Flash and Filigree

by Terry Southern

  “Yes, it was nice,” Babs admitted wistfully. “I mean, it was so nice of you to do it. Oh, I hope everything is all right for Fred—Dr. Eichner. Wasn’t it terrible?”

  “Please Babs,” Ralph pleaded, “just this once, and from now on I’ll ask you weeks ahead of time.”

  “Well,” said Babs, sighing in surrender, “I just hope you don’t get any wrong ideas about it.”

  Ralph beamed, and Babs continued, seriously emphasizing the understatement of it. “I mean, it’s not exactly something I’m in the habit of doing!”

  Chapter XV

  AT 6:30, NOT MORE than four hours since their first meeting, Martin Frost was again talking to Dr. Eichner, this time by phone. His voice sounded thick.

  “I don’t like it, Doc,” he admitted. “I don’t like the looks-of-it.”

  “Where are you now, Frost?”

  “Mayfair Room . . . Why don’t you come on down?”

  “I see. Good. Now, what’s he doing—at this minute? You can see him, of course, from where you are?”

  “He’s at the bar, sipping his martini as pretty as you please—with his friend!” There was a bitter edge in Frost’s thick mimicry, and an almost vindictive effeminacy. “Say, why don’t you come on down?” he added in a more normal tone.

  “You can see him from where you’re phoning?”

  “Well, I can’t actually see him from here, but he’s there all right. He’s at the bar.”

  “Bad business! Listen, I’m coming down there. Now, you cover him. Get a line on him. If he leaves before I arrive, stay with him—tail him, eh? Contact me, at first opportunity, there at the bar. I’ll wait there for your call. Do you have it?”

  “Right.”

  “Get yourself a vantage point—as unobtrusive as possible. When I arrive, I’ll sit beside you, but we won’t exchange any sign of recognition. Do you understand?”

  “Okay, when are you coming?”

  “I’ll leave at once. I’ll be there within the quarter-hour.”

  “Okay.”

  “Very well then . . . Now, you’re doing a good job, Frost. Things are looking up. We may break this case sooner than you think.”

  “I’ll see you here then,” said Frost in a heavy swallow. He had evidently taken his drink with him into the phone booth.

  “Right you are,” said Fred Eichner.

  The Mayfair Room is an off-the-dining-room lounge in one of the large, downtown hotels. A dark kidney-shaped bar spreads heavy and gleaming in a softly lit attempt at British respectability, with booths and very small tables bordering the three prominent sides. Most of these booths have little doors, which may be fastened—and several were, presenting now a sort of paneled wall, exuding through its openings at the top the flickering glow of candlelight that often patterned the ceiling with wavering, fragmentary shadows of those inside the booths.

  Beneath the gradually burdening echo of music from the farther dining room, a current of treble and breathless laughter fled around the bar, flippantly spurred by the tinkles of stirring rods on icy glass.

  There was a formal uneasiness about the carefully dressed people at the bar. From all appearances, about half of them were pretending to be smugly sinister, and the other half, desperately, not to notice. It was transparent, however, that the men were there through a deep, innocent nervousness, and the women, too, because of it.

  Martin Frost struck a garish contrast with this setting. When Dr. Eichner entered, he saw Frost immediately, leaning across the bar. Sloven, in his unpressed suit, talking to one of the three tight-lipped waiters, he looked like a rumpled giant.

  The Doctor had prepared a perfect countenance of detachment for the situation, but this was smashed when Frost turned his half closed-eyed face fully toward him and, without changing his position across the bar, said in a loud voice: “How ya’ keepin’, Doc?” Evidently, he had been drinking quite heavily, for even before the Doctor reached him he spoke out again: “How you keepin’, Doc?”

  “Hello,” said Dr. Eichner evenly. He could not yet be sure that Frost wasn’t putting on a strategic act.

  “What’ll you have, Doc?” Frost was speaking much too loud, and several people were forced to glance caustically in his direction, concealing their embarrassment beneath looks of cynical amusement.

  “Eh? Oh, martini for me, please.”

  “Double martini for Doc Fred Eichner!” said Frost, bringing his hand down flat on the bar, but soft enough not to make any sound.

  “Take it easy, pal,” the bartender said, not looking directly at Frost.

