Laszlo promptly changed the subject. “I s’pose you’ve heard about my Pills,” he sneered.
Mike’s ears came to a visible point.
“Well, I heard about some pills,” I confessed.
“Mine,” he exulted. “Reality Pills, you dig? An’ I’m the only connection, baby. Me. You want some?”
“What do you mean, you’re the only connection? Bullshit. Where’d you get ’em?”
“That’s my secret, baby.”
“Not for long, Georgie, not for long.”
“Long enough, baby. Want some?”
Mike was obviously memorizing all of this and ready to spend the rest of the night analyzing it. He took being a spy and/or detective seriously, the only way really to enjoy it. The rest of our group, for various reasons of their own, were listening almost as intently. Only Sean and Sativa were ignoring our discussion. They had other things to think about.
“You want some Reality Pills?” Laszlo repeated.
“I dunno,” grudgingly. “Maybe.”
“Sure, Captain Cool. Yeah, maybe. Tell you what I’ll do: I’ll have some more tomorrow, dig? If I see you, baby, I’ll give you a special deal, just for you, Andy, ’cause you’re sort of a poet, too.”
“I thought you were givin’ ’em away,” croaked Gary the Frog.
“Just creating a demand, Froggy. You know.” One very smug Laszlo.
“Yeah,” I said, cynicism dripping from my words so strong I was half afraid my teeth’d rot. “The first one’s always free, right? We know how it is, Georgie. But how do we know the next batch’ll work? You’ve got a great name for oregano, baby.”
It was next to impossible to predict what would offend Laszlo, but this seemed to. He drew his cloak around himself in a dramatic gesture that knocked two cups of coffee and a Coke off the table behind him, elevated his nose some fifteen degrees, and sniffed, “That’s your problem, baby. See you then.”
He huffed off aromatically to bug some other table. I took a deep breath. Sativa giggled. Gary the Frog started to say something, forgot what it was, and snapped his slack mouth shut with a liquid click. Mike was bursting to say something, but not till Laszlo was out of range.
“Michael,” I whispered loudly, “can you really believe that biped fungus is a Communist Plotter? And besides,” I’d been thinking about this for a while, “how could that damn thing be a Communist Plot if it couldn’t be tested secretly?”
Mike looked around cautiously. “Siberia,” he hushed.
“Siberia?”
“Right. They used monkeys or something. Obvious. Who’d notice a monkey’s hallucinations anyway?”
“Well, I would,” said Harriet from under Gary the Frog.
“Me, too,” I agreed. “And what about Laszlo?”
“He’s a tool.” My density seemed to annoy Mike. Pity. “That doesn’t change the plan, though.”
“Oh.” I’d been afraid of that.
“Tomorrow,” Mike went ruthlessly on, “he’s getting more, right? That’s our chance. It’s all so simple.” Mike had a habit, at such times, of spreading out his hands as though he were trying on a crucifix for size. This meant he was practicing superhuman patience with such clods as myself, who were unable to understand such obvious schemes.
“Are you people, you know, like Talkin’ ’bout Somethin’, man,” Patrick stumbled, “or is it one of your rants?” We’d put him on by accident once with the plot of a spy story we never got around to writing, and he’d wondered about us ever since.
“Just a rant,” said the security-conscious M. T. Bear.
“Groovy.”
Whereupon the table talk turned to fairly general subjects, mainly yesterday’s adventures, the Reality Pill, who was sleeping with or without whom, what bands were rumored to be breaking up and why, the Reality Pill, who might be selling what for how much, the apocryphal history of Andrew Blake and everybody else we knew who wasn’t there, modern techniques of counterespionage, wiretapping, housebreaking et al, and other quaint topics dear to our twisted hearts, but especially Reality Pills.
“I don’t care,” Stu insisted. “I want ’em.” Mike had been expounding his Communist Plot theory.
“Sure,” I said loyally, “it’s probably a great high for people like us, but can you imagine the Whole World on that stuff?”
“Why not?”
“Sturgeon’s Law,” Mike explained, Sturgeon’s Law being: 90 percent of everything is crap, mildly speaking.
“That’s cool,” Stu capitulated.
“What’s it like?” Kevin asked. None of us had thought to ask that question, but Kevin was scientifically trained.
“Yeah, Sean,” I agreed. “How does it feel?”
“Uhmm!” Sean was still involved with Sativa. They seemed to be developing a really intricate relationship.
“How does What feel?” That double reed voice again.
“Andy!” Several voices.
“Hello there.” And not just Andrew, best Edwardian threads and all, but Karen Greenbaum as well, and hand in hand, too. Somebody’s plot was thickening nicely, thanks.
Mike and Stu scurried about collecting chairs for them, but Andy said, “No, no. Don’t bother, we can’t stay. We’re off to see Fox and Hare,” the in-est flick that summer. “We just dropped in to see what you were up to. Do you know Karen?”
All of us but Sean and Sativa (who were busy) rose to be introduced and shake hands or, in Mike’s case, kiss hands, that being one of his favorite riffs. Karen blushed, giggled, tried to say hip, sophisticated things, and generally embarrassed everyone but Sean and Sativa (who were busy) and Andrew Blake, who was temporarily blind.
“What happened,” Patrick said uncoolly, “to your Halo?”
“Halo?” Andy gestured casually. “Oh, that was just a misunderstanding.”
I gasped, Mike choked slightly, and even Sean looked up from whatever tactile intricacy he was involved in at the time.
“Misunderstanding?” I amazed.
“You know.”
I didn’t, but what the hell. I was still rabidly curious, though, so I unkindly said, “And, ah, Karen?”
Give him credit, he hemmed and hawed a little first. Then he embarked on a rant involving such classic phrases as, “really quite intelligent,” and, “very sensitive for her age, you know,” and, “really Understands my work,” et standard cetera, during which Mike and I, having heard it all before and before, shrugged eyebrows at each other.
Then, with a fanfare of literate billing and cooing, the new lovers split to Fox and Hare to dig the latest Technicolor version of the life the rest of us were living.
It was almost ten o’clock, technically early but I was beginning to feel a trifle eroded, as though this Sunday had been crawling on for days. A combination of Laszlo and Andy within the same hour, perhaps. Anyhow, as soon as I could catch Mike’s eye, I yawned significantly, whereupon he ordered me another cup of coffee. Life with Mike has certain disadvantages.
From then on the evening disintegrated. At one point, doubtless much later than he ordinarily would have, Sean tenderly dislodged Sativa and staggered to the John.
“Oh,” she whispered in my ear in a tone that’d certainly be sinful for any other two people, “he’s Pretty!”
“Right,” I said. Why not?
“Ah, what’s his, ah, name?” ,
Oh my dear Sativa. “Sean,” I sighed.
“Oh. Sean. Pretty!”
I couldn’t tell whether I was weary or amused. Two cases of young love in one evening were a bit much. Still, I was sort of glad for Sean, who was about to recover from Mary-Bob, so I guess I was basically amused, or at least entertained. Mike, meanwhile, was trying to convince Kevin, of all people, of the basic truth of his Communist Plot hypothesis.