Love is the most subtle form of self interest
—Holbrook Jackson,
quoted in The Portable Curmudgeon
(compiled by Jon Winokur)
To my surprise, Lady Sally McGee frowned hugely and snorted loudly said even more loudly, "Preposterous!"
I was a little taken aback. I'd expected her to take a time machine more or less in stride. "Coming from you," I said, "that's rich. In a joint with a talking German shepherd and a pair of telepathic blondes, what's so preposterous about a simple time machine?"
"Out of the question," she snapped. "Dismiss it from your mind. 'Time machine,' indeed! Try something a little more plausible for heaven's sake. Martians, say, or a teleport."
"If either of those could be stretched to fit the facts, I would," I insisted. "But they can't."
"Neither can a time machine," she said just as stubbornly. "Setting aside for the moment the fact that such a thing is absurd, it simply doesn't fit the facts known."
"Yes it does," I said. "Cripes, you didn't even need me to figure this out. Any John D. MacDonald fan would have done. Which is like saying, 'every third citizen.' Hiring a genius was totally unnecessary."
"Apparently," she said with some . . . what is that word? Sounds a little like "asparagus;" and means she was trying to break my horns? Rhymes with "prosperity" . . . "asperity," that's it. "Listen to me, Joe. Just assume I have a direct pipeline to God on this one question, okay? Put time machines out of your mind and keep thinking—or you're no use to me."
Now here's a funny thing. When I know I'm right, the President of the United States couldn't get me to back down. Even Lady Sally couldn't convince me that what I knew was so wasn't so. But I shut my big mouth and let her change the subject. It surprised me even as it happened. I mean, I hadn't even proved to her yet why I had to be right—which is usually the very least I have to do before I'll drop out of an argument.
She had a kind of a forceful personality, I guess.
And maybe I was off my game on account of that clout on the skull. All of a sudden I decided my ten minutes were about up. "You're the boss," I said. "Uh . . . can I still have the printouts and access to the tapes when I wake up?"
"Of course," she said, "as long as you promise to do some constructive thinking about them."
All right, then. No point in pushing it now: tomorrow morning I'd get my hands on the proof that she needed and I didn't. Then I'd magnanimously accept her apology. "Okay. I'm going to fall out, now if it's all right with you."
"Certainly. Sleep well, Joe—again I apologize for exposing you to danger without briefing you. Don't worry I'll send Arethusa in to keep watch on you."
"That'll be a comfort," I said.
And it was.
It wasn't that Arethusa knew a lot of fancy acrobatic tricks, or had one that could peel a banana, or any of that. She understood that I was in rocky shape. What she did, she taught me about her. And about me. I mean, when I say that she played with me, for the first time in my life I mean that the way a little kid would mean it. She played with me like a kid might play with another kid that had been whacked on the head recently and needed some diversion. Well, if this was a sane culture, I mean, and kids were allowed to have sex as part of playing, like God intended. She made me think about stuff like that. I'd thought I had given up playing forever when I became a PI.
What I'm trying to say is, what happened between us wasn't at all like anybody screwing anybody, and that's a memory to kill for. She even made my head stop hurting.
"Tell me about yourself, Arethusa," I said sleepily when I could.
"I will," she promised. "But tomorrow. Sleep now."
I glanced at my watch. Four A.M. My head did feel heavy as I swing it back to her. "Well . . . okay. But I really want to know you better."
She—well, there isn't a word. I mean, "leer" is not what happens when a mature and sexually satisfied woman spots an unintentional double-entendre, but "smile" doesn't seem to cover it either. Interesting, that there is no word for a woman appreciating bawdiness. Anyway, she did that, and said, "Better than—that?"
"Yes," I said simply. "Even better than that."
Her eyes seemed to glow in the semidarkness. "In that case, there is all the time in the world. Close your eyes."
With reluctance, I did. No problem: I could still see her clearly. "Wake me if I sly in my deep," I murmured.
"I promise." She dialed the room lights down another notch, levitated noiselessly from the bed, and made herself comfortable in a chair beside it. I heard her slip on a silk robe. A southing sooned.
I slept, and dreamed of a blonde sandwich with Quigley filling.
I came half awake at a gentle knock on the door.
I glanced at the bedside clock thinking, Jesus, it feels like I've only slept ten minutes, and here it is—
Four-ten A.M: I had only slept ten minutes . . .
Arethusa was up out of her chair like a shot, looking pissed. Then she opened the door and got respectful.
I don't mean like J. P. Morgan was standing there and now she had to kiss ass. More like if it was Gandhi, or maybe Warren Beatty.
