Summer 2007 (10 page)

And then it hit me. What was the one place von Horst was
sure I wouldn’t look for the diamonds? Inside the fish, which were getting so
high and off-putting that he figgered I wouldn’t want to have nothing to do
with them, but I was just a little too smart for him.

I pulled one of the fish off the trident. The cats
started meowing up a storm, figgering I was about to toss it to them, but
instead I manipulated the trident and cut the fish’s belly open with one of the
tines, and sure enough, out fell half a dozen perfect blue-white diamonds. I
tossed the empty fish to the cats, cut open the other one, picked up another
six diamonds, and gave what was left over to the cats.

I knew I couldn’t bring the diamonds out of town with
me, because von Horst would be waiting at Carlita’s. I looked around and
realized I was standing next to a lamppost. I moved Dobbin right up against to
it, climbed up onto his back, removed the top of the lamp, and put the diamonds
there, where they couldn’t be seen from the street. The guys who lit the lamps
at night did it with these long-handled candles, so none of them ever climbed
up there or got a close look, and I knew the diamonds would be safe until I got
the opportunity to come back and collect them.

I got back down on the ground, hopped into the chariot,
and turned Dobbin back in the direction of the parade. When we passed a fish
market a little farther down the street, I stopped, bought a pair of fish that
smelled almost as bad as the two I’d left behind, and stuck ‘em on the trident.

Then it was just a matter of joining the revelers, who
never seemed to run out of energy, as they danced their way through the streets
of Rio. I even saw a couple of Conchita’s brothers, but of course they never
thought to look at Neptune, so we didn’t have no unpleasant or deadly encounters.
In midafternoon I struck up a conversation with a mildly-naked young lady what
was dressed as a harlequin from the neck up and the ankles down. I invited her
to join me in my chariot so’s we could get to know each other a little better,
and for a minute there I thunk she was going to oblige, but then she wrinkled
her noise and said that she was happy to share the chariot and other things
with me, but not with the fish. It was a tough decision, but I couldn’t be sure
I’d pass another fishmonger before we left the city, so I reluctantly bid her
farewell. I never saw a gorgeous underdressed lady look so surprised in all my
born days, and I’ve had some pretty surprising encounters with a passel of ‘em.

In late afternoon I let Dobbin graze on a pair of fruit
stands what’s owner were off dancing. Pretty soon it started getting dark, and
I realized that first, I was about three miles from Carlita’s, and second, I
was getting powerful sick of samba music, so I turned Dobbin south onto the
exit road. I let him stop and munch on some grass and flowers and the like, and
we pulled up to Carlita’s almost exactly two hours after sunset. I didn’t want
von Horst examining the fish too closely while I was still around, so I laid
‘em down on the floor of the chariot, hopped out, tied Dobbin to a hitching
post, and walked into the tavern.

There was so much cigar smoke that I almost didn’t see
the sultry girl doing kind of a slow dance in the corner. She was barefoot, she
had a cigarette dangling from her mouth, and she was kind of doing a solo
rhumba in slow motion. The bartender was maybe 400 pounds and drenched in
sweat, but just the same he never rolled up his sleeves, unbuttoned his shirt,
or loosened his bowtie. There were half a dozen tables, most of ‘em filled by people
who looked like they either didn’t know it was carnival week or didn’t much
care.

I sat down at an empty table. A couple of friendly young
ladies wandered over from the bar, but before they could reach me von Horst
entered the place, carrying a brown paper bag, and walked right over to me,
waving them away kind of disdainful-like.

“Any trouble?” he asked.

“Only with the fish,” I said, just to see his reaction.

His face got all tense. “What
about
the fish?”

“They smelled so bad that I couldn’t get any young
ladies of quality to ride with me,” I said.

“But you still have them?” he said kind of urgently.

“Yeah, they’re out there in the chariot.”

He suddenly relaxed. “I’m glad to see everything went
off without a hitch.”

“I don’t suppose you brung my clothes with you?” I said.
“I don’t like the way a couple of these guys are staring at my legs.”

