Hazards

by Mike Resnick

  “Fair enough,” he agreed.

  I climbed into the chariot and grabbed the reins. “Has this nag got a name?” I asked.

  “Dobbin,” said von Horst.

  “How about that?” I said. “We used to have a horse called Dobbin back on the farm in Moline, Illinois.”

  “A family pet?”

  “Until my father got drunk and mistook him for a moose, or maybe a tax collector.”

  I clucked to Dobbin, and he trotted out of the building, and a minute later we were in the thick of things, surrounded by dancers and singers and drummers and a lot of ladies what was dressed for extremely warm weather. I stayed with them for almost a mile, until I was sure von Horst wasn’t following me, and then I turned Dobbin into a side street, pulled him to a stop, and clambered out of the chariot.

  If there was one thing I knew, it was that Erich von Horst didn’t have an honest bone in his body. This was the guy who salted the Elephant’s Graveyard in Tanganyika, stole the Crown jewels in London, and otherwise flim-flammed his way around the world, usually taking unfair advantage of innocent trusting souls like myself. But I was onto him this time. I knew if he told me the diamonds were in the crown, that was the one place they weren’t. They looked like cut glass because they were cut glass.

  Still, he wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble if he had the diamonds on his person, so they had to be here somewhere. I knelt down and pulled the hubcaps off each wheel, but there wasn’t nothing to be found. I went over the chariot with a fine-toothed comb, but I couldn’t find no diamonds. Then I thunk of checking Dobbin. I went over every inch of his bridle and harness, checked his teeth for shiny fillings, even pried off his shoes in case von Horst had hid the diamonds there, but I kept coming up empty.

  I’d wasted an hour and still hadn’t found the diamonds. The sun was getting a little higher in the sky, the day was warming up, and the smell of the fish was making me sick. I figured as long as Neptune had a trident he didn’t need no fish on it, and I was about to pull ’em off and toss ’em to a couple of stray cats that had moseyed over to admire ’em close up…

  …and then it hit me. What was the one place von Horst was sure I wouldn’t look for the diamonds? Inside the fish, which were getting so high and off-putting that he figgered I wouldn’t want to have nothing to do with them, but I was just a little too smart for him.

  I pulled one of the fish off the trident. The cats started meowing up a storm, figgering I was about to toss it to them, but instead I manipulated the trident and cut the fish’s belly open with one of the tines, and sure enough, out fell half a dozen perfect blue-white diamonds. I tossed the empty fish to the cats, cut open the other one, picked up another six diamonds, and gave what was left over to the cats.

  I knew I couldn’t bring the diamonds out of town with me, because von Horst would be waiting at Carlita’s. I looked around and realized I was standing next to a lamppost. I moved Dobbin right up against to it, climbed up onto his back, removed the top of the lamp, and put the diamonds there, where they couldn’t be seen from the street. The guys who lit the lamps at night did it with these long-handled candles, so none of them ever climbed up there or got a close look, and I knew the diamonds would be safe until I got the opportunity to come back and collect them.

  I got back down on the ground, hopped into the chariot, and turned Dobbin back in the direction of the parade. When we passed a fish market a little farther down the street, I stopped, bought a pair of fish that smelled almost as bad as the two I’d left behind, and stuck ’em on the trident.

  Then it was just a matter of joining the revelers, who never seemed to run out of energy, as they danced their way through the streets of Rio. I even saw a couple of Conchita’s brothers, but of course they never thought to look at Neptune, so we didn’t have no unpleasant or deadly encounters. In midafternoon I struck up a conversation with a mildly naked young lady what was dressed as a harlequin from the neck up and the ankles down. I invited her to join me in my chariot so’s we could get to know each other a little better, and for a minute there I thunk she was going to oblige, but then she wrinkled her nose and said that she was happy to share the chariot and other things with me, but not with the fish. It was a tough decision, but I couldn’t be sure I’d pass another fishmonger before we left the city, so I reluctantly bid her farewell. I never saw a gorgeous underdressed lady look so surprised in all my born days, and I’ve had some pretty surprising encounters with a passel of ’em.

