A Soft Barren Aftershock by F. Paul Wilson
(Give me control!) Pard said urgently.
“My hand!” was all Dalt could say.
(GIVE ME CONTROL!)
Dalt was jolted by this, relaxed for a second and suddenly found himself an observer in his own body. His right hand dropped the dagger and cupped itself firmly over the bleeding stump, the thumb and fingers dug into the flesh of his forearm, searching for pressure points on the arteries.
His legs straightened as he rose to his feet and calmly walked toward the concealed shuttlecraft His elbows parted the bushes and jabbed the plate that operates the door to the outer lock.”
(I’m glad you didn’t lock this up yesterday,) Pard said as the port swung open. There was a first-aid emergency kit inside for situations such as this. The pinky of his right hand was spared from its pressure duty to flip open the lid of the kit and then a container of stat-gel. The right hand suddenly released its grasp and, amidst a spatter of blood, the stump of his left arm was forcefully shoved into the gel and held there.
(That should stop the bleeding.) The gel had an immediate clotting effect on any blood that came into contact with it. The thrombus formed was firm and tough, thereby greatly reducing the threat of embolism.
Rising, Dalt discovered that his body was his own again. He stumbled outside, weak and disoriented.
“You saved my life, Pard,” he mumbled finally. “When I looked at that stump with the blood shooting out, I couldn’t move.”
(I saved our life, Steve.)
He walked over to where Anthon lay with a smoking hole where his chest had been. “I wished to avoid that. It wasn’t really fair, you know. He only had a sword . . .” Dalt was not quite himself yet. The events of the last minute had not yet been fully absorbed.
(Fair, hell! What does ‘fair” mean when someone’s trying to kill you?)
But Dalt didn’t seem to hear. He began searching the ground. “My hand! Where’s my hand? If we bring it back maybe they can replace it!”
(Not a chance, Steve. Necrosis will be in full swing by the time we get to the mother ship.)
Dalt sat down. The situation was finally sinking in. “Oh, well,” he said resignedly. “They’re doing wonderful things with prosthetics these days.”
(Prosthetics! We’ll grow a new one!)
Dalt paused before answering. “A new hand?”
(Of course! You’ve still got deposits of omnipotential mesenchymal cells here and there in your body. I’ll just have them transported to the area and with me guiding the process there’ll be no problem to rebuilding the hand. It’s really too bad you humans have no conscious control over the physiology of your bodies. With the proper direction, the human body is capable of almost anything.)
“You mean I’ll have my hand back? Good as new?”
(Good as new. But at the moment I suggest we get into the ship and depart. The brain has called the Duke and it might be a good thing if we weren’t here when he arrived.)
“You know,” Dalt said as he entered the shuttlecraft and let the port swing to a close behind him, “with you watching over my body, I could live to a ripe old age.”
(All I have to do is keep up with the degenerative changes and you’ll live forever.)
Dalt stopped in midstride. “Forever?”
(Of course. The old natives of this planet knew it when they made that warning for their children: “Of every thousand struck down, nine hundred and ninety-nine will die.” The obvious conclusion is that the thousandth victim will not die.)
“Ever?”
(Well, there’s not much I can do if you catch an energy bolt in the chest like Anthon back there. But otherwise, you won’t die of old age—I’ll see to that. You won’t even get old, for that matter.)
The immensity of what Pard was saying suddenly struck Dalt with full force.
“In other words,” he breathed, “I’m immortal.”
(I’d prefer a different pronoun: We are immortal.)
“I don’t believe it.”
(I don’t care what you believe. I’m going to keep you alive for a long, long time, Steve, because while you live, I live, and I’ve grown very fond of living.)
Dalt did not move, did not make a reply.
(Well, what are you waiting for? There’s a whole galaxy of worlds out there just waiting to be seen and experienced and I’m getting damn sick of this one!)
Dalt smiled. “What’s the hurry?”
There was a pause, then: (You’ve got a point there, Steve. There’s really no hurry at all. We’ve got all the time in the world. Literally!).
LIPIDLEGGIN’
Butter.
I can name a man’s poison at fifty paces. I take one look at this guy as he walks in and say to myself, Butter.
He steps carefully, like there’s something sticky on the soles of his shoes. Maybe there is, but I figure he moves like that because he’s on unfamiliar ground. Never seen his face before and I know just about everybody around.
