Skeletons (53 page)

Pretty soon I'm so
hepped
up horny that even Cap'n Bob notices. We're going to be in Calgary a week while they do engine work on the plane. When
Pipeman
illegally decodes the next message from Stanton to Cap'n Bob, there's a real puzzler there in the middle of all the praise and good news: MAKE DINNER HOT.

Pipeman
smiles, slaps me on the back. "Looks like they listened to me for once,
Rog
boy," he says. "Tea?"

"Never mind,
Rog
, never mind. Let's just say the captain and I had a little idea."

That night, when
Pipeman
gets ready for his nightly jaunt into town, he invites me along to dinner. "You sure?" I say.

"No intrusion at all," he says. He's still whistling, slicking himself up. I figure, what he hell, I'll go along, and get dressed up myself. Clean the ol' boots, slick up the ol' spikes, brush the ol' teeth. After having a meal with P-man and his doll, I can always hit one of the bars and drink Canadian until my eyeballs roll up into my head.

Only when we get to the restaurant, P-man's girlfriend, Maureen, isn't alone. First thing I notice is that there's heavy security at all the doors, big beefcakes with guns and straight mouths. The next thing I notice that sitting at the table, looking like a scared rabbit next to skinny, bony Maureen, is a . . . human woman.

"
Wha
?"

"Merry Christmas,
Rog
!"
Pipeman
shouts. "And happy birthday! And jolly Groundhog Day, and the effing Fourth of July!"

I'm still staring. I've been up in the air so long with
skels
, dealing so long with
skels
, it's been months since I've seen another human face up close except my own lovely one in the morning mirror. And she's beautiful!

"Meet the last human woman in Canada!"
Pipeman
says, by way of introduction. Then he pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and says, "Her name's . . .
Adelaid
Moore. Lately of—" P-man breaks off here to laugh, taken with his own
skel
humor. "Edmonton." He turns to me. "And this,
Adelaid
, is our own Roger Garber, alias big-time rock promoter, lead singer, and songwriter, Roger Garbage!"

There's fire in this beautiful girl's beautiful eyes. I stammer out, "Uh, hi."

She spits at me, bull's-eye, right on the ol' face.

Pipeman
laughs and sits down. "Great beginning! Waiter!" he calls, and two
skels
are instantly bowing and scraping. I feel the long white arm of the government here, give them anything they want, take care of 'em, they're important honchos, do it, bub. Now I understand the goons at the exits.

"Listen," I say to the girl, but once again she spits on me, a leather jacket shot. When I sit down anyway, she reaches out and tries to tear my eyes out with her nails.

"Hey!"
Pipeman
scolds. Now he's not laughing. It disturbs me, the jerk is showing off for his girlfriend, playing the big G-man.

Two goons are at our side in a shot, responding to
Pipeman's
scowl. He looks at
Adelaid
and says, "Didn't our little chat mean anything?"

She's like a tied tiger, though, fury in those green eyes, those beautiful, deep, green eyes. But she stays in her seat and leans back. She'd obviously rather be fighting with anyone here—me, the
skels
, anyone she could get those claws into.

"Good girl," P-man says, waving the goons back to their posts. He says brightly, still showing off for his runty, adoring, geeky girlfriend, "Let's eat!"

The waiter brings menus.
Pipeman's
watching me slyly as I open mine. I don't disappoint him as my eyes pop.

Meat listed! Pheasant, beef Tatar, club steaks, leg of lamb—meat!

I look up at
Pipeman
in disbelief. He says, taking in the whole table with his show-off magnanimity, "Everything on the menu is available!"

"How?"

P-man grins. "Prewar," he says. "Well preserved. All of it was frozen, of course. But I can tell you the breast of pheasant is excellent." He looks at his girlfriend, Maureen, and winks. At that moment I want to dust him.

Adelaid
has glanced at her menu, showing some of my own surprise, and then closed it on the table.

The waiter is back, waiting.

"
Rog
?" P-man says, playing the smarmy host. I'm looking at
Adelaid
. "Um, I, um . . ."

"The heck with it!"
Pipeman
shouts gaily. "Filet mignon for everybody! And buckets of Dom
Perignon
!"

His girlfriend, Maureen, gives a delighted giggle. Once more I picture my hands around P-man's neck, giving a good twist, watching him puff away to talc . . .

The champagne, the first of many bottles, arrives pronto.
Pipeman
holds his glass up before the waiter has even filled mine.

"A toast!" he says. 'To love!" He looks at me and
Adelaid
, then at Maureen, who giggles and, I swear, blushes.

I hold my glass up weakly. But suddenly I'm feeling very uncomfortable. It's not a feeling I know, or like. This isn't like that gong that goes off when ol'
Rog
is in trouble. It's something—dare I say it?—deeper and more disturbing. I mean, here I am in this room full of
skels
, this world full of
skels
, with the only living woman left in all of Canada, and suddenly I'm not happy about it. I mean, this party isn't really for
Adelaid
and me or the human race, is it? I mean, it's not our celebration, you know? We're talking bone
appetit
.

What the fu . . .

"Drink!"
Pipeman
all but orders. He's bubbling with dorky stupidity and puppy love.

"Hurrah," I say lamely, holding my glass up. As I look over at
Adelaid
she's watching me carefully, her green eyes
slitted
. I try to grin at her, but know how sick it looks.

Suddenly she holds her glass up and drinks it down quickly, then looks at me again and gives a tiny, extremely cynical, and very knowing smile.

