Invasion from Uranus (11 page)

"Here's looking at you kid," I smiled raising a glass in a toast while sliding on NASA designed anti-glare sunglasses.

"Oh, Pens, you old softy," she smiled in reply, and the patrons of the restaurant fell from their chairs again, clawing at their bleeding eyes and screaming for an ambulance. Ain't nobody had no loving like me and Yentylicious.

"So," she said licking her lips and ripping open her blouse to expose her perfectly perfect breasts. One at a time they burst free from the flimsy lace bra and slammed onto the table shattering the china and began absorbing some of the bread-and butter pickles all by themselves. Perky little things.

"Not here," I said, taking her hand gently. "Not now. Crime first. Beside, I hate to spoil our perfect love with hot boffing."

She stared at me confused.

"Oinky boiky?" I offered.

Yentil shook her head.

"Twink the winky? Honeymoon mile, six inches at a time?"

Then she smiled, and a stunned waiter walked through a plate glass window, killing himself almost instantly.

"Oh, you mean sex," Yentil panted, oiling her ample femininity with some more of the house wine. A naughty little Chianti that needed a good spanking, if you know what I mean.

"Sorry to intrude," Onyx said, siding into the empty chair at our table. Instantly, every women in the room began to have an orgasm, and every man went to hide under the tables in shame. I know they were actually doing it because of me, and the fact that it occurred only when Onyx arrived was merely a coincidence.

"You and umption again," he smiled, displaying teeth.

"Says you."

"Bite me."

Oh, the witty repartee!

"Yentil," Onyx said nodding his head at her.

Covering her nakedness, Yentil nodded at my mysterious friend, and silently asked him a question. He replied with a jerk of his chin, and they continued the discussion until the waiter arrived. Wearing an arc-welding mask as protection, he took our order for caviar burgers, Buffalo Snail Wings, and Iron Krug champagne. When it arrived, Onyx drank the entire bottle without stopping once for air. He had a bit of a drinking problem, but it wasn't something we men could talk about. Oh Kettle, thou art black!

Finished with my meal, I pretended to hit the john, and skipped out on the check. Lord, what fools these mortals be! Dashing across the street, I started for my car, pausing first to call my artificially adopted son, Gene Kelly, to remind him no matter how cute the male dancers were, only kiss the girls. Okay, maybe nuzzle a pale king, but only if he was on a tame seahorse walking a thin shadow into the gyre. Gene knew what I meant, even if I didn't, and as I hung up the phone, a rain of bullets began to savagely pound the phone booth. Pivoting on my heels, I began punching the bullets out of the air and back towards the hidden sniper. I used a left hook, then a right guard. As the wounded gunperson tumbled into view, I pushed him over and started kicking the bastard until he begged for forgiveness in ancient Latin. It was Jerry Gray, the infamous hit man of Boston Kennel Club. We had met before.

"Who hired ya to whack me?" I snarled, crushing his larynx in my powerful grip.

"....," he replied.

Wisely, I loosened my grip.

"Bronze," he wheezed and gasped. "He wants the dog for himself. Not going to give it back. This is the big one. Wants the dog for a pet so he can look more ordinary, and mix with the rich folks on Nob Hill in Bolyston, get all their money, take over the world!"

"And then?"

"Get a better name."

Damn the man! Going to the smoking ruin of the pay phone, I dialed the telephone number of Utica Parsley, the madam of the best little whore house in Manhattan.

"Is all this true?" I demanded politely.

"Yes," she replied primly, as if she wasn't naked at the other end, her inner thighs moist with perspiration and trembling with eager anticipation. Utica panted heavily into the receiver for a while, then asked where to send the money. I told her and hung up. Phone sex is what kept me bucks up.

So, now it was down to just me and Bronze and a little lost doggie. Time for a beer.

Going home, I drove past the bridge where I had once been shot, and thought about the case I flubbed and got my client killed, then I dreamed of the perfect golf team with Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus and Tiger Woods. There was only music on the radio. None of it as good as the music when I was young. Music back in the Paleozoic era must have really rocked. Hell, maybe it was rocks. Proust was vague on the subject. Maybe I should read something else? Nyah.

