The Last Hot Time

by John M. Ford

  "Left up here," he said. "So, magic or not, you like how she drives?"

  "Oh, yeah. I, uh, she doesn't seem to have as much power, though."

  "That's 'cause you're partly on spells. They don't have the kind of power you get from high-test gas." He chuckled. "Sounds funny, don't it? You think about magic, thunderbolts, splittin' the Red Sea. And some of it's like that. I hear in Elfland—but we'll never see that. In the Shades it's rickety, and when you tie it to machines it's rickety-tickety. Tin."

  "Mr. Patrise's car seemed to have plenty of go."

  "Mr. Patrise's car is particular. The others are mostly wood and fiberglass. The kids who can afford 'em ride bikes. But you can't see Mr. Patrise on a bike, now can you?"

  They parked in an alleyway and walked the last block to the club, coats flapping in the cool air. Somebody in a cap and a frowzy jacket hustled by, carrying something in brown paper tucked tight under his arm. Danny wondered if he were a Vamp. He supposed he'd have to learn to tell that.

  A few steps before they reached the awning, the electric sign came on. Abruptly there was movement at every edge of Danny's vision: people rounding corners, moving deeper into shadows or changing the ones they already had. A few people came out of darkness, too: all of them dressed up, dressed to kill.

  "Mr. McCain!" one of them said, a man in a broad-brimmed hat and a cowboy duster, walking with a woman in a fringed jacket and tight skirt of white leather.

  "Sheepscry. And Miss West. Good evening." McCain tipped his hat. The man lifted his. He was an elf, ivory-skinned, silver hair— not gray but metallic silver—slicked back, small round glasses with black lenses.

  Miss West, who was human, said, "I would imagine this is Doc Hallownight." Her hair was black and white in jagged stripes, and there were a dozen silver studs in her left car.

  "Yes, miss," Danny said, and lifted his hat crookedly. "1 a I ask how you knew?"

  Sheepscry said, "The inimitable Birdsong wrote about mi."

  Pavel opened the door. "Good evening, everybody! It's cold outside, not in!"

  The ceiling stars shone specks of light around the room. Alvah Fountain, in a brocade jacket, was playing "Hey Bartender" at the piano.

  "Draw one, draw two . . ." Danny muttered.

  "Don't mind if I do, Doc," said Lucius Birdsong, sitting at the end of the bar.

  McCain said, "Later, Doc," and moved off.

  Danny said, "I heard you wrote about me?"

  "Shaker," Birdsong said.

  "What's your pleasure, Mr. Birdsong?" the bartender said. He had pointed elf ears, and pale, not pure-white, skin, black hair with patches of steel-blue at the temples. Danny had heard that elves and humans could interbreed.

  Birdsong said, "Another one for me, and—is the doctor on duty?"

  "Beer, please."

  "And a Chi-Cent, Shaker. Unless you've used them all as bar towels."

  "Wouldn't think of it, Mr. Birdsong." Shaker reached under the bar and produced a paper.

  The paper had the feel of industrial toweling. Danny's thumb smudged the ink, which had a distinct chemical smell. The CHICAGO CENTURION— For This Price, You Don't Expect a Tribune banner, with pictures of eagles and trumpets, was a coarse linoleum or wood cut.

  "As your fellow doctor Sam Johnson put it," Birdsong said, grinning, "it's not that the puppy tap-dances like Honi Coles, but that it has any rhythm in the first place. That's how / heard it, anyway."

  THE CONTRARIAN FLOW

  by Lucius Birdsong

  I'm sure every devotee of this pillow-stuffing remembers what Mark Twain said about newspaper obit-

  uaries and exaggeration, so I shall merely note for the record that when that well-known gentleman Patrise entered the La Mirada nitery in the small hours of this morning, he was accompanied neither by the sound of clanking chains nor by cherubim strumming six-string Rickenbacker harps.

  Witnesses report that an innocent bystander (or rather bysitter—whatever has happened to the standards of marksmanship in Our Fair Levee?) was seriously injured in the incident that inspired all those campfire stories, but was ministered to by an able young man known as Doc Hallownight, of whom Our Fair may expect to hear more anon.

  Personal to the Lousy Shots: Mind how you treat Doc. He did you a big favor.

