Broodingly, the simulacrum sat hunched over, its legs drawn up so that it could place its feet on the rungs of the barstool. After Earl Grant had finished singing it remained silent, as if unaware of its surroundings. Its face was blank and downcast.
“I’m sorry to have depressed you,” I said to it; I was beginning to worry about it.
“It is not your fault; these moods come upon me. I am, do you know, grossly superstitious. Is that a fault? In any case I cannot prevent it; it is a part of me.” Its words emerged haltingly, as if with vast effort; as if, I thought, it could hardly find the energy in it to speak.
“Have another drink,” I said, and then I discovered that it had not touched its first and only drink.
The simulacrum mutely shook its head no.
“Listen,” I said, “let’s get out of here and on the rocket flight; let’s get back to Boise.” I jumped from my stool. “_Come on_.”
The simulacrum remained where it was.
“Don’t get so down in the dumps. I should have realized– blues singing affects everyone that way.”
“It is not the colored man’s singing,” the simulacrum said. “It is my own self. Don’t blame him for it, Louis, nor yourself. On the flight here I saw down onto the wild forests and thought to myself of my early days and the travels of my family and especially of the death of my mother and our trip to Illinois by oxen.”
“For chrissakes, this place is too gloomy; let’s take a cab to the Sea-Tac Airport and–” I broke off.
Pris and Sam had entered the room; a waitress was showing them to a reserved table.
Seeing them the simulacrum smiled. “Well, Louis, I should have heeded you. Now it is too late, I fear.”
I stood rigid by my barstool.
16
In a low voice in my ear the Lincoln simulacrum said, “Louis, you must climb back up on your stool.”
Nodding, I clumsily got back up. Pris–she glowed. Stunning in one of the new Total Glimpse dresses . . . her hair had been cut much shorter and brushed back and she wore a peculiar eyeshadow which made her eyes seem huge and black. Barrows, with his pool-ball shaved head and jovial, jerky manner, appeared the same as always; business-like and brisk, grinning, he accepted the menu and began ordering.
“She is astonishingly lovely,” the simulacrum said to me. “Yes,” I said. Around us the men seated at the bar–and the women too–had paused to give her the once-over. I couldn’t blame them.
“You must take action,” the simulacrum said to me. “You cannot leave now, I fear, and you cannot stay as you are. I will go over to their table and tell them that you have an appointment with Mrs. Devorac later in the evening, and that is all I can do for you; the rest, Louis, is on your shoulders.” It stepped long-legged from the stool and made its way from the bar before I could stop it.
It reached Barrows’ table and bent down, resting its hand on Barrows’ shoulder, and spoke to him.
At once Barrows twisted to face me. Pris also turned; her dark cold eyes glittered.
The Lincoln returned to the bar. “Go over to them, Louis.” Automatically I got down and threaded my way among the tables, over to Barrows and Pris. They stared. Probably they believed I had my .38 with me, but I did not; it was back at the motel. I said, “Sam, you’re finished. I’ve got all the dope ready for Silvia.” I examined my wristwatch. “Too bad for you, but it’s too late for you now; you had your chance and you muffed it.”
“Sit down, Rosen.”
I seated myself at their table.
The waitress brought martinis for Barrows and Pris.
“We’ve built our first simulacrum,” Barrows said.
“Oh? Who’s it of?”
“George Washington, the Father of Our Country.”
I said, “It’s a shame to see your empire crumbling in ruins.”
“I don’t get what you mean but I’m glad I ran into you,” Barrows said. “It’s an opportunity to thrash out a few misunderstandings.” To Pris he said, “I’m sorry to discuss business, dear, but it’s good luck to run across Louis here; do you mind?”
“Yes I mind. If he doesn’t leave, you and I are finished.” Barrows said, “You get so violent, dear. This is a minor point but an interesting one that I’d like to settle with Rosen here. If you’re so dissatisfied I can send you home in a cab.”