As I parked the car, I saw Diamond, the Wonder Cat, savaging the local mail carrier. The poor man was long dead, her mouth full of his steaming entrails. The Indians used to say such steam was a man's soul escaping from the wounds. Maybe it was true. I didn't know. Edmund Burke, where are you when we truly

need you?

I moved quickly past Diamond, and she raked my back with her claws, peeling away my flesh and exposing my spine. Blood flowed everywhere as she started chewing off my fingers. I gave her a nice long French kiss to show how much I loved her, then went inside to roast another ox in Bernaise sauce, fresh bread

from the Wonder Bakery down the street, cold tap water and a Fudgicle. I ate my snack while watching the World Federation of Wrestling, the only real sports left in dainty, dandified America. That, and golf, of course. And swing dancing in prison.

Afterwards, I carefully washed my face and hands so mommy wouldn't haunt my dreams, then got dressed in my best Tattersall jumpsuit, paisley combat boots, black silk top hat and nineteen assorted guns. Then I took a nap, and awoke refreshed. Time to go see Bronze.

When I arrived at the restaurant where Joe Bronze made his home, Quint, Ordinary, Onyx, and Minnie, the Nicest Gunsel Ever, where all there waiting for me. Don't ask me how they knew, it was a guy thing we could not talk about.

"Dr. Yentil said you might need some help on this one," Lt. Quint said, gloved hands deep in the pockets of his surgical gown. A bazooka was strapped to his back, still wrapped in sterilized shrink plastic.

C'est la vie
! "This is a savage place," I agreed. "But even if this was early autumn, I wouldn't accept help from a catskill eagle covered with stardust."

"Says you."

I had no response for that, so merely shrugged. Actions speak louder than words. Ask any mime.

"There are a hundred of them," Onyx said in a clipped British accent that I always found so amusing even though he really was from England.

I patted my pocket. "Brought an extra gun."

Relaxing, they all drove off in separate cars, except for Minnie who jacked a taxi and gave Ordinary a ride home.

"Muffins?" he asked from behind the wheel.

"Doughnuts," Guy growled, as if offended by the very suggestion of a muffin. Minnie stared at him hard and long. "Okay," he said finally. "Doughnut flavored muffins."

Guy nodded. "You're on."

As they drove away, I wondered what Sophocles would have thought of their conversation, then shook such happy thoughts from my noodle as I concentrated on the dirty work at hand. There was a dog in there with my name on it, and I wanted it back. Bronze had the stones, but could he throw them hard enough? Time to find out.

There was a doorperson at the front door, and he made a move to open it for me. I was having none of that and slammed him to the ground with my old one-two combination attack that had so amused Billy Pep when I totally failed to be a professional boxer. The ninety year old man dropped like a sack of bones and

I walked over his twitching form muttering quotes from Flambert and Neitzsche.

Inside, the restaurant was empty except for a single table stacked high with money, drugs and dog biscuits. Another clue? Could be. But no amount of hush money could stop the small vices of these running mates in their pastime. No chance of that.

Sporting a smooth even tan as if he had been painted, Joe Bronze was a giant of a man, dressed in nice clothes that matched and everything. He arched an eyebrow as I approached.

"And who do we have here?" he asked, stroking the tiny dog cradling in his arms.

Oh hell, I could instantly see that he loved the dog, maybe even Biblically. The pooch was now the sole source of kindness in his embittered life, and might end his crime wave once and forever. But that was not my job. I was here to get the mutt. Dead or alive.

So I shot it.

Bronze gasped in horror, and tossed the dead dog at my feet. Success! I scooped it up and stuffed it into a pocket designed for just such a purpose.

"I'll be going now," I said.

"To Hell!" Bronze roared, as the Navy SEALS rappelled down from the ceiling surrounding me in an instant.

I drew two guns and waited for Onyx to arrive and start the fun. But then I spied him leaning on the counter and chatting with a pretty teenager chewing bubble gum at the cash register, one hand under her dress. Oh crap.

I dropped my guns. "Come'on ya, nancy girls!" I sneered, trying to put a Flemish spin on the words to make them doubly strong. "Fight me like men!"

The SEALS smiled as only sailors can, and parted to admit a goliath of a human being, if he was and not simply a shaved gorilla in a Seersucker plaid jacket, porkpie fedora, and Tom MacCann wingtips. His hands were the size of Laramie, Wyoming, his face the grizzled visage of moonrock after a week of hard

drinking. Big brain, though.

