McClendon's Syndrome (v1.1)

by Robert Frezza

  Her voice softened. “I should be apologising to you.”

  “No problem.” I took her hand. Then I noticed something crawling in the grass at my feet. “What’s that?” It looked like a moving cow patty.

  Catarina tilted her head. “It’s a velvet frog. I think the locals call them ‘flops.’ “

  The flop sprouted eyes and leaped onto my shoe, where it began doing vigorous push-ups. It broke the mood.

  “They’re not particularly bright,” Catarina said delicately.

  “Or discriminating.” I stood up away from the blanket and swung my foot to propel the flop into the middle of next week.

  “Most people here don’t wear brown shoes.”

  “I’ll make a note of mat.” I pointed at something purple flying a wobbly course overhead. “What’s that?”

  Catarina grabbed my arm and jerked aside as a stream of green slime splattered onto the turf where I’d been standing. “It’s a dumbat. They mostly live on leaves and berries, except the berries ferment this time of year. They get drunk eating them and fly into buildings and pedestrians.”

  The dumbat was flying in a shaky circle and came back around my way. I sidestepped left to let the little fellow go by, which apparently confused him. He veered left, tried to pull up with a startled look in his eyes, and bounced off my chest. He ended up flat on his back and lay there.

  “A dumbat, huh?”

  “What else would you call something that flies around half-drunk?” Catarina asked.

  “Marine aviation. Seriously, they don’t bite or anything, do they?” I picked the little guy up and cradled him in both hands. “He’s kind of cute. I hope he’s all right.”

  The dumbat looked at me and yawned. I thought for a second. “Can they eat Earth-type foods?”

  Catarina nodded. “I think so.” She flipped me a piece of chocolate.

  I popped it into the little dumbat’s mouth by way of reparation. He chewed it up contentedly and swallowed. Then he twined his claws into my sleeve, shut his eyes, and went to sleep.

  “Hey! Let go!” I tried to pull the dumbat loose, but he had a tight grip and it looked like he was out cold. It also looked like I was either going to keep him or sacrifice my shirt.

  “You’ve made a friend. I’m impressed.”

  “Can you potty-train them? Maybe I could give him to Wyma Jean to replace the cat.” I thought for a minute. “No. Bad idea. Forget I suggested it. The cat was enough trouble, and the cat couldn’t fly. As soon as Dumbo here wakes up and I can figure out how to unhook him, he goes.”

  She started laughing softly.

  I grimaced. “I’ll bet you’re thinking that not only are the people here not worth fighting over, but the fauna isn’t either.”

  “Oh, absolutely.” She laughed until tears ran down her cheeks, and then her smile faded. “Ken,” she said gently, “I can stay a little while, but then I have to catch the shuttle back.”

  “And you’re trying to tell me that you don’t want to make this too hard.”

  “It seems like the best idea,” she agreed. “Even if we both live through the next few days, we’ll end up going our separate ways.”

  “Can I come visit you in the convent?”

  “We’ll scandalise the good sisters.” She smiled.

  We threw the blanket in the trunk and headed back to Clyde’s place. As we pulled up, I saw two vehicles parked out in front.

  “Slow up,” I told her. “I want to check this out.”

  She stopped about a block away. I gave her a hug, and she let me out. I watched her drive away. As I walked up to the first car, I saw a familiar brown felt beret with artificial flowers. I rapped on the window. “Dare, what are you doing here?”

  Lydia rolled down her window. “I saw you leave the reception. You’re supposed to be inside. Where’s the girl you were with?”

  “You followed me.” I didn’t try to hide the disgust I felt. “Well, as you can see, there’s no girl.” I pointed to the dumbat on my arm. “He’s the only friend with me at the moment. Now, please get out of here before I call the cops.”

  She huffed, and she puffed, and she finally drove away.

  There were two men sitting in the second car. One of the two got out. “Hey, buddy, you got a light?”

  “Sorry,” I slapped my pockets reflexively. “I don’t smoke.”

  “Hey, aren’t you Ken MacKay? I saw you on TV.”

  “I am, and you may have.”

