The employment service, however, was a different matter. It was like someone had dropped an Apple Store onto the main drag of an Old West ghost town. Its sign was bright, the paint on its walls was fresh, its front windows sparkled, and the lines on the pavement out front were as crisp and bright as a full moon, if one had been hanging over the nearby mountains. Or going behind a cloud, drat it. The place made every other establishment in the strip mall look shabby by comparison.
I got out of the cab and approached Temporary Fillings with guarded optimism, hoping the storefront’s appearance meant whoever owned the business would be equally sharp. I could see a young woman with straight dark hair moving quickly to open the door for me. Behind her, a thin man with similarly colored hair and a neat goatee was sitting at a desk having an animated telephone conversation.
“Welcome to Temporary Fillings,” said the young woman. She was facing me, but as she moved I could see that her dark hair was long enough to extend past her waist. Her eyes were dark, too, but they danced when she smiled and she was smiling at me.
“How can we help you? I’m Dulce Jiménez and this…”—she waved at the man on the phone—“is my partner, Jorge Vargas.”
Jorge looked up from his call and waved in a friendly gesture that I took to mean “Sorry I can’t give you the attention you deserve right now.”
“Are you looking for temporary work?” asked Dulce.
“No, I’m just in town for the convention. I’m Jack Buckston, by the way. I’m visiting from Atlanta.”
“How can we help you, Jack?” Dulce asked, escorting me over to a comfortable office chair at a round table on the left. “Would you like a bottle of water?”
“Yes, thanks.”
I remembered that it was often easier to get a favor from someone if you’d already accepted one. I didn’t like that sort of psychological manipulation, but Dulce seemed so nice I just went with the flow. And once I’d thought about it, I realized I was thirsty. Dulce pulled two chilled bottles from a small refrigerator with a clear glass door behind the table and sat down in a chair across from me. We both took off the wide lids on our bottles and raised them slightly to acknowledge each other. This was going to be harder than expected. I hate lying and expected I’d have to lie to get the information I needed.
“I’m trying to find an old friend,” I said, crossing the fingers of the hand that was resting out of sight under the table. “When I was at GALTEX yesterday I saw her piloting the GalCon Systems advertising blimp, but she didn’t see me. I made a fool out of myself waving and shouting but couldn’t get her attention.”
Dulce’s eyes grew wider when she examined my face more closely. I guessed she was imagining what I must have looked like hopping up and down and shouting like a maniac on the show floor.
“The GalCon Systems blimp, you say?”
“That’s right. Her name’s Sally Ryde. She’s about five-five, has short brown hair, and loves yoga.”
“Let me see what I can do.”
Dulce walked from the table to a second desk that was even with Jorge’s but on the opposite side of the office. She returned with a tablet the size of a piece of copier paper and was tapping buttons as she approached. She stood behind me, handed me the tablet, and watched while a video played. Jorge finished his phone call and Dulce beckoned him to come over and watch it, too.
“Press the PLAY button, Jack, if that is your name,” said Dulce.
She was still using her velvet glove customer service voice, but there was a hint of steel fist showing. I hit PLAY.
It was a video of me flying the GalCon Systems blimp toward the apex of the Stratosphere Hotel chasing Cornell. It captured my foolhardy leap to land on his shark-shaped dirigible and documented me grabbing the banner for dear life, zooming down the Strip, landing on top of the half-scale Eiffel Tower at Paris Las Vegas, and being wrapped up there, hoping to be rescued. The last image in the video was a full-on shot of my panic-stricken face while the only thing between me and a five hundred foot drop was a few yards of vinyl. I was so busted.
“Over fourteen million hits,” said Dulce, drawing my attention to the YouTube stats.
“And that’s just here on Earth,” added Jorge.
Luckily, my face was so distorted by the high winds during the chase and by fear while I was on top of the tower that you couldn’t really tell it was me. At least that’s what I told myself. I didn’t think I spotted the Xenotech Support logo on my shirt showing up on screen, either. Maybe I could live this down, or have one of Shepherd’s spook friends modify the video. I shrugged my shoulders and looked up at Dulce and Jorge.
“Sorry about that,” I said.
“Sorry about what?” asked Jorge. “That was awesome!”
“It’s not every day a celebrity walks into our office,” said Dulce.
“Well, Elvis was here just yesterday,” said Jorge.
“Thirty-five Elvis impersonators,” said Dulce, “and we placed every one of them in the Kingsworth Electronics Flash Mob.”
She took her former chair across from me and Jorge sat in one next to her.
“It’s going to happen right outside the main entrance to the Convention Center at five tonight to promote their new security hardware,” Dulce added. “They’re doing Viva, Las Vegas to get everybody’s attention, then Suspicious Minds to segue into their new offerings.”
“That would get my attention,” I said. “I don’t suppose you’d give me any hints about how to find my friend—like an address?”
I didn’t have much hope but put on my best adorable puppy dog expression—the one that always makes Poly wag her finger and say I wasn’t playing fair.
“Stop that,” said Dulce. “It looks ridiculous. If you’re looking for Sally, you’ll find her dancing at A Stairway to Heaven on Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays from three to eleven.”
