The Lucy Ghosts

by Eddy Shah

  'I would like a drink now,' said Trimmler.

  'Okay. We got cocktails starting with....'

  'A scotch. On the rocks.'

  'Okay. You want anything?' he asked Adam.

  'Orange juice.'

  'That all?'

  'That's all.'

  'I would like my scotch quickly.'

  The waiter pranced off and the two men sat in silence until he returned.

  'Another one,' ordered Trimmler as he took his and started to drink.

  'You the customer,' smiled the waiter.

  Adam slowly sipped his orange juice and said nothing.

  'What's the matter, baby-sitter? You don't like alcohol?'

  'Sometimes.'

  'Ah ! You are on duty. Is that it?'

  'Yes.'

  Trimmler laughed. 'On duty. To change my diapers. Is that what you're paid for? To be a baby-sitter would drive anybody to drink.'

  'Mr. Trimmler. Insulting me isn't getting you anywhere. It has no effect. But, if it makes you feel better, then you just go ahead.'

  Trimmler rocked back in his chair and studied Adam before he spoke. 'Life is easy for you. You know that. You just do as you're ordered. No thinking, just do it. I have spent my whole life thinking. Then the day comes when you think - what am I thinking for? Just to benefit science. Just to put another man in space. To make it all possible and never feel what it is like, to never really understand what it is to be weightless as you hang over this small planet, floating in space. All the science in the world, all the thinking, it can never be like being there, like actually doing it.' He deep gulped his drink, drained the glass as the waiter arrived with his refill.

  'You ready to order?' asked the waiter.

  Trimmler shook his head and waved him away.

  'Okay. I'll be back.'

  'Another one of these,' demanded Trimmler, raising his now full glass. Adam realised he was not a man who could hold his drink. The glaze in his eyes confirmed that.

  Trimmler leant across the table conspiratorially as the waiter went back to the bar.

  'Dreams,' he continued, 'are not just the preserve of the young. And it is arrogant of you, of all young people, to think so. As you always do. Too many people confuse success with dreams. I have success. The sort other people dream about. I am rich. I am famous, not like a pop star, but in my own world. I have been involved in, and touched, history since I was seventeen years old. But I have never been part of it. I have never ridden in one of my space ships, never.... the dream I had as a young man was someone else's achievement, in someone else's country. And dreams are more important when you get old. You know why? Because there is so little time left to achieve it. And then the young come along, and they crush your dream, as if it never existed.' He drank deeply again. 'You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?'

  'I understand what you're saying.'

  'Hmm,' Trimmler snorted disbelievingly. 'You're English, yes?'

  Adam nodded.

  'European. Like me. Not like these Americans with their barbaric ways. This country is a cultural wasteland. The dollar. That's all they care about. Their dollar and what it buys for them. When I was a child, my father used to take me to concerts. I heard some of the greatest musicians in the world before the War. I have waited here for nearly fifty years. For what?'

  Adam saw the waiter approaching again. 'I think we should order. Otherwise they're going to throw us out.'

  'You order for me. Anything. Chicken if they have it.'

  The waiter put a fresh scotch on the rocks down and took Adam's order. He asked for Chicken Cajun for Trimmler and blackened redfish, the house speciality, for himself.

  Frankie wheeled himself in at that stage, caught Adam's eye and waved him over.

  'Gotta message for you. From Tucker,' said Frankie. 'He said you should know that someone called Mitzer, Grob Mitzer, just died. He was in a building that got blown up. In Germany. Says not to say anything to your friend over there, unless he already knows. Just wanted to make you aware of it.'

  'Okay. See you later.'

  Mitzer, Adam thought as he walked back to the table, was the name mentioned during Trimmler's meeting with Goodenache. Trimmler had said they should meet him in Nordhausen. And now he was dead.

  'What was it?' asked Trimmler as Adam sat down.

  'Tucker. He wanted to know what time we were coming back.'

  'That driver. He was at the airport to meet us.'

  'He's part of Tucker's team.'

  ‘Everything is a game to these people.'

