A skeletal knight rode a white horse, a black banner held before him with a white rose upon it.
"Death," Lewis said.
"It doesn't mean literal death," Stasi said. "It means change. Lots and lots of things will change, darling."
Alma let out a deep breath. "I think this reading is too general," she said. "Lots of things will happen and lots of things will change. I think we could all guess that."
"I agree," Stasi said. "There's not much point in me going on, darling. I don't think it's possible to read on something as big as this. All I can get are generalities. Nothing specific enough to do any good. We all know Roosevelt is the new president and that it will matter what he does. That's not news."
"I suppose not," Jerry said.
Mitch was frowning. "There's going to be a crisis, but we can't prevent it. The problems are already here. And so we just do our part as best we can. That's all we can do, and all anyone ever can."
"Exactly, darling," Stasi said chipperly. "I'm afraid that's all I've got, Alma."
Alma nodded. "I suppose," she said. "Thank you for trying, Stasi."
"You're welcome."
Lewis got to his feet. "I'm going up to shave and get cleaned up for the dance tonight. If you still want to go, Al?"
"Yes," she said, and he watched her face relax. "Of course I do."
"Ok," Lewis said. "Let's go and have a good time. We've earned it."
"We have," Mitch said. "You coming, Jerry?"
"When hell freezes over," Jerry said, deadpan, and Mitch laughed.
"You mean an American Legion Christmas party isn't your idea of fun?"
"It's my idea of a circle of hell," Jerry said.
Lewis scooted around the table, passing behind Stasi as he did so that he could see the final outcome card in her hand, never laid down and never read. Beneath a full moon a long, white dog lay beside a tombstone, its head upraised in a mournful howl.
Stasi looked up at him, her lips creasing in a forced smile. "Not a very useful reading," she said.
Lewis squeezed her shoulder. "Nothing I didn't know," he said quietly.
The Torpedo pulled out from behind the house, the motor complaining at the low gear. Mitch had the top up, Jerry saw as he peered out between the living room curtains, not that it would do much good in this weather. He'd looked remarkably pleased with himself at supper, and Stasi had been smiling like a cat in cream — they'd put both politics and the Tarot reading behind them, and good for them. Whatever was coming —and Jerry couldn't fool himself about that, he had a bad feeling that Pelley might have a handle on the relevant quatrain — whatever was coming, they couldn't stop it. And so they might as well seize the good things while they still could.
Alma's truck followed more sedately, Lewis for once in the driver's seat, Alma bundled in her mink over the ivory dress she'd worn for Henry's victory party. It fit a little differently now, the sleek bias-cut fabric falling in a new pattern. Most of the men would think she'd just gained a little weight, but the other women would note and wonder. And, God willing, in June there would be a child, hers and Lewis's, not to replace the one she'd lost, but entirely their own.
Alma had left the drinks tray on the sideboard, the good glasses and the ice bucket and the bottles of acceptable whiskey that Mitch had taken in part payment for some job or other, and he poured himself a stiff drink, chipping off a few pieces of ice to mellow the liquor. He turned and his eyes fell on the mantle, where Gil's picture still stood. It was the best one taken after the war, Gil's hair streaked with gray, his face more heavily lined, but the indomitable grin unmistakable, and Jerry lifted his glass in silent toast. Only Gil would have tried a stunt like that, and it had damn near worked, too. There was no one like him.
A shadow moved in the hall, and Dr. Tesla came into the room, blinking in mild surprise. "You're not going to the dance, Dr. Ballard?"
Jerry shook his head. A year ago, he thought, he would have gone. He'd have enjoyed daring anyone to say anything about Stasi and their broken "engagement," and then he'd have used his leg as an excuse to sit in a corner and get quietly drunk, but after New York, he couldn't bring himself to pretend. He'd go back to the city, he thought. There was no one like Gil, no, but there was, at worst, congenial company, and at best there was work and the promise of Alexandria to plan for. "Would you like a drink, Dr. Tesla? It's bootleg, but not bad."
"Yes, thank you." Tesla settled himself in the armchair by the window, where Gil's chessboard was still set up. They'd have to move that when the baby came, Jerry thought, and busied himself with the bottles.
"Ice?"
"Please."
