The Universe Twister (3 page)

There was a vacant seat at the rear of the long room; O'Leary started toward it, nodding pleasantly at staring faces. A thin man in a patched tabard scrambled from his path; a fat woman with red cheeks muttered and drew a circle in the air. Those seated at the table toward which he was moving edged away. He sat down, put his hat beside him, looked around, smiled encouragingly at his creations.

"Uh, please go right ahead with what you were doing," he said in the silence. "Oh, bartender . . ." He signaled to a short, thick-necked man hovering behind a trestle between the beer kegs. "A bottle of the best in the house, please. Ale or wine, it doesn't matter."

The bartender said something; O'Leary cupped his ear.

"Eh? Speak up, I didn't get that."

"I says all we got is small beer and
vin ordinaire
," the man muttered. There was something odd about the way he spoke . . . Still, O'Leary reminded himself, he couldn't expect to get everything perfect the first time out.

"That'll do," he said, automatically making an effort to match the other's speech pattern.

The man gaped, closed his mouth with an audible gulp, stooped and plucked a dusty flagon from a stack on the floor, which, Lafayette noted idly, seemed to be of hardpacked dirt. A nice detail, he approved. Practical, too; it would soak up spilled booze.

Someone was muttering at the far end of the room. A barrel-shaped ruffian rose slowly, stepped out into the clear, flexed massive shoulders, then sauntered forward. He had a wild mop of unkempt red hair, a flattened nose, one cauliflowered ear, and huge, hairy fists, the thumbs of which were hooked in the rope tied around his waist. O'Leary noted the striped stockings below the patched knee breeches, the clumsy shoes, like loafers with large iron buckles. The man's shirt was a soiled white, open at the neck, with floppy sleeves. A foot-long sheath knife was strapped to his hip. He came up to Lafayette's table, planted himself and stared down at him.

"He don't look so tough," he announced to the silent room in a growl like a Kodiak bear.

Lafayette stared into the man's face, studying the mean, red-rimmed eyes, the white scar tissue marking the cheek bones, the massive jaw, the thick lips, lumpy from past batterings, the sprouting stubble. He smiled.

"Marvelous," he said. His eyes went to the barman. "Hubba hubba with that wine," he called cheerily. "And I'll have a chicken sandwich on rye; I'm hungry. All I had for dinner was a couple of sardines." He smiled encouragingly at his table mates, who crouched back, eyeing him fearfully. The redhead was still standing before him.

"Sit down," Lafayette invited. "How about a sandwich?"

The lout's small eyes narrowed. "I say he's some kind of a Nance," the rumbling voice stated.

Lafayette chuckled, shaking his head. This was as good as a psychoanalysis! This oaf, a personification of a subconscious virility symbol, had stated an opinion doubtless heretofore suppressed somewhere deep in the id or superego, where it had probably been causing all sorts of neuroses. Now, by getting it out in the open, he could face it, observe for himself the ludicrousness of it and thereafter dismiss it.

"Come on, sit down," he ordered. "Tell me just what you meant by that remark."

"Nuts to youse," the heavyweight grated, looking around for approval. "Yer mudduh wears ankle socks."

"Tsk, tsk." Lafayette looked at the fellow reproachfully. "Better do as I say, or I'll turn you into a fat lady."

"Huh?" Big Red's rusty eyebrows crawled like caterpillars on his low forehead. His mouth opened, revealing a row of chipped teeth.

The landlord sidled nervously around the redhead and placed a dusty bottle on the table with a roast fowl beside it
sans
plate.

"That'll be a buck fifty," he muttered. Lafayette patted his hip pocket, took out his familiar wallet, remembering belatedly that there was only a dollar in it. Hmmm. But why couldn't it have fifty dollars in it, instead? He pictured the impressive bill, crisp and green and reassuring. And why just one? Why not a whole stack of fifties? And maybe a few hundreds thrown in for good measure. He might as well dream big. He squinted, concentrating . . .

There was an almost silent pop! as though a vast soap bubble had burst. O'Leary frowned. Funny sensation; still, it might be normal in hallucination; it seemed to happen every so often. He opened the wallet, revealed a stack of crisp bills, withdrew one with a grand gesture; it was a fifty, just as specified.

But the lettering . . . The hen-tracks across the top of the bill looked incomplete, barely legible—. The first letter was like an O with a small x on top, followed by an upside-down u, a squiggle, some dots . . .

