by Mike Resnick
There was a stage near the center of the casino, right between the baccarat and roulette tables, on which a procession of nude and nearly-nude women executed graceful and intricate dances to the music of the quartet. Crane watched them for a few minutes, marveling at the sensual fluidity of their movements, and finding them far more erotic than the blatant entertainments he had seen elsewhere in his travels. He had a premonition that if he actually watched one of the Black Pearl's video performances he would find it more artistic than pornographic.
He spent the next hour wandering through the casino, stopping every now and then to watch the action at one of the tables. When he felt he had made himself visible enough, he took his leave and walked over to the nightclub.
He was ushered to a table near the stage, ordered a cup of coffee, and settled back to watch the show.
Pagliacci, wearing his usual clown's make-up, was on stage, rattling off a string of jokes that were older than the Comet. Nobody in the audience seemed to mind, however, and he received a fair share of amused laughter and an occasional guffaw.
“Actually, I've finally got the hang of it,” the comedian was saying. “I drink my Scotch straight”—he paused—“and my gin horizontal.” He waited for the scattered chuckles to subside. “To tell you the truth, I only drink to steady my nerves. Sometimes they get so steady I can't move.”
Suddenly his eyes fell on Crane.
“Let's have a round of applause for Andrew Jackson Crane, the fearless detective who just arrested the crewman responsible for a rather unpleasant incident down at the other end of the Comet.”
There was a round of polite applause, and Crane, startled, half-rose and nodded his head.
“You'll notice that my friend Detective Crane is sipping a cup of coffee. Coming here for coffee is like going to your suite for a nap.” Scattered laughter.
“Truth to tell, Mr. Crane never drinks anything stronger than pop—and Pop drinks anything.”
Pagliacci kept up his ancient and inoffensive patter for another five minutes, while Crane finished his coffee and ordered a second cup.
“It's time for my act to close, Mr. Crane,” Pagliacci announced, “and you still haven't cracked a smile.”
“Maybe I'm in a bad mood,” said Crane.
“I promised Mr. Crane that I wouldn't get off the stage until I got a laugh out of him,” the comedian announced to the audience. “So unless one of you lovely ladies would like to walk over and tickle him, you're going to have to put up with a few more jokes.”
Polite if unenthusiastic applause followed.
“All right,” said Pagliacci grimly. “Moses comes down from the mountain and says, ‘I've got some good news and some bad news. The good news is that I've talked Him down to ten ... and the bad news is that adultery is still on the list.”
Crane stared at him expressionlessly.
Pagliacci cleared his throat nervously. “Okay,” he said. “Jesus is wandering through Heaven, looking for his father, when finally, after days of fruitless searching, he sees a bearded old patriarch sitting on a bench. He suddenly realizes that he's exhausted, so he goes and sits down on the bench too. They get to talking, and Jesus tells the old man that he's been searching for his father.
“'That's odd,’ says the old man. ‘I've been searching for my son.’
“'My father was a carpenter,’ says Jesus.
“'I was a carpenter,’ replies the old man.
“Suddenly Jesus is interested.
“'My father's name was Joseph,’ he says.
“'Well, in your language, I suppose my name would be Joseph,’ says the old man.
“'The man I'm looking for wasn't actually my father, though he raised me from the day I was born,’ says Jesus.
“'It's funny you should say that,’ answers the old man. ‘Because I wasn't really my son's father, though I acted in that capacity from the instant he first drew breath.’
“Jesus and the old man stare long and hard at each other.
“'Father?’ says Jesus.
“A tear comes to the old man's eye.
“'Pinnochio?'”
Two men and a woman almost fell off their chairs, but there was absolutely no reaction from the remainder of the audience.
“Who the hell is Pinnochio?” asked Crane.
“Damn it!” said Pagliacci irritably. “If you knew anything about your race's myths and folklore, you'd be rolling around on the floor laughing your head off. You've got to bring a little something to the performance; I can't supply it all.”
“They say that humor's a very subjective thing,” replied Crane calmly.
“Well, they're wrong. Some things are funny by any criteria.” The comedian looked grimly determined.
“I'll try one more.”
Crane sensed the restlessness of the audience, and made up his mind to laugh no matter how unfunny the joke was. It turned out to be a five-minute story that led up to a truly horrible pun, and when it was done and he had forced himself to chuckle, Pagliacci finally took his bows and turned the stage over to the singer.
“Mind if I join you?” asked the comedian, approaching Crane's table.
“Be my guest,” replied Crane. “Or, to be more precise, be Vainmill's guest.”
“Thanks,” said Pagliacci, pulling up a chair. He stared intently at the detective for a moment. “You didn't really think it was funny, did you?”
“I laughed, didn't I?” responded Crane.
“Insincerely.”
“Well, you can't have everything.”
“No,” admitted the comedian. “But you can want everything.”
Crane made no reply, and Pagliacci signalled to a waiter and ordered a drink.
“Care for one?” he asked. “My treat.”
“No, thanks,” said Crane. “I don't drink.”