Jerry brought the drink across, the floor and the pattern of furniture familiar enough that he could manage without his cane as long as he moved carefully, and Tesla accepted the cut-crystal tumbler.
"Ah, thank you." He nodded to the board. "Do you play?"
"Not so much anymore," Jerry answered, and lowered himself into the armchair opposite. "But I'd be glad to give you a game, if you'd like."
"A pleasant way to pass the time," Tesla said. He was sitting in front of the white pieces, and Jerry wasn't about to argue.
"Your move."
"Oh, thank you, Dr. Ballard."
They traded moves, pawn, knight, bishop, the pieces deploying across the board, fanning out in a pattern at once unique and familiar. Jerry lit a cigarette, rested both elbows on his knees as he considered the board. Tesla frowned thoughtfully, sacrificed a pawn and then his king's bishop. Jerry eyed that uneasily, knowing he was being tricked, but could see no other response. A dozen moves later, he saw the trap, but it was too late. Tesla drove him back across the board, fighting a desperate rear guard action, and at last he tipped over his king.
"I concede."
"Well played," Tesla answered. "Another drink, perhaps?"
"Yes, definitely." Jerry started to get up, but Tesla was quicker, collecting both glasses. He poured them each a fresh drink, adding the ice with fussy care, and nodded to the mantle.
"Is that Mrs. Segura's first husband?"
"Yes. That's Gil — Gil Gilchrist." Jerry set his fresh cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, and accepted his glass. "How are you planning to get back to New York, Dr. Tesla?"
"Well, I have to arrange to ship the Silver Bullet first, and I expect that will need to go by train. I may talk to Colonel Sampson about perhaps arranging for some sort of guard on the crates, if Pelley is this eager to obtain the device."
"I'd hope you'd scared his men badly enough that he'd have trouble getting anyone to take the job," Jerry said.
"So do I. But I don't want to rely on it."
"Probably wise." Jerry took a long swallow of his whiskey, and picked up his cigarette again. "If you don't mind my asking, what are you going to do with it?"
Tesla leaned back in his chair. "Lock it up safely for a start. Then I'll approach the government and see if they'd be willing to fund further research. It's certainly effective, but — indiscriminate."
Jerry grinned. "Presumably that can be fixed."
"Possibly. Or possibly not. I won't know until I have more time to examine the system, run a few tests of my own. And, to be honest, that depends on funding."
"So much of science does," Jerry said.
"Indeed so." Tesla considered him for a moment. "Dr. Ballard, may I ask a possibly indelicate question?"
"You can ask," Jerry said, warily.
"By any chance, is Mrs. Segura expecting?"
Jerry allowed himself a smile, and told himself it wasn't relief. "Yes. Though she's not told more than family yet."
"Of course. I merely wondered." Tesla smiled himself. "I wish her all the best. She was such a clever little girl."
"She still is," Jerry said. "Though not so little."
"No." Tesla reached into the pocket of his vest, pulled out a locket attached to his watch chain. The scrolled surface was blurred, worn from much handling, and he carefully freed it from the chai
n. "Christmas Eve. I have spent many Christmas Eves with friends, though not often ones as dear as these."
He slid a thumbnail into the latch and pressed it open, then handed it to Jerry, who took it curiously. On the right was the portrait of a woman, her back mostly to the camera, her head tipped back to show a pile of wavy fair hair and a strong profile. She wasn't conventionally beautiful, but there was something about her, about her pose and her hinted smile that drew the eye — someone you'd want to know, the sort of person who'd catch your attention across a crowded room. On the left was a nice-looking man with a bushy, square-cut beard, his long face vaguely familiar. Jerry frowned, trying to place him, and Tesla smiled.
"Robert and Katharine Johnson."
"Robert Underwood Johnson," Jerry said, the image clicking into place. "I was on the Italian front — he did good work there. I think one of Al's ambulances originally came from him, from the American Poets' Ambulances. And I've enjoyed his poetry, of course."
"Yes." Something like regret and affection crossed the old man's face. "He doesn't write so much these days, sadly. His health isn't the best, and, of course, he has other responsibilities. And Katharine has been gone these eight years. But they were — and Robert is — such dear, dear friends. It's impossible not to remember one's loved ones at times like these."
