The Fanciers & Realizers MEGAPACK

by Phyllis Ann Karr

  Half on purpose and half thanks to her problems with the costume, she walked into Aster’s almost twenty minutes late. She disliked being late for anything, she felt clumsy in skirt and sandals, and she hoped the P.I. would have given up and gone about his business. Partly but not entirely because it would free her to spend the evening—in defiance of stress-relief guidelines, which she was breaking anyway by coming here—back at home screening through whatever she could recheck on her personal unit, looking yet again for anyone besides Gentian Truemeasure who might have supplied “Earl” Moan the stuff he’d used to cancel his wife. Not that a mere police sergeant would have been able to turn up grounds to recess his trial at this point, with the testimony winding down. But the sooner Moan’s trial ended, the sooner Truemeasure’s would begin.

  Lestrade’s present surroundings didn’t do a thing to put her at ease. In Aster’s main dining room, widely spaced marblesim pillars soared up to a high, groined ceiling. A three-tiered fountain played softly in its tile basin in the middle of the floor. Deep brown sound-soak carpet muffled all footsteps, and there was enough space to set the wrought-iron tables twenty centimeters farther apart than the restaurant guideline minimum, allowing easy passage between tables, as well as additional privacy for the diners’ conversations. The whole was lighted by electroglo candles in clear crystal shades. It all reeked of fancy-class taste and elegance, with here and there a thin line of gold ornamentation as a concession to the reality-perceiving patron. Almost every table was occupied, and most of the occupiers really were fanciers. At least judging by their dress, those ubiquitous trousers and tunics in black, white, ivory, and various shades of beige, varied here and there by floorlength skirts—not always on women; Chinese mandarins, Medieval noblemen, and various ancient gents had also worn long skirts—and by the light accessories. A cowboy hat here, a starched Elizabethan collar or 2020s-style rainbow eyeshade there, the things that fanciers sometimes used to tag their personal worlds to the rest of society, or that realizers with some sense of restraint adopted to play fancier for a while. Formal fancy-class attire differed only in fabric, and not always then, from everyday and casual fancy-class attire. Lestrade spotted one couple in bright red tunics with tie-dyed purple splotches, another pair in full Tricentennial costume as founding Fathers of the Revolutionary War-Old Constitution period, and a third pair in fashionable reality-class formal wear, rose satin jacket and white trousers for the man, blue chiffon tunic with—Lestrade thought it was called a “wingspread collar”—for the woman. Aside from them, only the waiters, in meltcheck tunics of muted blue and green, stood out from the elegant monotones.

  “M.?” said the maitre d’, embuing the single syllable with old-world charm. Clearly more actor than restaurateur, he might under other circumstances have tried to kiss her hand. In spite of this, the glance he gave her, respectfully brief but admiring, bolstered her self-confidence slightly. Even though she knew he must give everyone the same glance, modified for age and gender.

  Wondering if he was registered as realizer or fancier, she said, “I have a reservation. M. Hammersmith and M. Lestrade, table for two.” She had rehearsed the line so as not to sound like a polly.

  “I see. Then you would be M. Lestrade? This way, please.”

  His identificiation of her told her that Hammersmith had already arrived. The slight lift of his left eyebrow suggested mild surprise that such a lady should be dating such a lout. Unless Lestrade was interpreting it according to her own preconceptions, a bad habit for a detective to fall into. The raised eyebrow could also mean ... What else could it mean?

  She followed the maitre d’ between the widely-spaced tables, her sandals sinking noiselessly into five centimeters of brown carpet, and found her date at a window table large enough for four but place-set for only two. Hammersmith was drinking something golden brown on the rocks. She guessed it was real alcohol, and not his first of the evening.

  “Ah!” he said, standing up and leaning on the table as he did so. “Good evening, my lovely Klingon commander!”

  The maitre d’ pulled back her chair and gave her—unless she imagined it—a tiny nod of sympathy as she sat. She waited until he was gone before answering. “I thought you lived in a hard-boiled dick world, M. Hammersmith.”

