Part 3 (2/2)

'You look wonderful!' The woman didn't seem to be lying, but then she was drunk as a skunk.

'The thing is,' said Ace, hearing a quaver of emotion in her voice and feeling tears begin to gather in her eyes. 'I thought he said we were going to the the Alamo Alamo.'

The woman saw the tears and heard the quaver and swiftly guided Ace out of the room, down a cool hallway and into a big tiled kitchen, where a young dark-skinned woman was busy at the stove, black hair tied back in a bun and a sheen of sweat on her smooth forehead. She was stirring a pot of some reddish concoction, which smelled so good that Ace's mouth watered and she forgot all about crying.

'Let me fix you a drink,' said the woman who was still carrying Ace's raincoat. 'My name's Kitty, by the way. Kitty Oppenheimer.'

'What's that cooking on the stove?' said Ace, speaking loudly enough to cover the eager rumbling of her stomach.

'Speciality of the house,' said Kitty. 'Chilli con carne. We'll be serving it up soon, to stop those jokers next door from getting too drunk. Would you like some?'21.

'Yes, please,' said Ace. Kitty was selecting a martini gla.s.s from an a.s.sortment that were drying on a white towel spread beside the sink. She took the gla.s.s over to a brown ceramic bowl half full of a strange gelid-looking yellowish mixture. She dipped the gla.s.s into it. 'What's that?' said Ace.

'Lime juice and honey. Another speciality of the house.' Kitty carefully smeared the rim of the gla.s.s with the mixture then took Ace by the elbow and guided her back down the cool hallway to the room full of smoke and heat and noise. 'Have courage,' said Kitty. 'Once more unto the breach.'

Back in the living room she collected the pitcher she had been wielding earlier and used it to fill Ace's gla.s.s. She picked up her own gla.s.s and held it up to Ace. 'Bottoms up,' she said, clinking gla.s.ses. Ace took a sip. She had never been big on gin, especially warm gin, but the honey and lime mixture made it quite palatable. Kitty winked at her and c.h.i.n.ked gla.s.ses again.

Ace sipped again. With the third sip she felt her lips go numb and thereafter the music and voices of the party seemed to be buzzing away pleasantly like a fly beyond a sheet of gla.s.s. Kitty introduced her to a lot of people whose names Ace promptly forgot, or at least promptly forgot to whom they were attached, though a lot of them sounded strangely familiar. Names like Fermi and Feynman and Fuchs. At one point the fat oriental-looking man in the beret staggered past and lurched into her, almost spilling her drink. Kitty stared daggers at him as he retreated.

'Who is he?' said Ace.

'Cosmic Ray.'

'Cosmic who?'

'Ray Morita. The big clown. Look at those ridiculous s.h.i.+rts he wears. Word is he has some of the local Indian craftswomen run them up for him. They must be knocked out on some kind of Indian bug juice to come up with those designs.'

'I think they're quite nice,' said Ace. 'Jazzy.'

'Oh for Christ's sake don't mention the word jazz jazz anywhere in his hearing.' anywhere in his hearing.'

After a second and third round of martinis, and three bowls of the utterly delicious chilli (which did surprisingly little to ameliorate the effects of the booze), Ace found herself experiencing alternating drunken and lucid intervals. In one lucid interval she found herself in a corner decorated with wall hangings, having a heart-to-heart with Kitty about her relations.h.i.+p with the Doctor. Kitty Oppenheimer was prying in a salacious, gossipy, good-natured way. 'I understand,' she said, her eyes gleaming wickedly. 'He's like a father to you.'

'No. More like a combination of best friend, teacher and comrade in arms,'

said Ace. She enunciated each syllable with great care and when she finished speaking reached up what seemed a terribly long way, to touch the side of 22her own numb mouth and make sure there wasn't a copious quant.i.ty of drool flowing out of it.

'Well,' said Kitty sighing, evidently disappointed by the lack of scandal, 'I can't point a finger. I was married three times before I got to Oppy.'

'Three times?' Ace's sluggish mind got to grips with the arithmetic. 'He's your fourth husband?'