Which is weird, because the guy looked more like a retired pug or longshoreman or beat cop than anything else. He resembled that actor Brian Dennehy a little. He was something over fifty, big and solid and Irish as Paddy's pig, with red hair just about everywhere but on the top of his head, and a dead cigar in his teeth. He had a jaw like a bulldozer, an artistically broken nose, and very pronounced laugh lines. But he wasn't smiling now. He looked as upset as a guy that big and confident ever looks. I hoped he wasn't upset with me. He looked like one of those guys you don't want to shoot because it could annoy them.
"I'm sorry, Arethusa," he rumbled in a gravelly baritone. "I've got to talk to him, and it won't wait."
I'd have bet cash she was going to tell him indignantly that I might be seriously injured and had to get my rest and like that. But I think she decided he knew all that, and gave him the credit of assuming he wouldn't bother me anyway without a good reason. "If you say so, Mike," she said, and stepped aside to let him in. She dialed the room lights up just a bit. (I didn't see how she did it—and I remember noticing that even when the lighting brightened, it was so artfully indirect that it was hard to tell just where the bulbs were.)
I thought about pretending to be asleep, and sticking to it. But something told me the quickest way to get rid of this guy and get back to sleep was to deal with him. "I don't go on duty until tomorrow," I told him, pretending to pull the covers over my head. "Try another artist."
Serious as he was, that made the big redhead grin around his cigar. "Ah, wouldn't that be something?" he said. "Two big micks in the same bed! Yeah, they'd have to hide the women, wouldn't they?" Because he was trying to keep his voice down, you couldn't have heard him more than two rooms away. He stuck out a hand the size of a baseball mitt. "Hello, Ken. My name's Mike. I'm Sally's husband."
I already provisionally respected the guy, on Arethusa's say-so. But now my respect went up a couple of notches. For a guy like this to hold on to a woman like that, he had to be something Special. Now I really hoped he wasn't upset with me. In my line of work, "client's husband" is a synonym for "pain in the ass"—and he looked like he could constitute a large-size pain. I stuck my own hand out and said, "Pleased to meet you, Mike. But that 'Ken' stuff is my House name—and I don't have any secrets from Arethusa. Call me Joe."
His smile dented slightly, "I'm afraid you do . . . at least for a little while. Let's keep it 'Ken' for now, okay?"
"If you say so," I agreed. His handshake was firm but not aggressive. He'd given up that kind of childishness a long time ago.
"Arethusa, darlin'," he said, "would you do me a favor?"
"Of course, Mike."
"Go ask Sal to give you some of my special coffee, and brew up two cups drip-style? Unless you'd like some too, Ken?
"Well . . .how long do you need me to be coherent?" I asked.
"We should be done by the time Arethusa gets back," he said.
"Then I'll pass. Unless it's really special." I'm a coffee freak.
"I'll have her brew you some for breakfast," he assured me. "She'll still be awake then. Thanks, darlin'. Take your time."
"I understand," she told him, and left.
When the door had closed behind her, I said, "I meant that about not keeping secrets from Arethusa. I haven't told her a damn thing yet—there hasn't been time—but she's somebody I can't lie to."
"Then just settle for keeping your mouth shut as much as possible," he advised, "at least about your case. Once it's over you can make your own decision—for now, hang on to your cover. You're just a guy who got a shot at the second greatest job in the world."
"What's the greatest?" I had to ask.
"Mine," he said. "I mean it, Joe: Sal needs this kept as quiet as possible."
"How do I know I'm authorized to discuss it with you?" I asked.
He shifted the cigar stub in his teeth. "Easy: you're not an asshole. Now can we get down to business before Arethusa comes back and I have to make up another errand? It just embarrasses everybody."
"Okay," I said. "Where have you been while all this crap has been going on, Mike?"
He blinked. "Fair enough." He sat heavily in the chair Atethusa had vacated. "I should have been here. I've got my own business out on the Island, night-shift, but I sleep here in the House most mornings. But sometimes I get involved in things out there. The last couple of days I been showin' a guy out in Suffolk County how to use a computer system, so it was simpler to sleep out there." He looked embarrassed, a strange expression on that face. "If I'd have been here, you might not have taken that whack on the head tonight. Sal kept saying everything was fine on the phone, and I just found out different a little while ago. I'm sorry."
"No problem. It's what I'm paid for. Question is: now that you're back, am I still hired?"
I had succeeded in surprising him. "Are you kidding? In the last century I think I overruled Sally twice already. I'm lucky to be alive."
"Is that your line of work, Mike, teaching computer systems?"