  "Sing ho, for the Fourth Estate," Birdsong said, and tapped his glass against Danny's.

  The beer he'd been given was a medium brown color, with thick foam. Danny tasted it carefully; it was slightly heavy, a little sweet. He thought he could actually get to like beer like this.

  Birdsong finished his drink. "Good night to you, friend."

  "Where are you headed?"

  "They're showing His Girl Friday at the Biograph. Miss it and they revoke your press card." He paused, looked Danny in the eye. "Circulate, Doc, circulate! Everybody here wants to meet you, and those that don't aren't worth meeting anyway." He tapped the newspaper. "Thank me later."

  Danny looked around for McCain, Cloudhunter, someone he'd met last night. The piano was playing something jazzy but slow. He turned to Shaker, saw that the bartender was wearing a lapel button that read HALF THE BLOOD, ALL THE CIVIL RIGHTS.

  "Does Mr. Fountain take requests?"

  "Sure does, sir."

  "No sirs. I'm ... Doc."

  "You got it, Doc. Just tell Alvah what von want."

  Danny went down the steps to the glossy, cmpt dance floor. "Evening, man," Fountain said without missing a note.

  "Could you play something . . . that, you know, rocks out a little?"

  "Nothin' easier, man. You got yourself a girl to dance with?"

  "No."

  "Well, maybe by the second chorus."

  "Yeah, maybe. Thanks."

  "Cool runnings, Doc."

  Danny walked back to the bar, hands in his pockets. Halfway there, he could see Shaker setting up another beer for him. As the glass touched the bar, hammer chords came down like thunder, and everything stopped. Fountain had kicked into "Great Balls of Fire" like the world was gonna end in three minutes five.

  Couples were pulling each other away from their tables. A woman with a tenor sax came out of nowhere and swung in. High heels banged and elflocks shook. Even the waiters were twirling.

  "Good Golly Miss Molly" followed hot, and "Roll Over, Beethoven." Some of the dancers were spending more time airborne than on the floor. Danny just stood there watching, the beer going warm in his hand.

  "—gotta hear it again today," Shaker said in his ear. "Oh, come on, Doc! It ain't a movie."

  There was a black-haired girl in a deep blue dress, one of those flapper dresses that ended in long points, showing and hiding leg at once. "Do you dance?" Danny said, half hoping she'd knock him on his butt for asking.

  'Til try," she said, and he saw that it was Ginevra Benci, the bartender from last night. She held out her bare white arm and he took it.

  There was one extraordinary pair of dancers on the floor, a man with dark, dark skin in a pure-white suit, large but totally graceful, and an elf woman in a black sequined flapper dress like Ginevra's, who moved as if she was boneless. Danny tried to follow their style, ridiculous as he felt. After a moment, he realized that the man was looking at him; Danny felt his collar tighten, but the big man winked and nodded, and the couple started doing steps Danny could follow with relative ease.

  By the second chorus, Danny and Ginevra were actually moving as a unit, off each other's toes. Danny hadn't done this since—

  well, he'd done this, but he had never enjoyed it before.

  The piano crashed, the sax cried, and the music stopped. Everybody applauded, even the waiters. Ginevra tugged Danny's arm; he turned and saw Patrise in the doorway, clapping furiously.

  "Delighted you could both make it," he said. "And that you kept each other busy. Come up here, let's get to dinner."

  Danny looked at Ginevra; she looked slightly away from him. Had Patrise told her to be his date for tonight? There were four couples plus one
at the table: the two of them; McCain and an older woman, certainly over thirty, in black and pearls, introduced as Chloe Vadis; Cloudhunter and Carmen Mirage; and the two expert dancers, whose names were—that is, who were called Matt Black and Gloss White. Patrise sat alone at the head of the table.

  Other people took the cue, drifting up to the tables and the bar. Fountain had gone back to a slow swing tune. Two couples were still dancing, half melted into each other.

  Danny ordered a rare steak. McCain had his well done, with a lobster tail on the side. Ginevra had chicken salad, Gloss a dinner-sized Caesar, Matt a rack of barbecued ribs. Chloe Vadis was brought some kind of multicolored pasta dish. Carmen just had a little fruit cup, and Cloudhunter didn't eat at all. Patrise had a half duck glazed orange he caned like a surgeon.