  “I caught your act, my lovely. Two or three times. One time I even considered buying the screenshow chip of it, for my extensive collection. But at the time my screen was in hock.” He took another swallow of his drink. “My life’s got its ups and downs, lovely lady. Maybe you regulars never make the kind of dough we see when we hit it good, but sometimes a nice, reliable, regular modest paycheck ... Hey, though. I’d be willing to bet you’d pull in the tridols as a private cop. Ever think about it, Madame Lestrade?”

  “Forget it, M. Hammersmith. With all its faults, I prefer working within the system.” She thought of Gentian Truemeasure. “I like clearing the innocent better than running down the guilty.”

  He lofted his glass, tilting it dangerously. If it had been fuller, something would have sloshed out. “Whatever you say, lovely Klingon commander.”

  “You don’t remember the show as well as you think. I was a member of the Romulan ambassadorial corps.” Secretly a security guard. Her big scene had been stepping forward and clamping her hands on one of the good guy’s arms while he sang his baritone solo.

  “We’ll put it to this little dear,” said Hammersmith, winking to a waitress who had just materialized at their table. “How about it, sweetheart? Is my date here a Kling or a Rom?”

  “I see her as a gracious Etruscan matron, M.,” the waitress replied without a blink. Pretty young blond, a little over fourteen decimeters tall, thin face, concave profile, brown eyes. Whether she was really a fancier or not, she was obviously used to slightly tipsy patrons. “What may I bring you, M., while you browse our menu?” she went on to Lestrade.

  “Whatever ancient Etruscans drink,” Lestrade said aloud. Lower, for the waitress alone to hear, she added, “When they don’t want to get stoned.”

  “We have a very nice Lambrusco,” said the waitress, adding confidentially, “Three percent.”

  “Fine,” said Lestrade. The waitress tabbed her ordercom and left. The policewoman opened her menu and looked first for the prices. There weren’t any. “M. Hammersmith. Let me see your menu.”

  “It ain’t got prices either, lovely Etruscan lady. We’re in a real high-class joint here.”

  “Just checking. We pollies have suspicious natures.” She held out her hand and, after a moment, he put his menu into it. She wasn’t surprised that that he’d told the truth. There were two places she knew about by report, one in New York and one in New Frisco, where the custom had been revived of assuming that the gentleman paid; but those two places catered to very specialized circles of people. Aster’s catered to fanciers of all persuasions.

  Wondering if everything was the same price because everything was in fact the same meal, she checked the menu more thoroughly. No price notice anywhere. Well, she ought to be safe with rabbit.

  Hammersmith coughed. “You’ve left me menuless, lovely Klingon or Romulan or Etruscan lady. Of course, I’d pretty well decided on the Abilene steak.”

  “Stop calling me ‘lovely lady.’ Here.” She handed one of the menus back to him. “I hope you didn’t have to hock your extensive chip collection along with the screen for this dinner.”

  Propping the menu on his water goblet, he raised his drink again. “Ups and downs, handsome sergeant. This week I happen to be in one of my ups. A good thing, since we couldn’t very well let a red-letter event like you finally going out with me slip without celebrating it right.”

  “You’re up on alcohol, if nothing else. I suppose it would be useless to tell you to call me plain ‘M. Lestrade.’”

  “I am up,” he confided, “on the prospect of a decade. Tell me, M. Lestrade, how much do you think Adrian Withycombe
will pay to stay alive?”

  Her personal guiderule was: When in doubt, put on the frown of authority and keep quiet. She had just started frowning at Hammersmith when the waitress returned with her three percent Lambrusco.

  The policewoman said, “I’m ready to order,” waited for the waitress to pull out her ordercom, and went on, “I’ll have the young rabbit in light onion sauce on a bed of carrots, peas, and spring potatoes, with mixed salad.” Other restaurants called similar meals “Peter Rabbit in the Garden” or some such cute name, but Aster’s simply called it by its full description. As Hammersmith had said, a real high-class joint.

