Eros at Zenith: Book 2 of Tales of the Velvet Comet (13 page)

“Does she just pull up a chair and watch, or does she have to use the holographic screen in her room?”

The Dragon Lady looked amused. “Neither. She writes herself into the script. Today she's Cleopatra's nurse.”

“And she just stands around telling everybody what to do?”

“We cater to some rather unique tastes,” admitted the Security Chief.

“And the Black Pearl has to cater to them personally?” he said, frowning.

“No. She's the madam. She doesn't have to do anything she doesn't want to do.”

He shook his head. “I don't understand her.”

“I think it may be mutual,” replied the Dragon Lady.

“Probably,” he admitted. He stood up and walked restlessly around the office, finally stopping in front of the holographs of the previous madams.

“Were they
all
like her?” he asked.

“I only knew eight of them personally,” answered the Dragon Lady. “The only thing they had in common was a single-minded devotion to the
Comet
.” She smiled. “One doesn't become the madam of the
Velvet Comet
by emulating the previous madam, Mr. Crane, but rather by applying one's ambition and competence in unique ways. Of course, I can't speak for the five who went before me, but the ones I've known have all been remarkable women.”

“You have male prostitutes,” he noted. “How come you've never had a male madam?”

“We have a highly-charged sexual atmosphere up here,” she explained. “Men tend to become too aggressive when put under pressure, and the madam's job is the most pressure-laden I know of.”

“That sounds like an unreasonable sexual prejudice,” remarked Crane.

“Prejudice, yes; unreasonable, no. Other establishments have used male madams, and a well-run business learns at least as much from its competitors’ errors as from its own.”

He shrugged. “Then I was wrong about the missing picture. I thought it might be of a man.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“When I mentioned that there were eleven previous madams, the Black Pearl corrected me and said that there had been twelve, but that Vainmill refused to hang one of the holographs.”

“Vainmill has an interesting notion of morality,” commented the Dragon Lady dryly. “The missing holograph is of a woman named Suma, who became the madam when she was nineteen, and was fired two months later for her involvement in the death of her predecessor.”

“What makes that kind of morality interesting?” asked Crane.

“She's the only former madam that Vainmill still does business with.”

“What kind of business?”

“She runs a school of sorts on Delvania III,” said the Dragon Lady. “It's where the
Comet
's recruits get their training.”

“A school for prostitutes?” he said dubiously. “What the hell is there to learn?”

“More than you imagine,” she replied. “Not all of our prostitutes come from Delvania, but the ones who do are exquisitely gifted and masterfully trained. That much I'll grant her.”

“If they've got nothing but potential prostitutes there, who do they practice on?”

“Each other, and an occasional guest of the management.”

“Were
you
trained there?”

She shook her head. “It wasn't that well established when I was starting out.”

“How old is this Suma, anyway?”

“In her mid-50s, I should imagine. I've seen a few holographs of her, and I must confess that she was the most beautiful of our madams, which is no small accomplishment.”

He took a last look at the eleven striking women, then stretched once and turned to the Dragon Lady.

“I think it's about time we got to work,” he said.

“Give me about ten minutes to program Cupid with the message, and another hour to track Morales down and arrest him, and then you can make your announcement.”

“All right,” she replied. “I think I'll do it from my office. I can coordinate things better from there.”

“Where did you plan on keeping Morales?” he asked her.

“We have a detention cell in the Security area.”

He shook his head. “I want him confined to his own quarters. Just put him there, change the coding on the lock so he can't get out, and don't post a guard.”

“So you really think the killer will try to make contact with him?”

“I don't know,” lied Crane. “But if he does, let's not make it too difficult for him. I assume you have cameras in the hall?”

“Of course.”

“Make sure they're working.”

“I'll check them out personally”

“Good,” said Crane getting to his feet. “Now let's go to work.”

And let's hope, he added mentally as he stepped aside and allowed her to pass through the doorway ahead of him, that you don't figure out what's
really
going to happen and wind up costing me my life.