“As a matter of fact I did,” said von Horst. He handed
me the bag. “Maybe you should go change in the men’s room.”

And that was when I saw how I’d make my getaway.

“Thanks, von Horst,” I said. I put a hand to my stomach.
“I was about to head off there anyway. I been feeling a mite queasy all day. I
think it was the smell of them damned fish.”

“Take your time,” he said. “My fence isn’t due here for
another half hour.”

And then, because I didn’t want him coming looking for
me, I had another stroke of brilliance. I took the crown off and guv it to him.

“Here,” I said. “You hang onto this.”

He just looked kind of surprised, and a bit curious.

“What’s past is past,” I said, “and I just want you to
know that there ain’t no hard feelings. I trust you not to run off with the
Pebbles while I’m in the john.”

“I appreciate that, Doctor Jones,” he said.

I picked up the bag and walked to the bathroom. I’d call
it the men’s room, but from the looks of it it served men, women, children, and
the occasional mule what wandered in to get out of the weather. I took off the
toga and sandals, got into my clothes, and then climbed out through the narrow
window.

When I was about a block away I took a peek back. Dobbin
was still tied to the post, and von Horst either hadn’t come out to check on
the fish, or had maybe got as far as the front door, took a deep breath, and
satisfied himself that they were still there.

I hitched a ride into Rio in the back of a truck what
was delivering a few hundred live chickens to market, which certainly got the
smell of fish out of my nose. I hopped off when we were a block away from the
lamppost where I’d left the Pebbles of God, then waited a few minutes until I was
sure no one was out on the street where they might see me.

I climbed up the lamppost, reached in, and found to my
relief that the Pebbles were still there. I pulled ‘em out, stuffed ‘em into my
pocket, clambered down to the ground, and headed off in search of a place to
spend the night, preferably one what wasn’t frequented by none of Conchita’s
friends and relations.

I passed a bunch of Brazilian hotels, and finally come
to an American one, and the reason I knew that was that it had a small tasteful
sign, written all in American, what said:
Bed and Broad, $7.

“Howdy,” I said, walking into the lobby, which was about
the size of a closet, only maybe a little better-lit. “You got any rooms for
rent?”

“Nah, we just rent airplanes and gorillas here,” said
the clerk, which was the kind of answer what convinced me beyond any doubt that
he was American.

“You need a better sign painter,” I said.

“That’s as big a sign as we could afford,” he said.

“I wasn’t talking about the size of it,” I replied. “But
it says
Bed and Broad.
”

“I know what it says,” he told me.

“And you got no problem with it?” I asked.

“None,” he said.

“In that case I just may stay here a month,” I said,
pulling off my shoe and reaching for my folded-up bill, which I shoved across
the counter to him.

“What’s this?” he said, frowning.

“My last ten dollars,” I said. “But don’t worry; I’ll
have more tomorrow.”

“If it’s like this, I won’t take it tomorrow neither,”
he said, shoving it back to me.

I picked it up and realized that it wasn’t no bill at
all, but instead a folded-up letter. It was too dark to read in there, so I
took it out and stood under a street light.

My dear Doctor Jones:

If there are three certainties in the world, they are
death, taxes, and the nature of Lucifer Jones. If my reading of your character
is correct, and thus far it always has been, you instantly assumed that the
crown contained nothing but cut glass. It would have taken you less than an
hour to examine your costume, your chariot, and Dobbin’s harness, come up empty,
and finally realized that I must have had an ulterior motive for insisting that
the fish be part of your costume. You of course would have cut them open, found
the faux “diamonds”, and secreted them away before meeting me at Carlita’s.
(You are welcome to keep them as a memento of our partnership.) I knew you
would want to take your leave of the place before I could examine the fish, so
I brought your clothes along, giving you the perfect opportunity to escape,
which of course you took.

