License Invoked

by Robert Asprin

  Over the familiar whine of the horns, the control room engineer, Ed Cielinski, began slamming tapes into the machines to cue up for the morning. The nighttime talk show looked like any one of three hundred others produced anywhere else in the country, but with one big difference. All the trappings were there, the host, the comfy chairs, the audience, but on stage there was also an altar in the shape of a pig. On its blood-red back was an upside-down pentacle, broken crosses and stars, a mangled crescent, plus black candles in holders. The aim of the show was to cause bloodthirsty controversy that almost always broke out in violence.

  The police had finally dragged that night's combatants off the studio floor. A couple of them wanted to keep the fight going. The defender—designated victim, if anyone had asked Ed for his opinion—was being loaded onto a stretcher by paramedics with his neck in a brace. The host of the live broadcast, Nick Trenton, smug expression back firmly in place, got up, wiped the blood off his chin and straightened his tie. He strode out of the room. All in a day's work, thought the engineer. Trenton would never so much as glance backward at the problems he caused. It was all good for the ratings, Ed thought sourly.

  Ed waited until the camera operators and lighting crew were gone, then turned out the spotlights. The last one, at the rear of the stage, over the gigantic enlargement of the rock group led by the lady with green hair, faded slowly to black. The next designated victim, Ed thought, not without a measure of sympathy. He slapped down the audio monitor switch as his employer, Augustus Kingston, the owner and station manager, walked into the room.

  “Everything work okay?” he asked Cielinski.

  “Yes, sir,” said the engineer. “The frequency didn't interfere with the picture a bit. Went out nice and strong.”

  “How's reception on that special transmission line?”

  “Nothing big. We haven't heard from our contact out in New Orleans yet.”

  “That won't be for a day or two,” the old man said, rocking back on his heels in anticipation. “Let 'em get settled. Got to give it all a chance to build.” He pulled a cigar out of his pocket. The engineer winced on behalf of his machines as his boss lit up and blew a plume of cloyingly heavy smoke towards the ceiling.

  “Yes, sir, it's like casting your bread out on the waters, Ed,” he said, laughing heartily. “You get it all back threefold. When we start casting that there bread out there, we're going to collect plenty back again. Them godless, magic-loving pagans won't stand a chance, now, will they?”

  The engineer gulped quietly to himself. “No, sir.”

  The old man stopped for a leisurely puff, and stared into the ember of his cigar with a pleased look on his creased face. “No. No, they won't. And the justice of it is, they'll do it to themselves.”

  Chapter 7

  In the morning, Elizabeth waited with barely veiled impatience while Nigel Peters and Laura Manning went in to drag Fionna out of bed. Her old schoolmate had gone to sleep in her cosmetics, and the ruin of her mask made her look like the end of a horror picture. Boo-Boo appeared at the door in his ratty army coat, but he looked positively pristine compared with Fionna.

  “Is she gonna make it?” Boo-Boo asked, with concern.

  “With hydraulics or high explosives,” Elizabeth said, stepping aside so he could see.

  “Come on, ducks,” Nigel said coaxingly, helping the makeup artist haul the somnolent singer back and forth from bathroom to bed, where they talked over her head as if she was a child. Fionna sat slack between them, her eyes half closed. “What do you think, Laura, the green sharkskin?”

  “Hell, no, she'll sweat herself to death out there,” Laura said, flipping through the hangers in the closet. “Have you stuck your nose out the door yet?”

  “I'm dreading it,” the manager admitted. “All right, the black gauze. It'll look great with your hair, Fionna, love. Lots of jewelry, now.” He pointed at the box on the table.

  “I'll get it,” Elizabeth said, pleased to get her hands on Fionna's personal effects without anyone being the wiser. She turned over various necklaces and bracelets, trying each against the touchstone of her memory for protective characteristics. Not surprisingly, everything was a protective amulet of some kind. Fionna'd been doing a little reading up on her own. Again, not surprising, since as Phoebe she had taken a first-class degree. She understood research, and here was the fruit of it. Based on what was in the box Liz was beginning to feel that Fionna, at least, believed herself in real danger. Intuition was nothing Liz could put in her daily report to Mr. Ringwall, but it satisfied her that Fee was not merely crying wolf. Liz handed over several silver chains, all charmed for safety and peace, one at a time, and Laura arranged them around Fionna's neck. As for a colored piece to set it all off, a bulky carnelian necklace looked the best with the mystical outfit they were shoving Fionna into, but it was a fire magnet. Not the best omen, in Elizabeth's opinion, but it could channel outward as well as inward. She dropped a friendly cantrip of protection into the carved orange pendant just as the piece was snatched from her by Laura Manning.