  Frost opened his eyes very wide, slowly exaggerating an expression of surprise at the bartender who had begun to wipe vigorously over an unseen spot on the bar. Frost addressed him in a dramatic stage-whisper. “Right!” he agreed. “And do you know why? Come here, eh?” His enunciation was crisp now and, seeming perfectly sober, he winked at the bartender and took him by the wrist, gently but firmly pulling him closer, raising himself on his stool as he did. “Because easy-does-it! Eh? Ha! Ha ha ha!” And, as he spoke, he lifted the shot-glass he held in his other hand and cracked it from top to bottom in a slow, one-finger squeeze.

  “Double martini for Fred Eichner,” he concluded, reverting with a heavy frown, to his drunkenness.

  At just that moment, two people left the booth directly behind them. Indicating the empty space there with a curt nod, Dr. Eichner spoke to the bartender: “We’ll have our drinks in here, please”; then to Frost: “You don’t mind, do you, Frost? I’m rather tired, and the light seems to be softer there.”

  Frost grinned idiotically. “Okay. You’re the Doctor!”

  When they were seated, Dr. Eichner casually surveyed the room, while Frost smiled sheepishly into his own fresh drink. There was no sign of Mr. Treevly.

  The Doctor had withheld speaking to Frost, waiting for a cue from him. When it was not forthcoming, however, and Frost—even though it was apparent that he was not being observed now by anyone other than Eichner himself—continued to look almost happily lost, nodding and humming low, the Doctor was forced to bring matters to a point. “Well?” he demanded in a whisper.

  It was evidently what Frost had been waiting for, since now he beamed modestly and, raising a circled finger of confidence, he winked slyly at Fred Eichner. “In-the-bag!” he said.

  The Doctor carefully closed the doors of the booth. “Where is he?”

  “He isn’t here now, he left while I was on the phone.”

  “Bad business!” snapped Eichner.

  “No, wait,” said Frost, looking very earnest, but quite drunk now. “Wait. I’ve got a line on this guy, Doc. You see, I know where he is.”

  Dr. Eichner drank about half his martini, showing his impatience. “Go ahead.”

  “Well, what time is it?”

  “Twelve minutes after seven.”

  “Good! Good. Now, listen. Treevly—and his friend—are going to be at a TV broadcast at eight o’clock, a studio broadcast—and, so-are-we! Eh?” He downed his drink in a gulp.

  “You’re sure about that,” said the Doctor sternly.

  “It cost us a fiver,” said Frost loudly, “but I’m-as-sure as you’re . . . Doc-tor Freddie Eichner! Eh? Haw! Ha ha ha!”

  “Lower your voice,” said Eichner. “There’s no advantage in drawing attention to ourselves at this point.” He eyed Frost critically. “You seem to be intoxicated. Are you aware of that?”

  Before the other could reply, there was a discreet knock at the door of the booth, almost a scratching, and a girl’s soft voice, “Marty, Marty . . .” Martin opened the door to a well-dressed, animated young blonde who kept glancing from the booth to the people seated behind her. Dr. Eichner noticed that almost everyone in sight was watching their booth.

  “Doc, I want you to meet one of the sweetest little ladies in the business. Jean-baby, this is Doc Fred Eichner.”

  “How do you do,” said the Doctor, half rising.

  “Have a seat, Jean-baby, take a
load-off,” Frost went on, lolling his great drunken head.

  The girl laughed engagingly. She had an extremely small, insect-like face, tapered above by blonde hair, neatly piled in a sort of bullet-shape. She sat down by Dr. Eichner, immediately very close. Frost closed the booth doors, but, before doing so, he dramatically shook his fist at the people sitting nearby.

  “Take it easy, Marty,” the girl cautioned, laying a hand on his wrist, then at once turned her smiling attention to Dr. Eichner. “Well, what brings you to the big city, Doctor?”

  Dr. Eichner had not yet fathomed Frost’s methods; so, for the moment he could only follow on the tide of things, which he assumed was being more or less patterned to some purpose by Frost himself.

  “Low cars and high women,” he replied dryly, rising to the spirit of the talk.

  “Hey, this is no hick,” cried Jean-baby with an air of serious discovery; and, for emphasis, she insistently nudged Frost’s arm. “This is no cornball hick!” She looked avidly from one man to the other.