In her flat, remote tone Pris said, “I’m not going to be sent off. If you try to get rid of me you’ll find yourself in the bucket so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
We both regarded her. Beyond the beautiful dress, hairdo and make-up it was the same old Pris.
“I think I will send you home,” Barrows said.
“No,” she said.
Barrows beckoned to the waitress. “Will you have a cab–”
“You screwed me before witnesses,” Pris said.
Blanching, Barrows waved the waitress away. “Now look.” His hands were trembling. “Do you want to sit and have the vichyssoise and be quiet? Can you be quiet?”
“I’ll say what I want, when I want.”
“What witnesses?” Barrows managed to smile. “Dave Blunk? Colleen Nild?” His smile strengthened. “Go on, dear.”
“You’re a dirty aging middle-aged man who likes to peep up girls’ skirts,” Pris said. “You ought to be behind bars.” Her voice, although not loud, was so distinct that several people at nearby tables turned their heads. “You put it in me once too often,” Pris said. “And I can tell you this: it’s a wonder you can get it up at all. It’s so little and flaccid. You’re just too old and flaccid, you old fairy.”
Barrows winced, grinned twistedly. “Anything else?”
“No,” Pris said. “You have all those people bought so they won’t be witnesses against you.”
“Anything else?”
She shook her head, panting.
Turning to me Barrows said, “Now. Go ahead.” He seemed still to have his poise. It was amazing; he could endure anything.
I said, “Shall I contact Mrs. Devorac or not? It’s up to you.”
Glancing at his wristwatch Barrows said, “I’d like to consult with my legal people. Would it offend you if I telephoned Dave Blunk to come over here?”
“All right,” I said, knowing that Blunk would advise him to give in.
Excusing himself, Barrows went off to phone. While he was gone Pris and I sat facing each other without speaking. At last he returned and Pris met him with a forlorn, suspicious expression. “What vicious thing are you up to, Sam?” she said.
Sam Barrows did not answer. He leaned back comfortably.
“Louis, he’s done something,” Pris said with a wild glance all around. “Can’t you tell? Don’t you know him well enough to see? Oh, Louis!”
“Don’t worry,” I said, but now I felt uneasy, and at the bar I noticed that the Lincoln was stirring about restlessly and frowning. Had I made a mistake? Too late now; I had agreed.
“Will you step over here?” I called to the simulacrum. It rose at once and came over, stooping to hear. “Mr. Barrows is waiting to consult with his attorney.”
Seating itself the simulacrum pondered. “I suppose there is no harm in that.”
We all waited. Half an hour later Dave Blunk appeared, threading his way to us. With him was Colleen Nild, dressed up, and after her a third person, a young man with crewcut and bow-tie, an alert, eager expression on his face.
Who is this man? I wondered. _What is going on?_ And my uneasiness grew.
“Sorry we’re late,” Blunk said as he seated Mrs. Nild. Both he and the bow-tied young man seated themselves. No one introduced anyone.
This must be some employee of Barrows, I said to myself. Could this be the punk who would fulfill the formality of a legal marriage with Pris?
Seeing me staring at the man, Barrows spoke up. “This is Johnny Booth. Johnny, I want you to meet Louis Rosen.”
The young man nodded hastily. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Rosen.” He ducked his head to the others in turn. “Hi. Hi there. How are you?”
“Wait a minute.” I felt cold all over. “This is John Booth? John Wilkes Booth?”
“You hit the nail on the head,” Barrows said.
“But he doesn’t look anything like John Wilkes Booth.” It was a simulacrum and a terrible one at that. I had just been browsing in the reference books; John Wilkes Booth had been a theatrical, dramatic-looking individual–this was just another ordinary flunky type, a _nebbish_, the kind you see in the downtown business sections of every major city in the United States. “Don’t put me on,” I said. “This is your first effort? I’ve got news for you; better go back and try again.”