It may interest you to know that you were indeed in
possession of the Pebbles of God all day long. They were precisely where I told
you they were–embedded in Neptune’s crown–but I knew that a man of
your deceitful nature would never trust a man of honor and integrity like myself
to tell you the truth. I feel your behavior in this endeavor clearly
disqualifies you from your share of the profits.

And profits there will be. The diamonds are only part of
this little enterprise. The creature you know as Dobbin is actually the champion
racehorse Phar Cry, whom I borrowed for a few days and am now returning for
almost as much money as I will realize for the Pebbles of God. All in all, a
good day’s work, thanks in no small part to you.

Your obedient servant,

Erich von Horst

A trio of amiable young men wandered up and asked me if
I’d like to join them in a samba.

I kicked each of them in
the shins.

Fiction:
Snowball’s Chance by Charles Stross

The louring sky, half past pregnant with a caul of snow,
pressed down on Davy’s head like a hangover. He glanced up once, shivered, then
pushed through the doorway into the Deid Nurse and the smog of fag fumes
within.

His sometime conspirator Tam the Tailer was already at
the bar. “Awright, Davy?”

Davy drew a deep breath, his glasses steaming up the
instant he stepped through the heavy blackout curtain, so that the disreputable
pub was shrouded in a halo of icy iridescence that concealed its flaws. “Mine’s
a Deuchars.” His nostrils flared as he took in the seedy mixture of aromas that
festered in the Deid Nurse’s atmosphere–so thick you could cut it with an
axe, Morag had said once with a sniff of her lop-sided snot-siphon, back in the
day when she’d had aught to say to Davy. “Fuckin’ Baltic oot there the night,
an’ nae kiddin’.” He slid his glasses off and wiped them off, then looked
around tiredly. “An’ deid tae the world in here.”

Tam glanced around as if to be sure the pub population
hadn’t magically doubled between mouthfuls of seventy bob. “Ah widnae say
that.” He gestured with his nose–pockmarked by frostbite–at the
snug in the corner. Once the storefront for the Old Town’s more affluent ladies
of the night, it was now unaccountably popular with students of the gaming
fraternity, possibly because they had been driven out of all the trendier bars
in the neighbourhood for yacking till all hours and not drinking enough (much
like the whores before them). Right now a bunch of threadbare LARPers were in
residence, arguing over some recondite point of lore. “They’re havin’ enough
fun for a barrel o’ monkeys by the sound o’ it.”

“An’ who can blame them?” Davy hoisted his glass: “Ah
just wish they’d keep their shite aff the box.” The pub, in an effort to
compensate for its lack of a food licence, had installed a huge and dodgy voxel
engine that teetered precariously over the bar: it was full of muddy field, six
LARPers leaping.

“Dinnae piss them aff, Davy–they’ve a’ got swords.”

“Ah wis jist kiddin’. Ah didnae catch ma lottery the
night, that’s a’ Ah’m sayin’.”

“If ye win, it’ll be a first.” Tam stared at his glass.
“An’ whit wid ye dae then, if yer numbers came up?”

“Whit, the big yin?” Davy put his glass down, then
unzipped his parka’s fast-access pouch and pulled out a fag packet and lighter.
Condensation immediately beaded the plastic wrapper as he flipped it open.
“Ah’d pay aff the hoose, for starters. An’ the child support. An’ then–”
He paused, eyes wandering to the dog-eared NO SMOKING sign behind the bar. “Ah,
shit.” He flicked his Zippo, stroking the end of a cigarette with the flame
from the burning coal oil. “If Ah wis young again, Ah’d move, ye ken? But Ah’m
no, Ah’ve got roots here.” The sign went on to warn of lung cancer (curable)
and two-thousand-Euro fines (laughable, even if enforced). Davy inhaled,
grateful for the warmth flooding his lungs. “An’ there’s Morag an’ the bairns.”

“Heh.” Tam left it at a grunt, for which Davy was
grateful. It wasn’t that he thought Morag would ever come back to him, but he
was sick to the back teeth of people who thought they were his friends telling
him that she wouldn’t, not unless he did this or did that.