by Mel Gilden
‘What gorillas?’
‘Durf,’ I said just enough under my breath to make it private.
‘Durf?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’ She opened her mouth to speak, but I said, ‘And don’t tell me again that all gorillas look alike to you. That doesn’t matter. Tell me about any goririllas you’ve ever had anything to do with. These very particular gorillas seem to know you. Not even gorillas shoot people for nothing.’
‘You don’t have to shout,’ Sylvia shouted. Her voice was surprisingly strong for a person who’d lost so much blood. Or maybe I was just sensitive.
We drifted past small restaurants and antique shops that had clever names with the word ‘junque’ in them. It was warm in the car, and I cracked a window as I lowered the heat. I turned on to the freeway, and the air began to scream through the open window, but discreetly, as I accelerated down the on-ramp.
Sylvia said, ‘Heavenly once experimented on a gorilla.’ ‘I’ll bet she turned it into a hummingbird.’ ‘She didn’t turn it into anything.’ Sylvia’s voice was firm as setting concrete. ‘She was doing experiments on baldness.’
‘Did she do anything to the gorilla to make it dislike her?’
Sylvia sighed. I was one dense cookie, I guess. She said, ‘It was just a regular gorilla, with no more intelligence than gorillas usually have. It didn’t wear suits, and it wouldn’t know what to do with a gun if it had one.’
‘Then these three gorillas must be pretty special.’
‘I suppose,’ she said without interest.
‘Then anybody should be able to recognize these gorillas, even you, who are no good at it.’
Sylvia shivered, and I rolled up the window. Heat began to fill the car again. After a while, Sylvia said, ‘Are you getting at something?’
‘Only this: If you’d seen these gorillas before, you’d know it.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘They obviously know you.’
‘I look a lot like Heavenly. Didn’t you say they were after her?’
I nodded and grumbled yeah. Sylvia was right about everything. She might even be telling the truth. But something about her pat answers made me as nervous as a man about to drive an automobile for the first time.
At the Daise mansion I pulled the car right up to the gate and let Sylvia talk to Davenport, the robotler. The gate swung open, and I drove right up to the front door just as if I were used to driving up to mansions. Davenport came out while I opened the car door for Sylvia. She clutched the shawl and walked towards the house as if she were made of spun sugar. Davenport was about to follow her when I said, ‘Davenport?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I’d like to ask Samson Andelilah a few questions.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘I’d like to speak with him tonight, if possible. Can you give me his home phone number?’
‘I am not programmed to give out that information.’
‘You know that I’m working for Mr Daise?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Well?’
‘I am not programmed to give out that information.’
‘Are you programmed to tell Ms Woods that I will call tomorrow to see how she is?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘What luck. I found something that you are programmed for.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Davenport didn’t even blink.
Just for my own entertainment, I said, ‘I’ll bet you’re a lot of fun at parties.’
Davenport didn’t say anything. He just watched while I got back into my car and drove away.
Driving back to Malibu took another forty-five minutes and, when I wasn’t fighting to keep my eyes open, I had a lot of time to think about missing rich girls and look-alike secretaries and gorillas that made mistakes. I added that together with sabotaged surf-bots and motorcycle maniacs and yoyogurt, and came up with nothing. On the other hand, I was more tired than I remembered being in a long time. On the other hand, maybe I wasn’t programmed for detective work. On the other hand, if I kept this up, I’d run out of hands.
I waved hands at myself until I got back to the house. Some hands were more popular than others. None of them was helpful. Across from the house the stoplight blinked to itself. It reflected off the windows of Sylvia’s boxy blue car, which was still parked out in front, now looking cold and lonely. Even before I opened the front door, I heard music and laughter. When I opened the door, it assaulted me. The music and noise were not nearly as loud as the party at Puffy Tootsweet’s, but it was late and I was easier to assault than I had been earlier.