  “Abilene steak for me, sweetheart,” said the P.I. “Barely warmed through and with all the trimmings, just as advertised. And another couple of these,” he added, hoisting his glass.

  The waitress tabbed, gave the usual polite comments, and disappeared.

  “Your drinks are going to cost more than the steak,” Lestrade remarked. “What gave you the idea that M. Withycombe might be in the market for your services?”

  “Come on, m’lady. Life’s still sweet to a rich floater, even one who happens to be tucked away inside a security hotel for keeps. I hear the insides of a Hilmar security lockup can be as high-toned as this dump we’re sitting in right now.” He gazed around at the restaurant’s interior, then out at the surrounding wildpark.

  Obviously he knew enough that she didn’t see any point in hedging around. Before his gaze settled back on her of itself, she said, “How much do you know, Hammersmith?”

  He grinned at her, swallowed the last of his present drink, and rotated the glass as if to listen to the ice cubes rattle. “Enough.”

  “And you got your information from ...”

  “Privileged sources, my lovely.” Putting down the glass, he winked.

  “That ‘privileged sources’ routine went out with the Fourth New Amendment.”

  “Not for priests, psychodocs, and private cops.” He wagged one finger at her, and she hoped the waitress would get back soon with his next drink, give him something else to do with his hands.

  “Not for pollies, either, when it comes to that,” she conceded. “Not till the case is in the docket, anyway. In fact, the Privcom Rule of 1999—”

  “Gives you ‘officials’ a lot of leeway in collecting information. Almost as much leeway as us ‘irregulars.’” He grinned again. “You’re beautiful when you’re annoyed, lady. But this case isn’t anywhere near the docket, and I ain’t planning to enter a story on the newscreens. There’s no law yet says we’ve got to produce documentation for casual dinnertime chitchat.”

  “I was going to say, the Privcom Rule also gives us ‘regulars’ certain guidelines about keeping things quiet. Guidelines the Fourth Amendment specifically exempted, along with the confessional and the psych’s office. Come on, Hammersmith, regard me as your mother confessor.”

  He shook his head. “No dice, Dragon Lady. Far as I know, you ain’t even Catholic.”

  “Maybe not, but I am an Aunt Polly. You dropped Withycombe into the chitchat yourself, ‘privileged private cop.’ Probably the whole reason you finagled me here tonight was to talk about Withycombe. So—”

  “Unh-unh! Don’t sell yourself short, dear lady. I’d been trying to swing a date with you for long months before this Withycombe caper came down like the gentle rain from heaven.”

  “And you brought it up at me just now like the flowers of spring. Meaning you want to talk about it. But if you want to pump me about it, M. Private Eye, it’s got to be a two-way street.”

  The waitress returned with an individual four-jigger crystal decanter and a crystalline thermal minibucket of ice cubes. She set them down at Hammersmith’s place and slid away again, ignoring his grin and wink. “Next time,” he remarked, “I’m going to give that nice little sweetheart a nice little pinch.”

  “Try it and I’ll run you in on charges of gender harassment and public indecency.”

  “And then grill me about the Withycombe business, huh? With a helper, of course. It’s got to be two pollies per customer in the regular interrogation rooms,” he embellished, speaking out of his private fantasy world. “Who would you get, Dragon Lady? Your usual shadow, good l’l ol’ Davie Click?” Grinning again, he closed his big fingers on the ice bucket’s small silver tongs, transferred two fresh cubes onto the melting ones in his glass, and poured half the decanter’s golden brown contents in to keep them company. “Cheers!” he added, hoisting the glass at her before taking a couple of swallows. “Come on yourself, Dragon Lady. Drink your three percent kiddy braingrease and loosen up a little.”

  It had probably been too much to hope that he hadn’t overheard the “three percent.” She said, “I’ll start drinking when you start saying something worth listening to, Hammersmith.”

