Hangfire Page 14

  "Well, shouldn't we stick together? At least have dinner together before we split up? Hell, I thought we was buddies," Claypoole said.

  "We've been stuck together for years in the Corps and on the trip out here," Dean answered. "I want one freakin' night to myself, if you don't mind."

  "Okay," Pasquin said, "whatever. Let's meet back here tomorrow morning for breakfast and then we can plan the rest of our time." He nodded knowingly at the other two, tacitly reminding them that they had three days on their own before they were to make contact with Culloden.

  The name of the casino was The Suicide King, and its logo was a huge king of hearts, the king with the sword thrust behind his head, thus the sobriquet "suicide." The restaurant there was excellent, even Reindeer Ale was available on tap. Wanderjahrian thule was also available, and Dean smoked several cigarettes with his after dinner steak—steak from real cows, the first he'd had since leaving Earth to join the Corps. The steak was huge and juicy, fully as savory as the reindeer steaks served on Thorsfinni's World. Puffing on a huge Fidel, he wandered over to the blackjack table.

  The dealer, a young woman with long, delicate fingers, was playing solitaire when Dean came up to her table.

  "Hi," she said, "my name is Tara. Would you like to play?" She held out her hand and Dean took it and squeezed lightly.

  "Sure. My name is Joe. What's the bet?"

  "Whatever you can afford. The house will cover any bet you wish to make."

  "Slow night?" Dean asked as he took a seat opposite Tara.

  Her face colored slightly and she smiled. "This is the off season. You're my first customer of the day." It was already way past eight P.M. Tara broke out a new deck and they played for an hour.

  "When do you get off duty?"

  "Midnight. The casino closes at midnight this time of the year. Why?"

  Dean shrugged. "I came here with two friends, we just got out of the Marines. They're off on their own tonight. I wanted to ask you to dinner with me..."

  Tara looked up at Dean speculatively. He noticed her eyes were dark green. "Sure. Why not? Oh, they call me Fingers around here, 'cause I'm such a good dealer." She held up her long, delicate fingers and smiled.

  "Thanks, Tara, er, Fingers. But look, I'm going over to the poker table for a while; you're too good for me." He laughed and gathered up his chips. "See you at midnight."

  Pasquin looked into Giselda's warm brown eyes. They'd been smoking thule, laughing, talking, telling each other their life's stories. Giselda was one of the most beautiful whores Pasquin had ever imagined. Her long auburn hair perfectly complemented the delicate bones of her face. Her breasts bulged invitingly, and when she crossed and uncrossed her sinuously long legs the movement jolted his heart. Her hand was cool, soft and delicate, nails perfectly manicured. All in all, Giselda was a very classy escort.

  "They call me Jizzy," she'd announced when Pasquin asked if he could sit in her booth. Pasquin smiled.

  They kissed passionately. Pasquin slid a hand inside her blouse. My God! he thought. Wonderful endowments! She leaned back in the booth. He reached inside her skirt and gently massaged her thigh.

  "Uh, um..." Pasquin sat up quickly and slid to the end of the booth.

  Giselda straightened her clothes and sighed. "You know," she said mournfully, "I can still show you a good time if you'd only—"

  "Ah, no, no. No thanks, Jizzy. I guess I made a mistake." Pasquin's face had turned a deep red. Nervously he glanced around the bar to see if anyone had noticed. No one had. The few other patrons were too deeply engaged in their own conversations to take note.

  "Well, thanks, Jizzy. Thanks all the same." Pasquin shuffled some banknotes onto the table. "Sorry to take up your time like this. See you around." He got up to leave.

  "You know where to find me, honey, if you should change your mind," Giselda said, stuffing the notes into her bra.

  Fat fucking chance! Pasquin thought as he stomped out of the bar. He walked in a driving rain all the way back to the Royal Frogmore and straight into the lounge, where he ordered a triple whiskey on the rocks. Goddamn! he thought as he swished the raw whiskey around in his mouth. First night on the town, pockets full of dough, a dozen whorehouses within a block, and I gotta pick—He cursed long and terribly.

  In the dark, in his bed waiting for the others to come back, Pasquin laughed at long last. Buddha's blue busted balls, he thought. From the waist up she was perfect!

