Pan Satyrus

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As is so often the case, the last bar on the edge of town was not the nicest bar; but time — and the FBI — pressed. Happy went in first and cased the joint and came out and reported that nobody in there looked like a security man. "None of them look like they could get any kind of job at all."

"They got dough to buy drinks," Ape said.

"You know, that was rather fun, that party with the girls," Pan said. "Do you think, when we get over being penniless—?"

"You're turning dipso on us, Pan," Happy said. "Let's go." Pan handed him the ridiculously thin chain. "I'm your trainer, right? Ape, maybe you oughta stay outside, a chief, maybe it doesn't look so good, you mixing in this."

"We blasted outa that brig together, we stick together," Chief Bates said.

So they went in. It was, indeed, a dive and a joint. Generations of careless people had spilled beer on the unvarnished floor; decades of nervous folk had puffed cigarette, pipe and cigar smoke at the tongue-and-grooved walls; and, in the back, a parade of customers had been careless with the plumbing.

Pan Satyrus, from his lifelong background of care and cleanliness, began coughing. Ape Bates looked pained. Happy Bronstein, not so long up from the foc'sle, rattled the chain and marched to the bar.

The bartender looked at Happy, then he looked at the chain, then he looked down along the chain to Pan. "Hey," he said, "whataya got there?"

"A monkey," Happy said. "A rhesus monkey. Picked him up on the Rock of Gibraltar. He's a limey monkey."

Pan Satyrus coughed.

Ape had gone and sat at a table.

The bartender said, "Is he house-broke?"

Ape improvised. "He dances, walks on his hands, and — and does imitations. And sure, he's house broken. He's part of the U.S. Navy, isn't he?"

"I dunno," the bartender said. From his face it was a remark he could have made about anything.

A lady customer heaved herself up from her chair, and made it to the bar on runover high heels. She was dressed in short-shorts, orange, and a halter-top, purple, as well as a good deal of skin, halfway between the other two colors. "Does he bite?"

"Nope," Happy said. "He likes ladies."

Pan Satyrus put up his two monstrous hands in the gesture of a capuchin begging for peanuts, and caught the lady customer's hand between his. Very gently he kissed her knuckles.

"Hey," the lady customer said. "He's cute."

"Give him a buck for the jukebox and he'll dance for you," Happy said. He looked the-lady customer over more closely, and said, "Dance with you. Correction."

"A buck? The jook's a dime."

"Monkeys gotta live," Happy said.

The lady customer wobbled back to her table and got her handbag. She had been drinking with a small, pot-bellied man with a sunburned nose; he watched her out of rheumy blue eyes.

The bartender said, "Your monkey's the best looking guy who's given her a tumble in thirty years."

The lady gave Pan the dollar. He gave it to the bartender, and was about to say something when Happy cut in. "Two beers for me and the rhesus here, and give him change for the jukebox."

"Twenty years I own this joint, and at last she picks up," the bartender said. "Mebbe I won't let the finance company take her, after all." He gave Pan Satyrus three dimes.

Pan drained the beer in one heartening gulp, and shuffled to the jukebox. He selected a number and fed the machine a dime. A number called "It's the Talk of the School" came bouncing out.

Pan Satyrus bowed to the lady customer, and held out his arm. She stepped into his embrace.

It wasn't much of a dance; Pan Satyrus had, perhaps, never had a keeper who watched the Arthur Murray show. But, considering that the lady had probably never danced with a simian before, it seemed to give her her money's worth, especially when Pan Satyrus did his specialty, walking on his hands while she sat on his feet.

She fed him another dollar, and then two other lady customers, neither more desirable, lined up.

Jingling a handful of change, Happy carried two beers over to Ape. "Beats working for a living."

"I dunno," Ape said. "Supposin' Pan should get a yen for one of them pigs? To an ape, they might not look bad."

"Yeah, I suppose," Happy said. "I've put up with worse after a long time at sea."

'The trip ain't long enough to make them look good," Ape said.

"You're old," Happy told him. "You're getting old, Chief."

"It's a pleasure." Ape looked up. "Yeah, mister?"

The small, pot-bellied man had followed his sunburned nose to their table. He looked down at them belligerently, but perhaps that was the way he looked at every one in a world that had given him nothing but a sunburned nose. "I seen you fellas before."