He looked thoughtful. "I guess you could say that. Teaching folks about reprogramming, yeah. This guy was a little different, though: a computer is the only way he can talk to people without barking."
Some friend of Ralph's? I had to let that go: my nose was wrinkling uncontrollably. "Excuse me," I said. "I know this is changing the subject, and I know it sounds crazy, and I mean no disrespect, okay? Maybe somebody's playing a gag on you—but I'm just about certain that's not a cigar."
He looked down at it and went briefly cross-eyed. "It isn't?"
Someone had to tell him. "I'm pretty sure it's a piece of shit."
He grinned, not at all offended. "A common error." He lit a wooden match with his thumbnail and brought it toward the thing.
"What the hell are you doing?" I said, alarmed.
"Trust me: it actually smells better when it's burning."
"Jesus." I lit a Lucky for a protective smokescreen. But he was right: the smoke cut the smell, sort of.
Mike returned doggedly to business. "Okay, look: I know about the weird things that have been going on, and I know you have a theory, and I know Sal thinks it's a bow-wow, and I know why. Better than she does, maybe. What I want you to do is tell me, in your own words, what your theory is and how you got to it. Fair enough?"
"What did Sal . . . did the Lady tell you I said?" I temporized. He frowned. "Hey, do you want a discreet guy on this gig or not?"
The frown went away. "Touché," he said. "Okay: she says you think it's a time traveler."
Now I frowned. "Not exactly."
He waited patiently.
"But it's close enough to tell me it's okay to discuss it with you. I didn't say, 'a time traveler,' exactly. I said, 'a guy with a time machine.' They're both kind of glorified editors, but they work it different."
He looked thoughtful, and twirled his cigar meditatively. I noticed that although it was still alight, and he'd been smoking it for a while, it didn't seem to have formed any ash. "If we're dealing with an editor, we may be in real trouble here. Okay, what's the difference?"
"Well, I'm not really a big sci-fi fan, but the way I get it, a time traveler goes back and forth in time, and edits history. Like he goes back to the past and shoots his own grandfather to see what'll happen. Only I never understood why they always pick on the grandfather."
"Me either," Mike agreed, accepting the digression for its intrinsic value despite the hurry he was in. I was starting to like him.
"I mean, how can you be positive your grandfather has anything to do with your genes? Maybe Grandmaw put one over on him. Shoot your Mom would be my plan: you can be fairly sure she's a relative."
"Sound," he agreed. "So a time traveler goes back and forth in time. How is that different from a guy with a time machine?"
"Well, see, it doesn't have to be. I guess you'd use some kind of time machine to do that. But you couldn't do the kind of stuff that's been happening here with that kind. Well, maybe you could, but it wouldn't get you anywhere. I'm thinking of a different kind of time machine. Not a machine to go through time . . . a machine to change time."
His nostrils flared, and he put both fists on his hips. "I'll be a son of a bitch, I don't know exactly what it is you've got, Joe Quigley, but you've got it. 'Change it' how?"
I love a guy who feeds me great straight lines.
"Slow it down," I said.
His jaw dropped, and he lost his cigar. "Cushlamachree," he breathed.
Another Barnaby fan. "Mr. O'Malley!" I said in a kid's voice.
He got the reference, and ignored it. "'Callahan,' actually. Keep talking, Joe!"
"Well, I can't really take much credit for figuring it out. I read about a scam just like it once in a book, by John D. MacDonald. The title was something about 'a girl and a watch and everything.'"
He shook his head. "Don't know it."
"You don't know every book MacDonald's written? Jeeze, are you a lucky son of a bitch. Imagine having that still ahead of you. Well, there was this guy, with this—holy shit!" I broke off and dragged hard on my cigarette.
"What's the matter?" Mike asked, still the perfect straight man.
"I just this minute figured out who the bastard is. The prankster. What he looks like, anyway: I'll know him when I see him again. Lady Sally can probably tell us his name. But it's still going to be real tricky taking him down."
"Rewind and start over, would you, son? There was this guy in a John MacDonald book . . ."
" . . . who had this gold watch that his uncle the inventor left him in his will. And the watch was like a time machine. Every time he did something to it, twisted the stem, I think, time stopped. For everybody but him, I mean. Well, not stopped, but went real slow. Maybe you could think of it like suddenly he could move and think so fast that everybody else just seemed to be standing still. I don't know if it makes any difference. Whatever, he twisted the watchstem, and everything in the world froze solid but him. And then he'd go around . . . editing things. And when he had them how he liked, he'd twist the stem the other way, start time back up, and watch the fun. I happened to see a guy with a ridiculous-looking watch in the Parlor last night, just before I got sapped."