  “Good.” He pulled a pistol out of his pocket. “Move it. Get in the car. No tricks, now!”

  Obviously, if any of this had been in my horoscope, six or seven people would have called to warn me, and I never would have gotten out of bed.

  I got in the backseat, and the guy with the gun got in after me. “Take us back to the trailer, Larry.”

  “Right, Joe.”

  “Okay, Joe, what’s all this about?” I thought for a second. “You wouldn’t happen to have a girlfriend named Christine, would you?”

  “Naw! Christine, what kind of a name is that?” Joe lit a cigarette. “Relax, this isn’t personal. This is just business. Mind if I smoke?”

  “Yes, I do mind,” I said coldly.

  “Jeez, you’re touchy!”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  Larry turned his head around, still steering the car. “He’s got a point, Joe. Don’t you read anything about secondary smoke? It’s very unhealthy.”

  “Larry, will you drive the car?” Joe said in an exasperated tone of voice as he snubbed out his cigarette.

  We pulled up to a trailer on a lot next to a frame structure with a jaunty red neon sign. The top line flashed out, LITTLE NELL’S SPORTING HOUSE. The next line said GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! The bottom line read, 10% OFF WEDNESDAYS FOR SENIOR CITIZENS.

  Dumbo the dumbat was still hanging onto my arm, half-asleep. As I got out of the car, I shook him free, whispered, “Go get help!” and tossed him into the air. He landed with a thump.

  Larry opened up the trailer and Joe motioned me with his pistol to follow him inside. I don’t like trailers—the best thing I can say about them is that they attract cyclones, which keeps them from multiplying. Larry disappeared into the bedroom and returned a moment later. I gingerly sat down on a fuzzy orange couch. “What’s the smell in here?”

  “What smell?” Larry asked, scratching his head. Joe was dark and round; Larry was tall with sandy hair and what people generally refer to as a vacant expression.

  “It’s probably the garbage,” Joe observed. “The garbagemen are on holiday, and there wasn’t any pickup yesterday. I think they get Ramadan off. You want something to eat?”

  “No, thanks. I ‘m not hungry.” Ramadan lasts about a month. I eyed the two of them. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

  “I’m Larry,” the tall one said. “This is Joe. We’re from the Mob.”

  I stared. “The real Mafia isn’t going to be very happy with you two.”

  “Hey! Watch what you say,” Larry said. “Joe here is a real Sicilian.”

  Joe chimed in. “Yeah. If you don’t button your lip, we’re going to drive you down to the river and let you take a walk in some cement overshoes.”

  Spacers tend to watch a lot of old cinema stuff, including material so ancient it’s been colourised, so I’d seen any number of bad gangster movies. Apparently, these two had, too.

  “You don’t have a river. What is going on?” I exclaimed wearily.

  Joe looked at Larry uncomfortably. “You’re the captain of the ship that’s going to fight the Rats, and you’re interfering with our business, MacKay.”

  “Yeah, our girls are all complaining,” Larry added.

  It was Joe’s turn. “Yeah, you got all the businessmen in town worried sick. They’re all going home to their wives, for Christ’s sake. The last couple of nights, business has been terrible. Do you know what the rent is on this place?”

  “Yeah. We’re as patriotic as the next guys, except when
it interferes with business,” Larry concluded.

  “I take it that’s your establishment next door,” I said.

  “Yeah. Neat place, isn’t it?” Larry responded. “We got the neon stuff from an antique store.”

  “How is kidnapping me going to improve your business?”

  “We called the papers to let everyone know we got you. After everybody reads about it, they’ll know there won’t be any war, and things will pick up in a day or two,” Larry explained.

  “And what do you plan on doing with me?”

  Larry and Joe exchanged looks. “We’re still working on that, but we were figuring on ransoming you after this Rat thing blows over. There’s a hot tip that you scammed a bunch of drug money. It said so in the newspapers.”

  “Hold it, kids. Let’s get this straight.” I used my fingers to count off. “First, don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers. Anybody over the age of four ought to know that. Second, the navy commandeered my ship, so there’s going to be a war with the Rodents whether I show up for it or not. Third, if I don’t show up, the Rodents are going to come looking for me, because they are not very happy with me at all.”