  “Just the thing, love,” Nigel said as the necklace was fastened around Fionna's neck over the silver threads on the breast of the dull black tunic. He pulled her arm across his shoulder and stood, forcing her to her feet. She dangled loosely against him. “All right, Fionna, up we get. We'll be meeting the public in twenty minutes.”

  The magic word “public” was just the kind of impetus Fionna needed. Elizabeth was amused to see the rag doll turned suddenly into a dynamic superheroine on the short drive from the hotel to the broadcast facility. Patrick Jones and Lloyd Preston joined them in the limo. The hulking security man, dressed all in black like Frankenstein's monster, gave Elizabeth a slightly resentful look as he sat down beside Fionna in the rear of the car, but he didn't utter a word through the entire trip. Patrick sat close to Fionna on one side and drilled her on the upcoming interview while Laura sat on the other side and touched up the wild paint job on the star's face. Boo-Boo and Elizabeth sat jammed side by side at one end of the padded bench opposite the manager, who was sharing his seat with a box of equipment and tapes.

  “You're meeting a woman called Verona Lambert,” Patrick Jones said, reading out of a well-worn binder. “She's been at WBOY ten years, Fee. She's a real fan. I've got a sheaf of photos for you to sign for her and the crew. Be a good girl and do all of them, won't you?” He held out a large manila envelope.

  “Right,” Fionna said, holding her hand out. Patrick slapped a fine-point permanent marking pen in it. Fionna opened the envelope and slid out a stack of black-and-white enlargements of her clutching a microphone in taloned hands. The image of her face was a pale canvas for the dramatic makeup that brought out her eyes, lips and cheekbones in chiaroscuro. Liz nodded her head in approval. Just the kind of photo fans would love. Fionna signed her name through the bottom right corner of the photo over the back of the left hand and wrist, circling the capital F around a Claddagh hands-and-crowned-heart ring on the forefinger. “Verona Lambert. Have we got the other names?”

  Patrick read them off from his list. Fionna personalized each picture in turn. Liz, reading them upside down, realized that Fionna was making each dedication a little different than the others. A real pro, she thought with surprise. She'd been judging too much by the appearance. Green Fire ran like a machine, and Fionna was truly part of it.

  Elizabeth admired the staff. They were organized, genuinely concerned for Fionna's well-being, but very businesslike. Nigel had a cigarette for Fionna, but held it out of reach until she drank a repulsive, thick, pink shake he offered in his other hand.

  “Brain food before you ruin your lungs, darling,” he said, waving the glass under her nose. “Come on. You can't do an hour on an empty stomach. The cook in the Sonesta made it up just for you.”

  “Ugh, it's horrible,” Fionna sputtered, after downing the shake in three or four gulps. She seized the cigarette, lit it from the flame Nigel held out to her, and drew smoke deep into h
er lungs. Liz scented fresh strawberry before it was drowned out by the stink of tobacco. “It's a sad thing when nicotine tastes better than something to eat. Thank God they let you smoke in this city. I thought it'd be another San Francisco.” She blew a plume of smoke out of the corner of her mouth toward the ceiling. “Anything else I have to know, Pat?”

  “That's all about the staff,” said Patrick Jones, with his palms pressed together like an altar boy's. “Verona has the gen on the concert itself. All you have to do is talk about you. Now, remember, Fee, not a word about the attacks. They don't exist, right?”

  Fionna took a deep breath, and clasped a hand around the carnelian necklace and placed the other hand in Lloyd's. He clenched it possessively, and shot an expression of triumph toward Liz. She refused to react. Let him protect her on this plane. Liz's job was to deal with the Unseen, not the Seen. “Right. Let's go in there.”

