Djinn Rummy (6 page)

‘A bacon sandwich,' Jane had replied. ‘Don't you know about bacon sandwiches? Well, it's very easy, you take two rashers of bacon -'

‘Bacon,' replied the barman icily, ‘is mortals' food. We don't serve . . .'

Without saying a word, Jane had turned to Kiss and smiled; a smile which could only have one meaning. I see and obey, oh mistress, your whim is my command. Oh fuck.

He loomed over the bar. He was good at looming. At Genie School you could do violin lessons or you could do looming. If you did the violin, you had to practise three hours a day in your spare time. Kiss had done looming.

‘The lady,' he snarled, ‘wants a bacon sandwich. You got a problem with that?'

‘Yes,' the barman said, looming back, so that the two of them together reminded Jane of Tower Bridge a few seconds after a tall ship has passed through. ‘We don't do mortals' food here.
Capisce
?'

‘You do now.'

And the barman, who was only a Force Three genie with a maximum internal service pressure of a mere nineteen tons to the square inch, suddenly found himself cutting off rind and shovelling sliced bread into the toaster. As he brought the finished sandwich over to the table, Kiss could sense a certain degree of hostility in his manner.

After that, things had not improved. Jane's request, expressed in a loud, clear voice, that he introduce her to some of his friends, instantaneously made him the most unpopular person in the house, and genies whom he had known since Belshazzar was in nappies suddenly found it difficult to remember who he was, or even see him. So unnerved was he by this that he allowed Jane to beat him in two consecutive games of pool; the third he only just managed to win, on the black, by conjuring up invisible spirits to stand in the pockets whenever it was Jane's go.

‘It is usually as busy as this?' she was asking.

Kiss nodded. ‘Why are you doing this to me, by the way?' he continued. ‘Was it something I said, or what?'

Jane raised an eyebrow. ‘I don't know what you mean,' she said. ‘I just thought it would be nice to see where you went on your night off. Part of getting to know each other better, that sort of thing.'

‘I see. Well, thanks to you I've been banned for life, so from that point of view you've been wasting your time.
This is what I used to do on my night off, and therefore of historical interest only.'

‘Ah, well,' Jane replied, ‘it all helps to build up a general picture.'

Muttering something under his breath, Kiss returned to his goat's milk, while Jane looked around her. Something about her general deportment suggested to Kiss that any minute now she'd be asking when the interesting people were going to arrive.

‘Hi, doll,' said a voice seven feet or so above her head. ‘Want to dance?'

There is, of course, one in every bar: a nerd vain enough to believe that, contrary to all the teachings of experience, there is a woman somewhere who will one day say ‘Yes'; realistic enough to focus his search for such a paragon upon the crippled, half-witted and partially-sighted. Or, in this context, even mortals. Kiss knew him well; a harmless enough genie in other respects, a trifling Force Two, cursed for ever to dance attendance on a small jar used for taking samples from suspected drunk drivers. Wearily he rose to his feet and clenched his fists . . .

‘How nice of you to ask,' Jane said. ‘I'd be delighted. ‘

The genie, whose name was Acme Better Mousetraps IV, blinked twice. ‘You would?'

Jane nodded and smiled.

‘Straight up?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘I can only do the valeta and the military two-step.'

‘That's all right, we can learn together.'

She stood up. Acme Better Mousetraps IV leaned forward, picked her up awkwardly by one arm, and placed her on the palm of his hand.

‘Right,' he said, as the genie on the stage informed
nobody in particular that they weren't nothin' but a hound dog. ‘And
one-
two-three-
one
-two-three . . .'

Kiss shrugged, lolled back in his chair and drained the last few drops of milk into his glass. There was an outside chance that the two of them would discover how much they had in common, form a mature and lasting relationship and leave him in peace, but he doubted it. In the meantime, he resolved, he would just sit here quietly and hope nobody noticed him.

‘Kiss, my man, what's the big idea?'

