“Where are we?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “Why are we whispering?”
Then a spot of light glared. They turned to see Father Marco’s face, illuminated from below by a tiny glow-globe in the handle of his miniature screwdriver. “The reflex is correct," he said in a very low tone. “Keep your voices down; I don’t think the police know about this bolthole, but they might search the tavern basement, and we don’t want them to get curious.”
“Perish the thought!” Whitey agreed. “Where are we, Father? In a, you should pardon the phrase, priest-hole?”
“No, the persecutions on this planet have never been religiously oriented.” Father Marco grinned. “We’re in the basement of the establishment next door.”
“Which one—Leong Chakov’s Foot Laundry?”
“No, the other one.”
“Oh, Madame Tessie’s Tenderloin Chop House.” Whitey raised his eyebrows, nodding. “Pretty good, Father. Even I didn’t know there was any, ah, connection, between the two establishments.”
The priest nodded. “Only a few select patrons know.”
“You’re one of them?”
“Well—let’s just say it’s surprising what you pick up in moments of confidence.” Father Marco turned away, groping along the wall.
“Oh.” Whitey fell in beside him. “You picked it up in the confessional.”
“No, because of it. They had something of an emergency here last month, calling for the Last Rites and all possible discretion.” There was a loud clunk, and the light bobbed. Father Marco hissed something under his breath. Dar wondered why “blue” should be sacred.
“I think I’ve found the stairs.” Father Marco’s voice was strained. “Slowly and quietly, now.” The light began to bob upward. “The net result is, the ladies here have come to trust me. I think they’ll be discreet about our passage through their quarters.” His light shone on a richly-grained door. “Quietly, now,” he murmured, and turned the knob.
Laughter and raucous music assaulted their ears. They stepped out into the middle of a party for the usual assortment of portly patrons and what had to be the only slender inhabitants of Falstaff. The svelte shapeliness was real, too, obviously—since they were wearing as little as possible.
“Must be later than I thought,” Sam observed.
“No, it’s always like this,” Father Marco answered. “Come now, let’s see if we can’t find a quiet place to meditate.”
Personally, Dar had all he wanted to meditate on right there; but Father Marco was slipping quietly along the wall toward the stairway, and Whitey was pushing from behind, so he followed suit.
“Marco!”
The priest turned just as a bosomy beldam smacked into him, lips first. She leaned back, holding him by the shoulders and laughing. “You old scoundrel, what brings you here? Interested in our services, for a change?”
“In a way, Tessie, in a way.” Father Marco gave the madam an affectionate squeeze—on the hand. “Just looking for a place to relax and chat with a few friends, where there’s a little less noise than the average tavern.”
Tessie sighed and shook her head. “What a waste of a good man! And here I was getting my hopes up. I really ought to be angry with you, y’know.” She gave him a coquettish flicker of eyelashes.
“Because of Rosamund, eh?” Father Marco spread his arms. “There’s no help for it, Tessie. I have to do my job, even as you have to do yours.”
“Yes, and usually it’s all well and good—the girls get remorseful for a few days, and when they get back to work, they’ve got a certain freshness about them. But getting one of them to kick the trade completely? Now, don’t you think that’s going a bit too far?” She emphasized the point with a few strokes on his arm.
Father Marco gently disengaged her hand. “No, from my point of few, it’s just enough. Where is she now, do you know?”
Tessie shrugged. “Hopped an outbound liner, that’s all I can say. None of us are natives, Father.”
“Father?”
“It’s Father Marco!”
In a second, they were surrounded by a bevy of shapely no-longer-maidens with very long fingers. Dar thought of checking his wallet, but he was having too much fun being frisked.
The hands were all over the priest, coming on faster than he could take them off.
“Oh, Father, I’m so glad to see you!”
“Have I got a lot to tell you!”
“Oh, Father, it’s so horrible. I tried and I tried to resist, but …”
“Yes, girls, I understand. Patience, patience; if I can’t talk with each of you today, I’ll come back another time.”
“You aren’t a priest’s apprentice, are you?” A beautiful redhead straightened Dar’s tunic with a lingering touch.
“Well, no, not really. I am interested in virtue, though.”
“So am I,” she cooed, “it’s such a wonderful conversation topic.”
Dar felt a stroke along his buttocks, and just barely managed to keep from jumping. A blond head poked over his shoulder and murmured, “Any friend of Father’s is a friend of mine.”
“Well, I am the friendly type…”
There were at least five of them, all very good with innuendo, verbal and otherwise. It would’ve been great if they’d come one at a time; as it was, Dar was beginning to feel a little like a pound of ground sirloin at a hamburger sale.
Not that he was complaining …
A rippling chord filled the room. Everyone looked up, startled.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Whitey was standing on a chair, with Lona beside him, perched on a table. “For your entertainment and delectation—the ‘Ballad of Gresham’s Law’!”
An incredulous mutter ran through the room—especially from the zoftig patrons, who were all in the bracket that knows some economics.
The rippling chord stilled them again, and Whitey and Lona began to sing:
“When the upright ladies come to town.
Right away they gather ‘round
To form a club, and then decide
Who is out, and who’s inside.”
There was a tap on Dar’s shoulder, and Father Marco murmured, “I hate to distract you from what looks to be a rare event, but we do have other matters to consider.”
With a jolt, Dar remembered an electroclub swinging down at him. “Uh, yeah. We are in kind of a rush, aren’t we?” He sidled through his circle of admirers. “Excuse me, ladies. I’m on call.”
They made politely distressed noises, and turned back to Whitey and Lona eagerly. Whatever the song was, it seemed to strike a chord with them.
It seemed to be making an analogy between economics and sexual relations, but reversing what was usually understood to be a “good” woman versus a “bad.”
“Look at the coin in which you pay,
The wages of a working day.
Compare it to the ‘honest’ bill
Of lifelong toil and thwarted will.”
The patrons cheered, and the girls’ faces turned very thoughtful. It occurred to Dar that Whitey might be accomplishing the same task Father Marco was trying, though by very different methods.
“… but it is pretty urgent,” Father Marco was explaining to Tessie.
She held up a palm and shook her head. “Don’t explain, Father; I might be pegged for an accomplice. Besides, I’ve had to leave a place in something of a hurry myself, on occasion. Bring your people here.” She beckoned.
They followed her around through a darkened salon. There was a squeal and a muffled curse. “As you were,” Tessie ordered crisply, eyes resolutely fixed straight forward. Dar followed her example, though he was burning to look over his shoulder and make sure Sam was safely following. He felt like Orpheus on the return trip.
They turned left into what was either a small room or a very large closet—probably the latter; the walls were lined with racks of evening clothes, cut for small elephants.