'Yes,' said Kitty, grinning sardonically. 'I can see what they said about your mathematical gifts is true. Anyway, I saved him from that Tatlock b.i.t.c.h.' A note of genuine venom, as opposed to mere conversational malice, surfaced in Kitty's voice. 'She nearly ruined Oppy, dragging him down with those types she used to cavort with.' She looked at Ace, her eyes cold, then looked past her. 'That Tatlock woman is one reason we've got all these cloak-and-dagger-types skulking around here.' She nodded at a handsome-looking man in uniform who was standing nearby with his back towards them. He s.h.i.+fted to let a drunken party guest stumble past him and Ace was shocked to see that the man in uniform was Major Butcher.

'You know what he did?' said Ace, feeling drunken outrage well up in her.

Kitty smiled at her.

'Who?'

'Major Bulldog Butcher.'

'Bulldog? I like it. What did he do, darling?'

'He pretended to be our driver. When he picked us up. So he could eavesdrop on us. Eavesdrop. That is a word isn't it?'

'It certainly is. But I shouldn't be too upset, dear. You might as well get used to it. I imagine the Major is eavesdropping on us right now.'

'Is he?' said Ace. 'Then he's a '

But before Ace could vocalise the terse Anglo Saxon epithet that sprang to mind to characterise the Major, a shadow loomed over them. It was the shadow of the fat drunken oriental man Ace had noticed earlier. He was even more drunk now, swaying noticeably. 'h.e.l.lo ladies,' he said.

'h.e.l.lo Ray,' said Kitty, in a cool, noncommittal voice.

'What's a couple of hip chicks like you. . . ' Ray paused, evidently losing his thread, his large face nodding like some kind of novelty candy dispenser, before he suddenly focused on Ace. He grinned at her and stared at her, a long appraising gaze that moved from her forehead to her toes and back up again.

This would have been offensive enough if he had merely been a.s.sessing her s.e.xual attributes, but somehow the knowledge that he was actually surveying her bizarre garb made it even worse. 'Hey, Calamity Jane,' he said, leering.

'I thought I was Annie Oakley,' said Ace.

'Calamity Oakley, Annie Jane,' muttered Ray. 'That's quite some get-up.'23.

'Haven't you had enough to drink?' suggested Kitty in a sweet, reasonable voice.

'h.e.l.l man, no, no, no,' said Ray firmly, shaking his head again.

'Well then, hadn't you better go and have another martini?' said Kitty. Ace admired her adaptability. 'The pitcher's over there. Help yourself.'

But Ray just ignored her and kept grinning at Ace. 'Look at you. You're headed for the last round-up. Your spurs they jingle jangle jingle. You've got to throw a la.s.soo. You got to bust a bronco. You're a lonesome cowpoke. You got to get along little doggie, get along. You, you, you. . . '

'Run out of cowboy cliches?' said Kitty. 'Maybe another little martini will help.'

Ray didn't seem to hear her. The look of alcoholic puzzlement that had clouded his face suddenly abated. He stabbed a chubby finger at Ace, stopping just short of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, hovering there in drunken menace. 'It's time you were back in the saddle!' he chortled. Ace and Kitty exchanged a glance. The crude innuendo in the man's remark was abundantly clear.

Kitty Oppenheimer slapped his hand away from Ace's b.r.e.a.s.t.s and opened her mouth to give vent to what Ace fully expected to be blistering invective, and which Ace was rather looking forward to hearing.

Just then, though, the record player, which had fallen mercifully silent, began to blare again. Ace winced at the loud, loathsome pomposity of the cla.s.sical music that poured from it. There was a simultaneous sound of wordless loathing from Ray, and Ace looked at him, surprised to see a look of disgust on his face that was identical to her own. 'What is is that c.r.a.p,' he moaned. that c.r.a.p,' he moaned.

'Wagner,' said Kitty in a clipped, discursive tone. 'Tristan and Isolde. The Liebestod.'

'I know what it is is, man,' said Ray, his face corrugated with suffering. 'But I mean, why are they playing it why are they playing it?' He glared at a tall, thin stick insect of a man who stood over the record player, nodding with satisfaction as the music keened and thrilled. A young man with a huge, domed forehead, tiny ears and a risible little lick of hair adorning his large curve of skull. The young man's eyebrows echoed the curve of the huge round spectacles that gave him a bug-eyed look. His Cupid's bow mouth was bracketed by the scattered trace of scarring from adolescent acne.

'It's Fuchs,' said Kitty Oppenheimer, half to Ace and half to Ray.

'Of course it's ficking fickle fricking Fuchs, baby,' said Ray. 'Making with the Germanic jive again. It's enough to make you puke, man. Puking Fuchs.'

<script>