"Yeah?" Ape made the query a dismissal.

"On the TV," the little man persisted. "That's the monkey that flowed around the world this morning."

"Naw," Ape said. "That was a chimpanzee. This is a rhesus monkey. Just a little mascot of ours."

"He looks pretty big to me," the little man said. "He looks just like the one on TV."

"Television makes things look larger or smaller," Happy told him. "According to the polarity. Negative, positive, you feed it the way you want it to look."

Ape reached out and tapped the insignia on Happy's arm. "Knows what he's talking about," he said. "Radioman, First Class."

The little man scratched his scanty hair. "I think he looks just like the one on TV."

"You can't win them all," Happy said.

Ape said, "Your dame is fighting with that other lady."

They all looked over. The consort of the pot-belly and the peeling nose was squared off, reaching for the shoulders of an artificial redhead in a halter and dirndl. "You're a stinking two-bit hoor," she said.

Her opponent, undaunted, countered with: "You're a crummy rotten bitch."

Pan Satyrus shuffled over to his friends' table, and laid two dollars in front of Happy. "They're fighting over whose turn it is to dance with me," he said, and went back to being an interested spectator.

"Hey, he talked," the pot-bellied one said.

"That is just the polarity," Happy assured him. "It's very bad tonight. We'll probably get a thunder-storm."

"You better go help your dame," Ape said.

"She can take care of herself," the little man said. "Can I buy you boys a beer?"

"Sure," Happy said.

The little man went to the end of the bar not threatened by his battling mate.

"You stink like an old craphouse," one lady said.

"Your mother lays the garbageman," the other one reported. They tugged at each other's hair.

Pan Satyrus sat on a bar stool, hugging his knees and enjoying himself. The little man bought and paid for three beers. "This little twerp could make us trouble," Ape surmised.

"Trouble is what man was born to," said Happy, who had had several beers after a hard day in the country.

The blonde got hold of the redhead's halter strap and started tugging. To aid the process, she brought one foot up and planted it in the other lady's stomach. "I'll strip you bare-nekkid," she screeched. The bartender vaulted the bar and shoved them aside. "Now cut that kinda talk out," he said. "This is a family joint."

The eyes of Pan Satyrus glowed with happiness.

"Looka the monkey," the bartender said. "He's a gent. You think a nice well-behaved monkey like that wants to dance with a couple of hoodlum tarts like you-all?"

"We're in the South," Ape said.

"Hooray for Dixie," said Happy.

"Now, take your turns an' dance like ladies," the bartender said. He shoved the redhead onto a bar stool. 'You plant your ass right there, and you give the monk a dollar an' dance with him nice," said the barman. "And no more dirty talk. This is a family joint."

The blonde gave Pan a dollar, which he shuffled across to hand to Happy, who was drinking potbelly's beer. Then he shuffled back, picked up the blonde and sat her on the biceps of his left arm. With his left hand on his hip, he twisted around the room to the music of the jukebox, which the bartender fed with his own dime.

Ape watched him gloomily. "The programs them keepers musta looked at."

Pot-belly said, "That's no or'nary monkey."

"Trained," Happy said. "We put a lot of training into him, long days at sea, you know. We were on ice-breaking patrol at the North Pole."

Pot-belly twitched his peeling nose. "Now I know you guys is kidding me. That's the Coast Guard, and you guys is Navy."

"The trouble wit' this country is too much eddi-cation," Ape said.

"I knew that was the monk went around the world," the small mouth under the red nose said.

"So okay." Happy made his voice as tough as possible. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Take it easy," Ape said.

"I never met any real celebrities before," the little man said. "Ya think he'd give me his autograph?"

"Apes can't write," Happy said.

"Yeah, that's right."

"Tellya what you do," Ape said. "Get a box an' some Portland cement, an' we'll get him to put his foot in it for you. Like that theayter in Hollywood."

"Hey, that's a peachy idea."

As soon as the little man was out the door, the two sailors stood up. "It was a good racket while it lasted," Happy said. Pan was coming towards them with another dollar.