  There were occasional bursts of conversation as they ate; people came by to say hello, to admire Matt and Gloss's dancing, to mutter into Chloe's ear. Patrise had a compliment for every compliment, a quick answer for every question. He gave things a center. Danny still felt one part in three dreaming. He looked at Ginevra. Ginny. He wondered how she felt.

  Carmen stood up. So did Cloudhunter. "Well," she said, "here goes nothing."

  Patrise said, "Knock 'em dead, primoroso?

  Cloudhunter took Carmen's hand and kissed it. She shut her eyes for a moment, then went around the curve toward the Stage, disappeared through a curtain. Cloudhunter bowed and followed.

  As the plates were cleared away, the room lights went down. Candles flared to life on the tables—like magic Danny thought, and then let go the "like." The music stopped, and the last dancers left the floor.

  A soft-edged spotlight showed Cloudhunter on the bandstand. He was wearing a blue velvet tailcoat and white tie, boots with silver trimmings. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, sounding like the rise of a summer storm, "Miss Carmen Mirage."

  He stepped back. She came out, bowed at the light applause, and began singing, a slow, torchy tune.

  Tell me what my true love loves

  'Cause I want to fit him

  Like my hands in gloves

  Will he get in motion

  For a carol of devotion

  Or a cooing like a soft gray doves

  You know I can '/ take the waiting

  Or the silence or the doubt

  So will you tell me what my loves about

  Carmen had a nice voice. She seemed to be pushing hard, as if she really wanted the crowd to break down and cry for her.

  Tell me what my true love needs

  Should I dress in satins

  Or in old gray weeds

  Would it suit his style

  To be Emperor of my Nile

  On a barge among the whispering reeds

  Even Moses wouldn '/ travel

  Without spying out the land

  So will you tell me where my loves heart stands

  Everybody applauded. Someone whistled. Carmen took a bow, went off, came back for another bow. Another spot came on, moved around the room, stopping on Matt and Gloss. More applause.

  "Would you mind?" Patrise said.

  "Should have had one less rib," Danny heard Matt say, but they stood up to applause. Matt took off his jacket (there wasn't a speck of barbecue sauce on it) and they went out on the floor. Gloss White whispered to Alvah. He nodded, cracked his knuckles

  with a flourish, and barrel-rolled into "Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting."

  Matt and Gloss danced: they moved like fury, they lit things up. When he spun her round, cometary light followed them. By the chorus, the crowd was up, shouting "Saturday! Saturday, Saturday!" and hell, it was Thursday. Finally they pressed back-to-back for a tap routine that seemed to take place in air. And there was a cheer. The dancers took their bow, scrambled out through the door Pavel was holding open.

  "Coffee, I think," Patrise said. When it was poured, he held up his delicate china cup and said, "Once upon a time, when you had to go to the Shadow country for a drink of anything worth going out somewhere to drink, they served it in teacups. Now the World drips whiskey, and we slip the coffee over the line."

  Danny said, "Was there a Levee—" He stopped, afraid he'd said something out of turn.

  But Patrise smiled. "The first Chicago Levee existed at the end of the nineteenth century. But the Shadow regions have always been, and always will be. It's . . . other places that come and go."

  Carmen reappeared. "How did I do?"

  "You did," Patrise said, "And you do, and you are." She leaned down to kiss him.

  Matt and Gloss came back, in fresh outfits, still all white, all black: Matt in a loose cotton suit over a crewnecked shirt, Gloss in a shiny ebony skintight, with thin satin straps that crossed and wound to her throat, and an oval of elf-white midriff showing behind a gauze panel.

  "I must speak to Boris," Patrise said, as if to himself. Then the spotlight was on the stage again, on Cloudhunter.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, and now his voice was a faint breeze on a still pond, "friends of all lands and all origins. La Mirada is pleased to present. . . Phasia, the Voice."

  Cloudhunter stepped back, out of sight There was absolute silence. Danny felt his heart hammering in anticipation of god knew what. The curtains opened. A woman in a plain white bare-shouldered gown stood in a column of light. She was pale, but not an elf; dark brown hair fell in curls around her bare throat, and her eyes were piercingly blue in the downlight

  It was the woman he had seen last night. . . Danny thought. The face was the same, he was sure, but she did not have the extreme, unreal, frightening beauty he had seen then. Maybe he had been dreaming.