Crane arrested a very surprised Morales at 1200 hours, ship's time, waited long enough to make sure that Cupid was disseminating the information, and then went to bed. He awoke at 2100 hours, feeling much refreshed, quickly shaved and showered, replaced his gray businessman's suit with a metallic black one, and took the elevator up to the main level of the Resort.

He discovered that the Cosmic Room was booked solid through midnight, found a different restaurant that managed to accommodate him without a reservation, and spent the next hour dining on sautéed meats and flaming soufflés.

Finally, his hunger sated, he paid his first visit to the casino. It was a huge and opulent room, fully 200 feet long and 150 wide. Enormous crystal chandeliers provided more than ample illumination, and a number of waiters and waitresses were moving unobtrusively through the room, dispensing free drinks to anyone who was playing at the gaming tables.

He had been to casinos on Deluros and a handful of other worlds, and had usually been disappointed in them. Romantic fictions and cinemas had always portrayed them as the playgrounds for the very rich, whereas his experience was that the typical casino gambler had no more knowledge of taste or culture than he had of odds.

The
Velvet Comet
's casino was more in line with what he had anticipated before he had actually gone out into the adult world. The noise was subdued, the faces of the participants reflected a sense of enjoyment rather than tension or frightened expectation, the dress mode was elegant, the behavior sedate. As he wandered in among the tables, he became aware of a string quartet performing in a far corner of the room. Holographs gave the illusion of a number of balconies overlooking a clear blue sea at twilight.

The tables were grouped by games—roulette, craps, baccarat, chemin de fer, blackjack, and a smattering of contests that were totally alien in origin—and there was a row of terminals lined up near one of the bars where contestants could match wits with Cupid in a variety of games ranging from chess to trivia. One section of the room had been turned over to a bookmaking parlour, where men and women sat in comfortable lounge chairs, made their selections on computer terminals, and then watched live holographs of various sporting contests that were transmitted up from Deluros VIII.

There was a stage near the center of the casino, right between the baccarat and roulette tables, on which a procession of nude and nearly-nude women executed graceful and intricate dances to the music of the quartet. Crane watched them for a few minutes, marveling at the sensual fluidity of their movements, and finding them far more erotic than the blatant entertainments he had seen elsewhere in his travels. He had a premonition that if he actually watched one of the Black Pearl's video performances he would find it more artistic than pornographic.

He spent the next hour wandering through the casino, stopping every now and then to watch the action at one of the tables. When he felt he had made himself visible enough, he took his leave and walked over to the nightclub.

He was ushered to a table near the stage, ordered a cup of coffee, and settled back to watch the show.

Pagliacci, wearing his usual clown's make-up, was on stage, rattling off a string of jokes that were older than the
Comet
. Nobody in the audience seemed to mind, however, and he received a fair share of amused laughter and an occasional guffaw.

“Actually, I've finally got the hang of it,” the comedian was saying. “I drink my Scotch straight”—he paused—“and my gin horizontal.” He waited for the scattered chuckles to subside. “To tell you the truth, I only drink to steady my nerves. Sometimes they get so steady I can't move.”

Suddenly his eyes fell on Crane.

“Let's have a round of applause for Andrew Jackson Crane, the fearless detective who just arrested the crewman responsible for a rather unpleasant incident down at the other end of the
Comet
.”

There was a round of polite applause, and Crane, startled, half-rose and nodded his head.

“You'll notice that my friend Detective Crane is sipping a cup of coffee. Coming here for coffee is like going to your suite for a nap.” Scattered laughter.

“Truth to tell, Mr. Crane never drinks anything stronger than pop—and Pop drinks anything.”

Pagliacci kept up his ancient and inoffensive patter for another five minutes, while Crane finished his coffee and ordered a second cup.

“It's time for my act to close, Mr. Crane,” Pagliacci announced, “and you still haven't cracked a smile.”

“Maybe I'm in a bad mood,” said Crane.

“I promised Mr. Crane that I wouldn't get off the stage until I got a laugh out of him,” the comedian announced to the audience. “So unless one of you lovely ladies would like to walk over and tickle him, you're going to have to put up with a few more jokes.”