I found all of them in the living room. They’d piled the pillows into one corner and thrown the other junk up against the walls in drifts. In the middle of the floor, a cross stick hung about three feet off the floor on two not very sturdy uprights. Just outside each upright was a bowl with some flame in it.
Hanger was jerking her shoulders in time with the music as she approached the setup and tried to bend backward far enough to dance under it. Her tits knocked the cross stick’ on to the floor, and everybody whooped. Captain Hook seemed to be having as good a time as anybody else. Clever boy. If he put his mind to it, he didn’t need Puffy Tootsweet.
Nobody saw me standing in the shadow at the end of the hallway. That pleased me. I backed away from the noise and the light and went into Whipper Will’s bedroom, where I lay down on a pile of clothes and wondered how long the party would keep me awake. I didn’t even finish the thought before I slid like a greased seal into quiet and darkness.
Chapter 18
Back To The Salt Mines
I AWOKE to someone banging on the front door — from the outside, I thought. I stumbled to my feet, took note that Whipper Will and Bingo had tangled themselves together with the sheets as they slept, and went to see what all the ruckus was about.
It was about six-and-a-half feet tall and wearing a gold coverall with the name Lenny squiggled in blue on the breast pocket. A stub of dead cigar stuck out of its face. ‘SSR,’ Lenny mumbled as if he were not very happy about having to say it. He was delivering a crate that was big enough to house a small dog. He hefted it in both hands, though he could have carried it under one arm, and took it into the living room, where he set it down next to the sticks.
He looked around at the mess and at the sleeping surfers and sniffed. ‘What is this place?’ he said.
‘The Malibu the tourists never see,’ I said.
He only sneered at me. After all, I was a customer.
‘There’s your box,’ he said and handed me something on a clipboard to sign. When I was done, he took his clipboard and stomped back along the hall with it. I closed the door on his truck starting and went back to the living room.
Using some tools I eventually found in the kitchen, I got the crate open. Inside were a few miles of bubble wrap. Inside that was Bill, the SSR robot duck. Even in that living room, not the brightest place in the world, Bill shone like the Moon on water.
A sticker big enough to play polo on was plastered to the top of Bill’s shiny silver head. It told me that to activate Bill I should pull off the sticker. No other instructions were necessary. Bill was entirely self-contained, and would explain himself. That sounded like famous last words. I pulled off the sticker.
Bill turned his head to look at me. He blinked, which was a nice touch, and said, ‘Hiya, Marlowe. Where are the girls?’
‘What girls?’
‘Any girls. I’m not fussy.’
‘I don’t remember ordering a robot with a sex drive.’
‘Standard equipment.’
‘Sure. Wait here. I’ll be right back.’
I called SSR and asked to talk to Lance in sales. Lance came on the line, sounding as breathy and energetic as if I’d caught him in the shower. I told him that I didn’t want a robot with an interest in girls. Or with an interest in anything but doing what it was told. Lance thought that Bill might need adjustment. I could bring him in any time
next week.
‘Bring him in? Next week? Is that what you call service?’ I said.
‘Service with a smile,’ he said, showing all his teeth, even through the phone.
‘I call it the big rah-zoo.’ I hung up, thought for a moment, then called SSR again. This time I asked for Samson Andelilah. A few minutes later a voice like a French horn said, ‘Security. Andelilah speaking.’
I imagined the enormous man sitting behind the desk in a room full of smoke. He’d frown as he put down his cigarette for a moment to answer the phone.
‘Mr Andelilah? This is Zoot Marlowe, the industrial spy from Bay City.’
‘Yes, Mr Marlowe?’ The beautiful voice was flat and polite, not wanting or expecting anything.
‘You remember me?’
‘Of course.’
‘And the three I was brought in with, in fur coats?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did I call at a bad time, Mr Andelilah? Are you, maybe, lighting a cigarette?’ I could hear him breathing slowly, thoughtfully.
‘Cut to the chase, Marlowe,’ Andelilah said.