"Me kill!" he bellowed, throwing his arms wide.

I wasn't sure if that was an invitation or a threat, so I played it safe, drew my extra gun and shot him in the head. The monster man fell over dead, and I leapt upon the corpse finishing him off with my devastating left-right-left-left-right combination of punches. I could lift 900 pounds in the weight room, even if nobody was watching, and I let him have it all.

The dead man had no chance.

When I was done, the Navy SEALS were already backed into the corner, pleading for their lives while swearing they would stop hiring out to crimelords and stick to overthrowing small governments and harassing commies. I heartily approved, and waved them off. Judge not, least ye become a judge. Thank you,

Roy Bean.

"Next time, Pensive," Bronze growled, his fingers raking across the surface of the antique linoleum table, gouging out wide strips of asphalt and plastic.

"Trim your nails, small change," I sneered just like Columbo doing his impersonation of Judge Dee pretending he was Nero Wolf dressed as Ellery Queen.

Bronze had no possible comeback for that, and merely glowered as only a noble mass-murdering drug lord could. Still he was better than his idiot son, Marcus, the part-time pimp and literary agent.

Exiting the restaurant, I bandaged the dog's wound, ripped down some power lines, used the electricity to jump start its little heart and brought the pooch back to life. Easy pie. Then I licked a stamp, stuck it on the dog's head, scribbled an address in its fur and stuffed the puppy into a mailbox. Done and done. Case closed. Time for sex. And maybe another beer,

too. But the good stuff this time, no more Amstel, or Black 'n Tan. I wanted a freaking Budweiser! As Voltaire always said, singing frogs can not be wrong. Wise words.

At the curb, Onyx was sitting in his car waiting for me.

"Pensive, you the man," Onyx said, in a mock inner city accent.

"No, you da man," I said duplicating his mock accent perfectly.

A passing liberal heard the slur and was so outraged he hit me with an organic wicker purse full of fresh vegetable yogurt, but I did not retaliate. It was not a day for violence. I had quite enough of that in my everyday life.

"Pens, you are the best sidekick I have ever had," Onyx said, starting to drive away in his solid gold Rolls Royce.

I gave him a thumbs-up the way airplane pilots did in the old movies just before a deadly aerial battle - then realized what the bastard had said and shot him in the head.
Me, the sidekick?

Going out of control, the Rolls crashed into a telephone pole, and a bloody battered Onyx passed me an envelope with trembling hands. And I opened it. And looked inside.

And gasped. It was the Good-Dog Manuscript.

I started to ask him, where and who, but just nodded and slid it into a pocket. Now Yentil and I could afford that cabin in the woods and learn how to yodel while I sipped decaf champagne from her slipper, and she nibbled low-fat jack cheese off of my bulging biceps. Love is a many splendored thing, and I was one of them. Ah, wilderness.

"As is well known, turnabout is fair play," Nick said, tying a rag around a bottle of vodka he had found stashed under the console. The weight felt reassuring in the palm of his hand. Then he bit back a curse when he remembered that he didn't have a lighter, or any matches. Damndamndamn! "So if Bob wants to rip on something of mine, I won't squawk. Well...maybe just a little."

The clock on the wall was ticking louder every second, the hum of the electrical machinery building steadily as if getting ready to explode into white-hot shrapnel.

Stay calm, kiddo, calm, goddamn it
! "Now machines have always been a favorite subject of mine to write about," Nick said, his heart pounding. "Mostly because I understand machines; computers, cars, chainsaws, waterpumps, handguns, jackhammers, vacuum cleaners, etc. I have a tin-ear for music, but by God I can fix a Volvo!"

He paused for a laugh, but there was only an eerie silence radiating from the Sound Effect booth. "Then one day, the nice folks over at Wizards of the Coast called and asked me for a funny Gamma World story. Hey, no problem. Easy pie. They gave me a month, but I wrote it in a week!"

A ceiling tile shifted, and Nick brandished the pitiful letter opener. "As I said," he whispered licking dry lips, "I like machines."

MAGNIFICENT! Hobart scrolled on his main monitor.

Stepping from the bushes, I was forced to agree. A beautiful rainbow was shimmering in the misty air straight ahead of us. Hobart always noticed things before I did, but then he did have radar.