textfiles/magazines/FOL/fol0204.txt

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                              FICTION-ONLINE

                       An Internet Literary Magazine
                            Volume 2, Number 4
                             July-August, 1995



EDITOR'S NOTE:
     
     FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing
electronically through e-mail and the internet on a bimonthly
basis.  The contents include short stories, play scripts or
excerpts, excerpts of novels or serialized novels, and poems. 
Some contributors to the magazine are members of the Northwest
Fiction Group of Washington, DC, a group affiliated with
Washington Independent Writers.  However, the magazine is an
independent entity and solicits and publishes material from the
public.
     To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please
e-mail a brief request to 
                    ngwazi@clark.net  
To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the
same address.  Back issues of the magazine may be obtained by e-
mail from the editor or by anonymous ftp (or gopher) from         
            ftp.etext.org  
where issues are filed in the directory /pub/Zines.  AOL users
will find back issues under "Writer's Club E-Zines."  

     COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The copyright for each piece of material
published is retained by its author.  Each subscriber is licensed
to possess one electronic copy and to make one hard copy for
personal reading use only.  All other rights, including rights to
copy or publish in whole or in part in any form or medium, to
give readings or to stage performances or filmings or video
recording, or for any other use not explicitly licensed, are
reserved.

                                   William Ramsay, Editor
                                   ngwazi@clark.net

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                                 CONTENTS

     Editor's Note

     Contributors

     "Two Poems" 
          Diana Munson

     "Urgent Business," fiction
          Brian J. Flanagan

     "Munich," an excerpt (chapter 7) from the novel "In Search   
         of Mozart" 
          William Ramsay

     "The Procurer," short story
          Otho Eskin

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                               CONTRIBUTORS

OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international
affairs, has had numerous plays read and produced in Washington. 
His play "Duet" was recently produced at the Elizabethan Theater
at the Folger Library.  

BRIAN FLANAGAN is a scientist and does volunteer work as a seer. 
"Urgent Business" is the first chapter of his novel, "Road Trip." 

DIANA MUNSON is a therapist and writer living in Washington. 
"Mammography" appeared previously in _Metropolitain_.  Her short
story, "Earrings," is forthcoming in _Rent-a-Chicken Speaks_. 

WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World
energy problems.  He is also a writer and the co-ordinator of the
Northwest Fiction Group.

============================================================== 

                                 TWO POEMS

                              by Diana Munson


                                MAMMOGRAPHY

White vines branching in the gloom
of some undersea translucent orb-shaped room.
Strands loom lost as if the product of
some drugged spider,
seem to float purposelessly across
the celluloid sheet
against the backing light.
Who could say the direction 
of my future from such a map.
Be clear.

I kept its own conscience 
revealing no messages of doom --
no face of evil flowers blooming
in that space.
Only cryptic hieroglyphic gleamings
shining in a private place.


                        WOMAN FALLEN/ITALIAN GARDEN

Woman fallen among dry leaves:
plaster white glint of breasts
seas of bright torso to her navel.
Beyond a glimpse of vee
and beginning bloom of thighs
more memory than woman 
not quite a corpse:
more than earth over turned
moldering.  Blind nipple-eyes
turned skyward
she is unfinished work: armless, made nameless
by an unknown artist... a matter of matter forgotten
trying to forget, headless,
a tryst of one, hapless under grey skies
dreaming of rest in a brown garden,
ghost of summer past,
reigning in cold silence with her secret,
there, where only the wind now sighs and only
a bare tree knows.

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                             URGENT BUSINESS