  'If you miss Europe so much, why not go back?' There you go, he thought. In for a penny, in for a pound. 'If Germany is still your home, why stay here?'

  Trimmler looked up sharply, then smiled and shook his head. 'If only life was that easy.'

  'It's not the money that keeps you here. You've made yours. What is it?'

  'Everything. Forty five years. That's how long I have lived here. What are you? A detective as well as a baby-sitter?'

  'No, sir.' Adam could butter up with the best of them. It was like pulling a bird. No different than clinching a business deal. 'I just feel that you've achieved so much, unimaginable to the rest of us. But you did that here, in this country. And Germany has changed since you left . I can tell you that because I live in modern Europe. Nobody gets taken to concerts as kids anymore. Hell, the parents spend all their time trying to stop them going to pop concerts. We also have drugs, and high crime, and AIDS and every other problem that America's got.'

  'Maybe in the West. Not in some other places.'

  'Like where?'

  'In Eastern Europe, even after the Russian invasion, there are still old values.'

  'And poverty. And starvation. In the West we have progress.'

  'Economic problems. They can be resolved. But you can never bring back the moral loss, the drop in human standards. You talk about progress. Do you know what that is to a scientist?' Trimmler downed his drink and signalled the waiter to bring another one. The drink was opening the man up. 'Let me tell you about progress. When I first left university, hardly more than a schoolboy because of the war, I was sent to the air research unit in Bremen. In 1939. We were testing for aircraft pressurisation. We wanted to see the effect high altitude flying had on people. We couldn't put rats or mice into those decompression chambers. We couldn't see what was going to happen to them, couldn't hear how they reacted. We had to use humans. First we had volunteers, from the Luftwaffe. After we'd blown a few ear drums and sent some people imbecilic after oxygen starvation, we realised we wouldn't have an Air Force left by the time we'd found a solution. So we used other volunteers. Criminals, people like that. No good people. And because of those tests, because of the risks we took, passengers now fly across the world in perfect safety, at whatever height they go to. It was our experiments that made it possible. That, my friend, is where progress comes from. From the risks of others.'

  Yes, reflected Adam, and the pain of the Jews and Poles and other Eastern Europeans that Trimmler and his friends had experimented on.

  'I didn't appreciate that,' he heard himself lying.

  'No one ever does. They forget the hard battles you fight to win an easy life.' Trimmler reached across the table and held up one of the small plastic butter cartons. 'This is margarine, you know. In the war, that's all we could get. Not butter. But this, because it was easier to produce. We used to call it Hitler butter. You see, even here his legacy lives on.'

  'Why is Eastern Europe different now?'

  'Because they still have the old values. Because for forty five years they have been subjugated. Because they still remember how it was. And that's where the new Germany will come from. And the new Europe. From the old values. From the way it was.'

  'And that's why you want to go back?'

  'So I believed. Until I was told I was too old. I have waited all these years. For what?'

  'Who told you?'

  Trimmler shook his head, his face twisted in bit
terness and anger. Then he suddenly stood up. 'I can't wait for this food. It's too long. I'm going.'

  He stormed out of the restaurant, unsteady on his feet as Adam handed the surprised waiter a $100 dollar note and followed him.

  Trimmler turned into Toulouse Street, crossed Royal and stopped on the corner of Bourbon. Adam had followed at a short distance, not wanting to further upset the scientist. Frankie, blocked off by the increasing crowds and pedestrian areas, had stayed where he was. If they wanted him they'd find him. The crowds, the night-timers, were once again on the move.

  One of the hookers, a buxom blonde girl in pink satin hot pants and tight ribbed sweater, came alongside Trimmler and smiled brazenly at him; that thousand year old smile full of meaning and erotic promise. Trimmler shook his head and crossed the road, then turned and watched her from a safe distance. He saw her proposition another man, then take his arm and lead him away.

  Trimmler waved Adam towards him.

  'I don't want you to follow me any more,' he ordered.

  'I can't do that.'

  'I'm telling you to stop following me.'

