The Coming of the Quantum Cats

19 August 1983

9:15 P.M. Larry Douglas

A person in my line of work needs to keep his eyes open. See, I don't have a paycheck every week. There are plenty of weeks when I have a big fat zero, and some when I wind up minus. So I have to make a dollar wherever I can find it, whenever a chance turns up.

When Nyla told me about the poor sap she'd picked up the night before, the way Nyla tells me so many sometimes very useful things, I decided I'd better take a closer look at him. I smelled a possibility, although I wasn't sure yet what it was.

There's always a way to check out the chances if you look for it, and this one was easy. It was no trouble to drop in on his traffic-court hearing—and no big deal to get old Officer Pupp to drop the charges. "If you say he's okay, Larry—"

"I do."

"Then I'll just tell the clerk I had to get back on duty. But tell your pal to watch himself next time."

"I will," I said, and slipped him twenty as we shook hands. That's just a normal business expense for me. In my line of work you want to stay friendly with the cops. It might not keep them from busting you now and then, but at least they probably won't do you any third-degree stuff.

As Mom used to say, I probably take after Grandpa Joe. He was the bank robber, before he came to America and changed his name. Of course, he used a gun. I don't do that, ever, but then when people are so trusting about buying guaranteed flawless diamond rings on a street corner, or investing in warranted sure-to-double-in-value oil stocks over the counter, I don't have to. Unless one of them catches up with me. And as long as I'm tight with Nyla Christophe, that's not likely to happen without at least a little advance warning. So I keep her sweet, in all the ways I can, and, honest, I've got some really good ones.

I keep the Arabs sweet, too, though not in exactly the same way. There are places where I have to draw a line, so I don't do that with them. Any more . . . Well, the other part of that is that they really like their boys younger than I am now, anyway.

Sometimes I think I'd like it better if I were straight, but then I live in the world I've got.

So when I saw what the wimp was into I got the inspiration to get Ron involved. I've kept him sweet, too—a kind of investment, figuring that sooner or later there was a way to make it pay off. When he insulted the wimp, DeSota, I knew I was all right. See, Ronnie's really a mean-natured old grouch, but if you know how to handle him, he'll do almost anything. I know how to handle him. "Ron," I said—grave, serious, open-minded—"you're right. I should have seen it for myself."

He twinkled at me over his Scotch, one eyebrow humorously cocked the way he did. "What am I right about, Larry?" he asked. It was a really nice twinkle. They'd taught it to him back on the MGM lot in the old days, before he got involved in unions and stuff like that. You didn't want to rely too much on the twinkle or the grin, though, because the grin came off like the shutters off Admiral Nelson's gunports, and then boom you were shot dead.

"You're right," I said, "that Nicky DeSota here is a turkey who got himself into trouble with the FBI, and I had no right bringing him down here to ask you to get him out of it."

Of course, DeSota's jaw just about hit the floor. But Ron's jaw was the one that counted. It jutted out. The eyes narrowed. The whole face took on the steely look of the marshal who's just heard the outlaw didn't leave town after all.

"I think," he said firmly, "that you ought to tell me what's up, and let me make that decision myself."

"I don't want to cause trouble for you, Ron."

"Trouble, Larry, is something I'm used to," he snapped, and I could almost see him trying to catch a reflection of himself in the French doors.

What could I do? Exactly what I wanted to do, of course. "You're right, Ron," I said, and began to fill Ron in. It took time.

Ron is not what you'd call swift. Neither was DeSota. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him glowering at the floor, but he didn't look up or say anything.

And, actually, he had nothing at all to complain about in the way I told his story for him. I explained that it was a clear case of mistaken identity, although the person detected at Daleylab was Dominic's twin, as far as all appearances went. Then I paused, while Ron signaled for another round of drinks, and sat for a moment to take it all in.

"This other guy looked just like him, right?" asked Ron, double-checking.

"Just like him, yep."

"And had the same fingerprints?"

"That's right, Ron."

"But it wasn't him," he finished.

I nodded.

"Then," said Ron, alertly summing up, "it was a clear case of mistaken identity, as I see it."

I gave an admiring little shake of the head, glancing at Dominic to nudge him into doing the same. Dominic wasn't having any. He didn't say anything, but the look he gave me was icy cold. He was not at all pleased with me, Dominic DeSota, but he just didn't understand how you get along with old Ronnie.

Ronnie stood up. "Larry," he said, "you and Nicky will stay for dinner, of course." Of course. It was after ten o'clock at night! Only an ex-movie star would keep hours like that. "Just take it easy while I throw some clothes on, all right? If you'd like some music, just tell Hiram here to switch on the stereo."

And he left us to make up, a task I did not think would be easy.

"What the hell were you trying to pull?" demanded DeSota, as soon as the old man was out of earshot.

I soothed him. "Now, just take it easy. Don't you see what I was doing?"

"I hope not!"