  I gave Joe and Larry a few seconds to let that sink in. “Last,” I said, “I haven’t got any money. I especially don’t have any drug money. The only thing I own is a wrecked ship, which the Rodents are trying to turn into scrap metal and the bankers are trying to take away.”

  Larry’s face fell, and Joe furrowed his brow. Then he brightened. “I get it! The bankers want you, and the Rats want you. We could sell you to the highest bidder!”

  “Wrong, Joe. The Rats want me dead, and the bankers will probably also want me dead when they find out I haven’t got any money. I would add that the Rats are on their way, and if I’m not around to help protect your planet, business might even get worse.”

  “That is a problem,” Joe agreed. “We got to think.”

  “You ought to. This was your dumb idea,” Larry told him.

  Joe looked up and took Larry casually by the collar. He slapped him once. “Don’t say stuff like that, pal.”

  I saw Larry clench his fists, but he didn’t say anything. A little chilled, I asked, “You seem a little new at this. Have you two ever done this kidnapping thing before?”

  “Sure, we have!” Joe said indignantly, after a slight hesitation.

  “Lots of times,” Larry volunteered.

  “How many times?”

  “Seven,” Larry said, at the same time Joe said, “Five.” They looked at each other.

  While I considered asking them to split the difference, somebody knocked at the door.

  “Who the heck could that be?” Larry pulled out a pistol of his own and let go the safety. He opened the door and Lydia Dare walked in with Dumbo clinging to her sweater, followed by a cameraman. She shoved her microphone in Joe’s face. “Hello, I’m Lydia Dare from the Schenectady Post-Dispatch. Are you the persons who kidnapped the notorious pirate, Ken MacKay?”

  “Gee, Lydia Dare. Can I get your autograph?” Larry asked.

  “I seen you on TV,” Joe said. “Yeah, we kidnapped him. How’d you find us?”

  “I just followed this little guy here.” Dare gestured to my dumbat, which was hanging upside down on her free arm.

  Dumbo launched himself, flopped on my shoulder, and opened his mouth wide for a handout. Dumbats may not major in plasma physics, but they know a soft touch when they see one. I looked in my pocket and found that Catarina had stuffed it with what was left of the chocolate and a check for the lawyer. I broke off a piece of chocolate and stuffed Dumbo’s beak.

  “She knows our hideout!” Joe exclaimed. “We got to shoot her!”

  “You can’t. I’m a reporter,” Dare said arrogantly.

  “These two kidnapped me and are trying to figure out what to do next.” I pointed to Dumbo. “Did he actually lead you here?”

  “I went cruising when the call about you came in and spotted your dumbat sitting on the steps outside with his mouth open. How’s that for good investigative reporting?” she said smugly.

  “You wouldn’t have happened to have notified the police, would you?”

  “Of course not!” Her eyes blazed with righteous fire. “This is a scoop.” The cameraman gave me a pitying look.

  “Okay, Dare. No cops, no interview.” I folded my arms and turned around so my back was facing her. I jerked a thumb. “If you want a story, why don’t you interview these two?”

  “Just for that, I will!” Dare said, outraged.

  “Hey, I want to go first!” Larry said. “Hey, who’s supposed to be in charge, here? I should go first!” Joe responded. I turned my head around in time to see the cameraman roll his eyes.

  After a slight hesitation, Lydia made a Solomonic decision and let Joe and Larry both go first, alternating questions.

  I listened for about ten minutes, and while everyone else was otherwise occupied, I quietly borrowed Larry’s keys and walked out. Locking the door behind me, I pitched the keys into the weeds, found a pay phone next to a Lucky 7 store, and called Bunkie to pick me up.

  It was comforting to know that organised crime on Schuyler’s World was on a par with its other institutions.

  When Bunkie pulled up, I introduced her to Dumbo and got her to drive me back to Clyde’s place. Then I roused Sheriff Jamali from a sound sleep and asked him to send his minions down to pick up Joe and Larry. Parking my dumbat in the bathtub with a blanket, I went to sleep.