It’s early yet. I just opened the store and Gabe’s the only other guy on the buying side of the counter, only he ain’t buying. He’s waiting in the corner by the checkerboard and I’m just about to go join him when the new guy comes in. It’s wet out—not raining, really, just wet like it only gets up here near the Water Gap—and he’s wearing a slicker. Underneath that he seems to have a stocky build and is average height. He’s got no beard and his eyes are blue with a watery look. Could be from anywhere until he takes off the hat and I see his hair: It’s dark brown and he’s got it cut in one of those soup-bowl styles that are big in the city.
Gabe gives me an annoyed look as I step back behind the counter, but I ignore him. His last name is Varadi—sounds Italian but it’s Hungarian—and he’s got plenty of time on his hands. Used to be a Ph.D. in a philosophy department at some university in Upstate New York till they cut the department in half and gave him his walking papers, tenure and all. Now he does part-time labor at one of the mills when they need a little extra help, which ain’t near as often as he’d like.
About as poor as you can get, that Gabe.
The government giraffes take a big chunk of what little he earns and leave him near nothing to live on. So he goes down to the welfare office where the local giraffes give him food stamps and rent vouchers so he can get by on what the first group of giraffes left him. If you can figure that one out . . .
Anyway, Gabe’s got a lot of time on his hands, like I said, and he hangs out here and plays checkers with me when things are slow. He’d rather play chess, I know, but I can’t stand the game. Nothing happens for too long and I get impatient and try to break the game open with some wild gambit. And I always lose. So we play checkers or we don’t play.
The new guy puts his hat on the counter and glances around. He looks uneasy. I know what’s coming but I’m not going to help him out. There’s a little dance we’ve got to do first.
“I need to buy a few things,” he says. His voice has a little tremor in it and close up like this I figure he’s in his mid-twenties.
“Well, this is a general store,” I reply, getting real busy wiping down the counter, “and we’ve got all sorts of things. What’re you interested in? Antiques? Hardware? Food?”
“I’m not looking for the usual stock.”
(The music begins to play)
I look at him with my best puzzled expression. “Just what is it you’re after, friend?”
“Butter and eggs.”
“Nothing unusual about that. Got a whole cabinet full of both behind you there.”
(We’re on our way to the dance floor)
“I’m not looking for that. I didn’t come all the way out here to buy the same shit I can get in the city. I want the real thing.”
“You want the real thing, eh?” I say, meeting his eyes square for the first time. “You know damn well real butter and real eggs are illegal. I could go to jail for carrying that kind of stuff.”
(We dance)
Next to taking his money, this is the part I like best abo
ut dealing with a new customer. Usually I can dance the two of us around the subject of what he really wants for upwards of twenty or thirty minutes if I’ve a mind to. But this guy was a lot more direct than most and didn’t waste any time getting down to the nitty-gritty. Still, he wasn’t going to rob me of a little dance. I’ve got a dozen years of dealing under my belt and no green kid’s gonna rob me of that.
A dozen years . . . doesn’t seem that long. It was back then that the giraffes who were running the National Health Insurance program found out that they were spending way too much money taking care of people with diseases nobody was likely to cure for some time. The stroke and heart patients were the worst. With the presses at the Treasury working overtime and inflation getting wild, it got to the point where they either had to admit they’d made a mistake or do something drastic. Naturally, they got drastic.
The president declared a health emergency and Congress passed something called the National Health Maintenance Act which said that since certain citizens were behaving irresponsibly by abusing their bodies and thereby giving rise to chronic diseases which resulted in consumption of more than their fair share of medical care at public expense, it was resolved that, in the public interest and for the public good, certain commodities would henceforth and hereafter be either prescribed or strictly rationed. Or something like that.
Foods high in cholesterol and saturated fats headed the list. Next came tobacco and any alcoholic beverage over 30 proof.
Ah, the howls that went up from the public. But those were nothing compared to the screams of fear and anguish that arose from the dairy and egg industry which was facing immediate economic ruin. The Washington giraffes stood firm, however—it wasn’t an election year—and used phrases like “bite the bullet” and “national interest” and “public good” until we were all ready to barf.
Nothing moved them.
Things quieted down after a while, as they always do. It helped, of course, that somebody in one of the drug companies had been working on an additive to chicken feed that would take just about all the cholesterol out of the yolk. It worked, and the poultry industry was saved.
