Someone singing, "Turn of the Century Blues" in a sultry, melancholy
voice was all that Phil could hear as he walked down the dark ramp
and into the hardly brighter Tan Jet. No live or robot doorman was
on guard, at least no obvious one, and no hostess came hurrying up.
Apparently customers were supposed to know their way around.
There were a lot of them. They sat in small parties with a truculent
quietness that sneered at and challenged the frantic hustle of the
times and the belief that the hustle was leading anywhere. There were
no juke box theaters in the corners, no TV screens visible, and the
booths didn't seem to be equipped with handies. Four live musicians
softly blew and strummed old jazz instruments, while a single amber
spotlight shone on the coffee colored, deceivingly languid songstress,
whose sequined dress went all the way to her wrists and chin.
I'm sad-crazy, sweetheart, tonight,
My heart is heavy in the sodium light....
A young man and woman coming from opposite shadowy walls sighted each
other. "Lambie Pie!" he cried. She stood stock-still as he walked up
to her and gave her a slap that rocked her red-ringletted head. Then,
"Loverman!" she cried and slapped him back. Phil could see his eyes
roll ecstatically as the red flamed in his smacked cheek. They linked
arms ritualistically and made off.
And it don't help, sweetheart, to know
That the whole world went crazy--
Moon-mazy and space-hazy--
About a hundred years ago,
So--
At that moment Phil spotted the dark sheen of Mitzie Romadka's hair
and cloak at the far end of the room. He started toward her, suddenly
feeling a trifle uneasy.
Put away my sky-high platform shoes
And don't bring me any happy news,
For--
I've got those turn of the century--
Turn of the millennium--
Blues!
As the listeners softly hissed their applause, Phil stopped a few feet
away from Mitzie's table. She was with three young men, but they sat
away from her pointedly, as if she were ostracized.
The three young men, without lifting a finger, showed more of the
mystic toughness that seemed to be the specialty of the joint than
any other people in it. They had the quiet dignity of murderers. When
Mitzie turned to see what they were looking at, she sprang up with
the delighted cry of "Phil!" though there was alarm in her eyes. She
wasn't wearing her evening-mask. She walked over to him and slapped him
stingingly with her left hand.
He whipped up his hand to slap her back, hesitated, and barely managed
a sketchy pat. She glared at him but turned back with a bright smile,
saying gayly, "Fellows, Phil. Phil, meet Carstairs, Llewellyn, and
Buck."
Carstairs had a head that bulged at the top like a pear. He wore thin
bangs, the effect of which was not effeminate. He remarked lazily to
Mitzie, "So this is the clown you blabbed tonight's plans to."
Llewellyn looked very British and was very black. He said, "You also
seem to have told him we'd come here later. Puzzles me why he didn't
bring the police."
Buck was hawk faced and had a Kentucky accent that sounded as if it
had been learned from tapes. "P'lice never tried to pick up anybody in
the Tan Jit, yit," he observed. "Not here, Otie!" This last remark was
addressed to a gaunt, mangy dog which thrust its head from under his
legs and snapped at Phil.
Phil leaned on the table, his hand next to a tall, slim pitcher. He
said to Mitzie, "I'm surprised to find you at a tame place like this. I
expected drugs, knife fights and naked women."
Mitzie whirled his way. "As for drugs, what do you think we're
drinking?" she said furiously. "As for knife fights, wait. And as for
naked women, you devotee of male-female wrestling, well, if Carstairs,
Llewellyn, or Buck should happen to see a girl who took their fancy,
I'd just walk up to her and rip off her clothes!"
She was looking past Phil when she finished. He swiveled his head and
saw Miss Phoebe Filmer with a rather scared looking young man. But
Phoebe, in a half off-the-bosom chartreuse evening gown, looked even
more frightened, her face almost as green as her green-blonde hair.
Perhaps she had heard Mitzie's last remark. Then she recognized Phil,
and astonishment was added to her fright. Phil smiled at her with a
somewhat forced reassuringness. At that moment Phoebe's escort called
her attention to an empty booth back toward the door, and the two of
them hurried toward its haven with the eagerness of skimmers who have
overreached themselves.
Phil felt remarkably bucked up. He snared an empty chair from the
next table and found himself an empty glass and filled it from the
tall, slim pitcher. Llewellyn, who, like the others had a half-inch in
the bottom of his glass, caught Buck's attention and rolled his eyes
significantly toward the ceiling. The white made eerie half-moons under
the irises.
"Just rip 'em off," Mitzie repeated with conviction.
Carstairs said, with a quietly scathing coldness, "Mitz, quit playing
the solicitous little mother to Llewellyn, Buck and me." He carefully
smoothed his bangs, as an ancient judge might have adjusted his wig
before pronouncing sentence. "It's quite clear that you spilled our
plans to this clown, and that he told the police so that they were
waiting for us when we knocked over the first sales-robot."
"Quite," Llewellyn said, while Buck nodded.
"And if I hadn't insisted on putting a new charge in the rocket
assist," Carstairs continued, "we'd have been nabbed."
"It was just a coincidence," Mitzie asserted sharply.
"First time we ever had a coincidence," Carstairs observed.
"Personally, I don't believe there are such things."
Phil took a deep drink. It seemed mild, sweet stuff, compared to the
adulterated whiskey Juno had fed him. That is, it seemed so for the
first two or three seconds. Then he felt the top of his head balloon
outward, pear-wise, like Carstairs'. The dark songstress was singing
some song the refrain of which was,
Darling, I'm queer for you.
I'm really strange, quite out of any ordinary range....
Carstairs continued quietly, "Mitz, we let you into the gang, we
initiated you, although we knew you were a psychoanalyst's daughter and
doubtful material--"