There was a note in his voice that made Jerry look up sharply. Surely Tesla couldn't be suggesting — he was famously celibate, after all, had proclaimed that he lived only for his work. But the faint, sweet smile seemed unmistakable: even if it had been entirely platonic, this was unmistakably about love. And not just for Katharine, not for her alone, or why carry her husband's photograph as well? Jerry had thought he was alone.
"They're lovely portraits," he said, carefully, and handed the locket back.
Tesla closed it and returned it to his watch chain, tucking it carefully into the pocket of his vest. "Katharine's is very good. Robert's, sadly, doesn't do him justice. But it's the best we had."
"It can be very hard to find ones that do," Jerry agreed, and let his eyes stray to Gil's portrait. It caught the strength and the mischief, but not the magic. He lifted his glass. "Absent friends."
"Absent friends," Tesla echoed, and the crystal rang softly as their glasses met.
"Lewis! Good to see you! Alma!" Teddy Bergdorf shook Lewis' hand enthusiastically. "How have you been, buddy?"
"Pretty good," Lewis said, a silly grin on his face. No, he wasn't going to say it, but he looked like he was about to pop. "How about you?"
"Great," Teddy said. He split the difference, neither trying to hug Alma or shake her hand, which was how it fell out a lot of the time. "Where's Jerry? I haven't seen him tonight."
"He dropped his voice. "Is he hiding because of Mr. Winchell's column? I sure would be. Jeez."
Alma took a deep breath. "That's really between Jerry and Stasi, Teddy."
"I know but…" Teddy's broad face frowned. "She's a real nice girl. It's got to sting, being dumped like that in the paper. He oughtn't have done that. Peebles over at the hardware store told me that she hadn't even seen the column. She's got to be heartbroken."
"She and Jerry weren't really…" Lewis began, but Alma elbowed him. "I mean, there are other guys who…" Alma elbowed him again.
"I imagine Stasi will be fine," Alma assured him. "And Jerry felt like it would be rude to leave Dr. Tesla on his own on Christmas Eve," Alma said. "You know, since we hauled him out here and all. And Dr. Tesla didn't want to come along."
Teddy nodded enthusiastically. "I bet an American Legion dance isn't really Dr. Tesla's kind of party. It's a shame, though. Lots of people around here remember him and wouldn't mind saying hello. Why, I remember the time he electrified the whole sewer system! The fire hydrants were spitting sparks! I was a kid and thought it was pretty damn neat. Excuse me, Alma."
"I thought it was pretty damn neat too," Alma said. "And remember, I was a year behind you in school. I was a kid too. But no, not his kind of party." She refrained from saying that an American Legion dance was also Jerry's idea of a circle of hell, especially if half the town was going to be on his case about how he'd presumably broken Stasi's heart! She could see that he'd much rather spend the evening losing at chess to Tesla.
"Well, it's my kind of party." Teddy clapped Lewis on the arm. "And if you're looking for something a little stronger than punch, there's something in the kitchen that'll take care of you."
"Thanks," Lewis said. He looked like he was walking on air as it was.
Teddy moved off, and Lewis looked at her, a silly grin spreading across his face again. The orchestra was playing something slow now, and he dropped his voice. "Do you think you can still dance?"
"I can't ever dance," Alma said. "You know I've got two left feet."
"So do I," Lewis said. "But maybe we can kind of muddle in a circle."
"That works for me," Alma said, and put her hand on his shoulder. "If we sort of rotate over here we won't get in people's way."
It was, Alma thought, a perfectly satisfying interlude. Tesla's device was disassembled and under lock and key in the jail, which was about the last place Kirsch and his guys would hunt for it, presuming they were in any condition to hunt. Well, and they were terrified of Tesla, which definitely had its advantages. She doubted they'd mess with him in New York, not after that performance. She had to admit it had been pretty amazing.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Lewis asked.
"Just wondering what will happen to Silver Bullet," Alma said.
"Tesla will probably sell it to the government for ten million dollars," Lewis said, shaking his head. Other couples danced around them, a slow and laborious fox trot.
Alma dropped her voice. "If he can ever figure out how to make it not down our planes too. A weapon that kills all your own men too isn't such a good deal."