‘What do you know about those gorillas?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘Did you know, for instance, that last night one of them took a shot at Sylvia Woods, the Daises’ social secretary?’
He breathed at me some more and said, ‘It wouldn’t matter if they’d burned down the SSR factory. I don’t know anything about them.’ He hung up. Not an angry hang, but a gentle click. It all came to the same thing: more work for Zoot Marlowe.
I went back into the bedroom. Whipper Will and Bingo had changed positions. If they’d been standing up, they would have been doing a pretty impressive ballet step. Horizontal, it wasn’t much. I changed out of my party clothes and put on my brown suit. I didn’t feel so much like a goof now.
When I got back to the living room, Bill was whispering into Flopsie’s (or was it Mopsie’s?) ear. Whatever he was saying fascinated her. I said, ‘The entire SSR corporation is busy at the moment. Probably polishing the demonstrators in the showroom. You’ll have to learn to control yourself.’
‘Anything you say.’
‘You’re probably programmed to say that.’
‘Anything you say.’ Bill let out a mechanical cackle from deep in his spherical body. He stopped abruptly and blinked at me.
‘All right. Come on.’
‘Where are you going?’ Mopsie (or was it Flopsie?) said.
‘Back to the salt mines.’.
The girl looked confused, and I said, ‘Tell Captain Hook he’s getting his money’s worth.’
She smiled and nodded, pleased to be trusted with such an important message.
Bill waddled after me and hopped into the passenger side of the Belvedere. He looked around as if everything interested him. From behind the wheel I said, ‘How are you at geography?’
‘Local or international?’
‘Local. Fairly local. Say, the streets between here and San Diego.’
‘All in the ol’ bubble memory,’ Bill said as he tapped the side of his head with a very finger-like wing tip. ‘Tell me how to get to the Malibu police station.’ He reeled off street names so fast I couldn’t follow them. After I got him to slow down, we both did better. In ten minutes, I was pulling into the car park of a one-storey brick building with a glass door and big picture windows.
Inside, I asked for Sergeant Faraday. Faraday came to the desk and led me back to his office, a cavernous industrial-green room he shared with about three other guys, none of whom was there at the moment, just their desks. The room was clean, but shabby with use, and with furniture supplied by the lowest bidder. The place smelled like dust. Old dust.
He got me settled in a wooden chair that had cigarette burns on the edges of the arms and called in a stenographer. She wore a tent-like brown dress and practical shoes. The spot of rouge on each soft cheek gave her wrinkled old face all the life of a wax dummy. She had been a stenographer for a long time, maybe starting with chisels and clay tablets. Not even Bill would be interested in making lewd suggestions to her.
While she took notes, I talked for twenty minutes by the caged clock on the wall, answering Sergeant Faraday’s questions about the shooting as best I could. When we were done, I said, ‘I hope you won’t make Sylvia Woods drive all the way out here in her condition.’
Faraday looked pained. ‘You private guys think you’re the only ones who are human.’ He peered at me as if he were trying to guess my weight. ‘You always wear that costume?’
‘It’s kind of a religious thing.’
‘I got a friend at Cal Tech who I think would like to take you apart.’
‘Not unless he has a warrant. What about Sylvia Woods?’
‘We’ll talk to her on the phone.’
‘Good. You’re not a bad guy, Faraday.’
‘You’re not a bad guy either, Marlowe. But some of that patter is a little stale.’
‘Not stale,’ I said. ‘Just aged in the keg.’
He nodded, appreciating the wit of my remark, but mostly waiting for me to stand up and leave. But I wasn’t ready to do that yet. I said, ‘What about the gorillas?’
‘No word yet.’
‘No leads? No rumours? No traces? No nothing?’
‘We’ll find them,’ Faraday said with the kind of determination that won the West.
‘If you look for them.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘That means that unless there’s some cranny along this coast that you don’t know about, those gorillas have more protection than gorillas ought to have.’