  It was not yet light when Tara rolled over and kissed Dean. "Joe?" She shook him gently. "Joe?"

  "Um, ah?"

  "Joe, wake up and get dressed. There's a shuttle flight to Rome in one hour. We can be there by lunchtime and back here tomorrow before noon."

  "What are you talking about? I gotta meet my buddies for breakfast—"

  "Joe, I'm off today. You've got an open ticket. You've paid for the trip even if you don't take it. I can fly free as a casino employee. You can be back here by noon tomorrow. Call the Frogmore and tell your friends you're taking me to Rome."

  Dean hesitated a moment before placing the call.

  Dean was both frightened and excited to be sitting in the Coliseum. He was very much aware that it was where Special Agent Woods had met a terrible death. But the gladiator contests he was watching were just very well-staged dramas, though unbelievably realistic.

  Tara pointed to the emperor's box at the opposite side of the arena. It was full. "That fat man sitting in the middle is Noto, head of the Draya Family," she said. Dean wished he had a blaster; he could have ended the careers of the Havanagas families very quickly.

  The crowd thundered approval as the gladiators slashed and cast at each other. The action in the arena was furious. The clash of alloy and steel reverberated throughout the arena. From where he was sitting, Dean heard the heavy breathing of the contestants as they flung themselves at one another. He impulsively inserted his credit card into the slot provided. "Fifty on the guy with the red hair," he said. The machine confirmed the bet and returned his card and a receipt. The odds were printed on the back of the receipt. Dean raised an eyebrow. Six-to-one against the guy with the red hair. He'd have a pile if his man won. He looked at the clock. The betting was over. The odds would stay the same until the fight was decided.

  Tara quivered with excitement beside him. A thin rivulet of perspiration coursed down the side of her face. Her fists were clutched so tightly her whole body was shaking. Her full attention was riveted on the fight below where they sat. Dean leaned back in his seat. These people take this crap seriously, he told himself. And here I am, betting on it! he chided himself.

  The red-haired gladiator's opponent was down. "Mohammed H. Christ, I've won!" Dean was exultant, but the crowd was on its feet, roaring for blood. Dean stood so he could see what was going to happen. He looked around the crowd. Everyone was screaming and gesturing thumbs-down. Suddenly, Lance Corporal Joseph F. Dean, Confederation Marine Corps, was pissed off. None of those foolish people had ever killed a man, much less seen men really die, and there they were, screaming for blood. "Fuck you! Fuck you!" he shouted and thrust both thumbs upward. Nobody seemed to notice. The red-haired gladiator looked up at the emperor's box, nodded once and plunged his sword into his opponent's stomach.

  The crowd quieted down immediately as the "corpse" was unceremoniously dragged out of the arena.

  "Whew!" Tara exclaimed from beside him, fanning herself with a program. "Boy, that was some fight, huh? And Joe, you won! You won!" She leaned over and kissed him. "What's wrong, honey, you don't look very happy?"

  "Nothing. It's just I've never seen people act like this before." He told her what he'd done on places like Elneal and Diamunde. "I mean, this is so damned real." In fact, it was real, for some people, like Agent Woods.

  "Well, we all know it's not for real, honey. It's like watching a trid, you know? Where you can be part of the action? People have been enjoying spectacles like this for years."

  "It's not that, Tara. This is not like that. It's
the way the spectators acted. In the trids and vids it's always the good guys who win, so you got something to root for, but here, these people don't really care who wins, so long as someone loses."

  "Settle down, Joe! After this is over we'll all go back to being normal again. With what you've won we can really enjoy ourselves tonight. And look at the program: next up is Christians and lions!"

  Claypoole went into the first bar he could find and ordered a beer. He had just begun sipping the golden brew—these people know their beers, he reflected, because Reindeer Ale is available on tap!—when a shapely, dark-skinned woman sat down beside him. She held out her hand. "Hi, my name is Katie Wells and I'm a whore! Katie's not my real name; that's Keren Begemdir, but I heard an old song once about a girl who died young, Katie Wells, and I liked that name."