The stars were hidden by a mist that bad blown in from the east. They walked up the road, the leather soles of the sailors clacking on the highway. Pan kept to the softer ground of the ditch, complaining a little when he made a mistake and let his foot slip into the trickle that ran along the bottom.

Then, suddenly, the night was gone and it was glaringly bright. From all around them spotlights flared. Pan Satyrus sat down in the ditch and covered his eyes with his hands; but the water made him jump again.

A voice came through a PA system: "You're surrounded, boys. Don't do anything foolish."

Ape and Happy slowly raised their hands. Between them, Pan covered his eyes again.

A non-amplified voice said, "Put that gun away, you ape," and a voice with a Southern accent called back, "Who you callin' ape, you monkey?"

The amplifier said: "We're Federal agents. No harm will come to you. Just stand where you are."

They had no choice. Pan was whimpering a little from the pain that the sudden light caused his eyes. Happy dropped a hand to the chimp's shoulder. Then he called, "Get those lights out of our eyes, will you?"

"Filter the shutters, boys," a man shouted, and the glare turned into a softer glow.

"Remember, I forced you," Pan said. "I don't want to jeopardize your careers."

Happy said, "What long words our mascot knows."

"Ya remember Jimmy Durante on the radio?" Ape asked suddenly. "I kin git along wit'out d' Navy, but kin d' Navy git along wit'out me?"

"You're getting more like Pan every minute," Happy said.

"More ape-like," Pan said.

So they were all laughing as Mr. MacMahon strode out of the night to them, appearing suddenly from behind the lights, a looming figure that came down to normal size as he walked towards them. "Good evening, gentlemen," he said.

Ape growled, "In case you're worryin', fuzz, we got Pan somethin' to eat."

"How's that?" Mr. MacMahon asked.

Happy said, "You rats had him locked in a cell, starving. So that's why he broke out."

"I have no recollection of anything like that," Mr. MacMahon said.

"On that phony tank farm you run."

"Don't be ridiculous. I am a Federal special agent. Why should I run a tank farm? Mr. Satyrus, we have a comfortable car here for you and your aides. And, by the way, Chief Bates and Mr. Bronstein, we've flown all your personal gear here from your ship. Your strikers packed it, I'm sure it will be all right. Now, here is the schedule. You go from here to Miami Airport by car. There's a jet plane waiting for you there; Dr. Bedoian is making all arrangements for your comfort in flight. But, considering the late hour, you might prefer to put off your take-off till tomorrow morning; that way there'll be a much bigger reception, and while I know you probably don't care about that sort of thing, New York is your home town, after all and—"

Under the cold stare of the simian eyes, he cut himself off with a low burble.

"Have you taken leave of your senses, Mr. MacMahon?" Pan Satyrus asked.

The Federal man stood there. He swallowed. Even with the spotlight shuttered down, it was very bright. Then Mr. MacMahon shrugged, and took a notebook out of his pocket. He opened it, and looked at it. He looked from Ape to Happy and back again, but there was no mercy in the sailors'-eyes. In a dead tone, he began reciting. "The Police Commissioner of New York will meet your plane at La Guardia Field. That's a big airport at New York, sir. He will escort you to the City Hall to be greeted by the Mayor. After short legal proceedings, you will be driven at the head of a motorcade up Broadway for a ticker-tape parade — that is the way distinguished guests are treated in New York — to Radio City, for the signing, and then to the Bronx, where the president of the Zoological Society will unveil a bronze tablet commemorating your birth."

"In the Primate House," Pan Satyrus said.

"In the evening there will be a dinner designed by the dietician of the Central Park Zoo for you and—"

Pan Satyrus put out his long arm. The notebook came away easily in his strong fingers; they twisted it and the torn leaves went fluttering in the night breeze. "Legal proceedings? Signing? You're a poor actor, Mr. MacMahon. You had better stick to giving the third degree."

"I'd hoped you'd forget that, sir," Mr. MacMahon said. "And we didn't hurt you."

"You locked me in a cell, you threatened to starve me."

"I'd hoped you'd forget that, sir… I was acting under orders."

The long lips of Pan Satyrus worked back and forth on his alarming teeth. "Legal proceedings? Signing?"

"A New York court is going to make you a legal human being," Mr. MacMahon said.

