"That's an unfair allegation," I replied. "The rumor that he started the
Chicago Fire is absolutely unfounded."
"As I recall, 'Fireman' O'Leary came by his nickname about one hundred
years after the holocaust that started on DeKoven Street in 1871. It
seems that 'Fireman' O'Leary was most useful in helping the fillies home
at Washington Park by assaulting them in the region of the bangtail with
small bollops of pure incandescence. He was a pyrotic."
"That is a false accusation--"
"It was never proved," admitted the lieutenant, "because any one who
accused anybody of making use of extrasensory faculties in 1971 would
have been tossed into that establishment out on Narragansett Avenue
where the headshrinkers once plied their mystic trade."
"Things are different now."
"Indeed they are, Wally. Which is why I'm here. No one but a fumbling
idiot would try anything as crude as speeding a dog over the line by
pyrotics or by jolting the animals with a bolt of electrical energy."
"So--?"
"So considering the sad and sorry fact that human nature does not change
very much despite the vast possibility for improvement, we must
anticipate a fix that has been contrived and executed on a level that
takes full cognizance of the widespread presence of psi-function."
"But again, why me?"
"Was not 'Fireman' O'Leary an ancestor of yours?"
"He was my maternal grandparent."
"And so you do indeed come from a long line of horse operators, don't
you?"
"I resent your invidious implications."
"And wasn't 'Wireless' Wilson the paternal ancestor from whom the family
name has come?"
"I fail to see ... the allegation that my father's father employed
telepathy to transmit track information faster than the wire services
has never been proved."
He smiled knowingly. "Wally," he said slowly, "if you feel that
allegations have somehow impugned the pure name of your family, you
could apply for a review of their several appearances in court. It's
possible that 'Fireman' O'Leary did _not_ use his pyrotic talent to
enhance the running speed of some tired old dogs."
"But--"
"So I think we understand one another, Wally. There is also reason to
believe that psionic talent tends to run in families. You're a psi-man
and a good one."
"If I hear of anything--"
"You'll let me know," he said flatly. "And if Flying Heels, Moonbeam,
_and-or_ Lady Grace even so much as succeed in staying on their feet for
the whole race, I'll be back demanding to know how you--Wally
Wilson--managed to hold them up!"
After which the good Lieutenant Delancey left me to my thoughts--which
were most uncomfortable.
Barcelona had to be kept cheerful. But the dogs he'd picked could only
come in first unassisted if they happened to be leading the field that
started the _next_ race, and even then the post time would have to be
delayed to give them a longer head start. That meant that _if_ our three
platers came awake, _everybody_ would be looking for the fix.
Anybody who planned a caper would sure have to plan it well.
Barcelona hadn't planned the fix, he merely stated a firm desire and
either Barcelona got what he wanted or I got what I didn't want, and I
had to do it real good or Delancey would make it real hot for me.
I was not only being forced to enter a life of crime, I was also being
forced to perform cleverly.
It wasn't fair for the law to gang up with the crooks against me.
And so with a mind feeling sort of like the famous sparrow who'd gotten
trapped for three hours in a badminton game at Forest Hills, I built a
strong highball, and poured it down while my halluscene set was warming
up. I needed the highball as well as the relaxation, because I knew that
the "Drama" being presented was the hundred and umpty-umpth remake of
"Tarzan of the Apes" and for ninety solid minutes I would be swinging
through trees without benefit of alcohol. Tarzan, you'll remember, did
not learn to smoke and drink until the second book.
* * * * *
The halluscene did relax me and kept my mind from its worry even though
the drama was cast for kids and therefore contained a maximum of
tree-swinging and ape-gymnastics and a near dearth of Lady Jane's
pleasant company. What was irritating was the traces of wrong aroma. If
one should not associate the African jungle with the aroma of a cheap
bar, one should be forgiven for objecting to Lady Jane with a strong
flavor of tobacco and cheap booze on her breath.
And so I awoke with this irritating conflict in my senses to discover
that I'd dropped out of my character as Tarzan and my surroundings of
the jungle, but I'd somehow brought the stench of cheap liquor and moist
cigarettes with me.
There was an occupant in the chair next to mine. He needed a bath and he
needed a shave but both would have been wasted if he couldn't change
his clothing, too. His name was Gimpy Gordon.