"Jesus!" Mike shouted, and then said, "Jesus!" again at slightly lower volume. The forgotten cigar butt had burned through his pants at the left thigh. He crushed it to death between thumb and forefinger and ignored the burn. The smell of burning pants and leg hair was some improvement. "Joe, you got shafted on that Favila business. You're a fucking genius."
"I know." I was really starting to like this guy.
"I see what you're driving at. It explains—"
"Just about everything I can think of," I said. "Take when I got sapped tonight, for instance. I was standing with my back against a door. I felt a draft; the door squirmed under my shoulder blades; I felt somebody touch my blackjack; and my head blew up, all at the same time. You get it? The guy just twisted his watchstem to call time-out, and opened the door. He must have had all the time in the world before I'd start to fall over backwards. He dips my sap, smacks me with it, puts it back in my pocket, and closes the door again. There's a breeze because from my point of view, the door opened and closed almost instantly." I frowned darkly. "Then, as near as I can figure, the scumbag moves to somewhere out of my line of sight and starts the tape rolling again. Or maybe he just puts it on slow-mo, until he sees a frame he likes, and freezes it there again. Like, a second or so later. I've let go of Arethusa. She starts to fall. Her legs go up in the air. Freeze frame! She happens to be conveniently lubricated, at a convenient height, in a convenient posture. Wham bam, rape you ma'am. Then he puts it back in his pants, opens the door again, squeezes past me, and leaves. Or for all I know, he hauls me out of his way and then hauls me back into place again once he's out in the hall. The cocky little—"
"Seems to me if you moved people around in that kind of time frame, you'd build up a lot of friction," Mike said.
"And in every weird incident where someone had to be physically moved, they reported feeling hot all of a sudden." I agreed. "And bruised. In the MacDonald book, it was real hard to move stuff around while it was frozen. Something about 'inertia.' I'll tell you one thing about the bastard: he's a premature ejaculator. If he wasn't, he'd have torn those girls up pretty bad." I bared my teeth. "I've got a real simple solution to his problem."
"Somehow I suspect what you've got in mind for him is just a different problem," Mike said. "Kind of on the opposite end of the same spectrum, like."
"You got a problem with that? I asked.
"Not at all," he assured me. "It'll be a nice change for him. I'll hold your coat."
"I'm willing to leave one for you," I offered.
"Thanks, son, but these days I'm mostly vegetarian. Okay, we've got two problems to solve. No, three. How do we identify him? How do we take him? And how do we persuade Sal we're on the right track? You say you've got the first one licked already?"
"I think so. I spotted a guy down in the Parlor with a real funny-looking watch, sitting at the bar. A suit; he looked real Central Park West. Thinking back on it, close enough to hear me and Arethusa talking: he'd have known for sure why we were going upstairs, so he knew she'd be ready for him. For all I know, the bastard just sat there and finished his drink, gave us enough time to get upstairs, and then . . . checked the time." I shook my head, infuriated at the arrogance of the man. "Anyway, I'll bet dollars to donuts his name will be on the printout of clients who were here all four nights."
Mike pursed his lips. "That might help convince Sal."
"I can do better than that. A couple of the first people involved reported high-pitched squealing sounds. Then one of 'em yesterday heard what he called a 'chipmunk noise.' I think he meant like that record, Alvin and the Chipmunks."
Mike started. "Cripes—"
"You have Mary play back the tapes of the incidents—at really low speed—and I think you'll be able to make out the skell's voice. I think after the first couple of times, he realized what a risk he was taking by talking aloud, and quit . . . except for one last time he just couldn't help himself. I kind of know how he felt about that one: I've often wished I could get that guy to just stand there and listen until I was done talking at him. Anyway, if that doesn't convince Lady Sally, nothing will."
"That should nail it down," Mike said, nodding. "Nice thinking, Joe. All right, how do you propose we take him?"
"Well, there's really only one serious problem: we can't give him as much as a second's warning. For him, a second is as long as he wants it to be. I'd say our move is to maneuver him into a crowd scene down in the Parlor. Surround him with people that are good fighters and better actors. Then we just get Priscilla within reach of his watch arm. Put her on that arm, and three or four people on everything else, and I think we can take him. All we have to do then is decide what to do with the body."
"Sounds like it ought to work," Mike said judiciously.
"There's only one part I don't like to think about."
"What's that?" he asked obligingly.
"What's going to happen if we fuck up."
"True," Mike agreed. "He could cut every throat in the place—or worse. Well, there's one consolation."