  Claypoole almost choked on his beer but he took her hand and managed to get his own name out. "Claypoole is my name, miss. Rachman Claypoole. Call me Rock."

  "Need someone for tonight?" she asked, smiling and tossing her head back. She regarded Claypoole frankly. Her approach was so sudden and straightforward, Claypoole struggled to reply, so she went on, "Cost you 150 to get me out of here early, 150 for my services and whatever entertainment we decide on afterward. I'll stay with you through breakfast tomorrow, and it'll cost you all told maybe five hundred. If you like it, I'll stick around, give you a reduced rate. Whadaya say?"

  Claypoole regarded her cleavage. Nice legs too. He felt a real twinge of emotion as he realized she reminded him very much of someone he'd known a long time ago. He shrugged, but inwardly he knew she was the girl for him. How could I be so lucky? he wondered. "Okay. Sure. Who do I pay to get you out of here?"

  "The bartender. Say, I could use some steak and eggs!" Katie patted her stomach as she spoke. "I know a nice place just down the street. We can eat and just make the first performance at the Biograph. You like Shakespeare?"

  "Er, as in William?"

  "Yeah. They're performing Titus Andronicus all week. One of my favorites. It was first performed in 1594, did you know that? You know the twentieth century poet, T. S. Eliot? He said it was one of the stupidest plays ever written." Katie laughed. "But I like it. It's about a guy who really gets pissed at some dirty bastards who screw him over, so he plots his revenge. Hoo boy, does he ever! You'll love it!"

  "What if I don't?" Katie shrugged.

  "Then screw you, Rock. We do it my way until we get back to my place. Then you can screw me." She laughed. "After the play I know a place where we can have drinks, talk a bit before we go back to my pad. Come on, let's get a move on."

  During the meal Katie never shut up. She maintained a steady monologue on a variety of subjects that did not interest Claypoole in the slightest. But she was a good talker, obviously very intelligent and well-read. Idly, he wondered how she could eat so much and still maintain her figure. "I get plenty of ‘exercise,’ during the tourist season!" She laughed, almost as if she could read his mind.

  "What happens when you get old, Katie?" Claypoole asked suddenly.

  She shrugged. Around a mouthful of food she said, "Then I go out with older men. We have a retirement program here, you know? Everyone who works on Havanagas does. I figured when my tits get down to my belly button, I'm out." She laid down her fork and laughed so hard other patrons turned to look in their direction.

  Claypoole couldn't help himself. He started to laugh too. They laughed until tears streamed down their cheeks.

  After the play they stood on a corner waiting for a cab. "Whadja think of the play?" Katie asked.

  "Well, I'm not much on plays, Katie. Sure kept my attention, though. I can still see those heads in that meat pie! God's hairy balls, I need a drink after all that cutting and slashing." Everyone in the 34th FIST knew the story of what had happened to Ensign vanden Hoyt and Professor Benjamin on Diamunde, and the grisly fate of Tamora's sons in the play came as an uncomfortable reminder of that real-life horror.

  "Oooh, don't talk like that!" Katie chided him. "Bad luck to take God's name in vain. And you know, when you swear by God's parts, those parts actually hurt him?" Claypoole thought she was joking, but when he looked at her the expression on her face was serious. "Okay, I know just the place," she rattled on. "The library."

  "What?" Claypoole asked sharply.

  "The Free Library. It's a bordello on the other side of town. I know the girls there. The manager's been trying to recruit me for years. If we buy drinks, they'll let us sit in the parlor. They have red books they'll let us look at."

  A taxi pulled up. Claypoole felt a twinge of nervousness. The library! They weren't due there until day after tomorrow. Would going early screw things up? No, he realized suddenly, just the opposite! What a break! Now, at the appointed time, he could go back there with the others and it'd look very natural. Hell, he'd just retain Katie's services for the rest of the week and she would go with them on Thursday. It was perfect.

  Two huge stone mythological beasts, half animal, half human, stood beside the long flight of steps that led up to the Free Library of Placetas. Enormous brass doors with huge, highly polished handles swung wide to let them in. The foyer was all polished marble, ceilings twenty meters high. An enormous marble staircase led to the upper floors. To the right and left of the foyer were huge alcoves with shelves of books reaching from floor to ceiling. The carrels were comfortable nooks just big enough for two people, where customers met the girls and made their arrangements. Drinks—and books, the Free Library was a real library!—could be ordered from there.