“She’s good, too,” said Jorge.
He winked at me. What was I about to get myself into? I’d never visited that sort of club before.
“I can’t wait to tell my wife about meeting you,” said Dulce. She looked like she’d just booked a Frank Sinatra and three Wayne Newtons.
I smiled at her uncertainly, then stood up and nervously took a long swallow from my water bottle. Reflexively, I bit off a big chunk of the bottle’s pomegranate flavored top and side. Eating biodegradable bottles always reminded me of crunching through cake cones after finishing soft serve ice cream.
“Nice to meet you both,” I said, walking quickly to the door and escaping.
“The club’s a few blocks east of here down on Tropicana,” said Jorge as the door closed behind me. “Wear a tux.”
Now I was really confused.
Chapter 24
“Cause every girl crazy ’bout a sharp dressed man.”
— ZZ Top
My phone called me an autocab. While I waited for my transportation to arrive I remembered how badly my first tux had been damaged at the Star Wars-themed ceremony and surprise dinner party Terrhi’s parents had thrown last week back in Atlanta. The only part of that ensemble I’d been able to preserve was the fancy silk top hat Terrhi had given me. It was a shame that I’d only had a chance to wear my penguin suit for a few hours before it had been trashed. If I needed a tuxedo to attend the club where Sally danced, I’d have to find a formal wear shop and see what they had available on short notice. I didn’t want to wait to find Sally, since I had both our dinner check-in meeting and the Cornell poker game coming up after dark.
My cab—actually a robo-chariot, arrived a few seconds later. It was sponsored by Caesar’s Palace and painted to resemble a real chariot, complete with virtual horses holographically projected in front. When I climbed in my phone followed ancient tradition and offered words of advice.
“Sic transit gloria mundi,�
� it said.
Thus passes the glory of the world—the words spoken by slaves to victorious Roman generals celebrating triumphs to make sure they stayed humble. Julius Caesar circumvented that custom by having himself declared divine, until his so-called friends proved that all men are mortal. I, on the other hand, had no illusions about my mortality. I just wanted to stay alive and in one piece long enough to enjoy plenty of quality time with Poly.
“Is there anywhere I can rent a tux near here?” I asked.
“Northeast corner of West Flamingo and South Durango,” said my phone. “Dee Luxe Formal Wear: For a Tux That Doesn’t Suck. It’s next to a mortuary.”
“Sounds efficient for formal funerals,” I said, “if you want to be a spiff stiff.”
“They have dozens of five star reviews,” my phone continued, “and an in-and-out-in-thirty-minutes tuxedo guarantee.”
“A perfect fit for what I need,” I said. “But why would a tux shop need such fast turnaround?”
“There are nine hundred and forty-seven wedding chapels in Greater Las Vegas,” said my phone. “Three of them are within a block.”
“Got it. Let’s check the place out.”
When we pulled up in front I saw that the shop was located in a converted McDonald’s restaurant from the nineteen sixties. The framework of the Golden Arches was still in place, but the curves were filled with millions of tiny congruency-powered bulbs that flashed in moving kaleidoscopic patterns, inviting clients to approach. Tuxedos and gowns—most in basic black or white—were on display in the front windows. More colorful options were displayed on the sides, including a pastel dinner jacket from the days of disco that was the exact shade of a Shamrock Shake.
“Is there anywhere else nearby?” I asked.
“Not unless you go back to the Strip,” my phone replied. “You don’t like pastels?”
“No,” I said. “I’m sticking with black.”
“Probably more options in your size with that color anyway.”
I climbed out of my chariot and watched as its virtual horses stomped, then cantered away. Except for the bilious green jacket, the store was inviting, so I pushed open the plate glass front door and approached the counter where a skinny young man in a maroon velvet tux with gold piping was standing. His name tag read “Ronaldo.” His head was pale and shaved. He looked like a cue ball with eyes.
“I want a tuxedo,” I said.
“Do you want ties with that?” asked the man.
“Everybody’s a comedian,” said my phone.
“You’re one to talk.”
“When do you need it, sir?” asked the bald young man.
“How about now?” I said. “Would now work?”
“No problem,” said the man. “Though if you’d needed it yesterday, you’re late.”
“My time machine is in the shop being recalibrated,” I said, “so now will have to do.”
“Very good, sir.” The man looked me over as if his eyes were a laser scanner. “You look like a 38 long. I have just the thing if you don’t mind going with a top of the line fabric.”
I could tell he was trying to upsell me, but didn’t care. Time was more important than money.
“That’s fine,” I replied.
“Changing room’s on the right. I’ll bring it to you.”
I found the door to the specified room without any trouble and took off my shirt, pants and shoes. I was still wearing my bulletproof Orishen pupa silk undershirt that I’d promised Poly I’d treat as a second skin if she’d do the same with hers. The shirts had saved our lives, or at least our bodies’ structural integrity, several times already. I heard footsteps outside the door, then Ronaldo’s voice.
“Here you go, sir. Our best black and white model.”
He tapped on the door and handed me a heavy bundle when I opened it a few inches.
