we went in to collect him, a stern talking-to from a uniformed sergeant for all of us.
Which left only getting a brew and the Sunday papers in.
Alas, I'm a compulsive storyteller. Scarcely a week after, I'd gone for a lunchtime refresher after a heavy Friday night, and began to tell the tale again, to a couple of old soaks I happened to share a table with. Little did I imagine how that simple action would eventually lead to, among other things, one of the Magellanic Clouds-the Lesser, I think-and a wing of Valhalla that is conspicuously absent from any of the extant Norse legends.
****
Introducing: Stories by new authors
Fancy Farmer
Pam Uphoff
"Hi, welcome to this edition of Fancy Farmer of the High Frontier!"
Fancy was, as always, a nauseatingly perky brunette; attired today in a pink paisley neolauraashley topped with her favorite ruffled white apron. Her kitchen matched the image: natural wood with flower and spice pictures on every cabinet door, pink countertops, businesslike stainless steel pans, and pink plastic stirrers and spatulas sticking out of a flowery deep pink vase like a mutant bouquet.
"Today's recipe is Vegetable Afraidso. The ingredients include three garlic cloves, finely diced, which can be cooked with the sauce or the vegetables." As she spoke the knife in her capable hands with their perfectly polished nails flashed and chopped.
"We'll use one cup, that's about four ounces or one hundred fifteen grams, of grated Parmesan cheese. For those of you with the Xuny Autocheeser, that's setting B43-G."
She flashed her dimpled smile as she swung into her standard advertising spiel. "I prefer Xuny appliances for all my cooking needs, because they're reliable and produce authentically flavored foods."
"For the sauce base, dial up one cup (three hundred milliliters) of heavy whipping cream. On my Xuny Lactomatic, that's setting eight. If you have a different make or model, be sure to consult your owner's manual." She patted each appliance as if they were well-loved pets.
"We'll need about four cups of cooked noodles. On your Xuny Starcher, that's
setting D. I like a wide noodle for this dish-about a number fifteen." Rumor had it that single and very lonely men in space were her main watchers; The advertising agency had wistfully requested a lower neckline, and perhaps some padding, but the CEO of Xuny had pointed out they were beating their competition cold in sales to space destinations, so sparkling clean and perky were here to stay.
"You can use almost any vegetable in this dish, depending on what's ripe in your dome-or hydro-garden." Her hands reached out and pulled vegetables from an artistically arranged bowl as she continued her nonstop chatter, "My favorites are a mixture of red onion, about one eighth of a large one, sliced; two Nukeinni and two Yellow Peril squash, thin sliced. Remember-" She shook an admonishing finger at her viewers, "-if they scream when you pick them, they are infected with Xin12 and the entire plant should be uprooted and put in the MOLECULAR recycler!" Not that Xin12 was dangerous, just a genehacker's joke gone feral, but it was really irritating after the first shock had faded.
"We'll start by frying the sliced onion, then adding the squash." Pans sizzled and spatulas twirled, "When they're all tender and browned, add the garlic. Other ingredients that require little cooking, such as mushrooms, should be added now also."
"The sauce is just a matter of adding the Parmesan to the cream and heating to melt the cheese. Add salt to taste, or according to the special requirements of your environment." One graceful arm waved the shaker like a magic wand, while the other stirred.
"The fresh noodles need to boil for four minutes. Don't let them get soggy!" She shook her head and frowned, a very cute frown, of course, "If you are using dried noodles, start them a little sooner; they will need to boil for about ten minutes, depending on your atmospheric pressure!
"Then drain the noodles, and toss them in the frying pan with the veggies." Two dancing movements, and more sizzling. "Pour the sauce over them and stir to coat everything. Serve immediately to your happy family!" She beamed at the presumed bachelors whom polls showed all wished she was cooking for them.
"Sometimes I like to add Freshwater Giants or Crabbies. For those of you whose Pondomes are not yet producing, and need to add protein to your family's meals, this is an excellent dish to conceal the nonflavor of rehydrated shrimp or crab." The large framed needlepoint behind her transformed into a picture of brand name inflatable domes as she spoke.
"In a one-g environment, this recipe will serve four. In a high-g environment, you will want to increase the portions; in low g, reduce the portions."
She wiped her immaculate hands on a crisp folded towel, and picked up a stack of pictures. "Next week we'll have a recipe especially for you viewers who bought the new Cherry Bomb Bushes! Sky Gardens, Inc., still carries saplings, and guarantees delivery to zones one and two in eight weeks; zones three and four in six months; and the outer zones in two years!"
"I'd also like to tell you about a special offer from El Four Farms! They have developed a new method of shi
pping eggs for delayed hatching. This is a special one-time-only-introductory offer of two dozen NuFowl eggs in CoolGel(TM) delivered anywhere in human space with a guaranteed fifty percent hatch rate, no matter how long the transit time!" The cherry bushes in the pics bloomed and bore fruit in her left hand while the Nufowl pecked and scratched in her right.
"So, next week we'll have Roast NuFowl in Spiced Cherry Bomb Sauce!" She brought out her broadest smile and best dimples and twinkled her eyes. "Until then, this is Fancy Farmer of the High Frontier saying, double check your air seals and always use full spectrum lights!"
The system stopped transmitting and the virtual kitchen disappeared from the room, leaving bare walls and a table full of electronics. Only Fancy remained, perky smile frozen in place on "her" elfin features.
"Good show, Fancy." George patted an add-on processor cube as he passed the table, turning off lights and manually disconnecting from the grid. "Why, my mouth is watering, I just may pick up some Alfredo on the way home. All systems on green?"
The holographic figure animated briefly, "Yes George. Have you ever tried cooking any of these recipes in space, George?" The perky hopeful look was straight out of the show.
"Me? Go into space? Not likely." George twitched his shoulder nervously.
Mike snickered, "George has never left the Metro, let alone the planet, Fancy." He smiled back at the hologram that wore the same face he used for his HomeKeeper program, "I've been to Leo twice," he said proudly.
Jim Baen’s Universe Page 59