                           by Brian J. Flanagan


     A strong warm light swept in through high windows.  Barely
awake in bed, I lay listening to birds chirping. An early summer
breeze oboed through new growth on old trees, planting a
suggestion of apple blossoms.  Then, with the opening of a door,
the whimsical, inconstant movement of air billowed in a susurrant
shoosh parting makeshift shades--pale muslin like sails on a
sudden gust, scattering shadows, prompting me to look up from my
reading. 
     I was laid out in a mushy waterbed alongside an altogether
rather irritable little busty number, a drama major I knew from
London, England, my corporeal estate lying thus adrift, making
waves in my brother's bed, reading the page before me, watching
the morning do its thing.  
     My date was crashed out, breath moving in recurrent sighs.
I'd crashed out reading my highbrow stuff, schlepping about in
Wittgenstein.  About whom I knew nothing except that he was a
mystic logician who let fall the offhand remark, the mystery of
the world is outside the world. 
     Ah, hmm.  My partner yawning, me surfing the morning light
while mellow tunes from the stereo played sunshine daydream do
da-do.  All of this now of course faded history, mortal clich<63>,
but back then the razor's edge, you understand. 
     Awash, then, not wholly alone, aware of the warm sun, I'd
heard a car pull up, followed by the back door creaking open. 
I'd figured it for my sometime resident little brother, returning
from yet another in a lurid series of nocturnal forays in bush
country. 
     But that was actually when Jack made his entrance. 
     A bit of a start, that--the room hushed, big smiles riding
piggyback, tumbling leapfrog--I hadn't seen Jack in years--and
now this abrupt appearance, this all of a sudden visitation.
Well! I says to myself, here we go. 
     Jack stood there, handsome as the day, framed in my bedroom
door, blue eyes ludicrously wide, jaw slack, mouth open,
beholding all agape the lurid spectacle of my youthful debauch--a
splendor to my knowledge unequaled in all the annals of universal
squalor. 
     --Hi, Jack! I called, whispering (deftly, gently tossing the
sheet over Gloria's butt, what I would waggishly refer to as her
London derriere, Gloria, who was at the university on a
scholarship, a linguist and a respectable woman, knockers out to
here, I swear to God, to whom I'd introduced myself, high form in
a low dive, seeing as I was quite the cunning linguist myself).   
   --Dude!  Jack greeted me, under his breath, eyebrows
vaulting.  What are ya doin?
     Jack had a talent for conversation.
     --Practicing detachment! I called back, as though we were in
church or library. 
     --Don't think I've ever heard it called that! he mused. 
Mind if I crash on the couch?
     --Sure thing! What's goin' on?
     --Tell you later! Go back to sleep!
     --No way! 
     Meaning this was highly improbable. My woman stirred beside
me, sleepy, supple.  Jack's arrival was a rush.  Wait till she
saw him.  She'd be impressed.  Jack was excellent good times. A
startlingly good-looking blond cat with more charm than caution,
his exploits with the chicks were (let us say) legend. He'd been
my street mentor, my guide to the underworld of biker bars and
strip joints but also fishing trips on the river and camping 
expeditions up in the boundary waters.  Now here he had
reappeared without so much as a by-your-leave.  What then might
the storied visitor in my doorway portend?  He always had good
weed.
     I pulled on some shorts and sat down next to him on the
couch.  The living room was a disaster what with beer cans,
cigarette butts left to burn themselves out, empty gaping
fastfood cartons, the odd bit of discarded clothing, personal
artifacts and sundry debris, intimations of other times . . .     
 --Coffee? I asked.  Sorry about the mess.  --No, thanks. Been up
all night.  It looks like your place.  --Me, too.  That is to say
. . . 
     --Who's the lady? he asked, careful not to betray too much
interest.  --Nice, huh? Huh? Huh? You cut your hair!  --It's
different, isn't it? he checked my reaction.  Hair was political. 
--Looks good! I assured him, nodding my approval.  --Thanks.
Looks like you've been lifting weights?!  --A little bit. Trying
to forestall the inevitable cardiac arrest.  Also, lest we lose
sight of our reason for being, the chicks go for it in a big way.
And when I say big, I mean larger than average, nudge, nudge,
know what I mean?   --Don't drop the soap? he prodded.  
     --You audacious slut.  
     --Guy! Jack laughed, taken aback at my language. I was
always especially pleased with myself when I made Jack lose it.
I'd been painfully virginal back when we'd met, blustering my way
through talk about girls.  Times had changed. 
