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Fiction: Carnival Knowledge: a Lucifer Jones Story by Mike Resnick
I wandered north and east until I finally came to Los Blancos, which had two hotels, three restaurants, a whorehouse, and five bars, none of which felt inclined to extend credit to a man of the cloth. I finally got a grubstake together when I taught some of the locals a little game what had to do with statistical probabilities and the number 21. It was when they became more interested in the number 54, which was how many cards there were in the deck once you counted the two aces that slipped out of my shirtsleeve at a most inopportune time that I felt a need to take my leave of that fair metropolis, and the sooner the better.
I’d won just enough money to buy passage with an itinerant bush pilot, whose profession was sadly misnamed as there wasn’t a single bush aboard his little three-seater. I figgered I might as well go to Buenos Aires, since I was in Argentina anyway, but he explained that this was carnival week in Rio, and that’s where people from all over South America was headed, and I figured if they were going to Rio probably their money was going along with them, and I just might get my hands on enough contributions, freely given and otherwise, to finally get around to building the Tabernacle of Saint Luke–and even if not, there had to be a passel of fallen women in serious need of salvation, and taking the sins of fallen women unto myself was one of the things I did best, me being one of God’s personal representatives.
“Tell me about this here carnival,” I said after I agreed to let him take me there. “Got a lot of sideshow games of chance in it?”
“No, Senor,” he replied.
“Elephants and lions and other trained critters like that?”
“Certainly not, Senor.”
“Well,” I said, “we can play guessing games all the way to Rio, or you can tell me what makes carnival week different from any other time of year.”
“Everyone dresses up in costumes, and they march through the streets, and everywhere there are bands and dancing. The whole city is filled with revelers.”
It sounded a lot more like a costume party than a carnival, but I didn’t want to disagree with him, especially not at 7,000 feet of altitude and no parachute, so I just sat back and started making plans. I figured I’d go dressed as a preacher what had been stuck in the South American outback for a couple of months, which would at least save me the cost of a costume, and with people coming from all over the continent, there figured to be enough sinners for me to get right down to the business of saving souls, since if you’re going to save sinners you just naturally got to go to where they all congregate, and when the pilot started describing some of the ladies’ costumes, which sure as shooting sounded a lot more like the ladies’ lack of costumes, I knew that I’d somehow lucked out and was going to the very best place to find a bunch of blackened souls what was in serious need of some spiritual soap and water.
“Not only is it Carnival,” he continued as this great big city came into view, “but if you are lucky you will have the opportunity to see the Pebbles of God.”
“I speak to God every day,” I said, “and He ain’t never mentioned no pebbles to me. You make ‘em sound like they’re mighty special, at least as pebbles go.”
“That is merely the name for them, Senor,” said the pilot. “They are actually a matched set of perfect blue-white diamonds.”
“You don’t say? Worth a lot, are they?”
“A king’s ransom,” he answered. “Maybe an emperor’s.”
“And they’re going to be on display during this here costume party?” I asked.
“They won’t be out on the street with the revelers, of course,” he explained. “But they have been moved to the Presidential Palace under heavy guard where certain select dignitaries will be allowed to view them.”
“How do these here dignitaries get themselves selected?” I said.
He shrugged, which damned near sent the plane into a tailspin. “Who knows, Senor?” And then he added, kind of suspiciously, “Why do you ask?”
“Well, Brother,” I said, “as a man of the cloth, I figger I might be offended by all the drinking and scanty costumes and the like. I kind of yearn for something more sedate, like admiring works of art.”
“There is an excellent art museum on San Paulo Street,” he offered.
I shook my head. “Probably filled to overflowing with paintings of shameless naked women,” I said. “No, I think I’d better stick to admiring God’s marbles.”
Summer 2007 Page 4