The Floor Manager arrived, looking indignant; nobody had called him to okay the fracas. He looked at me, started to wave me off, then did a double take.
“This is the aggressor party?” The eyebrows on his Menjou crawled up into his hairline.
“That’s right,” I give it to him fast and snappy. “The bum insulted my lady-friend. Besides which, I don’t like his soup-strainer. After I break his rib cage down to chopsticks, I’m going to cut half of it off and give it to the pup to play with.” After all, if I was going to get pulverized, I might as well do it in style.
The Sullivan growled.
“You can talk better than that.” I pushed up close to him; my nose was on a level with the diamond stick-pin in his paisley foulard. “What’s your name, Big Stuff? Let’s have that registration.”
“None of your pidgin, Wisey.” He had a finger all ready to poke at me, saw the Monitor coming up ready to quote rules, used it to scratch his ear instead. The big square fingernail shredded plastic off the lobe; he was a little more nervous than he acted. That cinched it: he knew who I was—Barney Ramm, light-heavy champ in the armed singles.
* * *
“Assembly and serial numbers, please,” the Monitor said. He sounded a little impatient. I could see why he might. It was customary for a challenger to give the plate data without being asked—especially a floor-vet like Sullivan. He was giving the official a dirty look.
“Where’s Slickey?” he growled.
“He doesn’t come on for another fifteen minutes,” the Monitor snapped. “Look here—”
“You look here, Short-timer,” the Sullivan grunted. The Wayne moved up to help him give the fellow the cold eye. He glared back at them—for about two seconds. Then he wilted. The message had gotten through. The fix was in.
“Where’s the men’s room?” I piped up, trying to sound as frisky as ever, but at the moment my mind felt as easy to read as a ninety-foot glare sign.
“Eh?” The Monitor cut his eyes at me, back at the Sullivan, back to me, like a badminton fan at a championship match. “No,” he said. He pushed out his lips and shook his head. “I’m ruling—”
“Rule my foot.” I jostled him going past. “I know my rights.” I kept going, marched across the dance floor to the discreet door back of the phony palm tree. Inside, I went into high gear. There was a row of coin-operated buffing and circuit-checking machines down one wall, a power core dispenser, a plug-in recharge unit, a nice rack of touch-up paints, a big bin of burned-out reflex coils, and a dispenser full of replacement gaskets with a sign reading for safety’s sake—prevents hot bearings.
I skidded past them, dived through an archway into the service area. There were half a dozen padded racks here, loops of power leads, festoons of lube conduit leading down from ceiling-mounted manifolds. A parts index covered the far wall. There was no back door.
“Kindly take (click) position numbered one,” a canned voice cackled at me. “Use the console provided to indicate required services. Say, fellow, may I recommend this week’s special, Slideeze, the underarm lubricant with a diff—”
I slapped the control plate to shut the pitch off. Coming in here suddenly didn’t seem as cute as it had ten seconds earlier. I was cornered—and an accident on a lube-rack would save any possible slip-up on the floor. A little voice about as subtle as a jackhammer was yelling in my ear that I had half a minute, if I was lucky, before a pair of heavies came through the door to check me out . . .
It was three quick steps to the little stub wall that protected the customers from the public eye. I flattened myself against the wall beside it just as big feet clumped outside. The door banged open. The Wayne wasn’t bothering about being subtle. I wasn’t either. I hooked his left instep, spun in behind him, palmed his back hard. He hit face-first with a slam like two garbage flats colliding, and started looping the loop on the tiled floor. Those Waynes always did have a glass jaw. I didn’t stick around to see if anybody heard him pile in; I jumped over him, slid out through the door. The Liston was standing on the other side of the palm, not ten feet away. I faded to the right, saw another door. The glare sign above it said LADIES. I thought it over for about as long as it takes a clock to say “tick” and dived through.
3
Even under the circumstances it was kind of a shock to find myself standing there staring at pink and turquoise service racks, gold-plated perfume dispensers, and a big display rack full of strictly feminine spares that were enough to make a horse blush.
Then I saw her. She was a neat-looking Pickford—the traditional models were big just then. She had fluffy blonde hair, and her chassis covers were off to the waist. I gaped at her, sitting there in front of the mirror, then gulped like a seal swallowing a five-pound salmon. She jumped and swiveled my way, and I got a load of big blue eyes and a rosebud mouth that was opening up to scream.
“Don’t yell, lady!” I averted my eyes—an effort like uprooting saplings. “The mob’s after me. Just tell me how to get out of here!”
I heard feet outside. So did she, I guess.
“You—you can go out through the delivery door,” a nice little voice said. I flicked an eye her way. She was holding a lacy little something over her chest. It slipped when she pointed and I got an eyeful of some of the nicest moulded foam-plastic you’d care to see.
“Thanks, baby, you’re a doll,” I choked out and went past her, not without a few regrets. The door she’d showed me was around a corner at the back. There was a big carton full of refills for the cosmetics vendor beside it, with the top open. On impulse, I reached in and grabbed one going past.
The door opened into an alley about four feet wide, with a single-rail robo-track down the center for service and delivery mechs. The wall opposite was plain duralith; it went up, a sheer rise without a foothold for a gnat. In both directions the alley was a straight shot for fifty feet to a rectangle of hard late-afternoon sunlight. I could take my choice.
Something clattered to the right. I saw a small custodial cart move jerkily out of a doorway, swing my way, picking up speed. I started to back away; the thing was heavy enough to flatten my Arcaro without slowing down. Then a red light blinked on the front of the thing. It made screechy noises and skidded to a stop.
“Kindly clear the rail,” a fruity voice hooted. “This is your busy Sani-mat Service Unit, bringing that Sani-mat sparkle to another satisfied customer!”
* * *
A kind of idea formed up somewhere under my hairpiece. I eased around to the side of the machine, a tight squeeze. It was a squatty, boxy job, with a bunch of cleaning attachments racked in front and a good-sized bin behind, half full of what it had been collecting. I got the lid up, climbed up as it started forward again, and settled down in the cargo. It was lumpy and wet, and you could have hammered the aroma out into horseshoes. I guess the world has made a lot of progress in the last few decades, but garbage still smells like garbage.
I estimated I’d covered a hundred feet or less, when the cart braked to a sudden stop. I heard voices; something clicked and a hum started up near my left ear.
“Kindly clear the rail,” the tape said. “This is your Sani-mat Service Uuwwrrr—”
The cart jumped and I got another faceful of garbage. Somebody—it sounded like the Wayne—yelled something. I got set, ready to come out swinging as soon as the lid went up. But the voices faded out, and I heard running feet. The cart started up, bumped along clucking to itself like a chicken looking for a place to drop an egg. I rode it along to its next client’s back door, then hopped out, legged it to a public screen booth and dialed Gully’s number.
4
I caught him in a cab, just dropping in past a mixed-up view of city skyline tilting by in the background. His eyes bugged out like a Chihuahua when I told him—a deluxe feature of the four-year-old Cantor he always wore.
“Barney, you nuts?” He had a yelp like a Chihuahua too. “The biggest bout of your career coming up tonight, and you’re mixing in a free brawl!” He stopped to gulp and ran his eyes over me. “Hey, Barney! You’re wearing an Arcaro. You didn’t—”