     --You take your coffee black, right? 
     Time was, Jack had worn his hair halfway down his back. 
Mine still rode my shoulders but Jack in his new incarnation
looked all business.  In our time together I'd been a dedicated
and scholarly if thoroughly stonified couch potato, prompting one
roommate, I recall, (then a leather jacketed-hippie-now-a-
corporate-exec with a place in the burbs) upon returning home
from work after a hard day at the laundry to find me sprawled on
the couch, listening to Joni Mitchell sing about that star maker
machinery and smiling my most benevolent smile, had taken it upon
himself to inform me, him in his ponytail and motorcycle jacket.  
    --Guy, you've got to maintain a minimal level of
togetherness. 
     Which I promised to have etched on my tombstone.  In the
specious present, however, I was transformed into your basic
macho stud qua slightly jaded flower child, or anyway getting my
ashes hauled by a more voluptuous class of women.  These are
important facts. 
     Of course I knew muscle was probably a fascist power
trip--that was Bonzo's theory.  It was none other than Bonzo
meta-quasi-mystical, qua qua qua (snort) venerable quack
screwball (that he was) who did inform us that, by a perfectly
logical argument--fleshed out with numerous other instances of 
like nature, weirdness without end and with great plausibility
--that Jack's motorcycle could be traced to a Nazi inspiration,
asserting emphatically, unabashedly and with dead earnest
insistence that it was no mistake calling them crotch rockets . .
. . the throb of power between one's thighs, you know. 
And so forth.  Bonzo Strange, uncreated lord of chaos, had
meantime fallen off the face of the earth.  My buddy had done a
vanishing act, taken a powder, leaving an ache of anxiety, a
storm of speculation and anticipation of return. 
     In the present, here and now was another old friend returned
to me from that peculiar epoch. Jack looked road weary.
     --Do you want to take a shower? I asked him.
     --Guy! Jack exclaimed in mock horror.
     --What?! Not with me, you dick! I countered, stiff-arming
him.  --Actually, that sounds good, he yawned, stretching his
limbs and screwing up his face. 
     --Hey, make yourself at home, bud. What time is it?  I
yawned in chorus.  --Thanks, Guy.  It's getting on toward noon, I
think.  No wait, that's mountain time.  It must be about one.     
--No shit?!  Whoa . . .  time to get rolling!
     --Don't bother on my account.  I'm gonna have to snooze,
here.  I will take you up on that shower, though.
     --Go right ahead.
     I looked in on Gloria. She'd turned over in bed. Her
wonderful great mounds rose and fell in a sleepy slow rhythmic
lunar movement.  She was a good girl.  She worried over me. Maybe
she had reason. I closed the slatted  doors. One hinge hung
loose--have to fix that one of these days.  For the present I put
on a Pure Prairie League album which was most decidedly one of
the year's best and nice mellow early morning type music besides.
Then  Jack got me higher than Jesus and we talked and laughed and
smoked cigarettes and carried on like accomplished idiots, though
really trying to be quiet so as not to wake Gloria. 
     During a lull I went for more coffee and Jack got up to get
his things out of the car.  Mug in hand I followed him to the
porch to behold a sunny Midwestern afternoon framed in clear
skies, enormous white cumulus clouds drifting on a blue delirium,
dazzling in their whiteness while here below waves of perfumed
lilac and flowering crab burst grape purple blossoms in the
doorway blooming fragrant--for real, man--while meanwhile over
there actual fractal green buds with bees humming lustily a ditty
with songbirds chirping it up, the whole scene impossibly
cheerful but there it was, a golden afternoon in the fluffy soft
month of May. 
     Just outside my door, shining in the parking lot, a sleek
little red sports car rested, relaxing with the top down, for all
the world sunning itself in the drive. 
     --Jeepers!  Is that yours?! 
     --Well, I paid for it, said Jack, pride mixed with
misgiving.  --No doubt! What is it, a Fiat? I wondered at the
sleek machine.  --Yup. I picked that up about a month ago in
Santa Barbara.  Why, she's got dual overhead cam suspension
four-track jimcrack AM/FM/AC and a free set of batteries at no
extra charge . . .
     --Whoa! Fiat Deluxe! She's really sweet, Jack.
     --Thanks, he said, lifting his load from the passenger seat. 
     --What a nice day! I enthused.  Good to see you, bud.
--Thanks.  It is awful pretty, isn't it? Jack replied, stretching
his free arm and smiling, his eyes distant.  Then, turning to me
he gave me a big hug hello. 
     Jack's family had money.  Most of the time you'd never know