  "Gerry!" Katie shouted. Her voice echoed loudly in the enormous foyer.

  An elderly man, beard neatly trimmed, somewhat stooped, and balding on the top of his head, smiled up at them from a reception desk. "Katie, my dear!" He stood up and they embraced warmly. "Have you changed your mind? Are you here to join my staff?"

  Katie smiled warmly and tweaked Gerry's ear playfully. "Not tonight, love, just visiting. Gerry, this is Rachman. He's a retired Marine."

  Gerry bowed slightly and extended his hand. "Good evening, kind sir! I am Gerry Prost, head librarian and manager of this establishment. I trust you will enjoy your evening with us. Come right this way."

  Mr. Prost guided them to an empty carrel. "This is a real library, Mr. Claypoole," Prost said as he seated them. "We have some very rare volumes available. We have books that go way back to the dawn of printing, incunabula, they're called. We also have some original etchings by William Blake, the English poet. They are extremely rare. If you order anything from our rare books department you will be issued special gloves. Please wear them when handling those volumes. Otherwise, Katie knows how things work around here. Enjoy."

  "Gerry's a real librarian, Rock," Katie said after Prost had left them. "He retired years and years ago and took this job here. The girls love him. He's a shrewd manager and he does not participate in what goes on upstairs. And he has single-handedly built up this wonderful collection. Do you read much?"

  Claypoole shrugged. "Yes, novels and training manuals, mostly." Ooops! He was out of the Corps now! "Well, when I was in the Corps, that's what I read mostly," he added.

  "What'll we have to drink?" Katie asked. She activated the computer. "We're ready to order," she said.

  "I'd like a big glass of Reindeer Ale and let's smoke some thule."

  "Sour mash bourbon for me, on the rocks," Katie told the computer. "And let me see the card catalog. There's a book I always love to look at whenever I come here," she said to Claypoole. "Give us the Speght Chaucer, please," she said after scrolling through the catalog and picking the call number.

  "No drinking or smoking allowed while handling the books," the computer announced. The automated voice was that of Mr. Prost. "Please wear the gloves when you handle this volume." Obediently, they put their drinks onto sideboards.

  A panel in a sidewall popped open and a metal box slid out. Katie slipped on the thin cotton gloves that came with the box and opened it. Carefully, she took out
a large leather-bound volume and opened it up. On the fly leaf someone had written a long message by hand in ink. It was to "Jack" from "Dad" and dated April 12, 1931. Claypoole whistled; that was 522 years ago! His eyes fell on one line that stood out. It was in archaic English and the penmanship was difficult to decipher at first, but he puzzled it out. "...Chaucer ‘ever ready to cheer the language of your soul, and gild the bareness of life with treasures of bygone times’—"

  "Now look at this," Katie whispered as she turned to the title page. On the obverse of the first leaf was a full-page woodcut entitled "The Progenie of Geffrey Chaucer," and on the recto of the title page, "The Workes of Our Ancient and learned English Poet, Geffrey Chaucer, newly Printed. London, Printed by Adam Islip. An. Dom. 1602."

  "This book was printed in 1602?" Claypoole asked, astonished. "Katie, this book is—is, good shit, 850 years old! I've never held any man-made thing that was this old! What do you think it's worth?" he almost whispered.

  "Millions, I should think. The people who sponsor this place have money to burn. When they first hired Gerry, he went wild on acquisitions. People come from all over Human Space just to see the books he's collected, did you know that? Yes! Here, let me show you something." She turned to the prologue. "See this?" She pointed to a passage.

  "What language is that written in?" Claypoole asked, peering at the strange black letters on the leaf.

  Katie laughed. "It's archaic English, but what might make it difficult for you to read is that it's printed in ‘black letter’ type. But rendered into modern typology, you could learn to read Chaucer's English pretty easily. Here, let me read it for you:

  "There was an Oxford student...

  And he was too unworldly for employment

  In some lay office.

  At his couch's head

  His twenty volumes bound in black and red