Good King Sauerkraut (5 page)

The two redheads consulted. “We'll follow you in our car,” Tiffany said. Both were smiling bravely.

On the way out, King stopped Jill. “We don't have to go on to another bar if you don't want,” he said. “We could, well, we could go to a movie.”

“A movie?” Jill echoed dubiously.

“Or dinner. Have you had dinner?”

“Oh, yes. I've had dinner.”

“I just meant we didn't have to go bar-hopping if there was something else you'd rather do. We don't have to stick with Russ and, uh, Tiffany.”

Her smile had a little hesitation in it. “Well, we both came in Tiffany's car, and …”

And you don't know me well enough to go off with me alone
. “In that case, we'd all better stay together,” he smiled, hoping she noticed how understanding he was being.

The South Side bar, unfortunately, turned out to be even more crowded and noisier than Benny's; so they abandoned it and ended up at the Atrium Lounge of the Sheraton, looking out over the Monongahela River. It was just quiet enough for Russ to continue his monologue.

King labored mightily to carry on a conversation with the shy young receptionist who agreed with everything he said, but it was hard to escape the sound of Russ's voice. Tiffany was struggling to maintain an interested expression. King made what was meant to be a silencing gesture toward Russ but only succeeded in knocking over his drink. A waiter appeared out of nowhere, cleaned up the mess, and silently disappeared. King excused himself and went to the men's room. He needed a breather.

When he came out, he was surprised to see a familiar figure seated at a small table—alone. “Gale? Are you here by yourself? Where's Bill?”

The woman turned and faced him. It wasn't Gale Fredricks.

King stuttered out an apology, feeling a fool. “It's just that you look so much like my assistant,” he explained.

“Oh?” the woman said, deadpan. “What does she assist you
with
?”

He relaxed a little. “I design robots.”

She smiled wryly. “Well, we can't talk about
that
. I'm a technoklutz myself.”

King put on a mournful face. “You don't know how it grieves me to hear that.”

“How do you talk to us no-tech types—sign language?”

He pressed his palms together in an attitude of prayerful supplication. The woman who was not Gale laughed and gestured toward the empty chair next to her. King sat down, starting to enjoy himself for the first time that evening.

After fifteen minutes things were going so well that King was emboldened to invite her to his place. He couldn't believe his good luck when she said yes. He paid her bill while she fished car keys out of her purse, and they stood up to leave.

“Going somewhere, Sauerkraut?”

He turned to see Russ glaring at him; King had managed to forget about him without even trying. And the girls—he'd forgotten them as well. “Oh lord, Russ, I'm sorry!” he groaned. “I just now met, er, ah, um.”

“You really were going to do it, weren't you?” Russ's voice rose, angry. “You were going to walk out of here without a word—and leave me with both of them! You sonuvabitch. You don't mind shafting me, okay, think of Jill. What you're doing to her is pretty shitty, even for you.”

“Look, Russ, I said I was sorry.”

“Sorry!” It came out a shout. “Sorry doesn't solve anything!”

“Hey, keep it down, fellas, willya?” a waiter asked with a smile.

Not-Gale stood off to the side listening, a look of amusement on her face.

Russ lowered his voice. “Okay, so you found something better. But what about me? What am I supposed to tell those two back there? My god, King, don't you ever think of anyone but yourself?”

King took a deep breath. “Russ, listen … I'm going now. I'm sorry if I've screwed up your plans, but that's the way it is.”

He took Not-Gale by the arm and walked out, leaving Russ to handle the Jill problem any way he could.

3

King Sarcowicz slept until shortly before noon Sunday, waking to feel as if he'd been doped. He squirted toothpaste directly into his mouth and chewed on it morosely before beginning to brush. He had to stoop a little to see all of his face in the bathroom mirror; he'd been meaning to raise the mirror for years but had never got around to it. A hot-and-cold shower got rid of most of the grogginess, and black coffee finished the job. He was depressed. He'd just as soon forget last night, even though it was the first time he'd made love in over a year.