So this dinner deal goes on. And on.
Pipeman
makes it a point to tell us how wonderful, and rare, everything is, from the asparagus—"You know, those asparagus fields in California were pretty chewed up for a while, it was tough to get these suckers, it seems a lot of Indians were buried in those ruts, but I made a special effort to get this rare item here tonight, for this special occasion"—to the dessert—"I'm telling you, a lot of the sorbet equipment was banged up in the early days of the war, but I made special arrangements for new equipment to be assembled, just so we could have this lemon wonderfulness on this very special evening." I feel like telling him how special it is, because I haven't eaten a damn thing. It all just lays there on my plate while one
skel
toady waiter after another whisks it in front of me and then, eight minutes later, whisks it away. My stomach's all in knots. I can't really figure out why, it's not the hormones, with that gorgeous redhead sitting a yard away, it's not that the food is too rich. What I really want to do is shove a plateful of coke up my nose and forget the whole thing. Maybe slap a Stones tape on, some of the early London Records stuff, and wander around talking to myself. Anything but this.

But
Adelaid
the Gorgeous seems to be having a wonderful time now. Suddenly she's not only got an appetite but a mouth, and she's scarfing down every morsel in sight, and drinking everything put in front of her. I stop counting at four glasses of champagne, and we're talking Mr. D here, which of course
Pipeman
has told us is extremely hard to get now because many of the existing cases were either smashed or more likely drunk by nasty humans, and much of the grape vineyards were plowed up by stretching
skels
or torn up in The War. Blah-blah-blah. He goes on and on, but I'm amazed at this human woman, who's not only won my groin but my heart, and now seems drunk as a pig, clinking glasses with the inane Maureen, who has stopped giving her and me that I-
wantto
-kill-you
skel
look as her own alcohol level has risen astronomically. I don't get it! They're all having a jolly time but me!

Me, Mr. Party!

"C'mon,
Rog
! C'mon!"
Pipeman
scolds. And I try, really try, but it's just the way
Adelaid
keeps looking at me, giving me that tiny little sharp smile, all the time she's putting on this wonderful party-girl act.

Suddenly I want to throw up.

And no kidding. I push myself up from the table, mumble some sort of excuse, and stumble away, noticing how
Pipeman
motions to the goons that it's okay before they let me pass. I push through the men's-room door, just make it to the sink before everything that isn't in my stomach because I haven't eaten any of it, comes pushing up. It's bile mostly. I'm standing there, heaving over the sink like a sick schoolboy, wishing I was anywhere else in the world. Wishing I was seeing anybody else's face in my head but that redhead outside, whose hoot of phony laughter I now hear as
Pipeman
finishes one of his stupid former-CIA G-man stories . . .

I mean, jeez, this is bad news, me, the Party Man. I can't even put the coke up my nose; when I take it out and look at it in the bag I just want to heave some more, and quickly get my wish. I barely get my stash back in my pocket without watching it fly all over the place.

Powder, just like I'd suddenly like to see all these
skels
: powder . . .

"Hey,
Rog
!" P-man's voice comes booming through the opening swinging doors just then. And he's striding in, the little gimp, putting his chilly arm around my shoulder.

"Hey,
Rog
, babe, what's the problem?”

"Leave me . . . alone," I spit out.

It must be my tone, or that he doesn't care, because he stumbles back, chuckles, and says, "Okay okay, we're done with this gig anyway, let's go, it's hotel-room time."

He strides out, whistling. When I wipe my sleeve across my mouth and follow him, they're all getting up from the table and getting ready to leave.

Adelaid
is waiting for me. The look on her face hasn't changed. She might have downed a gallon of Dom
Perignon
, she might have sucked down three stingers after dinner, but she's sober as a fox, and both of us know it.

"Come on, sugar pie," she purrs, taking my arm as I lurch up to her.

Then we're out into the night, into
Pipeman's
rented white limo, into the back where P-man and his bone babe are already pawing at each other and giggling. I sit with my head hunched down. Inexplicably,
Adelaid
begins combing the back of my neck with her soft fingers, digging in with those fingernails just a little bit, just a little scratch, until we arrive, minutes that seem like hours later, at the Hotel Maurice, the finest in all of Calgary, a night-lit castle with turrets and a beautiful crystal-chandeliered entranceway. We're out of the limo and moving over the red carpet with black-and-red-dressed
skel
busboys bowing us into all that light, and past the front desk, and into the polished brass elevator, big as a bedroom, with mahogany rails all around, and up to some floor or other and out. P-man and Maureen, already half out of their clothes and laughing like high school idiots in the back of a Chevy, are bidding us a giggling good night. Then
Adelaid
and I are into our own suite and the door slams shut.

"Now,"
Adelaid
says, not at all purring. It's like she's waited the whole night to say it this way, and of course she has. All I can do is sink to the floor and groan, still wondering what the hell is wrong with me and with my brain.

"Did you drug me?" I say.

"No."

"Did anybody drug me?"

"Stand up, you lizard."

I rise to my knees, in an appropriate begging position. I look up at her. I get the blazing eyes back, the fox returned to tiger.

"Oh, Jesus," I say, looking down at the rug, wanting to vomit again.

She laughs.

When I look up again, I see, almost with relief, that she's managed to conceal some sort of weapon, a letter opener or slim stiletto. I can't explain it, but all I want her to do right now is dice me into little pieces with it and make this stinking pain go away.

"You really don't know, do you?" she says.

"Huh?"

"You really don't realize how low you are, what you've done."

"
Wha
? Who? Me?"

I look up through sudden tears—where the hell did they come from?—and I see her rear one foot back and kick me. I actually see the foot approaching my face like a cartoon. Almost with pleasure I feel the pain of physical hurt whack aside that other pain. I fall back and down, weeping.

"Jesus . . ."

"He won't help you, you bastard," she says. "Maybe you didn't hear but there was even a cult that searched for him, to see if he came back to life along with everybody else. Of course that would only prove that he wasn't God, wouldn't it? They didn't find him. After that there were more cult members than ever. Isn't that comical?"