  In late afternoon I let Dobbin graze on a pair of fruit stands what’s owners were off dancing. Pretty soon it started getting dark, and I realized that first, I was about three miles from Carlita’s, and second, I was getting powerful sick of samba music, so I turned Dobbin south onto the exit road. I let him stop and munch on some grass and flowers and the like, and we pulled up to Carlita’s almost exactly two hours after sunset. I didn’t want von Horst examining the fish too closely while I was still around, so I laid ’em down on the floor of the chariot, hopped out, tied Dobbin to a hitching post, and walked into the tavern.

  There was so much cigar smoke that I almost didn’t see the sultry girl doing kind of a slow dance in the corner. She was barefoot, she had a cigarette dangling from her mouth, and she was kind of doing a solo rhumba in slow motion. The bartender was maybe 400 pounds and drenched in sweat, but just the same he never rolled up his sleeves, unbuttoned his shirt, or loosened his bowtie. There were half a dozen tables, most of ’em filled by people who looked like they either didn’t know it was carnival week or didn’t much care.

  I sat down at an empty table. A couple of friendly young ladies wandered over from the bar, but before they could reach me von Horst entered the place, carrying a brown paper bag, and walked right over to me, waving them away kind of disdainful-like.

  “Any trouble?” he asked.

  “Only with the fish,” I said, just to see his reaction.

  His face got all tense. “What about the fish?”

  “They smelled so bad that I couldn’t get any young ladies of quality to ride with me,” I said.

  “But you still have them?” he said kind of urgently.

  “Yeah, they’re out there in the chariot.”

  He suddenly relaxed. “I’m glad to see everything went off without a hitch.”

  “I don’t suppose you brung my clothes with you?” I said. “I don’t like the way a couple of these guys are staring at my legs.”

  “As a matter of fact I did,” said von Horst. He handed me the bag. “Maybe you should go change in the men’s room.”

  And that was when I saw how I’d make my getaway.

  “Thanks, von Horst,” I said. I put a hand to my stomach. “I was about to head off there anyway. I been feeling a mite queasy all day. I think it was the smell of them damned fish.”

  “Take your time,” he said. “My fence isn’t due here for another half hour.”

  And then, because I didn’t want him coming looking for me, I had another stroke of brilliance. I took the crown off and guv it to him.

  “Here,” I said. “You hang onto this.”

  He just looked kind of surprised, and a bit curious.

  “What’s past is past,” I said, “and I just want you to know that there ain’t no hard feelings. I trust you not to run off with the Pebbles while I’m in the john.”

  “I appreciate that, Doctor Jones,” he said.

  I picked up the bag and walked to the bathroom. I’d call it the men’s room, but from the looks of it it served men, women, children, and the occasional mule what wandered in to get out of the weather. I took off the toga and sandals, got into my clothes, and then climbed out through the narrow window.

  When I was about a block away I took a peek back. Dobbin was still tied to the post, and von Horst either hadn’t come out to check on the fish, or had maybe got as far as the front door, took a deep breath, and satisfied himself that they were still there.

  I hitched a ride into Rio in the back of
a truck what was delivering a few hundred live chickens to market, which certainly got the smell of fish out of my nose. I hopped off when we were a block away from the lamppost where I’d left the Pebbles of God, then waited a few minutes until I was sure no one was out on the street where they might see me.

  I climbed up the lamppost, reached in, and found to my relief that the Pebbles were still there. I pulled ’em out, stuffed ’em into my pocket, clambered down to the ground, and headed off in search of a place to spend the night, preferably one what wasn’t frequented by none of Conchita’s friends and relations.

  I passed a bunch of Brazilian hotels, and finally came to an American one, and the reason I knew that was that it had a small tasteful sign, written all in American, what said: Bed and Broad, $7.

  “Howdy,” I said, walking into the lobby, which was about the size of a closet, only maybe a little better-lit. “You got any rooms for rent?”

  “Nah, we just rent airplanes and gorillas here,” said the clerk, which was the kind of answer what convinced me beyond any doubt that he was American.