The shutters went down behind Faraday’s eyes. His face was as blank as a plaster doll’s. He said, ‘But you’re just supposing.’
I nodded. ‘Kind of an intellectual exercise.’
Coolly, Faraday said, ‘When we find those gorillas, I’m going to jam them down your throat.’
I waved my hand in front of my nose and said, ‘There’s a lot of stale patter in here today.’
He chewed on me with his eyes for a moment and then told me to get out. I went. Bill was hanging out the window watching girls scamper across the sand to the ocean with their towels and radios.
I asked him to guide me to Huntington Beach and gave him the address of Brown Genes Magazine. The lights in his eyes went out for a moment. When they snapped back on, he said, ‘My treat, Marlowe,’ and he told me to head south.
One little beach town blended seamlessly into the next. The weather was fine, with a high blue sky over one picture postcard scene after another showing prime beachfront property. Huntington Beach had its share of walk-up food emporiums, T-shirt shops, and sporting goods stores. Surf-bots were being featured by nobody.
Bill told me to slow down, and a moment later I saw the place, a small white stucco building in the hip pocket of a pod arcade. Plastic letters looking not much like driftwood and spelling BROWN GENES MAGAZINE hung over a storefront that might have been a taco joint before, and might be again.
A small car such a pale shade of pink that I could have imagined the pink almost backed into me. I got glared at by some very big and shiny sunglasses, and then the car shot out into traffic looking for a good place to have an accident.
I parked in the empty spot and asked Bill to come with me. I dragged Bill past an ice cream fountain and a photocopy store. I had to drag him because he wanted to stop and see what was happening in each place. There were no women in the photocopy store, so maybe he was just curious. When we got to the magazine office, the door was open. I went in with Bill at my heels.
The office smelled like a lot of old paper floating on a faint sweet cloud that leaked in from the ice cream shoppe next door. It was a long room with a white rectangle at the back that would be an open door. Fluorescent lights, which ran from side to side, bled personality from everything in the room.
Three large metal desks, one behind the other, were lined up on each side of the room, all facing front. Each
desk had a tower of organizing baskets, some of them overflowing on to a desk that was already crowded with paper and pencils. Back in one corner was a private office made by partitions that did not go all the way to the acoustical-tiled ceiling. The door was closed.
Between the front desks and the office, a long row of sheets with writing and sketches was taped to the wall. Above the long row of sheets were posters of surf-bots surfing. More posters just like them faced them from the wall opposite.
At one of the back desks, a blond kid was typing madly, studying the ceiling, then typing madly again. He wore a very crisp blue short-sleeved shirt that was pretty conservative for his crowd. The only pattern on it was black silhouettes of palm trees.
At the front desk was a girl with the same colour hair as the kid who was typing, but long enough so that it did not stop at her shoulders. She wore a T-shirt that said SURF TILL YOU’RE RAW! under a picture of a surfer with lots of teeth and some very buggy eyes. She was using a blue pencil to cross things out angrily on a sheet of not very neat typing.
Without looking up, she cried, ‘Can you crank it a little, Frankie?’
The kid in the back, who must have been Frankie, cried, ‘Aarrggh!’ as he tossed his hands into the air, caught them, and typed madly again.
I said, ‘Excuse me.’
The girl jumped as if I’d goosed her and glared at me. She was cute and had the half-wise look of someone young enough not to realize she had a lot to learn. She ran a finger back to hook her blond hair over one ear and remembered her manners. ‘Can I help you?’ she said.
‘You bet,’ Bill said and took a step forward. I grabbed him around the throat. Not too hard. Bill didn’t even struggle.
‘Ever hear of a robot with a hormone problem?’ I said and smiled. When she did not smile back I said, ‘I’m interested in some information about one of your subscribers.’
‘Are you the police?’ The thought that I might be a policeman worried her. I wondered, in an offhanded way, what she had to hide.