"This guy has taken his lumps," Ape said, looking at Mr. MacMahon.

"I have indeed, Chief," MacMahon replied.

Pan Satyrus put his knuckles on the road and swung his short, powerful body back and forth, apparently thinking. "A legal human being," he said. "How nice."

"Yes, sir."

"And how old will this legal human being be?"

Mr. MacMahon backed away. But he couldn't go very far; they were ringed in by the spotlights and the security men and the technicians that ran the lights. "None of this is my idea," he said. "I never practiced law, but I don't see how any judge can change your age, Mr. Satyrus."

"A legal human being seven and a half years old, then? An infant? Happy, isn't there compulsory education in New York?"

"There is in Brooklyn, Pan. That's how I got to read and write."

"So I'm to sit in a classroom with little brats and listen to some woman tell how to make paper dolls? I have seen Ding Dong School on television, Mr. MacMahon."

Perhaps the Federal man had, too; at any rate something made his voice crack like an adolescent's. "Maybe they'll give you an examination and a high school diploma, sir… I really don't know,".

Pan Satyrus sat on his heels and slowly groomed his chest with his fingernails. He turned to his friends. "That redhead used the most awful perfume. I don't think I'll ever get it off me, " He turned back. "Mr. MacMahon, there was something I was going to sign?"

Flush-faced, Mr. MacMahon lowered his head and looked at the roadway. "A contract with the broadcasting company, sir. Television."

Pan Satyrus scratched at his head vigorously. "Like you, Mr. MacMahon, I have never practiced law."

"1 studied it."

"Ah, so. Then, will you please tell me — how can a seven and a half year old legal human being sign a valid contract?"

"This he didn't get from TV," Happy said.

Over his shoulder, Pan said, "A law student from Fordham. He was my mother's night attendant for a while. More of a watchman than a keeper, really, he just sat in front of the cage studying all night"

Mr. MacMahon said, "Well, your guardian—"

“Go on.”

“A friend of yours. Bill Dunham." The words came out in a rush.

Pan Satyrus turned his back on Mr. MacMahon and faced Happy and Ape. "Do I have a friend named Bill Dunham?"

"I know the name," Happy said. "Wait a minute. That was the monk — sorry, the guy — who interviewed you on the pier this morning."

"No friend," Pan said.

"Oh. I see," MacMahon said. Then suddenly his face relaxed, he was for a moment almost soft looking. "Listen, I'm a guy under orders. Bring Pan Satyrus to New York — or else."

"Or else you stop eating?" Pan asked.

Mr. MacMahon said nothing.

"It's getting chilly," Pan went on. "Chimpanzees catch cold very easily, though not so easily as other primates. When you tried to starve me, it was to find out how to drive a spaceship at superluminous speeds. Doesn't the government care about that any more?"

Mr. MacMahon didn't say anything.

Surprisingly, it was Ape who came up with the right answer. "How much this TV outfit gonna pay Pan?"

"Ten thousand a week,".

Ape shoved his chief's cap straight on his head. "It figgers. Nobody can do nothing to a guy makes ten grand a week."

"And what do I do for it?" Pan suddenly thundered. "Catch peanuts thrown by a little blonde darling? Pretend to fall in love with an actress with an inflated mammary system? Or be the lovable father of a family of little chimps, played by stump-tailed macaques?"

"I see you have watched television," Mr. MacMahon said.

"If they give you anything to do," Happy said, "you don't want to do, act stupid."

One fist on the road, Pan swivelled around to face him. "Do you want me to do this, Happy? Your?

"Chimp, I'd like to once be able to say I had a friend who made ten grand a week. Only, I guess, being able to say I had one who turned down ten grand a week, that's okay, too. The point is, Pan, what else? We're on this road, and no place to go, no way to get out. And they're gonna put up a bronze plate, in the Primate House where you and these rhesuses were kids together."

Ape said, "My old mother — she said she was my aunt, on account of she was never married, but I know better — she used to tell me what curiosity done to a cat, Happy."

Pan said, "A little moment of silence by the cage where I was born — alone except for my two friends — a pause to recall happy, baby memories — ah, yes."

"You've got the voice for television," Mr. MacMahon said, briskly. "Let's go."