  “You need a better sign painter,” I said.

  “That’s as big a sign as we could afford,” he said.

  “I wasn’t talking about the size of it,” I replied. “But it says Bed and Broad.”

  “I know what it says,” he told me.

  “And you got no problem with it?” I asked.

  “None,” he said.

  “In that case I just may stay here a month,” I said, pulling off my shoe and reaching for my folded-up bill, which I shoved across the counter to him.

  “What’s this?” he said, frowning.

  “My last ten dollars,” I said. “But don’t worry; I’ll have more tomorrow.”

  “If it’s like this, I won’t take it tomorrow neither,” he said, shoving it back to me.

  I picked it up and realized that it wasn’t no bill at all, but instead a folded-up letter. It was too dark to read in there, so I took it out and stood under a street light.

  My dear Doctor Jones:

  If there are three certainties in the world, they are death, taxes, and the nature of Lucifer Jones. If my reading of your character is correct, and thus far it always has been, you instantly assumed that the crown contained nothing but cut glass. It would have taken you less than an hour to examine your costume, your chariot, and Dobbin’s harness, come up empty, and finally realized that I must have had an ulterior motive for insisting that the fish be part of your costume. You of course would have cut them open, found the faux “diamonds,” and secreted them away before meeting me at Carlita’s. (You are welcome to keep them as a memento of our partnership.) I knew you would want to take your leave of the place before I could examine the fish, so I brought your clothes along, giving you the perfect opportunity to escape, which of course you took.

  It may interest you to know that you were indeed in possession of the Pebbles of God all day long. They were precisely where I told you they were—embedded in Neptune’s crown—but I knew that a man of your deceitful nature would never trust a man of honor and integrity like myself to tell you the truth. I feel your behavior in this endeavor clearly disqualifies you from your share of the profits.

  And profits there will be. The diamonds are only part of this little enterprise. The creature you know as Dobbin is actually the champion racehorse Phar Cry, whom I borrowed for a few days and am now returning for almost as much money as I will realize from the Pebbles of God. All in all, a good day’s work, thanks in no small part to you.

  Your obedient servant,

  Erich von Horst

  A trio of amiable young men wandered up and asked me if I’d like to join them in a samba.

  I kicked each of them in the shins.

  Merry Bunta!

  The first time I heard her name, I thunk it was some Brazilian holiday and someone was wishing me a merry one of ’em. I was in Rio, having just experienced some of the side effects of Carnival, which they kept spelling Carnaval, proving once and for all that Brazil ain’t never gonna present no threat of worldwide domination, and I figgered I might as well see if this was the place where I wanted to finally build my tabernacle.

  Truth to tell, it had a lot going for it. For one thing, it abounded in evil men and scarlet women, and you can’t hardly run a religion without an abundance of sinners to save. For another, it had a real pleasant climate, and a lovely beach where most swimmers of the female persuasion left enough clothes at home that it’d get ’em arrested back in the States or applauded in most other places. And, third, there was a bar with a radio that brought in American baseball games, so I could see how Babe Ruth and Dizzy Dean were faring.

  Of course, there were some disadvantages too. For one thing, hardly none of ’em spoke American. For another, the local padres weren’t real thrilled with competition, especially the vigorous kind of Christianity I preached. And for a third, I didn’t have no money, having been flim-flammed by the villainous Erich von Horst, the details of which I’ve already writ up and are too painful to go into again.

  I still hadn’t made up my mind what to do when it was made up for me of a pleasant summer evening, which for reasons I ain’t figgered out yet came about in mid-November. I was walking down the street to Madame Sarcosa’s House of Exceptionally High Repute, just minding my own business and reciting some of the spicier psalms to myself, when I saw the most beautiful blonde lady I ever did see. I knew right off that she wasn’t no native to Rio, since blondes were somewhat rarer down there than mosquitoes, spiders, land crabs, rats and killer snakes—and blondes like this one was rarer than just about anything.