  Frost nodded, but addressed his remark, quite soberly, to the Doctor. “She is an acquaintance of you-know-who.”

  Fred Eichner returned the nod and waxed sage behind the glass he raised to the girl.

  “No secrets, Marty!” she snapped, instinctively touching the purse in her lap. “Keep it clean, or count me out!” For an instant she expressed a sullen self-pity, then turned spritely again to the Doctor. “You’re no hick, Doc, I can tell you that. Say! Gin-flips all around! My treat!”

  Dr. Eichner started to object, but Frost caught his eye with a scathing frown, and the girl was allowed to proceed. “Grade-A all around, Tony,” she called through the closed door. “Three slops for three slobs, eh Doc?” She gave him a sultry-lidded wink, and while they waited for the drinks, further engaged the Doctor’s attention by producing harsh sounds to accompany the music that drifted in from the dining room, all the while dreamily seeking his eyes and swaying slightly as though she were dancing. Beside her, the Doctor sipped his Martini in restrained anticipation, though, apparently, it was not yet propitious to bring the talk around to Treevly, as Frost, opposite, stared contemplatively down into his empty shot-glass, even a little morosely it would seem.

  When the drinks arrived, Jean-baby set them in a row in front of her and, leaning cautiously forward, took a sip or two from each white brimmed glass, leaving a trace of lipstick on the rims, which she wiped off in turn with a twist of her thumb and forefinger. Then, bringing her purse up on the table, she opened it and took out a household can of ground nutmeg, and a pencil. She proceeded to empty the contents of the can proportionately into each glass, stirring with the pencil as she did.

  An instant after this operation had begun, Dr. Eichner, obviously troubled, looked to Frost for a cue, whereupon the latter winked with solemn confidence and nodded to affirm it.

  When the nutmeg had been stirred in, Jean-baby passed the drinks around. “Here you are, Doc,” she said genially, “this will give that funny old mind of yours something to think about.”

  “Thank you,” said the Doctor and raised his glass in a silent toast, but not to his lips until Frost and Jean-baby had begun to drink.

  Frost made no effort to conceal his distaste for the drink, but took it down in one long draft, grimacing the while. Jean-baby stopped from time to time to stir hers with the pencil, which she handed to the Doctor.

  “It won’t dissolve, see, so you have to get it before it settles on the bottom.”

  “I understand,” said Dr. Eichner, following suit. “Nutmeg, eh?” he observed quizzically as he reached the bottom.

  “And a little hash,” added Jean-baby. “There was a little hashish in the can, too.”

  Frost shuddered. “Goddamn queers!” he said.

  “Hashish?” said the Doctor, in evident surprise. “Did I understand you to say hash-ish? the Indian hemp?” He looked to Frost for an explanation, but none was forthcoming as the other had lapsed into preoccupation once more. “Why, that’s Cannabis, the Indian hemp!” He peered intently down into his glass, as though his keen eyes would make an exacting analysis of the residue there. “Hash-ish and nutmeg!”

  “You’ve got to get with it, Doc,” announced Frost, suddenly recovering. “Let’s drink up.” He ordered another round, a shot for himself, a Pink Lady for Jean-baby, and a double Martini for the Doctor.

  No sooner had the drinks arrived than Frost demanded to know the time. It was a quarter to eight. He hurriedly downed his drink and indicated that the Doctor, too, should drink up. “O.K.” said Frost, standing abruptly, “let’s get moving,” and, opening the door, he stepped out of the. booth and fell squarely face down on the carpeted floor. It caused a great commotion in the bar, and before the Doctor could reach him, two of the waiters were on their knees, hovering over the body.

  “No interference here,” said Dr. Eichner, waving them back, “I’m a physician.”

  For a moment, Frost was evidently unconscious, but he quickly came to, and then got to his feet with no trouble at all.

  “Let’s get moving,” he said tersely to Fred Eichner. His eyes held a slight, troubled glaze, but his speech was plain and unhurried.

  “Take it easy, Marty,” said Jean-baby who had also gotten up and had put her hand on Dr. Eichner’s shoulder, though Fred Eichner, in helping Frost to his feet, showed a certain unsteadiness himself. He was evidently confounded, too, by Frost’s apparent condition.