The new eggs cost more—of course—and the removal of most of the cholesterol from the yolk also removed most of the taste, but at least the egg farmers had something to sell.
Butter was out. Definitely. No compromise. Too much of an “adverse effect on serum lipid levels,” whatever that means. You use polyunsaturated margarine or you use nothing. Case closed.
Well, almost closed. Most good citizen-type Americans hunkered down and learned to live with the Lipid Laws, as they came to be known. Why, I bet there’s scads of fifteen-year-olds about who’ve never tasted real butter or a true, cholesterol-packed egg yolk. But we’re not all good citizens. Especially me. Far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing like two fried eggs—fried in butter—over easy, with bacon on the side, to start the day off. Every day. And I wasn’t about to give that up.
I was strictly in the antiques trade then, and I knew just about every farmer in Jersey and Eastern Pennsylvania. So I found one who was making butter for himself and had him make a little extra for me. Then I found another who was keeping some hens aside and not giving them any of the special feed and had him hold a few eggs out for me.
One day I had a couple of friends over for breakfast and served them real eggs and toast with real butter. They almost strangled me trying to find out where I got the stuff. That’s when I decided to add a sideline to my antique business.
I figured New York City to be the best place to start so I let word get around the antique dealers there that I could supply their customers with more than furniture. The response was wild and soon I was making more money running butter and eggs than I was running Victorian golden oak. I was a lipidlegger.
Didn’t last, though. I was informed by two very pushy fellows of Mediterranean stock that if I wanted to do any lipid business in Manhattan, I’d either have to buy all my merchandise from their wholesale concern, or give them a very healthy chunk of my profits.
I decided it would be safer to stick close to home. Less volume, but less risky. I turned my antique shop up here by the Water Gap—that’s the part of New Jersey you can get to without driving by all those refineries and reactors—into a general store.
A dozen years now.
“I heard you had the real thing for sale,” the guy says.
I shake my head. “Now where would you hear a thing like that?”
“New York.”
“New York? The only connection I have with New York is furnishing some antique dealers with a few pieces now and then. How’d you hear about me in New York?”
“Sam Gelbstein.”
I nod. Sam’s a good customer. Good friend, too. He helped spread the word for me when I was leggin’ lipids into the city.
“How you know Sam?”
“My uncle furnished most of his house with furniture he bought there.”
I still act suspicious—it’s part of the dance—but I know if Sam sent him, he’s all right. One little thing bothers me, though.
“How come you don’t look for your butter and eggs in the city? I hear they’re real easy to get there.”
“Yeah,” he says and twists his mouth. “They’re also spoiled now and again and there’s no arguing with the types that supply it. No money-back guarantees with those guys.”
I see his point. “And you figure this is closer to the source.”
He nods.
“One more question,” I say. “I don’t deal in the stuff, of course”—still dancing—“but I’m curious how a young guy like you got a taste for contraband like eggs and butter.”
“Europe,” he says. “I went to school in Brussels and it’s all still legal over there. Just can’t get used to these damned substitutes.”
It all fit, so I go into the back and lift up the floor door. I keep a cooler down there and from it pull a dozen eggs and a half-kilo slab of butter. His eyes widen as I put them on the counter in front of him.
“Is this the real thing?” he asks. “No games?” I pull out an English muffin, split it with my thumbs, and drop the halves into a toaster I keep under the counter. I know that once he tastes this butter I’ll have another steady customer. People will eat ersatz eggs and polyunsaturated margarine if they think it’s good for them, but they want to know the real thing’s available. Take that away from them and suddenly you’ve got them going to great lengths to get what they used to pass up without a second thought.
“The real thing,” I tell him. “There’s even a little salt added to the butter for flavor.”
“Great!” He smiles, then puts both hands into his pockets and pulls out a gun with his right and a shield with his left. “James Callahan, Public Health Service, Enforcement Division,” he says. “You’re under arrest, Mr. Gurney.” He’s not smiling anymore.
I don’t change my expression or say anything. Just stand there and look bored. But inside I feel like someone’s wrapped a length of heavy chain around my gut and hooked it up to a high speed winch.
Looking at the gun-a snub-nosed .32—I start to grin.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, nervous and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s his first bust.
“A public health guy with a gun!” I’m laughing now. “Don’t that seem funny to you?”