"I was getting him on your side, that's all," I explained. "See, Ron's a deep-dyed liberal. He's committed. Unshakable. He was blacklisted in Hollywood, years ago, for union activities, and—"

I stopped, because the young black man was back in the room. "Some music with the missus's compliments, gentlemen," he murmured, and disappeared again. Some kind of long-hair music came out of hidden speakers, not too loud. I was glad for it; it made it less likely that anybody would be listening to what we said. "Anyway," I finished, "he was lucky. He put his movie earnings into Illinois real estate, and wound up rich."

Dominic was frowning. "Did you say liberal?"

"Yeah, but in his case it's all right, Nicky, because he's rich. Nobody minds a rich man being a little bit of a pinko-they know he won't do anything against the way things are."

"So then what's the use of being here?" he demanded.

"Because if Ron takes an interest in you, he can help you a lot. You got any other offers?"

He shrugged morosely.

I left it at that. I hadn't told him that the other reason nobody minded Ron being a little lefty in his politics was that nobody minded a pinko who was all talk and no action. And that was Ron.

But I wasn't ready for Dominic DeSota to find that out yet.

"This," said Ron gallantly, "is my dear wife, Janie."

"Charmed," she said, when DeSota and I had told her how glad we were to meet her, and then she and Ron led the way into the dining room. It wasn't big. A room that can seat maybe twenty people is big. This one could have served as mess hall for the Grand Army of the Republic. It was huge. And around us the music swelled.

I called across the table to Dominic, "You like the sound?" He was turning his head this way and that, the way people do when they haven't heard stereo before. "It's a new system," I explained. "Just listen to that sound! Hear how the violin sounds like it's on one side of you and the rest of the orchestra on the other? Ron's had this stuff for over a year now."

"It'll be on the market for everybody before long," Ron said modestly. "The only thing is that they don't make very many stereo records yet—and most of them more Janie's kind of music than mine." He grinned uxoriously down the long table to his wife, at the far end. She signaled yet another of the young black men to begin serving the salad before she picked up the conversational ball.

"I suspect Mr. DeSota likes the same sort of music I do," she offered sweetly. "Isn't that true, Mr. DeSota? You're obviously enjoying the Beethoven violin concerto."

But Dominic wasn't playing their game. "Is that what it is?" he demanded. "Actually, I was thinking it's the same piece Chief Agent Christophe was playing while she was questioning me."

Ron dropped his salad fork. "Nyla Christophe! You didn't say Nyla Christophe was involved here, Larry!"

"I guess I should have," I said, all open-faced and contrite. "Does it make a difference?"

"A difference! Jesus—I mean, gosh, Larry, of course it does!"

"She can't do you any harm any more," his wife called down the table.

"That's not what I'm worried about! I'd like to do her some! Nyla Chnstophe," he said, turning back to Dominic, "is one of the worst agents in the FBI. Did you notice she doesn't have any thumbs?"

"You bet," said Dominic. "I wondered how come a—"

"I'll tell you how come," Ron said. "Shoplifting! Then dope! She had three convictions before she was twenty-one years old—the third time meant loss of thumbs, and that's what she got. She was a music student up till then, but she got hooked on that killer weed and had to steal to support her habit!"

"And she got into the FBI?" Dominic demanded, pop-eyed with either wonder or indignation.

"She got religion," Ron roared. "She went to the local office before the bandages were off her thumb. Said she'd been born again, and she wanted to turn in every marijuana dealer and fence she knew in Chicago—and, believe me, she knew plenty of them! They kept her busy fingering and testifying for a year, then the old bureau chief, Federman, he got a special waiver for her to go on salary to infiltrate a bunch of union organizers in Dallas. They got fifteen convictions there, and Nyla was on her way!"

"In a way, Ron," I offered, "it's pretty impressive that somebody like her should make it to chief agent."

"Because she's a felon? Gosh, Larry! Where do you think they get most of their recruits?"

"No, I mean because she's a woman," I said.

"Yeah," muttered Ron. "Well—" He was in a bind there, I knew, because Janie was all for "women's rights," whatever she meant by that. "Well," he said, "the thing is, whatever else she is, what she is now is part and parcel of that whole reactionary gang that's running the FBI. The same ones that framed me, years ago! The ones that're hand-in-glove with the Arabs and that whole fundamentalist bunch in Congress that—"

Dominic interrupted him then. I could have punched Dominic out for doing it, because Ron was just getting to something I really wanted to hear, but Dominic couldn't wait. "Just what I say!" he cried. "Ever since the Arabs and the Moral Might got together they've been turning the clock back! Why, do you know, at my local swimming pool they let the state police come in and raid? Any man who's caught without the top to his bathing suit can get a five-dollar fine!"

Ron darted a humorous glance at his wife. "Should've seen us a few years back in Hollywood, eh, Janie? Men and women topless sometimes—and sometimes a lot more than topless."

"Now, Ron," she said, blushing. "Let's just try to concentrate on Mr. DeSota's problem."