  “All right, fair enough. Yin for yang, like they say.” Rolling his glass between his palms, he went on, “Somebody wants to kill Withycombe, right? By process of elimination, it just about has to be one of his fellow ‘guests’ in that high-tone security lockup. The only other folks who ever get inside those walls are the moxy souls of the day staff. Okay, my lovely, your turn. Show me one of your cards.”

  She took a sip of her three percent. “You forgot to mention the Sunday chaplains.”

  He chuckled. “Our brothers and sisters of the cloth? What a twist! I love it, babe. But I wouldn’t exactly call it a piece of privileged information.”

  “Okay, how about this? If an attempt on Withycombe’s life comes any other day than Sunday, we can eliminate the chaplains.”

  “Unless one of ’em hides out inside.”

  “There’s always a nose count when they clock in and clock out. Just as there is every day for the day employees.”

  Hammersmith made an affirmative grunt and went on, “How about this, then? One of ’em—chaplain or daystaffer—doesn’t come out on time. Giving the guards an excuse to go in, about the only chance those guards ever get to go deep inside. That’s when one of the guards tries to rub our man out.”

  “Not bad, M. Hammersmith. But it means at least one accomplice. Either the chaplain or daystaffer who fails to come out on time, or else somebody on the inside to delay the said chaplain or daystaffer.”

  “Okay, why not an accomplice?” He took another swig of his drink. “But you still haven’t come across with any privileged data, my lovely. Just speculation.”

  “What did you give me at the start of this ‘free exchange’?” Nothing but the statement that somebody wants to kill Withycombe. Which you’d already mentioned some time before. Followed by a piece of speculation. Tell me how you got your data, and I’ll tell you how I got mine.”

  He repeated, “Privileged sources, Aunt Polly.”

  “I didn’t say who, I said how.”

  “Do I have to remind you, dear Dragon Lady, that sometimes the ‘how’ is the ‘who’?”

  She leaned back, took another sip of Lambrusco, and said, “So tell me, M. Hammersmith. What kind of a chance do you think the Coatimundis have at this year’s Pennant?”

  To his credit, he chuckled, but it took him a minute. “Okay, Dragon Lady, this round to you. I got a letter.”

  “So did I. What day?”

  “Hey, how do I know that?”

  “I see. You just let your papermail pile up in a P.O. box and collect it only every third or fourth day. Good way to run a private eye business, Hammersmith. No wonder you have your ups and downs.”

  He played innocent. “Oh. Thought you were riddling me what day you got yours. Fuzzy grammar, dear lady. But thanks for the tip—you assumed I got an oldfashioned paper and envelope letter. Ergo, that’s the kind you probably got.”

  “Shrewd, Hammersmith. Very shrewd. Who else could ever have guessed that anybody might prefer sending a letter on such a topic in a nice, private envelope rather than over the scree
ns? We all know how careful the advertisers always are to send their junkmail over the screens so that nobody except the addressee can possibly get a glimpse of it. You still haven’t told me what day your letter came.”

  “Your turn to show a card first.”

  Well, she had at least worked him into being the first to say he’d gotten a letter. For what his statement was worth. Whatever source had told him about the threat on Withycombe’s life could just as easily have told him about her letter and inspired him to lie about getting one, too. In which case he probably also knew when hers had come, so she might not actually be telling him anything, impressive as the “card” should look. “Monday.”

  “Monday? Got mine today. Wednesday.” He tabbed it on his fingers. “Two-day lapse, during which it seems Kind Aunt Polly didn’t do anything. Nada. No wonder the customer came, in a manner of speaking, to yours truly.”

  “The letter you got would have had to have been written and smuggled out Tuesday—yesterday—at latest.”

  “Meaning you left the writer stewing and nail-chewing all day Monday, maybe most of the day Tuesday, hoping for a response from you. Compassion, Aunt Polly. Pure compassion.”

  “Let me remind you, Hammersmith, that we’re funded for only so many stress-hours, and we’re supposed to spend them protecting honest citizens.”