His face remains stern. “Not in the least. Now step around the counter. After you’re cuffed we’re going to take a ride to the Federal Building.”
I don’t budge. I glance over to the corner and see a deserted checkerboard. Gabe’s gone—skittered out as soon as he saw the gun. Mr. Public Health follows my eyes.
“Where’s the red-headed guy?”
“Gone for help,” I tell him.
He glances quickly over his shoulder out the door, then back at me. “Let’s not do anything foolish here. I wasn’t crazy enough to come out here alone.”
But I can tell by the way his eyes bounce all over the
room and by the way he licks his lips that, yes, he was crazy enough to come out here alone.
I don’t say anything, so he fills in the empty space. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Mr. Gurney,” he says. “You’ll get off with a first offender’s suspended sentence and a short probation.”
I don’t tell him that’s exactly what worries me. I’m waiting for a sound: the click of the toaster as it spits out the English muffin. It comes and I grab the two halves and put them on the counter.
“What are you doing?” he asks, watching me like I’m going to pull a gun on him any minute.
“You gotta taste it,” I tell him. “I mean, how’re you gonna be sure it ain’t oleo unless you taste it?”
“Never mind that.” He wiggles the .32 at me. “You’re just stalling. Get around here.”
But I ignore him. I open a corner of the slab of butter and dig out a hunk with my knife. Then I smear it on one half of the muffin and press the two halves together. All the time I’m talking.
“How come you’re out here messin’ with me? I’m smalltime. The biggies are in the city.”
“Yeah.” He nods slowly. He can’t believe I’m buttering a muffin while he holds a gun on me. “And they’ve also bought everyone who’s for sale. Can’t get a conviction there if you bring in the ‘leggers smeared with butter and eggs in their mouths.”
“So you pick on me.”
He nods again. “Someone who buys from Gelbstein let slip that he used to connect with a guy from out here who used to do lipidlegging into the city. Wasn’t hard to track you down.” He shrugs, almost apologizing. “I need some arrests to my credit and I have to take ‘em where I can find ‘em.”
I don’t reply just yet. At least I know why he came alone: He didn’t want anyone a little higher up to steal credit for the bust. And I also know that Sam Gelbstein didn’t put the yell on me, which is a relief. But I’ve got more important concerns at the moment.
I press my palm down on top of the muffin until the melted butter oozes out the sides and onto the counter, then I peel the halves apart and push them toward him.
“My hand!” was all Dalt could say.
(GIVE ME CONTROL!)
Dalt was jolted by this, relaxed for a second and suddenly found himself an observer in his own body. His right hand dropped the dagger and cupped itself firmly over the bleeding stump, the thumb and fingers dug into the flesh of his forearm, searching for pressure points on the arteries.
His legs straightened as he rose to his feet and calmly walked toward the concealed shuttlecraft His elbows parted the bushes and jabbed the plate that operates the door to the outer lock.”
(I’m glad you didn’t lock this up yesterday,) Pard said as the port swung open. There was a first-aid emergency kit inside for situations such as this. The pinky of his right hand was spared from its pressure duty to flip open the lid of the kit and then a container of stat-gel. The right hand suddenly released its grasp and, amidst a spatter of blood, the stump of his left arm was forcefully shoved into the gel and held there.
(That should stop the bleeding.) The gel had an immediate clotting effect on any blood that came into contact with it. The thrombus formed was firm and tough, thereby greatly reducing the threat of embolism.
Rising, Dalt discovered that his body was his own again. He stumbled outside, weak and disoriented.
“You saved my life, Pard,” he mumbled finally. “When I looked at that stump with the blood shooting out, I couldn’t move.”
(I saved our life, Steve.)
He walked over to where Anthon lay with a smoking hole where his chest had been. “I wished to avoid that. It wasn’t really fair, you know. He only had a sword . . .” Dalt was not quite himself yet. The events of the last minute had not yet been fully absorbed.
(Fair, hell! What does ‘fair” mean when someone’s trying to kill you?)
But Dalt didn’t seem to hear. He began searching the ground. “My hand! Where’s my hand? If we bring it back maybe they can replace it!”
(Not a chance, Steve. Necrosis will be in full swing by the time we get to the mother ship.)
Dalt sat down. The situation was finally sinking in. “Oh, well,” he said resignedly. “They’re doing wonderful things with prosthetics these days.”
