The king circulated, table to table. Hands shook, brows and cheeks were kissed. He answered a few questions, if they were easy. He basked in their good will. He deployed his tricks as warranted—a panhandler’s breeze, Madcar’s charm, the personal nuggets gleaned by Brigadier Wil-fort-Smythe. He seldom forgot a grandchild’s name, or for whom a passenger worked.
The king never ate lunch; his nervous stomach rebelled against solid food in public. He drank an ocean of hot tea, though he hated its taste. The passengers expected it, and a long sip could buy him time to match one of the brigadier’s stock answers to a perplexing question.
Brigadier Wilfort-Smythe had all the answers.
Once, when he was tired and pouty, he’d blown off the brigadier during one of her eternal briefings. She’d casually pulled a knife and rammed it through her forearm. “You are My King,” she said, face as solid as a glacier. “I swore to your mother, My Queen, that I would find and protect you.” She yanked the bloody knife out of her arm and waved it in front of his prominent nose. “I will drive this steel into my eye before I see Our Monarchy humiliated because My King is too lazy to fulfill his obligation to the throne!”
He believed her. The brigadier was the last Royal Commando.
King Richard IV stopped cold at Table 31. Ray-man wore an Esobar suit, but the aura of the streets still clung to him. When his broken-yolk eyes of blue met the king’s greys, they twinkled. He hoisted his glass to the king.
“I wan ya to know how hopping it is to be breaking bread with the likes of ya.” Ray-man winked. His palsied hand trembled Chablis onto the deck.
King Richard nodded, recalling how Ray-man had towed him out of Dugan Park seconds before vigilantes swept into the Hooverville of plastic crates and “vanished” everyone they caught. He owed the elderly man his life.
The king extended his hand for a long shake. “Nice to meet you—”
“Citizen Summe, Yer Highness. I hope we can talk later about yer charity work. I’ve seen yer Homeless Hotel in Stanton. That’s work ya can be proud of, fersure.”
“I am proud.”
The king turned abruptly to a couple who reeked of ancient money. A hand shook, a hand kissed. They asked if Trudi Ambersian would be the next queen. He shook his head mournfully and whispered about the actress’s drug habit. Enough said. Junkies couldn’t wear the crown, as Elizabeth III had proven. A trio of fashionable young wendies nearly caressed his hand off while they stuffed notes into his pocket.
Before going to the next table, the king detoured to a waiter’s island to fetch a glass of juice. The Navigator caught the signal and alerted the Maitre d’, who drew his stun gun. Richard then realized that the apple juice was the wrong signal and dashed over to the D’ to cancel the alert.
“The bald rake with palsy,” he whispered. “Says his name is Summe, but it’s not. How the devil does a streeter get the long green for our ride?”
“Streeter?” asked the D’, pretending that the stun gun was a whisk and brushing the royal jacket with it.
“A homeless person. Tell the brigadier to investigate him.”
He went to Table 32. “My pardons. The apple juice was from concentrate. I will not tolerate second-rate products for my guests on the Windsor! In these desperate times, it is imperative that we maintain our standards!”
Fill in the blank and it worked as flawless gaffe cover.
He was glad there were but forty-four tables to go.
“Your mother and her dearest friend shared a dorm room at Kramden University, your father, often the same plate at dinner. I shot her right where you’re sitting after she stabbed My Queen. Old friends can be deadly!”
The brigadier twisted her short, raven braid. In her simple cotton shift and sock-shoes, she looked more like a school girl than a thirty-eight-year-old commando.
Rumor had it that the brigadier was the illegitimate daughter of the king’s maternal grandfather. She had grown up on the ship, leaving to attend the Trade Commission Academy and to serve a five-year tour with the Dyb’ as a grunt. Embittered by the aliens’ wars, she came home wealthy, bemedaled, and moderately famous. The brigadier could have shpped into a hundred careers; instead, she became the last Royal Commando.
“I inspected his suite. No weapons. I called Deimos. Your friend has served time for being a persistent unemployable. No violence. No links to rads or Euros or any crim outfit.”
“He’s not a frigging assassin. He carried me to the hospital when—” The king flapped his useless arm.
Odd, he thought, that the memory didn’t gnaw him. He’d taken down two of the thugs before they overwhelmed him. Even while they stretched his arm over a railing and clubbed it to a pulp, he rejoiced that he had dropped two of them. By contrast, the four other times the gang had robbed him constantly appeared in his nightmares. Then, he’d behaved like a victim and forked over whatever they wanted.
“My King, that Hapsburg was virtually a sister to your mother. You no longer have the luxury of accepting old friends at face value.”
“Bring me Ray-man. You don’t have to make faces. Trust no one. I promise to stay out of your line of fire.”
She tapped the Monet behind which hid a security room. Positioning a chair just so, she studied the angle as her thumbnail clacked against her teeth. “He should sit here.”
“Yes, My Brigadier.” She disappeared into the security room.
The king picked up the phone; it was gold, with huge buttons. It was his mother’s, as were most of the furnishings. Like museum artifacts, he’d kept them to remind him of someone he’d never known. The kitchen immediately answered.
“May I have two of your stalest doughnuts and two glasses of powdered milk. Yes, powdered. Yes, stale. Yes, I’m pulling a royal prank. Thank you.”
The dumbwaiter beeped. King Richard removed the tray and closed the heavy sliding door. It continued beeping until he double-latched it. No sense having an armored suite only to have a shaft door come loose in an emergency.
Using a remote, he clicked the TV to the channel monitoring the airlock that served as his front door. Ray-man sat on the deck, scratching his bald, liver-spotted head. It was the same indolent posture the king had seen him assume in the Stanton jail. He pressed a button to open the hatch.
Ray-man sauntered into the room, unimpressed by the surroundings. He waved casually, as if they were bumping into each other in Dugan Park. The streeter in silk slumped into the chair pointed to by the king. He picked up the milk and doughnut.
“Like old times, eh boyo? ’Cept the milk ain’t watery enough.”
“Who paid for your ride? The clothes? Did you win the lottery, Ray-man?” He concentrated on keeping the haunting drawl from his speech.
“Down to biz from the get-go, eh. Ya haven’t changed, Ricky. Okay, I can play that game. There was a riot on Kerrigan Polis coupla years back. A mob broke into the Grainer ship 980 and butchered over 7000 of them.” Ray wiped his nose on a silk sleeve.
“And?” The king shifted in his chair.
“The security detail was pulled off the docks just before the riot. The rioters were armed from the polis’ arsenal. The mob numbered hundreds, yet only five scapegoats are being put on trial.”
“So?” The king sipped his milk. The taste opened his mouth’s eye to the mission where he and the legion of streeters in the Dugan Park district breakfasted.