  The next morning, I called Father Yakub for some spiritual guidance. I explained the events of the previous evening, and he gave me another absolution for sins I had intended to commit and asked me to try and keep my nose wiped for a few days.

  He also told me to pray, in order to become closer to God, and to hire a good lawyer.

  “Sounds like good advice, Father. However, the only lawyer that I can get on short notice is Jimmy Omura.”

  “I might pray a little harder,” Father Yakub ventured after some reflection.

  I couldn’t help asking. “Father, don’t take this the way it sounds, but you seem like an awfully sharp guy—”

  “To be living on Schuyler’s World?” His image on the telephone screen grinned impishly. “I assume by that you mean I can get through doors and around corners without backing and filling.”

  I nodded. “It seems kind of unusual,” I said limply.

  “Ken, my son, the Church in its wisdom decreed that its children on colonial worlds should receive the finest shepherds available, because, praise le bon Dieu, they need more shepherding than most.”

  I called Omura from the office and spent an hour going over the details of the case while Bunkie fed the documents he needed into the scanner. We arranged to meet in front of the courthouse.

  As I signed off, I noticed Bunkie looking at me out of the corner of her eye.

  “Bunkie, I know the courts here interpret the law here a little loosely, but I think I can beat this temporary restraining order.”

  “Sir, I don’t mean to comment on your private life, but there may be more to this than you think.”

  “Oh?” I sensed I wasn’t going to like what I was about to hear.

  Bunkie stared down at my shoes. “Sir, the, uh, mayor’s office has called here three tunes. They would like to speak with you. Apparently Mayor Feldman saw you leave his reception early in a, well, furtive manner, right before his daughter left.”

  “Is the mayor’s daughter named Christine?”

  “Yes, sir. The mayor’s not real happy.”

  “How old is she, anyway?”

  “Ummm.” Bunkie clearly didn’t want to answer the question. “Fifteen, sir.”

  “Bunkie, how do you hear all these things?”

  “Just around and about, sir.”

  Chandrasekhar was singing as he cut up the radishes, and it gradually registered on me that he was singing an old marching song I’d learned at Woolmera.

  “The wedding was�
�a formal one

  Her father had—a white shotgun

  The wedding was—a formal one

  Her father had a!... White shotgun!”

  The song is a sad commentary on the perils of mixing with sweet young things who are impressed by black holes.

  “Bunkie, I’m beginning to think that I may have some difficulties with Judge Osman. Do you have any suggestions?”

  She thought for a moment. “Sir, I think that everything will depend on the quality of the testimony you present in your favour,” she said very carefully.

  “Good point. Can you call up Piper and have her send Clyde back with the shuttle?”

  She nodded. “Consider it done, sir. And sir, about your pet?”

  “Right. He’s in my office, and I don’t know what to do with him. He’s actually kind of cute. I’m surprised that people don’t try to make pets out of them.”

  “Sir, I imagine that the blanket you have him wrapped in is going to need cleaning,” Bunkie said diffidently.

  “Uh, right.” We walked into my office and surveyed the dumbat in question. Dumbo had polished off four bananas and an apricot for breakfast. He opened one eye blearily, then yawned and went back to sleep.

  “Well, I really can’t keep nun.”

  “I’ll take care of it for you, sir,” Bunkie said, deftly picking him up.

  “Uh, Bunkie, what do you plan on doing?” I asked, a little squeamish.

  “Get him stewed and dump him in the woods.” She shrugged. “It works with blind dates.”

  “Thanks, Bunkie.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  I went back and packed up my stuff, just in case, and then I went down to the courthouse. Clyde was sitting in the back, waiting for me.

  The three lawyers on the other side and their clients refused to make eye contact with me. When Judge Osman walked in, he recognised me immediately. “Ah, another crew member from Rustam’s Slipper appearing before me in my courtroom. How pleasant.”

  It was shaping up as one of those days.

  The bank presented its case first. Basically, they argued that I owed lots of people tons of money, both in my own right and on behalf of everyone else they could think of to drag in, and while invasions come and go, business was business. If the court let me take the shuttle up to my ship, there was a high probability that I would not return, except possibly in small pieces when it next rained.