“I know,” grinned Pagliacci. “That's why I offered.”
“Maybe we should be quiet for awhile,” suggested Crane. “We seem to be bothering the singer.”
“Tough,” said Pagliacci. “People talk during my act all the time. It's an occupational hazard, like people lying to a detective.”
“Why would anyone want to lie to me?”
“People are afraid of what detectives might discover about their pasts, just as they're afraid of what doctors might discover about their bodies.”
“I take it that you're not one of them.”
“I've got nothing to hide.” The comedian smiled. “Which isn't to say that I don't owe you a couple of whoppers.”
“I don't think I follow you,” replied Crane.
“You told me that this Infante was an embezzler. Now suddenly I find out that he's a murder victim. You lied to me.”
“Don't take it personally,” said Crane. “I lied to everyone.”
“Why?”
“You ought to be grateful to me,” replied the detective. “If you're this bad when you're relaxed, think of how unfunny you'd be if you thought there was a killer in the audience.”
The comedian seemed about to make an angry retort, then shrugged. “What the hell—you're right. I died up there tonight. That's what comes of telling the same jokes every week.”
“They're pretty awful,” commented Crane.
“Are you this polite to everyone?” asked Pagliacci. “Or is there something about me personally that brings out the best in you?”
“I thought you didn't want me to lie to you,” said Crane.
“What I wanted was to make you laugh,” replied the comedian. Suddenly his face lit up with renewed enthusiasm. “Tell you what: I've got a detective routine that's an absolute knockout. As soon as this idiot is through murdering her obligatos, I'll perform it for you right here at the table.”
“Why are you so bound and determined to amuse me?” asked Crane with a touch of irritation.
“Because you represent a challenge.”
“Some other time,” said Crane, rising to his feet.
“Need a little com
pany?” offered the comedian. “I'm not due on stage again for almost three hours.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Fine. Where are you going?”
“The casino.”
Pagliacci shook his head. “I'd better not,” he said. “I've already lost too much money there.” He smiled.
“No will power.” He leaned back on his chair. “See you around.”
“I doubt it,” said Crane. “I'm taking Morales back to Deluros tomorrow morning.”
“Then you'll always be the one that got away,” said Pagliacci. “If you'll leave your address at the reception desk, maybe I'll mail you a tape of that routine.”
“Don't do it right away,” replied Crane. “Give me something to live for.”
He turned and walked out of the nightclub.
He made brief appearances in the other three clubs, then wandered back to the casino, where he spent another half hour being visible. Finally he checked the time and began wending his way to the reception foyer.
Once there he entered a private communications booth and put through a call to the Dragon Lady. Her image appeared before him a moment later, and from her surroundings it was obvious that she was very near Morales’ room.
“How's it going?” he asked.
“Everything's quiet so far,” she replied.
“Okay,” he said. “I think it's time to entice our man out into the open. He's only got about eight hours left before I'm supposed to leave with Morales, and we don't want to scare him so much that he doesn't make an attempt.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked the Dragon Lady.
“Put every member of your staff that you can spare in the Resort's public rooms, and make them as visible as possible. We don't want our killer thinking that they're all waiting for him in Morales’ room. Then pull everyone who's left off the level Morales is on, but position them so they can get there in a hurry.”
“That might look too obvious,” she said. “What if I station one man by the door, but with strict instructions to look something less than alert?”
“Good idea,” agreed Crane. He tried to hide his tension as he issued the only order that mattered. “I also want you to shut down the security system at the Resort's tramway entrance for the next two hours.”
“Why?” asked the Dragon Lady. “Since he's a member of the crew, he's cleared for it anyway.”
“I had Cupid rig it to register weapons,” lied Crane. “I don't want alarms going off all the hell over and scaring him away if he happens to be carrying a pistol.”
“It seems to me that he's more likely to just have a knife—or if he does have a more formidable weapon, it's probably hidden in his room. Besides, we don't know for a fact that he isn't in the Mall or the Home right now.”
“If he's not in the Resort, then there's no harm done,” said Crane tersely. “If he is, let's make it as easy as possible for him to get where he wants to go.'’
She sighed. “You're the boss.”
“I'll check in with you in a couple of hours.”
“Where can I reach you if something happens in the meantime?”
“Oh, I'll be around. Just have Cupid page me.”
He broke the connection, spent the next half hour forcing himself to read stock quotations off a large monitor in the reception foyer, then walked over to the escalator and descended to the tramway level.
He walked up to the computer's retina scanner, breathed a sigh of relief when it didn't respond to him, then opened the gate that led to the platform.
The tramcar was nowhere to be seen, and he quickly jumped down into the tunnel and began walking rapidly, slowing his pace only when he felt he was far enough from the platform so that no one could see him. He ducked into a maintenance port as the tramcar passed by, remained there until it picked up a handful of passengers from the Resort and headed back toward the Home, and then resumed walking.
Finally he reached the port where Infante's body had been found, wedged himself into it, sat down, and waited.