I said gratefully, "Thank you." Then I turned to Ron and put the question: "What do you think, Ron? I know this is a serious matter, even if a principle is involved. I don't want you to take any risks—"

Ron looked noble. "It's a serious matter," he declaimed, "and a principle is involved. I'll help you, Dominic."

"You will?" cried DeSota.

"Of course," said Ron benignly. "First thing, I'll write a letter to The New York Times. Then, let's see, what do you think, Janie? Shall we try to get a demonstration going? Get some of your friends to march in front of the FBI headquarters in Chicago?"

"If you like, Ron," she said, "although some of them are on peace bonds now. I don't know if they'll want to go to jail."

Dominic looked doubtful. "I don't know if I want anybody to go to jail for me," he said.

"Urn," reflected Ron. "Then how about this? Get up a petition? Dominic can take a card table and a folding chair down to the Loop somewhere and get people to sign a demand that the FBI, uh, that they—What exactly do you want them to do?" he asked.

"Well, I don't know exactly," said Dominic. "I mean, I'm not charged with anything."

"But they interrogated you! Beat you brutally!"

"Yes, sure, but you can't blame them altogether. They did have those pictures and fingerprints."

This man was being entirely too reasonable for my taste—or for Ron's. "You're sticking up for them," said Ron. "Shows fair-mindedness. That's good—but don't carry it to any foolish extreme! They're still fascists."

Now, that was more like it. I cleared my throat. "When you say 'fascists,' Ron," I said, "you mean—"

"I mean that the FBI has turned itself into an exact copy of the Gestapo or the KGB," he declared.

"You're against them, then?"

He cocked an eyebrow at me. "Ah, Larry," he said, helping himself to the roast lamb, "I'm not just against them, I think it is every American's duty to resist them."

"You mean with demonstrations and petitions," I pressed.

"If those are enough, yes," he said bravely. "If not, then with whatever measures are necessary. I think—"

But Janie didn't want him to say what he thought. "Ron, dear," she scolded fondly, "you're keeping Seth from passing the potatoes. Why don't you take some and let him move on?"

"Of course, my love," said Ron, and the subject was changed. It didn't matter. I was content. As soon as we'd got through the main course I discovered that it was past eleven o'clock, and began organizing DeSota for the return trip.

"Oh, no, Ron, no dessert. No, not even coffee, thanks. Dominic here has to work in the morning, you know. Yes, the dinner was lovely, and thank you! And thanks for your help, Ron . . . and if you'll just get my car out . .

"You haven't forgotten anything?" asked Jane hospitably, looking around for hats or briefcases.

I shook my head. "I've got everything I need," I assured her, and it was the absolute truth.

I dropped DeSota at an interurban station. He squawked resentment, because they only ran every hour or so at that time, but, as I pointed out to him, it was getting late and I couldn't be expected to give the whole night to saving his dumb ass. It was nearly two when I got to the compound on Lake Shore Drive. I left my car in the underground garage, flashed my pass to the guard, and got in the elevator. I was thinking about Ron. Poor old guy! Just out of touch with the modern currents of politics in America. He had some crazy, sentimental notion about Franklin D. Roosevelt or somebody—I don't know—anyway, he simply didn't understand what was going on.

The thing I always tried to keep in mind was that I could've been some kind of pinko myself, if Gramp had kept his principles when he came to America. Back in Russia he was a bank robber and a revolutionary. When it got too hot for him there he came to Ellis Island, still hanging on to some of the profits from the bank robberies, but leaving all the revolutionary ideas behind. That's how J. Douglas and Sons got started; and J. Douglas and Sons is where the money came from to put me through Yale. But suppose Gramp had had to leave the rubles behind and skedaddle out of the country with nothing but a lot of half-baked political ideas, like his buddy Lenin? And what would I have turned out to be, without those good poli-sci courses at Yale to keep me straight?

Straight as a string, I let myself into the big studio apartment on the fourteenth floor. There were no lights, but the shades on the big picture window were wide open and enough illumination seeped in from the street for me to undress and slip into the bed. I put my arm around my girl, cupping a breast, and whispered in her ear. "Nyla, sweet?"

She woke up easily and fast, as she always did. Her voice wasn't even thick as she asked, "How'd it go?"

"That," I said, bringing another hand to bear, "you can judge for yourself when you hear what I got on my wire recorder."

She turned toward me, nuzzling into my neck. "Are you going to play it for me?"

I said, "Why, yes, honey, I absolutely am. But first there's some other business I'd like to take care of, if you don't mind making a quick trip to the bathroom first

She lay relaxed in my arms, "Not necessary," she said. "After all, I knew you were coming, so it's all taken care of in advance. . .

And I see you're ready too." And so I was. If I hadn't been when I slid under the covers, I was by now. Lacking a couple of thumbs had never been a handicap to Nyla Christophe, in bed or anywhere else.