Then suddenly the strangeness faded. The letters seemed to come into focus, like a perspective diagram shifting orientation. The words were perfectly readable, O'Leary saw. But the first letter: it
did
look like an O with an x on top of it. He frowned at it thoughtfully. There wasn't any such letter—was there? But there must be: he was reading it—

He smiled at himself as the explanation dawned. His dream mechanism, always consistent, had cooked up a foreign language to go with the foreign setting. Naturally, since he'd invented it himself, he could read it. The same probably applied to the spoken tongue. If he could wake up and hear his conversation here, it would all probably come out as gibberish, like the poems people dreamed and wrote down to look at in the morning. They never made sense. But the words on the bill were clear enough: the legend "Royal Treasury of Artesia" was lettered above the familiar picture of Grant—or was it Grant? Lafayette saw with some surprise that he was wearing a tiny peruke and a lacy ruff. Play money, after all.

But what did it matter? He smiled at himself. He couldn't take it with him when he woke up. He handed the bill over to the barman who gaped and scratched his head.

"Geez, I can't break no fifty, yer lordship," he muttered. As the man spoke, O'Leary listened carefully. Yes, it was a strange language—but his mind was interpreting it as modified Brooklynese.

"Keep it," Lafayette said grandly. "Just keep the wine flowing—and how about bringing over a couple of glasses, and possibly a knife and fork?"

The barman hurried off. The redhead was still standing, glowering.

"Down in front," Lafayette said, indicating the seat opposite him. "You're blocking the view."

The big man shot a glance at the customers watching him and then threw out his chest.

"Duh Red Bull don't drink wit' no ribbon-counter Fancy-Dan," he announced.

"Better change your mind," O'Leary cautioned, blowing dust from the lopsided green bottle the waiter had brought. "Or I may have to just shrink you down to where I can see over you."

The redhead blinked at him; his mouth puckered uncertainly. The barman was back with two heavy glass mugs. He darted a look at the Red Bull, quickly removed the cork from the bottle, slopped an inch or two of the wine in one cup and shoved it toward Lafayette. He picked it up and sniffed. It smelled like vinegar. He tasted it. It was thin and sour. He pushed the mug away.

"Don't you have something better—" he paused. Just suppose, he mused, there was a bottle of a rare vintage—Chateau Lafitte-Rothschilde, '29, say—over there under that heap of dusty bottles . . . He narrowed his eyes, picturing the color of the glass, the label, willing it to be there—

His eyes popped open at the abrupt flicker in the smooth flow of—of whatever it was that flowed when time passed. That strange little blink in the sequence of the seconds! It had happened before, just as he was providing the reserves in his wallet, and before that, out in the street. Each time he had made a modification in things, he had felt the jar. A trifling flaw in his technique, no doubt. Nothing to worry about.

"—the best in the place, yer Lordship," the barman was protesting.

"Look under the other bottles," O'Leary said. "See if there isn't a big bottle there, shaped like this." He indicated the contours of a Burgundy bottle.

"We ain't got—"

"Ah—ah! Take a look first." Lafayette leaned back, smiling around at the others. My, what an inventive subconscious he had! Long faces, round ones, old men, young women, fat, thin, weathered, pink-and-white, bearded, clean-shaven, blonds, brunettes, baldies—

The barman was back, gaping at the bottle in his hand. He put it on the table, stepped back. "Is this here what yer lordship meant?"

O'Leary nodded complacently. The barman pulled the cork. This time a delicate aroma floated from the glass. O'Leary sampled it. The flavor was musty, rich, a symphony of summer sun and ancient cellars. He sighed contentedly. It might be imaginary wine, but the flavor was real enough. The redhead, watching open-mouthed, leaned forward slightly, sniffed. A thick tongue appeared, ran over the scarred lips. Lafayette poured the second glass half full.

"Sit down and drink up, Red," he said.

The big man hesitated, picked up the glass, sniffed, then gulped the contents. An amazed smile spread over the rugged features. He threw a leg over the bench and sat, shoving the mug toward Lafayette.

"Bo, that's good stuff you got there! I'll go fer another shot o' that!" He looked around belligerently. Lafayette refilled both glasses. A turkey-necked gaffer down the table edged closer, eyeing the bottle.

"Garçon," Lafayette called, "more glasses!" The man complied. Lafayette filled one for the oldster and passed it along. The old man sipped, gaped, gulped, licked toothless gums and grinned.