(Prosthetics! We’ll grow a new one!)
Dalt paused before answering. “A new hand?”
(Of course! You’ve still got deposits of omnipotential mesenchymal cells here and there in your body. I’ll just have them transported to the area and with me guiding the process there’ll be no problem to rebuilding the hand. It’s really too bad you humans have no conscious control over the physiology of your bodies. With the proper direction, the human body is capable of almost anything.)
“You mean I’ll have my hand back? Good as new?”
(Good as new. But at the moment I suggest we get into the ship and depart. The brain has called the Duke and it might be a good thing if we weren’t here when he arrived.)
“You know,” Dalt said as he entered the shuttlecraft and let the port swing to a close behind him, “with you watching over my body, I could live to a ripe old age.”
(All I have to do is keep up with the degenerative changes and you’ll live forever.)
Dalt stopped in midstride. “Forever?”
(Of course. The old natives of this planet knew it when they made that warning for their children: “Of every thousand struck down, nine hundred and ninety-nine will die.” The obvious conclusion is that the thousandth victim will not die.)
“Ever?”
(Well, there’s not much I can do if you catch an energy bolt in the chest like Anthon back there. But otherwise, you won’t die of old age—I’ll see to that. You won’t even get old, for that matter.)
The immensity of what Pard was saying suddenly struck Dalt with full force.
“In other words,” he breathed, “I’m immortal.”
(I’d prefer a different pronoun: We are immortal.)
“I don’t believe it.”
(I don’t care what you believe. I’m going to keep you alive for a long, long time, Steve, because while you live, I live, and I’ve grown very fond of living.)
Dalt did not move, did not make a reply.
(Well, what are you waiting for? There’s a whole galaxy of worlds out there just waiting to be seen and experienced and I’m getting damn sick of this one!)
Dalt smiled. “What’s the hurry?”
There was a pause, then: (You’ve got a point there, Steve. There’s really no hurry at all. We’ve got all the time in the world. Literally!).
LIPIDLEGGIN’
Butter.
I can name a man’s poison at fifty paces. I take one look at this guy as he walks in and say to myself, Butter.
He steps carefully, like there’s something sticky on the soles of his shoes. Maybe there is, but I figure he moves like that because he’s on unfamiliar ground. Never seen his face before and I know just about everybody around.
It’s early yet. I just opened the store and Gabe’s the only other guy on the buying side of the counter, only he ain’t buying. He’s waiting in the corner by the checkerboard and I’m just about to go join him when the new guy comes in. It’s wet out—not raining, really, just wet like it only gets up here near the Water Gap—and he’s wearing a slicker. Underneath that he seems to have a stocky build and is average height. He’s got no beard and his eyes are blue with a watery look. Could be from anywhere until he takes off the hat and I see his hair: It’s dark brown and he’s got it cut in one of those soup-bowl styles that are big in the city.
Gabe gives me an annoyed look as I step back behind the counter, but I ignore him. His last name is Varadi—sounds Italian but it’s Hungarian—and he’s got plenty of time on his hands. Used to be a Ph.D. in a philosophy department at some university in Upstate New York till they cut the department in half and gave him his walking papers, tenure and all. Now he does part-time labor at one of the mills when they need a little extra help, which ain’t near as often as he’d like.
About as poor as you can get, that Gabe.
The government giraffes take a big chunk of what little he earns and leave him near nothing to live on. So he goes down to the welfare office where the local giraffes give him food stamps and rent vouchers so he can get by on what the first group of giraffes left him. If you can figure that one out . . .
Anyway, Gabe’s got a lot of time on his hands, like I said, and he hangs out here and plays checkers with me when things are slow. He’d rather play chess, I know, but I can’t stand the game. Nothing happens for too long and I get impatient and try to break the game open with some wild gambit. And I always lose. So we play checkers or we don’t play.
The new guy puts his hat on the counter and glances around. He looks uneasy. I know what’s coming but I’m not going to help him out. There’s a little dance we’ve got to do first.
“I need to buy a few things,” he says. His voice has a little tremor in it and close up like this I figure he’s in his mid-twenties.
“Well, this is a general store,” I reply, getting real busy wiping down the counter, “and we’ve got all sorts of things. What’re you interested in? Antiques? Hardware? Food?”