  * * *

  “So what brings you to N'Awlins, Ms. Kenmare?” Verona Lambert asked, her voice as smoky as the studio air. She was a chocolate-brown-skinned, plump woman with round cheeks, round eyes, and a huge pouf of straightened brown-black hair flattened over the top of her head by the earphone set she wore. The party was jammed into a small, dim room with pinholed acoustic tile on every surface but the floor. There were only three chairs, one for Verona, one beside her for Fionna, and one for the sallow-complected, thin, male producer/engineer who sat across the cluttered, beige console from them. Lloyd Preston inserted himself in between a couple of high consoles so he could stand next to Fionna. Occasionally she reached up to hold his hand. The rest of the party stood against the walls, not more than a couple of feet away. Square plastic cartridges stacked on a floor-to-ceiling rack jabbed Elizabeth in the back. The room was so close and hot she wondered if she might pass out. Her white, raw silk jacket was already sodden with sweat.

  “Call me Fionna, me lovely. I think it's one of the finest places I've ever seen,” Fionna said. Her accent made the word “foinest.” She looked Verona straight in the eyes while she talked. If she wasn't sincere, she was one hell of a good actress. “Music's me life. I've got to love a place where it's on every street corner every night, where everybody plays or sings or listens to something every day. Music broadens your soul. I could click into this scene like I was born here.”

  “Do you find much in common here with your music?” Verona asked, with a lift of her brows. “N'Awlins is a kind of a mix of Acadian French style with Afro-Caribbean rhythms. Jazz is like nothing else in all the world, honey. I have all Green Fire's recordings, Fionna, and you'll forgive me for saying so, but they don't sound a thing alike to me.”

  “They all come from the same place,” Fionna said, pounding her fist to her chest. “The heart. I've seen some people here, they've got nothing at all in all the world but their music. It's lovely. It's the same way I was as a child. I had nothing else, so I put my heart into the beauty I could hear.”

  That was rich, Elizabeth thought. For someone who'd gone through finishing school, Oxford University and at least fifty thousand pounds of Daddy's money, Fionna/Phoebe was very convincing as a North Dublin waif. She talked touchingly about her fictional childhood, her poverty, and the spirit that she felt that wouldn't let her stop until she could share her songs with the rest of the world.

  The radio presenter took it all nonjudgmentally, though, and led Fionna through a good interview, bringing out interesting facets of her career and the founding of Green Fire. She'd certainly done her homework. At five minutes to the hour, Verona looked at Fionna confidingly.

  “And now, I've got to ask you, darling, why all the magical themes in your music? Is it a sincere interest on your part, or just a little something you throw in to please the fans? Because, I warn you, N'Awlins is a very magical place. If you fool around with the spirits, they're goin' to gitcha.”

  “It's sincerely meant,” Fionna said, her large eyes wide with something akin to alarm. She certainly was very superstitious. Elizabeth thought her hands trembled. “I have a great respect for the powers that be.”

  “Wise words,” said Verona, turning back to her console. “We've been talking to Fionna Kenmare. Remember, everyone, that's Green Fire at the Superdome at 7:30 on Saturday night. Hey, same time as the fireworks display over the river sponsored by WBOY. Tough choice, folks,” she said, with a wry wink at Fionna. “Me, I'll be at the concert. I'll be back right after these words.”

  The engineer pointed to Verona, and hit a square button. Verona took off her headset. “Very nice, Ms. Kenmare. Thank you so very much for coming. I'm looking forward to the concert. Will any of us be able to sneak backstage and congratulate you afterwards?”

  Fionna looked at Nigel Peters. “Should be, love,” the manager said, noncommittally, shaking the announcer's hand and turning to the producer. “We'll see you're on the invitation list for the party to follow. Thanks for a good show.”

  Fionna rose and graciously offered Verona her hand. “Thanks, lovely. You made me feel very welcome. I hope the rest of the city's as warm as yourself.”

  “We're happy to see you, darling,” Verona said, standing up and tossing her headset onto her desk. “And you!” She turned to Boo-Boo. “It's been a long time, you good-looking man. Where've you been?” She enveloped him in a huge hug.

  “Oh, I've been around,” Boo-Boo admitted.

  “Do you know everyone in this city?” Elizabeth asked, with a wry grin, as they left the studio.