  I must have been standing there staring at her slack-jawed, and the way I know this is a few seconds later I started choking on a pair of flies what had flown into my mouth. I must have made some strangling noises, because she suddenly turned and looked at me. I knew a delicate creature like her would disapprove of my spitting on the sidewalk, so I just chomped down on the flies and swallowed ’em, then guv her my biggest, friendliest smile. She smiled back, and I knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that I had fallen eternally and everlastingly in love again.

  Then she giggled, and I looked down to make sure my pants wasn’t unzipped, and they wasn’t, and I couldn’t figger out what was amusing her so much, and then I remembered that I was standing right in front of Madame Sarcosa’s. I didn’t want her thinking poorly of me, so as Ezra Willoughby and Slippery Jim Stevens came out the front door I whipped my copy of the good book out of my coat pocket and began preaching at them to mend their sinful ways.

  “Aw, come on, Lucifer,” said Ezra. “You’re embarrassing us out here in public, and besides it ain’t as if you ain’t been in there with us the last four nights.”

  “He just wants us to give the place up so he can have ’em all to himself,” added Slippery Jim.

  “Shut up, you guys,” I said softly. “I’m trying to impress that fair damsel on the other side of the street.”

  Slippery Jim looked over my shoulder. “I don’t see no damsel there.”

  “What’s a damsel?” added Ezra.

  I turned, and sure enough the love of my life had vanished.

  “What did she look like?” asked Slippery Jim.

  “Like unto an angel with blonde hair, a tiny delicate waist, and a extra pair of lungs,” I replied.

  “Blonde, you say?”

  “Like spun gold,” I said.

  “Sounds metallic and shiny,” offered Ezra.

  “Like spun hay,” I amended.

  “Now you’ve got her smelling like a barnyard,” complained Ezra.

  “Like spun silk,” I said angrily. “And don’t make no more comments, because I’ve run out of spuns.”

  “She carry a parasol?” asked Slippery Jim.

  “No, just a little delicate umbrella,” I said.

  “I think I know who she is,” said Jim. “Merry Bunta.”

  “Merry Bunta to you,” I said. “Now don’t just
stand there while my entire future is on hold. Tell me who she is.”

  “You know grizzled old Harvey Bunta?”

  “I’m in love and you’re telling me about grizzled old guys!” I complained.

  “He’s a trader. Lives a few hundred miles inland. He comes to town once every eight or nine months to sell whatever he’s conned the natives out of.”

  “What about him?” I asked.

  “Sounds to me like you just described his daughter,” said Slippery Jim.

  “You sure?” I said.

  “Pretty blondes and wild elephants in musth are equally rare in Rio,” he replied. “That’s his daughter, all right. I think her name’s Merilee, but Old Man Bunta calls her Merry.”

  “How do you know all this?” I asked suddenly. “You ain’t despoiled the fairest flower in all Brazil, have you?”

  “No,” he said before Ezra could ask what “despoiled” meant. “I just heard him talking to her.”

  “That’s a relief,” I said.

  He stared at me curiously. “Does she really have to be a virgin for you, Lucifer?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t put no special stock in virgins.”

  “Then why did you ask?” he said.

  “Because I put even less stock in comparisons,” I told him. “One thing I don’t need to hear from the woman I’m going to spend the rest of my life with is ‘Slippery Jim did it this way’ or ‘Ezra did it that way’.”

  “I did no such thing,” said Ezra. “But if she’s half as purty as you say she is, I wish I had.”

  Just then a horse pulling a cart down the street broke into a trot, and ran right through a puddle in front of Madame Sarcosa’s place, and I got all splattered with mud, and I knew I didn’t want to introduce myself to Merry Bunta looking like this, so I went into Madame Sarcosa’s and asked if anyone there did laundry, and she said that yes, I could toss my duds in with the next load of towels and sheets, and while I was wandering around in my skivvies perhaps I’d like to relax in a room down the hall with a young lady of quality, and since I hadn’t sworn my eternal fealty to Merry Bunta yet I couldn’t see nothing wrong with it, so that was what I did. Matter of fact, it was so relaxing that I did it all over again, and then once more, and when I finally climbed back into my clothes it was the next afternoon.