  She raised her arms, curling long thin fingers with bright red nails, and began to sing.

  No, this had to be the dream.

  There was a singer Danny's mother had liked, a woman with a multiple-octave range who could use it all as an instrument, making silly pop lyrics sound profound, meaningless be-bop-a-lula syllables meaningful.

  There weren't even distinct syllables now, just a continuous flow of sound. Danny could faintly recognize the tunes: they were, had been, "Orange Blossom Special" and "Walk On By" and "Can't Help Lovin'," but that didn't matter either; with the voice, the Voice—it was silly to call it pure music, like saying rain was pure water and the sun was pure light, so a rainbow was—there it just was, and Danny thought how much better it would be to be blind than deaf. It was hard to move one's look away from Fay, but Danny saw Alvah Fountain sitting straight up on the piano bench, his hands folded, his fingers knotted tight enough to snap right off. He wasn't playing a note, so where was the music coming from?

  She wound down to the last note of a song that was "My Funny Valentine" when it had words, and they all woke up, back where they had been, wondering what they had done in their sleep. Phasia took a sweeping bow, and the curtains closed on her. Danny wondered why there was so little applause—why the walls weren't cracking with it—and when he tried to clap, found that his hand wouldn't move, and hurt. In a moment he realized it was because Ginny was squeezing it in both of hers. She was crying.

  He fumbled the silk handkerchief out of his pocket and gave it to her. As she wiped her face, he noticed the dampness on his own cheeks. He saw Mr. Patrise watching them.

  Patrise said, "Why don't you take the lady home, Hallow? This has hardly been a quiet night off for either of you."

  Ginny nodded and looked into her empty coffee cup. Danny wobbled his chair back, went to stand by Ginny's. She took his hand and stood up.

  Patrise said, "Ginevra, you're not on duty tomorrow, are you?''

  "No, sir. I would have been working tonight, but..."

  "That's fine, then. Hallow, we will be working, but not until quite late."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then good night."

  Pavel brought their coats, lifted his topper as he opened the door.

  "It's cold," Danny said. The sky was mostly low pink clouds, with a few holes. Mist drifted across the stree
t.

  "It's almost Halloween," she said. "Is that why you're called Hallownight? 'Cause you got here on Halloween?"

  "It's my birthday. Halloween is, I mean."

  "Oh. I had a friend whose birthday was the Fourth of July. They always had her parrs' a couple of days early, nobody wanted to have two parties at once."

  "Yeah, that's a good idea. Down this way." They turned into the alley. Danny heard a scuffling, then feet running away. He looked up and down the street, into the darkness past the car, but didn't see anyone. He thought about taking Ginny's hand, but just put her between himself and the nice solid wall. He pointed to the Triumph. "Here it is."

  "Oh, it's cute! I haven't seen one like this."

  "It's mine. I brought it with me from home."

  "A guy with his own car," she said, faraway. "My grandma used to talk about when all the guys had their own cars, you know, before Elfland and stuff." She walked around the TR3, looked at the rear plate. "Iowa, huh."

  He opened the door. "Where you from?"

  "Ohio. Since my mom and dad broke up. But I was born in Italy. My dad was Navy, with the Med Fleet."

  "That sounds neat. I mean, well—was it?"

  "Sometimes. Dad took me around Europe, when he could. We went to Paris four or five times. The Shadow there's called the Rc c Gauche. Do you get that?"

  "Sorry."

  "It's . . . I'll tell you another time. I think mv favorite cit is Florence, though. Florence is beautiful. The art, and the buildings • .

  Elfland didn't come back there. They say they don't need it."

  He helped her get into the car, then got in himself. "So then your name's really—"

  "Oh, no. My name—my dad's name—was Artensteen. Ginevra da Benci is a woman in a painting by Leonardo da Vinci. I don't look anything like her, though. Mr. Patrise called me that." She gave him a small, nervous grin. "He said, 'You can't be the Gio-conda. You smile too much.' "

  "The Jo—I'm sorry, I'm stupid."

  "The heck you are. You know the Mona Lisa?"

  "Sure."

  "Same painting. She's also called La Gioconda"