  'And I saying I can't.'

  'I am entitled to my privacy.'

  'Get my orders changed and I'll be happy to leave you alone.'

  'Then keep out of my sight. You damn baby-sitter.'

  Adam realised Trimmler had lost control. Whatever it was that had aggrieved him was now secondary to the hate he directed towards his watcher. Adam shrugged and moved away, melting into the crowd that had started to form as Trimmler's outburst poured out.

  At a safe distance he spent the next ninety minutes watching Trimmler visit a series of bars along the strip. The scientist stuck to his staple scotch on the rocks, grew more morose as he sat in dark corners and disappeared into his own thoughts. The only times he looked up was when a single, unattached woman, nearly always a hooker, appeared near him. But he never took the initiative, always returned to the comfort of the glass in front of him.

  On his sojourn between the various watering holes, he occasionally looked back to see if he could identify Adam, but the Englishman used all his experience to stay well out of sight.

  The Afro hairstyled man in the jeans and '49'ers letterman jacket appeared for the third time outside the latest bar Trimmler was visiting when Adam decided he was following the scientist. Adam had already identified his tall and slim stature as the goat masked drummer from the night before.

  Trimmler's next port of call was to a strip and sex club, 'Sex like you've never seen' proclaimed the sign outside. 'Audience participation for only $20' blared the legend under the sign.

  Goat Face followed him in.

  Adam knew the alcohol had boosted Trimmler's daring, he was ready for action. It was the last thing he wanted, a randy scientist hell bent on dipping his wick before Adam could take him back to the hotel and tuck him up for the night.

  'Hi,' he said to a girl who didn't look like a hooker, but was plying her trade like the rest of them.

  'Hi,' she replied, the smile and the eyes giving away her intentions.

  'I need some company.'

  'Who doesn't? You English?'

  'I am. Let's get a drink.' He took her arm and led her towards the strip club.

  'Come on,' she said, holding back at the entrance. 'We don't need all that. Or maybe you do.'

  He grinned. 'I said I wanted company. And I want to see one of these places. Never been in one before.'

  'Okay. But my meter's running. One hundred fifty an hour.'

  He pulled two $100 bills from his pocket and slipped them into her hand. She smiled and linked her arm through his. He led her into the club.

  Adam found a table at the side away from the stage.

  'You like dark corners,' she said, sitting down in the chair he pulled out for her. 'What're we going to do here?'

  'Watch the floor show. I hear it's the best in town.'

  A waiter crossed over and they ordered their drinks. Adam surveyed the room and saw that Trimmler was near the stage, seated alone with a drink already in front of him, watching the simulated sex show taking place a few feet from his table. He stared with open lust at the naked threesome who rolled collectively on the mattress spread out on the wooden stage, two well endowed women with slim bodies and a blond twenty year old who was probably earning his way through college and whose parents would be horrified if they knew about their son's vacation job.

  Goat Face sat with a tourist couple at another table on the opposite side of the room.

  'I can give you more excitement than you're getting here back at my place,' the girl broke into his deliberations.

  'I like it here. You don't get this in the pubs in London.'

  On the stage, with Nancy Sinatra belting out 'These boots were made for walking', one of the girls left Blondie and her companion and slipped onto the floor. She snaked her way over the tables around the stage and draped her naked body over a paunchy man next to Trimmler. As she sat on his lap, rubbing herself over him, she whispered dirty intentioned words in his ear. He shook his head, embarrassed at this public display, whilst the rest of the audience whooped and shrieked their support. The girl, feigning disappointment moved on towards Trimmler, but on seeing the drunken glaze in his eyes, jumped to the next table where she went to work on a younger man. This time, the recipient of her attentions was much more forthcoming and, to rapturour applause, she soon had him stripped and being led onto the stage.

  The action reached new heights as the four of them writhed with each other, the three professionals simulating sex whilst still ensuring the newcomer didn't get too carried away.

  'You really like this stuff, huh?' said the girl as she watched Adam inspecting the room.

  'As I said, it's different.'

