“I beg your pardon?”
“What’s his noise? His business, I mean?”
“Mr. Cuff has no business,” the girl said frigidly. “He’s an alderman.”
That was interesting. Gallagher looked for his hat, found it on his head, and took leave of the robot, who did not trouble to answer. “If Fatty calls up again,” the scientist commanded, “get his name. See? And keep your eye on that machine, just in case it starts having mutations or something.”
That seemed to tie up all the loose ends. Gallegher let himself out of the house. A cool autumn wind was blowing, scattering crisp leaves from the overhead parkways. A few taxiplanes drifted past, but Gallegher hailed a street cab; he wanted to see where he was going. Somehow he felt that a telecall to Max Cuff would produce little of value. The man would require deft handling, especially since he was “bearing down hard.”
“Where to, bud?”
“Uplift Social Club. Know where it is?”
“Nope,” said the driver, “but I can find out.” He used his teledirectory on the dashboard. “Downtown. Way down.”
“O.K.,” Gallegher told the man, and dropped back on the cushions, brooding darkly. Why was everybody so elusive? His clients weren’t usually ghosts. But Fatty remained vague and nameless — a face, that was all, and one Gallegher hadn’t recognized. Who J. W. was anyone might guess. Only Dell Hopper had put in an appearance, and Gallegher wished he hadn’t. The summons rustled in his pocket.
“What I need,” Gallegher soliloquized, “is a drink. That was the whole trouble. I didn’t stay drunk. Not long enough, anyhow. Oh, damn.”
Presently the taxi stopped at what had once been a glass brick mansion, now grimy and forlorn looking. Gallegher got out, paid the driver, and went up the ramp. A small placard said Uplift Social Club. Since there was no buzzer, he opened the door and went in.
Instantly his nostrils twitched like the muzzle of a war horse scenting cordite. There was drinking going on. With the instinct of a homing pigeon, Gallegher went directly to the bar, set up against one wall of a huge room filled with chairs, tables, and people. A sad-looking man with a derby was playing a pinball machine in a corner. He looked up as Gallegher approached, lurched into his path, and murmured, “Looking for somebody?”
“Yeah,” Gallegher said. “Max Cuff. They told me he was here.”
“Not now,” said the sad man. “What do you want with him?”
“It’s about Fatty,” Gallegher hazarded. Cold eyes regarded him. “Who?”
“You wouldn’t know him. But Max would.”
“Max want to see you?”
“Sure.”
“Well,” the man said doubtfully, “he’s down at the Three-Star on a pub-crawl. When he starts that—”
“The Three-Star? Where is it?”
“Fourteenth near Broad.”
“Thanks,” Gallegher said. He went out, with a longing look at the bar. Now now — not yet. There was business to attend to first.
The Three-Star was a gin mill, with dirty pictures on the walls. They moved in a stereoscopic and mildly appalling manner. Gallegher, after a thoughtful examination, looked the customers over. There weren’t many. A huge man at one end of the bar attracted his attention because of the gardenia in his lapel and the flashy diamond on his ring finger.
Gallegher went toward him. “Mr. Cuff?”
“Right,” said the big man, turning slowly on the bar stool like Jupiter revolving on its axis. He eyed Gallegher, librating slightly. “Who’re you?”
“I’m—”
“Never mind,” said Cuff, winking. “Never give your right name after you’ve pulled a job. So you’re on the lam, eh?
“What?”
“I can spot ’em as far away as I can see ’em. You…you…hey!” Cuff said, bending forward and sniffing. “You been drinking!”
“Drinking,” Gallegher said bitterly. “It’s an understatement.”
“Then have a drink with me,” the big man invited. “I’m up to E now. Egg flip. Tim!” he roared. “’Nother egg flip for my pal here! Step it up! And get busy with F.”
Gallegher slid onto the stool beside Cuff and watched his companion speculatively. The alderman seemed a little tight.
“Yes,” Cuff said, “alphabetical drinking’s the only way to do it. You start with A — absinthe — and then work along, brandy, Cointreau, Daiquiri, egg flip—”
“Then what?”
“F, of course,” Cuff said mildly surprised. “Flip. Here’s yours. Good lubrication!” They drank. “Listen,” Gallegher said, “I want to see you about Fatty.”
“Who’s he?”
“Fatty,” Gallegher explained, winking significantly. “You know. You’ve been bearing down lately. The statute. You know.”
“Oh! Him!” Cuff suddenly roared with Gargantuan laughter. “Fatty, huh? That’s good. That’s very good. Fatty’s a good name for him, all right.”
“Not much like his own, is it?” Gallegher said cunningly.
“Not a bit. Fatty!”
“Does he spell his name with an e or an i?”
“Both,” Cuff said. “Tim, where’s the flip? Oh, you got it ready, huh? Well, good lubrication, pal.”
Gallegher finished his egg flip and went to work on the flip, which was identical except for the name. What now?
“About Fatty,” he hazarded.
“Yeah?”
“How’s everything going?”
“I never answer questions,” Cuff said, abruptly sobering. He looked sharply at Gallegher. “You one of the boys? I don’t know you.”
“Pittsburgh. They told me to come to the club when I got in town.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Cuff said. “Oh, well. It doesn’t matter. I just cleaned up some loose ends, and I’m celebrating. Through with your flip? Tim! Gin!”
They had gin for G, a horse’s neck for H, and an eye opener for I. “Now a jazzbo,” Cuff said with satisfaction. “This is the only bar in town that has a drink beginning with J. After that I have to start skipping. I dunno any K drinks.”
“Kirchwasser,” Gallegher said absently. “K — huh? What’s that?” Cuff bellowed at the bartender. “Tim! You got any kirchwasser?”
“Nope,” said the man. “We don’t carry it, Alderman.”
“Then we’ll find somebody who does. You’re a smart guy, pal. Come along with me. I need you.”
Gallegher went obediently. Since Cuff didn’t want to talk about Fatty, it behooved him to win the alderman’s confidence. And the best way to do that was to drink with him. Unfortunately an alphabetical pub-crawl, with its fantastic mixtures, proved none too easy. Gallagher already had a hangover. And Cuff’s thirst was insatiable. “L? What’s L?”
“Lachrymae Christi. Or Liebfraumilch.”
“Oh, boy!”
It was a relief to get back to a martini. After the orange blossom Gallegher began to feel dizzy. For R he suggested root beer, but Cuff would have none of that.
“Well, rice wine.”
“Yea. Rice — hey! We missed N! We gotta start over now from A!”
Gallegher dissuaded the alderman with some trouble, and succeeded only after fascinating Cuff with the exotic name ng ga po. They worked on, through sazeraes, tail spins, undergrounds, and vodka. W meant whiskey.
“X?”
They looked at each other through alcoholic fogs. Gallegher shrugged and stared around. How had they got into this swanky, well-furnished private clubroom, he wondered. It wasn’t the Uplift, that was certain. Oh, well—
“X?” Cuff insisted. “Don’t fail me now, pal.”
“Extra whiskey,” Gallegher said brilliantly.
“That’s it. Only two left. Y and…and — what comes after Y?”
“Fatty. Remember?”
“Ol’ Fatty Smith,” Cuff said, beginning to laugh immoderately. At least, it sounded like Smith. “Fatty just suits him.”