Ten minutes passed, then twenty, and finally half an hour. He was just on the point of admitting to himself that he had guessed wrong when he heard footsteps approaching. He waited until they were quite close, then rose to his feet and stepped out into the tunnel.
“Hi, Andy,” said Pagliacci with a friendly smile.
He carried a bottle of chilled champagne in one hand, and two crystal glasses in the other. “I think it's time that you and I had a little chat.”
“Well, I'll be damned!” said Crane. “So it's you!”
“What are you acting so surprised about?” asked Pagliacci easily. “You sure as hell look like you were expecting company.”
“I knew someone would be along,” replied Crane. “I just didn't know who.”
“Some detective!” snorted Pagliacci with a chuckle. “I don't ever want to hear you criticize my comedy routines again.”
Crane pulled a small handgun out of his pocket and trained it on the comedian.
“Careful how you point that thing, Andy,” said Pagliacci. “I'd hate to see you miss me and hit this beautiful bottle.”
“How long has Stanley Dombroski been dead?” asked Crane suddenly.
“Oh, a long time,” replied Pagliacci. “Ten or twelve years now. I've been reciting his idiotic jokes for so long that I'm really getting rather good at it, your criticisms notwithstanding.”
“And who are you?”
“I'm the guy who wants to talk to you without being overheard.” He paused. “You chose a nice place. I've always had a fondness for returning to the scene of the crime.”
“Talk all you want,” said Crane. “But when you're through, I'm going to arrest you for the murder of Edward Infante.”
Pagliacci shook his head and smiled confidently.
“When I'm through, what you're going to do is thank me.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. This may seem a little difficult for you no believe, but before the night is over you and I are doing to be partners.”
“You haven't done your homework,” remarked Crane dryly. “I'm every bit as ambitious and incorruptible as I'm supposed to be.”
“I certainly hope so,” replied Pagliacci. “I'm counting on it.”
He popped open the champagne and filled the two glasses.
Chapter 8
“There's another service port just across the tunnel,” said Pagliacci, jerking his head in its direction.
“Do you mind if I sit there? The tram could come by any minute, and I get just a little nervous standing out here.”
“Be my guest,” replied Crane, keeping his weapon trained on the comedian.
“Thanks. And, since you're not a drinker, I hope you won't mind if I take both glasses with me.”
“Not at all.”
Pagliacci walked some fifteen feet to the port, stepped into it, and carefully lowered himself to the ground. “Good stuff,” he remarked as he took a sip from one of the glasses after placing the other on the floor. “You don't know, what you're missing.” He paused. “Were you really going to take Morales to Deluros if I hadn't approached you?”
Crane shrugged. “It never occurred to me that someone wouldn't try to stop me. I should have figured out that you'd be the one.”
“Don't go blaming yourself for not knowing. I was pretty careful: you didn't have much to go on.”
“I had one thing,” contradicted Crane. “Whoever killed Infante couldn't wait five weeks until his next visit—and your contract is up in three more weeks.”
“True,” agreed Pagliacci thoughtfully. “I probably should have killed him during his last visit. I just kept hoping that I wouldn't have to.”
“Is this as big as I think it is?” asked Crane suddenly.
“Probably,” said Pagliacci. “But you tell me what you think, and I'll tell you if you're right.”
“You killed Infante to frighten Morales.”
“Let's say that I did it to co
nvince him of the urgency of the situation.”
“He doesn't have anything you want, or you'd have taken it from him,” continued Crane. “That was a very professional piece of work you did on Infante.”
“He has one thing,” contradicted Pagliacci. “But he'd have died before he gave it to me.”
“Whatever he has, it's inside his head,” said the detective. He waited for a reaction, but the comedian offered none. “He's either doing something that you want stopped, or not doing something that you want started.”
“So far, so good.”
“I knew that after I'd been here two hours,” said Crane disdainfully. “The trick was figuring out what it was you wanted him to do, and why.”
Pagliacci drained his glass, placed it down, and picked up the other one. “And did you figure it out?”
“I've got most of the pieces,” replied the detective. “Maybe you can help me put them together.”
The tramcar suddenly whizzed by.
“What do you think you've got?” asked the comedian, after it had passed.
“Well, for starters, I've got Morales and Infante.”
“You've got Infante,” corrected Pagliacci.
Crane shook his head. “I've got them both, or you wouldn't be here.”
Pagliacci smiled. “I stand corrected.”
“They'd been together only twice—on Deluros VIII and on the Comet. They had no business dealings, and there's no record of Infante ever meeting with Morales up here, though I suspect he must have.”
“He did.”
“I assume such meetings were his sole reason for coming here?”
“I think you could call that a fair assumption,” agreed the comedian.
“They had one other thing in common,” continued Crane. “They had both been to New Sumatra.”
“But not at the same time,” noted Pagliacci.
“That threw me for awhile,” admitted the detective.
“Until I checked to see if either of them had been there during the Bello Affair. Then I had it.”
“And what did you have?” asked Pagliacci, amused.
“The connection. Morales was on New Sumatra during Bello's reign. Infante was there a few years later. They probably knew many of the same people.