  'You could've come alone. If eyeballing's all you wanted.' She slipped her hand slowly up his thigh, towards his crotch. 'Or maybe this is what you want? Huh? Taking part without anyone seeing. You like that. Is this what turns you on?'

  He put his hand under the table and took hers, held it firmly and placed it back on her lap. She mocked him with her smile. He sure was a strange one.

  The blonde hooker who had first accosted Trimmler on the corner of Toulouse and Bourbon came into the club as the foursome on the stage became so entwined that it was difficult to tell which limb and which private part belonged to which player. Trimmler's eyes had popped out on stalks, the thrashing flesh within touching distance now turning his brain into a muddled vision of eroticism and sexual need. She recognised Trimmler and crossed the room to him, slid her satin covered bottom onto the empty chair next to him. She leant towards him, her heavy breasts resting on his arm and she whispered in his ear. He nodded, eager to be with her, and she stood up, took his arm to support him and led him through the crowded club out onto Bourbon Street.

  Adam didn't move until he saw Goat Face follow the couple out.

  'Thanks,' he said to the girl. 'Time to say goodbye.'

  'Hey. You still got forty minutes left on the meter.'

  'Listen. I wish I could. It would've been fun.'

  'Yeah. Well, no sweat. Just don't like leaving you boys short changed,'.

  He went out onto Bourbon. Trimmler was northbound on Toulouse, the girl hanging on his arm and leading him towards the Spanish fronted houses that opened onto courtyards and apartments where most of the girls worked from.

  He saw the apartment she took Trimmler into, up on the first floor behind the iron balustrade that curved up the line of the stair. When the door had shut, Adam surveyed the area. He knew there'd be a window at the rear, but he couldn't watch both sides at the same time. He took up a safe and hidden position across the street and waited. Of Goat Face there was no sign, but Adam knew he was around. He hoped he hadn't been discovered.

  Trimmler came out twenty minutes later. It had obviously been a quick transaction.

  Adam waited for him in the street before he crossed over to him.

  'I think we sh
ould go back to the hotel now, Mr Trimmler,' he said quietly.

  The scientist said nothing. Adam could smell the vomit on his breath. He doubted Trimmler had managed anything with the little blonde, probably spent most of his time knelt over the toilet bowl.

  Frankie was where they had left him, deep in conversation with two locals.

  'I kept checking with Tucker and he said to wait here,' said the cab driver as he watched Adam help Trimmler into the back of the Cadillac.

  They drove the short distance back to the Hilton and Adam helped Trimmler out of the cab and into the lobby. Goodenache was there, anxious and desperate to see Trimmler. He took his arm and led him away to a secluded corner.

  Adam wandered towards them, close enough to pick up the odd word but not appear obtrusive.

  He heard Goodenache mention Mitzer.

  Trimmler, even in his inebriated state, reacted with horror. He seemed to fall forward, but Goodenache held him up by his shoulders.

  It didn't take the tears in Trimmler's eyes for Adam to realise he had just been told of Mitzer's death. Trimmler shook his head repeatedly, then slumped into one of the leather couches that were spaced intermittently along the wall. Goodenache sat down next to him and put his arm round his shoulder.

  At that moment, Goat Face came up the moving staircase, this time accompanied by a man. His hair was short cropped, but not curly, nor white. He limped alongside Goat Face like an old man, but the face was the clear face of a twenty year old while the gnarled hands that held the walking stick confirmed the old man's age. It was Fruit Juice

  They didn't see Adam as he slipped behind one of the vast square pillars. Goat Face, as soon as he saw Trimmler, took Fruit Juice's arm and led him, as a son would an elderly father, towards the coffee shop. They sat at a table from where they could watch the lobby.

  Goodenache helped Trimmler to his feet and the two men walked slowly towards the lifts. Adam couldn't follow without being recognised by the two voodoo men, so he ducked across to the emergency stairs and climbed to the fifteenth floor, taking two to three steps at a time. He checked that level, and when satisfied that the two men weren't there, took the emergency stairs to the eighteenth floor.