Read Online Ambient 06 - Going, Going, Gone by Jack Womack - Free Book Online
Authors: Jack Womack
Ads: Link
Plaza’s Theremin Room was the last of the Mohicans. There were still joints like it in LA and Frisco, and the one in Seattle in the Olympic was still there as far as I knew. They were the bee’s knees back in the twenties and early thirties; then they found out the gizmos were bad, bad news anywhere within a two-mile radius of Teslas. Thirty-block blackouts if the frequencies harmonized right and never mind the gas ruptures. Back in the big sky country they’d always favoured hydroelectric, so it wasn’t as much of a problem; out west they claimed never using Teslas helped keep people out of tumour town but that was probably nothing more than xylocaine, something to ease the pain but not quite succeeding.
That night I headed uptown and once the witching hour struck I made my walk-on. Spotted Fabs at the bar, savouring a bilious toddy, a grasshopper by all indications. As I strutted over to her I glommed the stage. In the pit a rhythmiconist plinked out a series of overtones and five thereminists stood in front of diamond-shaped speakers, fluttering their fingers over their boxes’ tone bars to evoke the countermelody. Two hepkittens in black leotards pranced atop the metal soundstage, shimmying away at some mean rain dance. Every move they took made additional notes warble by way of the oscillators picking up on the air currents, and the more they wiggled the more elaborate came the arpeggios and glissandos.
»Good to see you in one piece,« Trish said, and we enjoyed a mutual standing massage. »Thought those rangerettes’d grind you up and spit you out.«
»I’m too chewy,« I said, and signalled the barman to dredge up a high head. »What are –«
»Look who I bumped into on the way over,« she said. I looked; wasn’t much taken with the sight. Trish had thousands of best friends, housed in every penthouse and gutter in New York, native-born and Euro, but not many hit the spot with me. Sometime earlier I’d met this one – Biff? Boff? whatever mater pegged him back in Beantown – and already knew he didn’t come close to the mark. A Bennett without portfolio, somewhat more chiselled, with that lean Aryan look. Had that Art Moderne bone structure that makes the owners imagine the God of this world always has them in mind for bigger, better things. Didn’t mean I owed them my lunch money, though that always seemed to be what these pussywillows assumed.
I offered my paw and he gripped it as if trying to break it off. I wondered what was giving him such a near-fatal case of the smirks. »Walter. One of the Smith boys.«
»Burt,« he said. »You’re Trish’s ex, aren’t you?« Wasting no time in laying on the mustard plasters.
»That’s neither here nor there,« Irish said. »Burt was starting to tell me –«
»Best not to poke boils,« I said as the orchestra started in on a Beatles medley. »Never know what’ll pop out.«
»Quit it,« Trish said, laughing but failing to lull my suspicions. Luckily, she interposed herself in time. »All right, Walter, so who were they? What’s the story?«
»I was saying –« Boob started to say.
»Jersey girls,« I informed my henchwoman. »Looking for a hot time in the big city. Did you have to call when you did?«
»Excusez moi. I hate to admit I was a nervous nellie,« she said, »but you know what happened last night? At Max’s?«
»Something happened?« I asked, hefting the glass the barman put before me and inoculating the mad dog.
»Somebody stabbed a guy in Max’s after you left last night,« she said, stirring her green delight. »Put icepicks through both hands. No suspects. Naturally I went off on a tangent and my stomach started doing backflips. Worried you’d wind up being done in by those Jill the Rippers.«
Figured it best not to mention Chlojo’s tiny titty bumbershoots. »I was safe as milk,« I said. »It was copacetic. Don’t let your hair turn white.«
»I don’t understand,« Booboo interrupted, speaking twice as loud as either
That night I headed uptown and once the witching hour struck I made my walk-on. Spotted Fabs at the bar, savouring a bilious toddy, a grasshopper by all indications. As I strutted over to her I glommed the stage. In the pit a rhythmiconist plinked out a series of overtones and five thereminists stood in front of diamond-shaped speakers, fluttering their fingers over their boxes’ tone bars to evoke the countermelody. Two hepkittens in black leotards pranced atop the metal soundstage, shimmying away at some mean rain dance. Every move they took made additional notes warble by way of the oscillators picking up on the air currents, and the more they wiggled the more elaborate came the arpeggios and glissandos.
»Good to see you in one piece,« Trish said, and we enjoyed a mutual standing massage. »Thought those rangerettes’d grind you up and spit you out.«
»I’m too chewy,« I said, and signalled the barman to dredge up a high head. »What are –«
»Look who I bumped into on the way over,« she said. I looked; wasn’t much taken with the sight. Trish had thousands of best friends, housed in every penthouse and gutter in New York, native-born and Euro, but not many hit the spot with me. Sometime earlier I’d met this one – Biff? Boff? whatever mater pegged him back in Beantown – and already knew he didn’t come close to the mark. A Bennett without portfolio, somewhat more chiselled, with that lean Aryan look. Had that Art Moderne bone structure that makes the owners imagine the God of this world always has them in mind for bigger, better things. Didn’t mean I owed them my lunch money, though that always seemed to be what these pussywillows assumed.
I offered my paw and he gripped it as if trying to break it off. I wondered what was giving him such a near-fatal case of the smirks. »Walter. One of the Smith boys.«
»Burt,« he said. »You’re Trish’s ex, aren’t you?« Wasting no time in laying on the mustard plasters.
»That’s neither here nor there,« Irish said. »Burt was starting to tell me –«
»Best not to poke boils,« I said as the orchestra started in on a Beatles medley. »Never know what’ll pop out.«
»Quit it,« Trish said, laughing but failing to lull my suspicions. Luckily, she interposed herself in time. »All right, Walter, so who were they? What’s the story?«
»I was saying –« Boob started to say.
»Jersey girls,« I informed my henchwoman. »Looking for a hot time in the big city. Did you have to call when you did?«
»Excusez moi. I hate to admit I was a nervous nellie,« she said, »but you know what happened last night? At Max’s?«
»Something happened?« I asked, hefting the glass the barman put before me and inoculating the mad dog.
»Somebody stabbed a guy in Max’s after you left last night,« she said, stirring her green delight. »Put icepicks through both hands. No suspects. Naturally I went off on a tangent and my stomach started doing backflips. Worried you’d wind up being done in by those Jill the Rippers.«
Figured it best not to mention Chlojo’s tiny titty bumbershoots. »I was safe as milk,« I said. »It was copacetic. Don’t let your hair turn white.«
»I don’t understand,« Booboo interrupted, speaking twice as loud as either
Similar Books