  “Near abouts,” said Boo-Boo.

  Clinging to Lloyd, Fionna swirled ahead of them in a cloud of gauzy black skirts, and looked plaintively over her shoulder at Nigel. “Can we get something to eat? I'm hollow.”

  Nigel looked at his watch. “Pat, Laura and I have got to get over to the Superdome, but there's no reason you can't find yourselves a meal, my dear. Perhaps Mr. Boudreau will oblige?”

  “I'd be delighted to,” Boo-Boo said graciously.

  * * *

  “You are supposed to be our native guide, aren't you?” Lloyd asked, striding along in Boo-Boo's wake after they'd left the limo at the curb near the Royal Sonesta. “So where can we get a bite to eat before we go over to the arena?”

  Liz winced at the barely concealed sneer in Lloyd's voice, but Boo didn't seem to notice.

  “There's a pretty good restaurant right in the hotel you're stayin' at. It would give the ladies a chance to freshen up before—”

  “We're going to be living on hotel food through most of this tour,” the security man interrupted. “I rather hoped you could do better than that.”

  “Well, we do have one or two pretty nice eatin' places here in the Quarter,” Boo said with a shrug. “Let's see if I can't find somethin' that'll suit you.”

  He started off up the street with the others trailing along behind.

  “Something a little different, I hope,” Lloyd said, raising his voice to get in the last word. “Lord knows we have enough ordinary restaurants in England and Ireland.”

  “I think I know just the place,” Boo called back over his shoulder.

  “Not too far away, I hope,” Liz said, stepping up beside him. “I still can't believe how hot it is down here.”

  In truth, she was having difficulty even thinking straight. Within half a dozen steps of their leaving the studio's air conditioning, she was drenched in sweat, and things seemed to weave and swim in the bright glare. It was like wearing a hot, wet, sweat suit in a steam bath . . . a very bright steam bath.

  “Don't you worry none, darlin',” Boo reassured her. “We'll have you back inside in a jiffy. It's just around the corner up ahead.”

  “I feel I should apologize for Mr. Preston,” Liz said, lowering her voice slightly. “He's being a bit of a prig. Not all of us are like that.”

  “We get people from all over down here.” Boo smiled. “Both as visitors and them that settle down here. Near as I can tell, a certain percentage of people are light on manners, no matter where they come from.”

&
nbsp; In spite of her discomfort, Liz had to smile.

  “I never thought of it that way, but you're right. I guess I just worry too much.”

  “No harm in worryin',” Boo said. “Just so long as it doesn't interfere with thinkin'.”

  Liz shot him a glance, but her partner's face was bland and guileless.

  “That's it up ahead,” he said, turning to the pair behind them. “It's new and folks say it's the latest thing. It's called Lucky Chang's.”

  He started to reach for the door, but Lloyd slid into the doorway ahead of him and barred their progress with his body.

  “Okay, here's how it is,” the security man said firmly, glaring down at them. “I know you're just trying to do your jobs, but the lady here would just as soon have a quiet meal without too many people hovering around her. She's going to have plenty of that once we reach the Superdome. Why don't you two find someplace else to have lunch, and we'll meet you back at the hotel.”

  “Now just a minute . . .” Liz began, but Boo laid a restraining hand on her arm.

  “Works for me, he said. “You're sure you can find your way back to the hotel by yourselves?”

  “Positive,” Lloyd said, holding the door for Fionna. “If we get lost, we'll just take a cab.”

  “Okay. You two enjoy your meal now,” Boo called, but the door was already shutting behind the pair.

  “Well I never,” Liz fumed. “I know we were just talking about manners, but that was rude no matter how you look at it.”

  “I'd have to say we're lookin' at it the same way, then,” Boo said, taking her by the arm. “C'mon. Let's get you somethin' to eat. There's a place just across the street here I think you'll like.”

  Liz glanced at the white-fronted building Boo was steering her toward, then pulled up short as she caught sight of the sign.

  “Antoine's?” she said. “I think I've heard of this place.”

  “It's been around for a while,” Boo agreed, pointing at a sign that read SINCE 1840. New Orleans seemed to have the same gift of understatement as Scotland, where a “wee while” could be four hundred years.