  “Are you coming with us?” he asked then, turning to Jean-baby, dully hoping to bring the talk around to Treevly.

  “We’ll be seeing her later,” Frost put in before the girl could answer, “here, at the bar.” And taking the Doctor’s arm, he started for the door.

  Jean-baby smiled agreement at them both, raising her Pink Lady in salute, and sat down at the bar as Dr. Eichner and the private detective began to mechanically thread their way between the high bar-stools and the tables of upraised faces, toward the door, and out.

  Chapter XVI

  EVEN AT NOT YET quite eight, the street outside the Mayfair, by contrast with the sick-soft interior behind them, was dancing with the sunlight of late afternoon, and the two men momentarily shielded their eyes against it.

  “This way,” said Frost, asserting a dramatic pressure on the Doctor’s arm, as though he were about to unobtrusively maneuver them both out a secret fire-escape.

  They walked slowly, with an unthreatened steadiness, as two men climbing a long-sloped purposeful plane.

  “I can’t help thinking that it may have been a mistake,” said Dr. Eichner, “taking the nutmeg and hemp.” He looked to Frost for a reaction, but the latter, plodding oblivious beside him, seemed not even to hear, and the Doctor continued, “I mean, since nothing was gained by it, nothing tangible at least, in terms of our—our purpose at the Mayfair. Do you follow my meaning, Frost?” he insisted then, touching Frost’s arm, and the great hulk shrugged. “Why live in the past?” he answered finally, with considerable effort, whereupon Dr. Eichner fell silent again and they walked on, with a solemn intentness that somehow set them apart from the rest of the casual sidewalk-traffic.

  “A moment ago,” Dr. Eichner resumed almost at once, “you inferred the futility of deprecating the past—futility of remorse, or rather that the immediate negative approach—or that approach to what is immediate . . . A point well taken—” They had reached an intersection then, and Dr. Eichner broke off his speech, as though nothing more could be accomplished until the light changed.

  An attractive, unescorted girl beside them gave the pair a glance of defiant nonchalance that, when they failed to respond, became a look of suspicion, and, finally, of rude disdain. She marched rapidly ahead as the light went green.

  “Nutmeg,” the Doctor took it up again as they started across behind her, “contains at least one serious alkaloid—and the effects of Indian hemp are well known. My point is this: our general perspective, our sense of—of values, so to speak, may undergo a change—a d
ecided change, which we might fail to take into account—to calibrate—unless, this is my point, we are prepared to take this, or such a change—into account! Now. Now then—”

  Frost came to a sudden halt, drawing the Doctor up short beside him. They had reached the Studio and were standing opposite, just across the street from it. From here, the cream stucco building could have resembled almost any large, modern cinema, but, by the restraint of its marquee, it seemed somehow more respectable, like an institution; and on the sidewalk adjacent it, an orderly double-file stretch of people was in movement toward the entrance.

  “There,” said Frost, moving his head in an indicative gesture toward the file, whereupon Dr. Eichner, after staring at Frost for an instant in incomprehension, followed his eye and got a vivid glimpse of Treevly, in lively converse with his friend, moving at the fore.

  “Ah, yes,” said the Doctor softly, making a wry face, as with a swallow of strong, vintage brandy. “There, indeed.” The line of people was moving easily and, as he watched, Treevly and his companion rounded the corner, out of sight, into the Studio lobby.

  “Come on,” said Fred Eichner, “and keep a sharp lookout.” They soberly crossed the street and joined the diminishing file, attracting the notice, with their intense repose, of everyone nearby.

  “Are tickets required?” asked the Doctor tersely of Frost.

  “No tickets,” said Frost whose own speech now seemed to come with painful effort.

  “You handle our admittance,” the Doctor went on lightly, seeming for the first time to take in their physical surroundings, looking keenly about, craning his head at the marquee above, “What’s being presented? I know very little about video.” But they had already passed too far beneath the marquee and, even now, were turning into the carpeted foyer of the Studio—where there was as yet, by sign or token, no evidence of what was in store—and the Doctor had suddenly become quite nervously, buoyantly alert to things. “Eh? What’s the nature of it, Frost? What’s it to be?”