Kiss turned his head. ‘She insisted on coming,' he replied, as Amalgamated Caribbean Breweries IX sat down beside him and filled two glasses with milk. ‘Then, when Ambi asked her to dance, she accepted. I accept no responsibility whatsoever for anything that has ever happened ever. Is that clear?'

‘Sure.' Acba sipped his milk and wiped his moustache. ‘You got yourself one crazy mistress there, man. Rather you than me.'

‘Can't fathom her out at all,' Kiss replied. ‘So far, all I've done is domestic chores and a little light transportation. She hasn't breathed a word about wealth beyond the dreams of avarice yet.'

‘No?' Acba raised an eyebrow. ‘Hey, that's weird. Kind of spooky, you know?'

‘Don't I just. The only thing I can think of is, her mind's on something else.'

‘What?'

Kiss shrugged. ‘Who knows?' he said. ‘Or cares, come to that? Let's change the subject, shall we.'

‘Why not?' Acba grinned. ‘Hey, it's too bad you being tied up right now. There's something really heavy going down, and you won't get to have a piece of it. ‘

‘Is that so?'

Acba nodded. ‘The word's out,' he whispered, ‘for Force Nines and above, excellent package including benefits for hard-working, committed candidate with a total disregard for the value of human life. I'm gonna try and get me a slice of that, no question.'

Kiss sighed. ‘Sounds like it could be fun,' he agreed. ‘Any idea what it's about?'

Acba shook his head. ‘Whatever it is, it's serious men running it,' he said. ‘That's all I know. Oh, and it's something to do with the Environment.'

‘Oh,' said Kiss. ‘That. In that case, it's probably just cleaning something. You're welcome to that. Let me know how it pans out.'

Acba nodded and stood up. ‘Stay loose,' he said.

‘Chance'd be a fine thing.'

During this time Abmi and Jane had danced two waltzes, one quick-step and a tango, all to the accompaniment of
Blue Suede Shoes
. For his part, Abmi was beginning to have serious misgivings about infringing the rule against impossibles.

‘Well, thanks,' he said, lowering Jane gingerly to floor level. ‘That was an experience, you know?'

‘Oh. Have we finished dancing, then?'

Abmi smiled wanly. The tendons of his left arm were throbbing like wrenched harpstrings, and there were callouses all over his palm where Jane's heels had galled him. ‘Hey,' he said, ‘have you any idea what the guys will do to me, monopolising the foxiest chick in the joint? No way,' he added, with perhaps a scruple more vehemence than the context could accommodate. ‘
Ciao
, baby, I gotta fly.' Which he did. In fact, for the record, he put a girdle round the earth in twenty-seven minutes thirteen seconds and
hid inside a wardrobe until he was sure Jane hadn't followed him.

Jane returned to Kiss's table and sat down.

‘I have enjoyed myself,' she said. ‘We must come here again.'

 

 

 

 

T
here was a queue.

You can tell of rationing. You can pontificate about the first day of the January sales. You can boast of your experiences in the line for day-of-performance tickets for
Phantom of the Opera
. But this was a queue to end all queues; so long that it projected sideways into several quite recherché dimensions, so crammed with repressed potential energy that it hovered on the brink of forming a black hole. It was, of course, an auditions queue; and nearly every genie in the Universe was in it.

When you have a queue comprising something in excess of 10
⁴⁶
supernatural beings who can flit through time and space with the reckless abandon of a Porsche with diplomatic plates hurrying to a meeting through the Rome rush-hour, queue-jumping ceases to be bad manners and becomes a challenge to the fundamental laws of physics. The Past became a frenzied jumble of genies bashing each other over the head and locking each other in cupboards so as to preclude their presence on the day in question; while a gigantic troll stood with folded arms in the doorway of the Future to keep back the stream of genies who reckoned
they'd avoid the crush by fast-forwarding through Time. The Present was under the control of an only slightly less formidable young woman with glasses and a clipboard.

‘Next,' she said.

At the back of the queue there was a hard core of genies who hadn't the faintest idea what the audition was for, but who felt sure that they were right for the part. The general opinion was that God was staging Aladdin, with a strong minority faction holding to the view that Springsteen had been taken ill on the eve of the big open-air concert in Central Park, and a stand-in capable of imitating him down to the last chromosome was urgently required. Both versions, although speciously attractive, were wrong.