My turn to be straight man. "What's that?"
"If we do fuck up, we'll probably never know it."
That one got me a little. I know it's nuts, but somehow I always had it in my head that even if some guy, say shotgunned me in the head from behind, I'd still have a split second to realize what had happened before the lights went out. I don't know why it should be worse to die without time for pain or regrets . . . but to me, it is. I'm not looking forward to dying—but I've spent a lifetime getting ready for it, and I don't want it stolen from me.
"Let's not fuck up," I said.
"That'd be my vote," Mike agreed.
I found that I was exhausted. I'd spilled all the logic I'd had backed up in my head since Lady Sally had left, and now there was nothing left to keep me going. I'd unwound my mainspring—if watch imagery isn't in bad taste here. Oddly enough my head didn't hurt.
"If all goes well," I said, slurring my l's slightly, "by tomorrow night the only one here with a problem will be me. No, don't say 'what's that?'—you've been good so far, Mike; I'll just tell you. My problem is gonna be, 'What the hell do I put in my report? I don't think I could sell the truth to my . . ." I broke off and giggled. "S'cuse me: 'To my client,' I started to say. Suddenly the word has a new meaning." Everything was getting rubbery.
Mike grinned. "Yeah, he is a lot of people's 'client,' in Sal's terms, isn't he? I wouldn't worry about it, Joe. You just tell him, 'Lady Sally says everything is fine now,' and then turn off your ears. When he stops throwing things and turns his back on you, that means you can go now."
I smiled feebly. "Founds like sun, actually." That didn't sound right. "Ex-keys mew," I said, stifling a yawn. "I have this tenancy to spean in Spookerisms since I got whacked. It's a scene that I'm slipy."
Mike got up from his chair, surprisingly quickly for a guy his size, and ran a hand through his thinning (hell, anorexic) red hair. "Well," he said. "when it tarts getting stuff—"
"The guff get towing," I agreed. "Nighty night. Hey, that'd be a pretty good name for a theme evening here. "Nightie Night.' Remind me to sell Lady Tally . . ."
He paused at the door "Joe?"
I was three quarters asleep. "Yah?"
"Travis McGee couldn't have done better."
So he did know MacDonald . . . and only read the McGees. Well, a lot of people make that mistake. And maybe it's just the way my life has worked out, but I don't get praised by guys like Mike Callahan a lot.
"Et your bass," I told him happily. I tried to invent a variant on winking, using both eyes, and found I couldn't get either lid back up again.
Ah, what the hell . . .
Of all the things that happened to me on that case, one of the parts I like best to remember is waking up the next day.
Don't get me wrong: I wouldn't want to part with any of the memories. Not even the whack across the skull, or the awful moment when I understood that my—all right, dammit, not my "girl" . . . my artist, then—when I understood that my Arethusa had been raped while I was less than six inches away, gaping like a museum diorama of primitive man.
And there isn't enough money in the world to buy the memory of Arethusa comforting me that first time.
But nice as that was, waking up the next day was maybe even a hair better. Anyway, just as good.
First I was a plant. Light lay gently on me, a bee buzzed softly, and there was something wonderful in the air.
Then I was an animal. Something simple like an amoeba or a newt. I floated in goodness; no enemies were near; dolphins chuckled somewhere; life was good.
Next a mammal of some kind. The two greatest spoors in the world crept into my nostrils and opened them wide. My heart was pumping fluid at high volume, and other organs thought the idea might be worth copying.
I evolved into a man. One of the smells in my nose was coffee—no, the quintessence of coffee—and the other one was better. A flautist good enough to play Carnegie Hall was, with incredible gentleness and delicacy, practicing arpeggio runs on my penis, like a drummer rehearsing with pads. To assist herself, she was humming the melody . . .
And finally I was Joe Quigley. I was in the prime of my years; safe in the greatest brothel on Earth; I had cracked the case of my life; the thrill of the bust was still ahead of me; and Arethusa, my Arethusa, about whom I knew almost nothing except that I needed to spend large amounts of time with her, was showing me what is at the opposite end of the Universe from an alarm clock. And if that wasn't enough, the coffee I smelled had to be Mike Callahan's "special coffee," and it had to be pretty damn special because I knew I had slept at least ten hours and Arethusa was, beyond question, wide awake . . .
I wondered idly which one of her she was.
I remembered something. Back about the time I'd reached the primate stage, I'd heard her emit sounds, and filed them for later thought. Only four syllables, but something told me even then they were very important.
Now that I had developed language skills, I played back the tape, and yes they were very important syllables indeed.
"I love you, Joe."