Thanks to Poly’s help with my last tuxedo, I knew to start with the white ruffled shirt. I buttoned it in place and fitted the studs and cuff links into the relevant slots. Then I attached the suspenders to the pants and slid them on, admiring the crisp creases where they were pressed and the smooth satin tape on the outside of each leg. I had a choice between a vest and a cummerbund and opted for the latter, in black this time, not a Dauushan pink plaid like I’d worn for last week’s dinner party. A black bow tie nestled jauntily into the shirt’s wing collar and the patent leather shoes that anchored the ensemble fit like their lasts had been modeled on my feet.
After I put on the tuxedo’s dinner jacket, I checked myself out in the dressing room’s three-sided mirror. That’s why I was able to spot the pant legs, jacket sleeves and shirt cuffs adjusting themselves to an optimal length. It was disconcerting while it was happening but the final results looked terrific.
“What’s with the hems adjusting themselves?” I asked, expecting that Ronaldo would be waiting outside the dressing room door.
“They’re a special blend with one quarter Orishen morphabric,” he responded.
I stepped out of the dressing room.
“This is going to cost me an arm and a leg, isn’t it?”
“More like your first born child,” said the bald man.
“Good thing I’m not married, then.”
“One is not necessarily required for the other, sir.”
“True enough,” I said. “Let me know the damage and give me a bag for the clothes I wore in here.”
“Excellent,” said Ronaldo. “A man who’s both decisive and well organized.”
“You don’t have to keep kissing up now that I’ve said I’m buying it,” I told him.
“Of course I do, sir. You might come back and buy more,” Ronaldo added, bowing. “Can I interest you in a silk top hat?”
“No thanks. I already have one,” I said. “On second thought—can you have the clothes I’m not wearing messengered over to the Grand Pyridian? I don’t really want to carry them around with me.”
“Of course, sir.”
I considered that I’d be lucky if he only marked the messenger service fee up by fifty percent. I transferred my wallet, Swiss Army Knife, handkerchief and other items from my khakis to my tuxedo pants, then handed him the bundle.
“Please have them sent to the penthouse suite of the three-sided tower.”
“Certainly, sir,” he said, looking suitably impressed.
After negotiations, the bill for the tux proved to be only my right arm up to the elbow. I hoped the investment would pay off in helping me track down Sally and Rosalind. Either way, I had a tux again.
Ronaldo shook my hand and walked me to the front entrance of Dee Luxe Formal Wear. For a moment, I wondered who Dee Luxe was?
“Come back any time,” he said. “We’re having a special on Disco Tuxedos over Memorial Day weekend.”
“Thanks,” I said, knowing I’d be in Atlanta well before then.
I left the place and turned around to admire my reflection in the store’s tall windows. I looked like a double-naught spy, as my step-dad used to say when he was playing his country hick persona. It made me wish I drank so I could have a signature cocktail like a vodka martini, shaken, not stirred. Mine would probably be a Diet Starbuzz on the rocks with a twist of lime.
“How far is it to the club?” I asked my phone.
“Three blocks.”
“Great. I’ll walk.”
I needed some exercise to calm down before going in one of “those” sorts of clubs. With an obvious stage name like Sally Ryde, I had no illusions about where I’d find Rosalind’s associate.
Except for running a casino on Orish, I’d led a sheltered life, especially where women in various stages of undress were concerned. I could count the number of physically proximate human females I’d seen naked on my thumbs. Intellectu
ally, I understood that women had every right to make a living however they wanted, but I expected my face would be perpetually red and my eyes wouldn’t know where to look or not look the entire time I was inside. Still, I was prepared to take one for the team.
“Which way?” I asked my phone.
“South two blocks then east.”
“Right.”
I started walking. The afternoon temperature was in the low eighties, but it was a dry heat. I think the Las Vegas Bureau of Tourism requires me to say that. I’d expected a black tuxedo to be a little warmer than a polo shirt and khakis but was pleasantly surprised that I was feeling cool, not overheated. That meant I must be sweating because I was nervous.
I passed a convenience store and stopped in to buy a pack of Nicósn zeaberry mints. I wanted my breath to be fresh if I ended up face to face with Sally. A small sign at the checkout in English, Spanish and Korean said “No Credit for Purchases Under Five Galcreds,” so I pulled a lonely ten galcred note from my wallet. The store’s robo-clerk must have been out of five cred notes because it gave me eight chucks and some useless smaller coins instead.
After first contact, one galcred coins for use on Earth were tinted yellow-gold and stamped with a smiley face on one side and the coin’s value on the other. Chucks were named for Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, the young Pyr who led the delegation inviting Terra to join the Galactic Free Trade Association. I think having chucks rhyme with bucks made American adoption of galactic currency standards easier. Maybe the coins would come in handy if I had to tip dancers at the club?
I left the store, chewed on a couple of mints, and realized that Las Vegas is not a very pedestrian-friendly city. Several sections of the sidewalk were torn up or blocked off with construction barriers. Despite minor detours, I made good time on my peregrinations and was standing in front of the club in less than ten minutes. That’s when I learned that I’d misinterpreted what Dulce had told me about where Sally was dancing.
Xenotech What Happens: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 3) Page 19