He'd thought it had gone all right; they'd even managed to avoid mentioning the unmentionable—the woman who was not Gale (her name was Teresa) had simply handed him a condom. But then immediately afterward she'd gotten up and dressed. When he asked for her phone number, Teresa had merely smiled enigmatically … and left without a word.

So he'd bombed. After Teresa left, it had taken him an hour to get to the point where he was ready to drift off to sleep; but then a racket outside had forced him awake again. He looked through the window to see an ambulance pulled up in Mrs. Rowe's driveway. He dressed hurriedly and went to find out what was the matter. The old lady had had a stroke.

Mrs. Rowe had a Lifecall Medical Relief unit; she'd managed to press the button and help had arrived soon after. King rode in the ambulance with her to Shadyside Hospital, holding the frightened woman's hand and somehow finding the right words to soothe her. At the hospital an Indian doctor told him it could have been worse; Mrs. Rowe would be only partially impaired. The doctor said the old lady was most anxious that someone let her son in Philadelphia know, and also to ask him to come take care of her cat. King said he'd do it, trying not to feel hurt that she'd not trusted him to feed the damned animal. He took the number the doctor gave him and made the call.

Then he'd thought as long as he was in the hospital, he might as well drop in to see Ginnie, Russ Panuccio's now-and-then girlfriend with the broken leg. A nurse had dryly informed him that four
A.M.
was not included in their regular visiting hours.

King walked home from the hospital, thinking not of Ginnie or Mrs. Rowe or even Teresa but of Russ. Every time King spent an evening with the newscaster-turned-teacher, he was left with a firm resolve to avoid Russ Panuccio assiduously for the next six months. But now he was beginning to regret leaving his “friend” in the lurch earlier that night. If Russ should turn his back on him … King wondered what he'd told Jill.

Jill. The toe of his shoe sent a small rock skittering along ahead of him. He took a running start and kicked it lightly, managing to aim it straight down the sidewalk. He was able to keep the rock going for a full block before he lost it in the dark. Jill, Jill. He didn't know her last name and he'd probably never see her again, unless he went looking for her at Benny's and similar Hi-I'm-so-and-so places around town. He wondered if he should. She probably wouldn't even speak to him; her determination to be agreeable couldn't possibly stretch that far. It didn't occur to King to wonder whether he'd be so concerned about Jill if Teresa had given him her phone number. But still he felt ashamed of himself, a little. Dennis Cox had once accused him of being careless with people; King admitted his abandoning of Jill just might possibly fit into that category.
Not a very kingly thing to do
.

By the time he reached home, King's mind had slid away from these minor but seemingly insoluble problems, to dwell instead on major ones for which solutions could reasonably be presumed to exist. He fell asleep thinking about his design for a driverless vehicle and awoke six and a half hours later feeling as if he'd been doped. When his head was clear he went out to buy a Sunday paper—and found himself a sideline observer at the Pittsburgh Marathon.

King was vaguely aware that this thing happened every May, but still it took him by surprise. The enthusiasm of the crowd was contagious, so King lingered a while, standing behind the other spectators and peering over their heads. The runners flew down Walnut Street in Shadyside, all sizes and shapes and ages, both sexes. King was fascinated by one runner who didn't pass by any too quickly; an older man, bald, shirtless, with a salt-and-pepper beard down to his navel. He was laboring. His face and neck were reddish purple, he was covered with sweat, and he was barely jogging, his feet obviously heavy and his strength gone—a coronary in the making if King ever saw one. The guy was killing himself, but he would not quit.
And that kind of determination is undoubtedly admired
, King thought wonderingly.
Insane
. A teen-aged girl in the briefest of shorts passed the bearded man easily.

King stayed until he started to grow thirsty; but back at home he found he was out of beer. He remembered; Russ Panuccio had taken the last one. Into the car, on to Squirrel Hill and Rhoda's Deli. He picked up a loaf of bread but decided against a jar of sour pickles. Beer.