“I’m not looking for the usual stock.”
(The music begins to play)
I look at him with my best puzzled expression. “Just what is it you’re after, friend?”
“Butter and eggs.”
“Nothing unusual about that. Got a whole cabinet full of both behind you there.”
(We’re on our way to the dance floor)
“I’m not looking for that. I didn’t come all the way out here to buy the same shit I can get in the city. I want the real thing.”
“You want the real thing, eh?” I say, meeting his eyes square for the first time. “You know damn well real butter and real eggs are illegal. I could go to jail for carrying that kind of stuff.”
(We dance)
Next to taking his money, this is the part I like best abo
A dozen years . . . doesn’t seem that long. It was back then that the giraffes who were running the National Health Insurance program found out that they were spending way too much money taking care of people with diseases nobody was likely to cure for some time. The stroke and heart patients were the worst. With the presses at the Treasury working overtime and inflation getting wild, it got to the point where they either had to admit they’d made a mistake or do something drastic. Naturally, they got drastic.
The president declared a health emergency and Congress passed something called the National Health Maintenance Act which said that since certain citizens were behaving irresponsibly by abusing their bodies and thereby giving rise to chronic diseases which resulted in consumption of more than their fair share of medical care at public expense, it was resolved that, in the public interest and for the public good, certain commodities would henceforth and hereafter be either prescribed or strictly rationed. Or something like that.
Foods high in cholesterol and saturated fats headed the list. Next came tobacco and any alcoholic beverage over 30 proof.
Ah, the howls that went up from the public. But those were nothing compared to the screams of fear and anguish that arose from the dairy and egg industry which was facing immediate economic ruin. The Washington giraffes stood firm, however—it wasn’t an election year—and used phrases like “bite the bullet” and “national interest” and “public good” until we were all ready to barf.
Nothing moved them.
Things quieted down after a while, as they always do. It helped, of course, that somebody in one of the drug companies had been working on an additive to chicken feed that would take just about all the cholesterol out of the yolk. It worked, and the poultry industry was saved.
The new eggs cost more—of course—and the removal of most of the cholesterol from the yolk also removed most of the taste, but at least the egg farmers had something to sell.
Butter was out. Definitely. No compromise. Too much of an “adverse effect on serum lipid levels,” whatever that means. You use polyunsaturated margarine or you use nothing. Case closed.
Well, almost closed. Most good citizen-type Americans hunkered down and learned to live with the Lipid Laws, as they came to be known. Why, I bet there’s scads of fifteen-year-olds about who’ve never tasted real butter or a true, cholesterol-packed egg yolk. But we’re not all good citizens. Especially me. Far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing like two fried eggs—fried in butter—over easy, with bacon on the side, to start the day off. Every day. And I wasn’t about to give that up.
I was strictly in the antiques trade then, and I knew just about every farmer in Jersey and Eastern Pennsylvania. So I found one who was making butter for himself and had him make a little extra for me. Then I found another who was keeping some hens aside and not giving them any of the special feed and had him hold a few eggs out for me.
One day I had a couple of friends over for breakfast and served them real eggs and toast with real butter. They almost strangled me trying to find out where I got the stuff. That’s when I decided to add a sideline to my antique business.
I figured New York City to be the best place to start so I let word get around the antique dealers there that I could supply their customers with more than furniture. The response was wild and soon I was making more money running butter and eggs than I was running Victorian golden oak. I was a lipidlegger.
Didn’t last, though. I was informed by two very pushy fellows of Mediterranean stock that if I wanted to do any lipid business in Manhattan, I’d either have to buy all my merchandise from their wholesale concern, or give them a very healthy chunk of my profits.
I decided it would be safer to stick close to home. Less volume, but less risky. I turned my antique shop up here by the Water Gap—that’s the part of New Jersey you can get to without driving by all those refineries and reactors—into a general store.
A dozen years now.
“I heard you had the real thing for sale,” the guy says.
I shake my head. “Now where would you hear a thing like that?”
“New York.”
“New York? The only connection I have with New York is furnishing some antique dealers with a few pieces now and then. How’d you hear about me in New York?”
“Sam Gelbstein.”
I nod. Sam’s a good customer. Good friend, too. He helped spread the word for me when I was leggin’ lipids into the city.
“How you know Sam?”
