Loadstar 188/188.d81/He Also Serves

Text File | 2022-08-26 | 19KB | 572 lines

       H E   A L S O   S E R V E S

           by Fender Tucker

    Chapter One: Richard Blaine

    Rick Blaine woke up and wondered
what day it was. Squinting, he looked
through the bedroom door at the
screen on the wall of the living
room. 9:10 am, Sunday, July 5, 2047.
He felt amazingly good, considering
what kind of a day he had yesterday.
He ran a hand through his few strands
of hair and walked the three steps to
the bathroom where he did his usual
morning rituals, humming the verse to
"As Time Goes By" over and over, even
as he brushed his teeth with
Calhoon's toothpaste.
    Then he went back in the bedroom
and laid back down on the bed,
completely nude, and stared at the
ceiling. He felt damn good! And he
saw no reason for doing anything more
than just spending a quiet day at the
apartment, watching some wall, having
a little supper and just taking it
easy. He deserved it after all he had
been through lately.
    His body was filled with
lassitude but his mind was clear. As
he closed his eyes, smiling, he
thought back on what he had recently
experienced. All of it was crystal
sharp, almost as if he were reliving
it -- meeting Ilsa again after all
these years, getting the letters of
transit, dealing with Major Strasser
and Captain Renault, seeing Ilsa and
Victor off at the airport... He went
over it in detail in his mind,
remembering how it was in Paris,
before the Germans came...
    As it had happened, he
remembered, it had been tense, and
frustrating, and full of self-pity.
But for a while he thought that he
and Ilsa might have a chance, and
then last night... But looking back
on it, especially as good as he felt
physically and mentally, it seemed
more ironic than sad, more
adventurous than stressful.
    He spent the next four hours on
his bed, reliving his past life, with
the events of the past week in
Casablanca, and the time he and Ilsa
had spent in Paris most clear and
immediate, but with hundreds of other
memories of other exploits --
journeys, cases, love affairs,
dangers -- lurking in the background.
He had done so much in his lifetime!
    It was around two pm when he got
up and headed into the living room.
He lived in a normal-sized apartment
for Cableville, the living room
measuring 3 meters by 3 meters,
plenty big enough for his recliner
and reward box, and of course, wall
screen. The bedroom was a little
smaller, having only a single bed in
it. The bathroom was big enough for a
throne, a lavatory and a showerstall.
The kitchen was the smallest room,
with only a microwave oven in the far
wall.
    Dodging the recliner he headed
into the kitchen. The microwave had a
packet inside, as he knew it would,
and he pressed the big red button
above the oven. Two seconds later he
opened the door and took out the
packet, tore off a seal and tilted it
to his mouth. Malted Oneirine, just
the ticket! He had gotten so used to
the spicy delicacies of Morocco that
on this day of rest he sort of craved
the blandness of Malted Oneirine.
    How about some wall? he thought.
He finished the last of the liquid
and put the empty container back into
the microwave. A few short steps
later, he was enwombed in his beloved
recliner. From his sitting position
he pushed a big red button on the
wall and the clock and date display
changed to a wall-sized screen. In
the middle it read, "Cableville M-
2683".
    A sultry, muted sax melody filled
the room as the screen changed into
the billowing curves of a soft,
rippling velveteen cloth, in moving
shades of ochres, browns and deep
violets. Rick was entranced. The
music and the sensuous ripples of the
cloth combined to move him into
another place and time. Late 1940s
Los Angeles, it turned out. He sat
back in the recliner and didn't move
a muscle as the story streamed past,
with its socio-political undertones,
its cynical hero, its labyrinthine
plot.
    When it was over he exhaled
heavily and shook his head in
amazement. What a great movie! he
thought, as he reached into his
reward box and brought out a hemp
burner and ball of compressed hemp.
It had all of the classic elements of
a mystery and completely believable
characters... he rambled on in his
mind as he put the ball in the burner
where it immediately began emanating
a thin white, wispy smoke. He placed
the burner on the top of the reward
box and turned back to the screen.
The film was starting again.
    By eleven that night he had seen
the story three more times. He had
spent the day just as he wanted,
taking it easy and indulging himself.
Hey, he deserved a day off, he
thought. Running a nightclub was no
picnic, and if you think you can find
a lost love, stay out of the clutches
of some sadistic Nazis, then give
away the woman you love -- all for a
higher principle! -- and not need a
day off, then hey, you're a better
man than I am. Rick Blaine was ready
to pack it in after a perfect day.
    He went into the kitchen and saw
that the microwave had a fresh packet
of food in it. He pressed the button
and took out the packet, opened it up
and drank. Good stuff, that Malted
Sonomine. He really wasn't up for any
kind of fancy food. After all, he was
getting ready for bed.
    He went into the bathroom and did
his usual nighttime ablutions,
brushing his teeth briskly with some
Calhoon's toothpaste, then dropped
down on the bed and within minutes
was sound asleep.

      Chapter Two: Jacob Gittes

    Jake Gittes woke with a start,
and was relieved to see that he was
in his apartment. Through the door
into the living room he saw that it
was almost 10 on Monday, July 6,
2047. He must have gotten some much-
needed sleep -- he felt pretty good.
As his memories of the preceding days
rooted in his mind he sat up on the
edge of the bed. He remained there
with elbows on knees, his hands over
his eyes propping his head up for a
minute, then three steps later was in
his bathroom. As he brushed his teeth
with Calhoon's toothpaste his mind
overflowed with warm, yet sharply
detailed memories and thoughts.
    Evelyn Mulray was what he thought
about. He didn't care about the
valley's water problems or Noah Cross
or Hollis Mulray. His nose didn't
even bother him anymore, except a
little at night. But why did Evelyn
have to die? The memory of last
night's shooting in Chinatown was
delicately clear in his mind, along
with the pain, but surprisingly he
felt as if the worst had passed, and
that all he needed was a quiet day at
home. Sooner or later he'd have to
settle up with Noah Cross, but for
today he deserved some peace and
quiet -- maybe a little wall -- here
in his apartment, far, far from
Chinatown.
    Jake, who always slept in the
nude, emerged from the bathroom
wearing nothing and decided there was
no reason to put anything on. He fell
onto the bed on his back and
stretched his full, 5' 6" frame over
its edges. His eyes closed, he felt a
wave of supreme lassitude sweep over
his body. His nose, which had been
slit the week before by a weaselly
gangster who looked like Roman
Polanski, no longer hurt at all.
There was only the pain of Evelyn's
death, which somehow now, almost
seemed for the best.
    In his mind he went over the
events of the past weeks, remembering
how that redheaded actress had posed
as Evelyn Mulray, suckering him into
a scandal with him as the stooge.
That sure wasn't a happy time, but in
hindsight, it made for a damn good
story, Jake thought with a chuckle.
    But that was how he met Evelyn
Mulray. It didn't take long for her
to get her hooks into him and by the
time he had slapped her secret out of
her, he was in deep, too deep. He had
to dodge the cops as well as Noah
Cross and when he heard she was
headed to Chinatown, he knew it was
going to end bad. The pain of last
night in Chinatown, with the blare of
her car horn as accompaniment, played
through his head, rebounding from
pillowlike receptors, never catching
root...appreciated, but never felt.
    Around 2 pm he pulled himself out
of his reverie and headed into the
kitchen. In the microwave, as always,
was a packet of Malted Oneirine.
"Good!" he grunted to himself. After
all of the spicy foods he'd been
eating in the greasy spoons of LA,
some sensible Malted Oneirine sounde