The door to the small office where the auditions were taking place opened, and a dejected genie slumped out. A voice from inside called out, ‘Don't call us, we'll -' as the door closed again.

Next in line was the Dragon King of the South-East. As the girl with the clipboard took his name and nodded him towards the door, he straightened his hair, shot his cuffs, and took a deep breath.

The Big Time beckoned. He strode through the doorway.

‘Now is the winter of our discontent/Made glorious summer by this . . .' he said. The three men behind the desk gave him a look.

‘He's too tall,' said the bald man wearily. ‘Next.'

Dragon Kings are nothing if not adaptable. In the time it took for his vast brain to formulate the wish, he had reduced himself by twenty per cent.

‘Too short,' muttered the skinny man with the glasses. ‘Goddamn time-wasters.'

The Dragon King cleared his throat. ‘'Scuse me,' he said, ‘but stature's not a problem with me. You give me the measurements, I'll come across with the body.'

‘Voice too squeaky,' sniffed the freckled man with the cigar. ‘OK, Cynthia, let's see the -'

‘The voice needn't be a problem either,' the Dragon King interrupted, in a pitch that made the foundations of the building quiver. ‘Just give me a hint, and I can -'

The freckled man looked up for the first time. ‘Can he dance?' he asked the universe in general.

‘Doesn't look like he can,' replied the bald man, raising his voice over the machine-gun cracking of the King's heels on the parquet. ‘Two left feet.'

The King, by now rather flustered, took this for a specification, made the necessary modifications, lost his footing and fell over.

‘Next,' said the skinny man. The Dragon King got up and silently left the room.

‘Hey, Cynthia,' the bald man called out, ‘are there many more of these deadbeats out there?'

‘Quite a few, Mr Fornaldarsen,' the girl with the clipboard replied.

‘Any of them look any good to you?'

‘No, Mr Fornaldarsen.'

‘OK, send 'em home.' The bald man glanced down. ‘Except,' he added quickly, ‘for this one. Recommendation from Zip Kortright.' He checked the name. ‘Guy by the name of - goddamn stupid names these jerks have - Philadelphia Machinery and Tool Corporation the Ninth. Is he out there?'

‘I'll just check for you, Mr Fornaldarsen.'

The door closed. After a moment, the three men looked at each other.

‘Waste of time,' said the freckled man. ‘Told you it would be.'

‘We'll see this Philadelphia guy,' replied the skinny man. ‘You never know your luck. Never known Kortright send up a complete turkey.'

The door opened - to be precise, it was virtually blown open by the noise of 10
⁴⁶
genies all protesting at once - and a tall, slim figure walked in, sat in the chair and crossed her legs.

There was silence.

‘Hey,' said the bald man, ‘it's a girl.'

‘Correct,' said Philadelphia Machine and Tool Corporation IX. ‘You see? Putting your lenses in this morning has already paid dividends.'

‘What's Korty thinking of, sending us a girl?' snarled the skinny man. ‘We don't need a girl, we need a guy.'

The girl parted her lips and smiled.

‘On the other hand,' mumbled the bald man, ‘have we actually thought this through? I mean, now I think of it I can see where, if we were to make the hero a girl . . .'

‘It'd beef up the middle,' agreed the freckled man. ‘There's that goddamn flat spot between the fight with the chainsaws and the bit where he blows up the Golden Gate Bridge. If we made him a girl, we could put in a bit with her and her kids, you know, mom stuff . . .'

‘Like Cagney and Lacey,' agreed the skinny man.

‘Excuse me,' said the girl.

The three men looked at her.

‘Could one of you gentlemen possibly tell me what the film's about?'

‘Hey,' objected the bald man, ‘what's that got to do with you?'

‘Well, now,' the girl said, flicking a few microns of cigar
ash off her knee, ‘if I don't know what the film's about, how do I know whether I want to be in it?'