"Yeah," Lewis said grimly.
Stasi and Mitch ended a reasonably competent fox trot at the edge of the floor nearby. Mitch looked at her questioningly. "You still game?"
"You know it, darling," Stasi said with a wicked glance.
"Ok." Mitch took off his coat and tie and draped them carefully over the back of a folding chair. "Hey Al, will you watch my coat?"
"Watch it do what?" Alma asked as the music ended. It wasn't as though the Legion was full of coat thieves who would pounce on Mitch's unattended suit jacket. And yes, it was kind of hot in here with everyone dancing. She supposed some guys were starting to take their coats off.
"Very funny," Mitch said, heading off toward the bandstand.
"And my bag?" Stasi laid her bag on the chair too.
"Ok," Alma said.
The music had stopped and Alma looked at her watch. 11:15, about 2/3 of the way through the evening. The strings of Christmas lights over the dance floor gave everything a festive glow, and the band was mellow. There was a lot to be said for friends and fun on Christmas Eve, and if Jerry would rather play chess with Tesla, that was Jerry's idea of fun.
"Want some punch? Are you thirsty?" Lewis asked solicitously.
She wondered if he actually planned to keep that up until June, asking her if she needed anything every five minutes. It was kind of sweet. "I'm ok. Thanks."
"Ok, boys and girls," the band leader said into his microphone, "The next one up is a special request, so hang onto your mittens!" He grinned as he turned around to the white-jacketed band. "Let her rip, boys!"
One lone tenor sax started, a meandering solo line over a drum beat, the opening bars of French cabaret music, and Lewis looked at her questioningly. Alma shrugged.
From opposite sides of the dance floor Mitch and Stasi approached each other, a too-casual saunter exactly on the beat, eyes locked even as she tossed her head with all the exaggerated flamboyance of a film diva. They reached each other in the middle of the floor and she turned away.
He grabbed her, yanking her around roughly, pulling her against him and dragging her sideways into long matched steps, provocati
ve as a tango. She jerked away and he caught her by one hand, twisting her around entirely and throwing her to the floor, her fingers opening against the painted concrete. There was a general inhalation of breath.
He walked around her, reaching down and pulling her up, pulling her close into the dance again, body to body in a wide circle, brutally tight.
"What the hell is that?" Lewis said quietly.
She stopped, pulling away, her foot rising as though to kick him. Instead he caught her ankle, caught the hand that rose to slap him, pulling her off her feet and spinning her around, skirt flying up to show scarlet combinations and black garters, obscene and provocative and utterly indecent, ritual mating and ritual violence.
"I know what it is," Alma said. "I just wouldn't do it in public."
He spun her off and Stasi rolled across the floor again and lay unmoving, skirts up and legs akimbo. This time he stalked around her again and she kicked up into his hand. Casually, he struck a match off the sole of her shoe and lit a cigarette, dropping her foot like it was nothing more than a match book, walking off a couple of steps.
"Jesus Christ," someone said behind Alma, probably Teddy.
Stasi moved. She picked herself up slowly, everything on the drum beat, walking around him as he tossed the cigarette away. Her hand came up again to slap him but he blocked it, knocking her to her knees. She slid up his body, face against his groin, then belly, then chest, until her hands reached his shoulders and then they moved like dancing again, the long matched steps, so close together you couldn't fit a piece of paper between.
He jerked away but she pulled him back, face to face and into a lift, her legs around his waist and his arms around her, letting go so that her arms trailed, head down with her skirt around her waist, scarlet combinations and the gap of creamy skin between the top of the stockings and the wide leg of the underwear.
Lewis made a strangled sound.
Mitch lifted her back up, body to body, her legs still around him and then unfolding into the long matched steps. Another turn, and this time she jerked away, and he pulled her back on the beat. She raked his chest with her hands, tearing open his shirt, one white button flying and bouncing across the concrete floor. He caught both of her hands and her feet slid out from under her, sliding entirely between his legs on her back. He let go with one arm and stepped over the other, jerking her sideways and then to her feet, back into the long matched steps. Stasi's head lolled back as though dazed, white throat and the swell of cleavage from her disarranged dress, his shirt open to the undershirt against her chest.
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 104
