I got to my feet, forgetting to duck in time. I raised the entire thatched roof with my white head.
He started to smirk, but I made a fist and his smirk dutifully vanished. I let the roof settle back down. I went
over and sat Indian-legged in the corner and poured myself a drink of water. The rain still smelled clean and good. I wished I could say as much for my guest.
Now that I was awake, I took my first good look at him. He had an unpleasant reputation on Riverworld, always seducing young girls and then deserting them, the sort of woman-hating games Casanova the satyr always played. At least Casanova had been forthright: he’d wanted goaty sex. Poe wrapped it all up in a fog of romance and dark feverish poetry.
“You stoned?” v
“I resent that, Mr. Hammett.”
“Knock off the theatrics and answer my question.”
“No, I’m not stoned.”
“You trying to tell me you’re not a dreamgum addict anymore?”
“I use it occasionally.”
“Occasionally. Uh-huh.”
“I know you don’t think much of me.”
I sighed. I hate sanctimony, mine or anybody else’s, and I realized suddenly that I was being awfully sanctimonious about this guy.
“Look,” I said, “given the sort of life I led back on earth, I don’t have any right to make moral judgments about anybody. And I sure as hell don’t want to put on the Roman collar and tell somebody he’s a self-indulgent, profligate twit who uses everybody he comes in contact with.”
He smiled. “I think there was a message for me somewhere in there.”
“Yes, I suppose there was.”
“I know what I’m like, Mr. Hammett.”
“You do, eh?”
210
Ed German
FOOL’S PARADISE
211
“Believe or not, I’m not that way consciously. It just sort of—comes out that way. I mean, I don’t really mean to use people… I just sort of… do.”
I sighed again. “What can I do for you this fine, sunny morning, Mr. Poe?”
“I wish you’d call me Edgar. Everybody else does.”
“I’ll make a deal with you.”
“What’s that?”
“You call me Dashiell and I’ll call you Edgar.”
He smiled again. All the books have him as handsome, but he wasn’t, not really; his mouth and his chin were too weak for handsome. But there was some force in the dark eyes that held real power, some kind of madness that was fascinating to observe. I’m sure it’s a power he shared with snake charmers and wealthy ministers and politicians who wrap themselves in patriotism.
“All right, Dashiell,” he said.
“You came here to tell me something.”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me.”
“I’m afraid somebody is trying to kill Arda.”
“That’s an unlikely tale for the Riverworld. There not being any death here.”
“No, not death as such, but if you kill a man, he’s reborn elsewhere. And if you were to kill the woman a man loves and she’s reborn elsewhere and he’s never able to find her again because the Riverworld is so vast— well, that’s just the same thing as her dying, isn’t it?”
“I guess you’re right about that.” I looked down at his long, slender hands. Some people would call them artistic hands, I suppose. Anyway, his hands were trembling, and badly. “Why would anybody want to harm her?”
“I don’t know.”. But the way he said it, fast and dismissive, I knew he was lying.
“I don’t really do this sort of thing anymore, you know.”
“You were a Pink.”
“Pinkerton is the proper name. Pink is what the press called us, and I never much cared for that.” I took some more water and then took a deep breath. “Maybe you don’t know this, Edgar, but I ended up being a writer too. Not as good as you, maybe, but good enough that I was able to quit being a Pinkerton and support myself up to the end. Or thereabouts, anyway.”
“What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying that I’m out of practice.”
“Last night, she was out walking and somebody shot an arrow at her. Missed her by no more than this.” He indicated a small amount of space between thumb and forefinger. “And a week ago, somebody tried to drown her while she was bathing in the River. And a few days before that, somebody tried to push her off a mountain trail.”