“Heineken, right?” the girl behind the counter said.

“Right.”

“Thought so.”

King noticed a little smile playing around her mouth.
Pleased with herself—probably wants to be complimented
. He cleared his throat. “Now how did you happen to remember that?”

The smile emerged full-blown. “Oh, I notice faces and I pay attention to what people like and, you know, I remember.”

Now what am I supposed to say—congratulations?
“Well, ah.” He forced a smile.

The girl gave him his change and told him in the sweetest voice imaginable to have a
good
one.

So that's the way the game was played. King grumbled to himself all the way home, knowing that most people would look upon the little scene he'd just acted out as a simple exercise in common courtesy. But he resented having to pretend to be impressed by a countergirl's memory just to win her good will.

With an effort he put aside all thoughts of countergirls and suicidal marathon runners and old women in hospitals and young women with no last names. He spent the rest of the day reading technical journals, and eventually his bad mood passed. It never failed; he was always able to find comfort in a world in which the shortest distance between two points was still one straight unambiguous line.

Gale Fredericks was waiting for him in the laboratory when he got in Monday morning. “I've just been talking to Dennis Cox,” she said without preamble. “He tells me we're getting a DARPA contract.”

“A piece of one,” King smiled, glad to see her after the downer weekend. “A juicy piece, I think.”

Her voice had an accusatory tone. “Keystone has never done military work before.”

He looked at her curiously. “Of course we have, Gale. Lots of times.”

“Not since I've been working here.”

King thought back. “That could be,” he admitted; the past couple of years all their work had been industrial. “Why, Gale? Is this a problem?”

She slumped down into a chair. “One reason I came to work here was that you told me Keystone didn't do any military work.”

Oh-oh. “I may have told you we weren't doing any at the time—I don't remember. You don't want to work on military designs?”

“More than that, I refuse to. And you … you shouldn't either. King, you're the closest thing to a genius I've ever met. You don't have to settle for thinking up better ways to kill people. You don't have to do military work.”

“But that won't change anything,” he objected. “If I don't do it—”

“Somebody else will,” she finished for him. “I know, I've heard that song. But
you
don't have to do it.”

King couldn't believe this was happening. “Gale, we don't even know what the project
is
yet. It may not be weaponry at all … it could be some sort of intelligence-gathering device they want us to design.” A picture of his driverless vehicle flashed in his mind. “Or a remote-controlled ambulance—you wouldn't object to working on an ambulance, would you?”

She thought a moment, and then said, “No, I wouldn't object to that.”

“Good! Let's wait until Dennis and I meet with MechoTech before we worry about whether we'll be helping kill people or not.” He'd meant to make it sound like a joke, but it didn't come out that way. “Gale, don't make any decisions while we're gone. Please?”

She smiled at him. “All right. I'm sorry to dump this on you right before you leave, but I thought you ought to know before you started making plans that'd include me.”

“Appreciate it.”

Other technicians had begun drifting in with their usual Monday-morning slowness. King and Gale spent some time planning which projects she should ride herd on while he and Dennis were in New York. Then Gale got to work on tracking down the programming error they'd found late Friday afternoon.

King waited until she was deep in her work and said, “I'll be in Dennis's office.” She nodded without looking away from her screen.

Dennis's eyes were puffy, as they were every Monday morning. He kept one of them closed as he watched King fold up like a telescope on the chair farthest from Dennis's desk. “Well?” he asked his partner. “Did you think it over?”

King nodded. “Can't do it, Dennis.
I
have to be the one to direct the work.”

Dennis grunted, as if expecting that answer. “All right, how about this? You direct the project, but you leave all the workaday decisions to me. Timetables, expenditures, reports to MechoTech and DARPA, whip-cracking, everything. Just the way we do it here. At least we'll present a united front that way.”

King let out a sigh of relief; that was exactly what he'd been hoping Dennis would suggest. “Absolutely. No problem.”

“That means at times you'll have to take orders from me.”

“I can live with it. Just as long as I decide what design work is to be done.”