“My uncle furnished most of his house with furniture he bought there.”
I still act suspicious—it’s part of the dance—but I know if Sam sent him, he’s all right. One little thing bothers me, though.
“How come you don’t look for your butter and eggs in the city? I hear they’re real easy to get there.”
“Yeah,” he says and twists his mouth. “They’re also spoiled now and again and there’s no arguing with the types that supply it. No money-back guarantees with those guys.”
I see his point. “And you figure this is closer to the source.”
He nods.
“One more question,” I say. “I don’t deal in the stuff, of course”—still dancing—“but I’m curious how a young guy like you got a taste for contraband like eggs and butter.”
“Europe,” he says. “I went to school in Brussels and it’s all still legal over there. Just can’t get used to these damned substitutes.”
It all fit, so I go into the back and lift up the floor door. I keep a cooler down there and from it pull a dozen eggs and a half-kilo slab of butter. His eyes widen as I put them on the counter in front of him.
“Is this the real thing?” he asks. “No games?” I pull out an English muffin, split it with my thumbs, and drop the halves into a toaster I keep under the counter. I know that once he tastes this butter I’ll have another steady customer. People will eat ersatz eggs and polyunsaturated margarine if they think it’s good for them, but they want to know the real thing’s available. Take that away from them and suddenly you’ve got them going to great lengths to get what they used to pass up without a second thought.
“The real thing,” I tell him. “There’s even a little salt added to the butter for flavor.”
“Great!” He smiles, then puts both hands into his pockets and pulls out a gun with his right and a shield with his left. “James Callahan, Public Health Service, Enforcement Division,” he says. “You’re under arrest, Mr. Gurney.” He’s not smiling anymore.
I don’t change my expression or say anything. Just stand there and look bored. But inside I feel like someone’s wrapped a length of heavy chain around my gut and hooked it up to a high speed winch.
Looking at the gun-a snub-nosed .32—I start to grin.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, nervous and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s his first bust.
“A public health guy with a gun!” I’m laughing now. “Don’t that seem funny to you?”
His face remains stern. “Not in the least. Now step around the counter. After you’re cuffed we’re going to take a ride to the Federal Building.”
I don’t budge. I glance over to the corner and see a deserted checkerboard. Gabe’s gone—skittered out as soon as he saw the gun. Mr. Public Health follows my eyes.
“Where’s the red-headed guy?”
“Gone for help,” I tell him.
He glances quickly over his shoulder out the door, then back at me. “Let’s not do anything foolish here. I wasn’t crazy enough to come out here alone.”
But I can tell by the way his eyes bounce all over the
I don’t say anything, so he fills in the empty space. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Mr. Gurney,” he says. “You’ll get off with a first offender’s suspended sentence and a short probation.”
I don’t tell him that’s exactly what worries me. I’m waiting for a sound: the click of the toaster as it spits out the English muffin. It comes and I grab the two halves and put them on the counter.
“What are you doing?” he asks, watching me like I’m going to pull a gun on him any minute.
“You gotta taste it,” I tell him. “I mean, how’re you gonna be sure it ain’t oleo unless you taste it?”
“Never mind that.” He wiggles the .32 at me. “You’re just stalling. Get around here.”
But I ignore him. I open a corner of the slab of butter and dig out a hunk with my knife. Then I smear it on one half of the muffin and press the two halves together. All the time I’m talking.
“How come you’re out here messin’ with me? I’m smalltime. The biggies are in the city.”
“Yeah.” He nods slowly. He can’t believe I’m buttering a muffin while he holds a gun on me. “And they’ve also bought everyone who’s for sale. Can’t get a conviction there if you bring in the ‘leggers smeared with butter and eggs in their mouths.”
“So you pick on me.”
He nods again. “Someone who buys from Gelbstein let slip that he used to connect with a guy from out here who used to do lipidlegging into the city. Wasn’t hard to track you down.” He shrugs, almost apologizing. “I need some arrests to my credit and I have to take ‘em where I can find ‘em.”
I don’t reply just yet. At least I know why he came alone: He didn’t want anyone a little higher up to steal credit for the bust. And I also know that Sam Gelbstein didn’t put the yell on me, which is a relief. But I’ve got more important concerns at the moment.
I press my palm down on top of the muffin until the melted butter oozes out the sides and onto the counter, then I peel the halves apart and push them toward him.