"Hey!" he cackled. "We ain't seen wine like this since the old king died."

A round-faced woman in a starched wimple with a broken corner shushed him with a look and thrust out a pewter mug. Lafayette filled it.

"Everybody drink up!" he invited. Clay cups, topless bottles, copper mugs came at him. He poured, pausing now and then to take a healing draft from his own mug. This was more like it!

"Let's sing!" he suggested. Merry voices chimed in, on
Old MacDonald
. The words were a little different than the ones O'Leary was accustomed to, but he managed, adding a fair baritone to the din. A hand touched the back of his neck; a buxom wench in a tight-laced blouse and peasant skirt slid into his lap, nibbled at his ear, bringing with her, O'Leary noted, a disconcerting odor of goat. He snorted, twisted to get a better look at the girl. She was cute enough, with red cheeks, a saucily turned-up nose, corn-yellow hair and pouty lips—but it seemed nobody had told her about soap. Still, there might be a remedy for that. Lafayette narrowed his eyes, trying to remember the odor of the perfume he had smelled once when a bottle broke at the drugstore when he was sweeping up just before closing time . . .

There was the familiar jog in the machinery. He sniffed cautiously. Nothing. Again—and he caught a whiff of Ivory soap; a third time, and the scent of Chanel No. 22 wafted to his nostrils. He smiled at the girl. She smiled back, apparently noticing nothing unusual. More glasses were thrust out. Lafayette disengaged himself from the soft and eager lips, poured, paused to swallow, refilled the girl's glass, then Red's pint mug, and another, and another . . .

The old man sitting next to the big redhead was frowning thoughtfully at the bottle in O'Leary's hand. He said something to the skinny grandma beside him. More frowns were appearing now. The singing was faltering, fading off into silence. The merry drinkers at the next table fell silent. People began crossing themselves—or rather, describing circles over their chests.

"What's the matter?" he inquired genially, lifting the bottle invitingly. Everyone jumped. Those nearest were rising hastily, moving back. A babble was growing—not the gay chatter of a moment before, but a fearful muttering.

Lafayette shrugged, pouring his glass full. As he moved to place the bottle on the table, a thought struck him. He hefted the flask. It seemed as heavy as ever. He reached over and poured the Red Bull's glass full. The big man hiccupped, made a wobbly circle before him with a finger like a Polish sausage, lifted the glass and drank. Lafayette tilted the bottle, peered inside the neck; a dark surface of deep red liquid gleamed an inch from the top. No wonder they were spooked, he thought disgustedly. He had carelessly decanted several gallons of wine from a one-liter bottle.

"Ah . . . look," he started, "that was just a trick, sort of . . ."

"Sorcerer!" someone yelled. "Warlock!" another charged. There was a general movement toward the door.

"Wait!" O'Leary called, rising. At that, there was a stampede. In thirty seconds the tavern was deserted—with the sole exception of the Red Bull. The big man—sweating heavily but still game, Lafayette observed approvingly—held his ground. He licked his lips, cleared his throat.

"Dem other slobs," he growled, "pantywaists."

"Sorry about the bottle," O'Leary said apologetically. "Just a slip on my part." He could hear the voices of a gathering mob outside. The word "sorcerer" seemed to ring out with distressing frequency.

"A little magic, that ain't nuttin'," Red said. "But they got a idear dat on account of you're a . . . like a phantom ya might stick a . . . you know, whammy, on 'em, er maybe split open duh ground and drag 'em down into duh Pit. Er—"

"That's enough," Lafayette cut in, noticing the increasing nervousness on the battered features as the man enumerated the possible fates of those who trafficked with spooks. "All I did was pour out a few drinks. Does that make me a ghost?"

Big Red smiled craftily, eyeing Lafayette's clothes. "Don't rib me, mister," he grated. "I know duh Phantom Highwayman when I see him."

O'Leary smiled. "You don't really believe in phantoms, do you?"

The Red Bull nodded vigorously. Lafayette noticed that he smelled of Chanel No. 22; apparently he'd overdone the perfume a trifle.

"On nights when duh moon is like a ghostly galleon," Red stated, "dat's when yuh ride."

"Nonsense," Lafayette said briskly. "My name is Lafayette O'Leary, and—"

"Now, what I got in mind, Bo, you and me, we could make a great team," Red bored on. "Wit' dem neat tricks you can do, like riding tru duh sky an all, and wit' my brains—"