Polite if unenthusiastic applause followed.

“All right,” said Pagliacci grimly. “Moses comes down from the mountain and says, ‘I've got some good news and some bad news. The good news is that I've talked Him down to ten ... and the bad news is that adultery is still on the list.”

Crane stared at him expressionlessly.

Pagliacci cleared his throat nervously. “Okay,” he said. “Jesus is wandering through Heaven, looking for his father, when finally, after days of fruitless searching, he sees a bearded old patriarch sitting on a bench. He suddenly realizes that he's exhausted, so he goes and sits down on the bench too. They get to talking, and Jesus tells the old man that he's been searching for his father.

“'That's odd,’ says the old man. ‘I've been searching for my son.’

“'My father was a carpenter,’ says Jesus.

“'
I
was a carpenter,’ replies the old man.

“Suddenly Jesus is interested.

“'My father's name was Joseph,’ he says.

“'Well, in your language, I suppose
my
name would be Joseph,’ says the old man.

“'The man I'm looking for wasn't actually my father, though he raised me from the day I was born,’ says Jesus.

“'It's funny you should say that,’ answers the old man. ‘Because I wasn't really my son's father, though I acted in that capacity from the instant he first drew breath.’

“Jesus and the old man stare long and hard at each other.

“'Father?’ says Jesus.

“A tear comes to the old man's eye.

“
'Pinnochio?'
”

Two men and a woman almost fell off their chairs, but there was absolutely no reaction from the remainder of the audience.

“Who the hell is Pinnochio?” asked Crane.

“Damn it!” said Pagliacci irritably. “If you knew anything about your race's myths and folklore, you'd be rolling around on the floor laughing your head off. You've got to bring a little something to the performance; I can't supply it all.”

“They say that humor's a very subjective thing,” replied Crane calmly.

“Well, they're wrong. Some things are funny by any criteria.” The comedian looked grimly determined.

“I'll try one more.”

Crane sensed the restlessness of the audience, and made up his mind to laugh no matter how unfunny the joke was. It turned out to be a five-minute story that led up to a truly horrible pun, and when it was done and he had forced himself to chuckle, Pagliacci finally took his bows and turned the stage over to the singer.

“Mind if I join you?” asked the comedian, approaching Crane's table.

“Be my guest,” replied Crane. “Or, to be more precise, be Vainmill's guest.”

“Thanks,” said Pagliacci, pulling up a chair. He stared intently at the detective for a moment. “You didn't really think it was funny, did you?”

“I laughed, didn't I?” responded Crane.

“Insincerely.”

“Well, you can't have everything.”

“No,” admitted the comedian. “But you can want everything.”

Crane made no reply, and Pagliacci signalled to a waiter and ordered a drink.

“Care for one?” he asked. “My treat.”

“No, thanks,” said Crane. “I don't drink.”

“I know,” grinned Pagliacci. “That's why I offered.”

“Maybe we should be quiet for awhile,” suggested Crane. “We seem to be bothering the singer.”

“Tough,” said Pagliacci. “People talk during
my
act all the time. It's an occupational hazard, like people lying to a detective.”

“Why would anyone want to lie to me?”

“People are afraid of what detectives might discover about their pasts, just as they're afraid of what doctors might discover about their bodies.”

“I take it that you're not one of them.”

“I've got nothing to hide.” The comedian smiled. “Which isn't to say that I don't owe you a couple of whoppers.”

“I don't think I follow you,” replied Crane.

“You told me that this Infante was an embezzler. Now suddenly I find out that he's a murder victim. You lied to me.”

“Don't take it personally,” said Crane. “I lied to everyone.”

“Why?”

“You ought to be grateful to me,” replied the detective. “If you're this bad when you're relaxed, think of how unfunny you'd be if you thought there was a killer in the audience.”

The comedian seemed about to make an angry retort, then shrugged. “What the hell—you're right. I died up there tonight. That's what comes of telling the same jokes every week.”

“They're pretty awful,” commented Crane.