but then and again he'd flash a wad or show up with a new toy--a
motorcycle, a high end stereo system, a Fiat.  He could be
generous beyond belief.  I believe in having an open hand, he'd
say.  Time and again I'd had occasion to thank him for his 
largesse, wondering guiltily how I'd ever pay him back.          
What was on his mind today, though? 
     A bit later I was cleaning up the kitchen, trying to look
halfway respectable for company when Gloria squealed.  She'd gone
to join me in the shower and had found Jack installed instead. I
turned to see a flash of lovely form dashing into the bedroom:
Woman with slight tan lines framed in flight, in nude esthetic
stasis, O!  I started to laugh.  A moment later Gloria stormed
into the kitchen wrapped in my red bathrobe, big brown warm
prophetic eyes nailing me.  She was hot. 
     --You dork! she actually said to me.
     --'Morning, Glory, I chortled, trying not to bust,
attempting to stifle a chuckle which nonetheless broke
instantaneously into a bellowing, full- throttled guffaw.
     --It's not funny! she insisted, picking up a carving knife
from the counter.  Visibly torqued, her expression gone
askew--she was dangerous like this.  --No, no you're right, of
course.  Sorry, honey.  Ha ha ha!  Ouch!  Hey!  --You should've
seen the look on his face! she was reeling, seeing him in  her
mind's eye, meanwhile jabbing at me, trying to puncture me with
the pointy end.
     --What a little prick! I gasped.  Ouch! Knock it off! Jack's
cool.  So . . . did you get introduced?  Ha ha ha!
     --Yeah! I hope I didn't scare him off.  Maybe I'll join him.
Ha ha ha, she  mocked me thus, meanwhile sidling off toward the
bath.
     --No way, I proclaimed, seizing her by her winding sheet and
drawing her, breathless, relentless, to enfold her in my manly
arms and press her to me.  Sorry, I cooed to her, but I need you
first.
     She really let me have it then.  O, the mythical mad rush of
it.  What can I say?  I was an idiot, I was young.
     The Hamburg Inn, one of Iowa City's finer eating
establishments, unmoved by the years, featured generous cheese
burgers, thick chocolate malts in old-fashioned soda fountain
glasses, home fries, chicken, omelets any time of day and a
portrait in miniature of the town--young and old, every color of
collar, the hip and the square, unassuming academic mandarins and 
acolytes, unquestionable scholarly elves checking up gnomes of
uncertain artistry.  And then, of course your patent crusty
burnouts living on coffee and smokes.
     --I'd like the chicken special, please, said Jack to the
waitress, a willowy lass who took her job seriously.  
     --Ooo, gross, she said. 
     --Is that not good? he inquired. 
     --It's the worst, like, gag me. Better have the chicken
sandwich.  It's  grilled.  I mean, if you have to eat meat.      
--Don't you ever eat meat?  Jack was naturally curious.      
--Spare me.  Can I take your order, please? 
     --I'll take the chicken special.  And coffee.  Thank
you!  Jack piped his thank you's like a little kid. 
     --Just coffee for me, I added. 
     --Is that all you're having?  Jack solicited this
information with a quizzical expression, bordering on alarm. 
This was not to be, he seemed to say. 
     --Trying to maintain my boyish figure, I advised him,
deadpan though seriously hungry. 
     --Give me a break, said the waitress. 
     --Hey, I'm buying, said Jack. 
     --O, well, in that case! I'll have a BLT, please. 
     --That is sooooo disgusting, said the wench, whose name tag
read: Dawn.  --So how's work? Jack subtly modulated the
conversation.  The maid departed. 
     --Great! I just got fired. 
     --What, seriously?  How come?  Jack could hardly believe it. 
    --Misuse of university facilities. 
     --So what does that mean?  
     --I got caught napping in the classics wing, I confessed.    
    --O, well, if that's all. 
     --I'm also apparently disrespectful and unmanageable.  A law
unto myself. 
     --So, then, you're free, he surmised, assessing the
situation in the way he had. 
     --Or anyway dirt cheap.  Then Martha threw me out of her
place.  --Couldn't make the rent?
     --O, I wasn't paying rent.  She came home from work with an
upset stomach and found me cultivating this slut I met at
Gabbie's, so that didn't go down real well. 
     --Women is fickle creatures, reflected Jack. 
     --No shit. Then she couldn't stop throwing up.  Geez, it was
awful.  --Well, ha, seeing as you're at loose ends, why don't you
come along to New York?  Jack was on his way to the city.      
--What, are you serious?  
     --Sure, he said, hey, why not? I'd enjoy the company and you
could share the driving. 
     --Whoa!  You know, I've never been to New York.  I have to
tell you, though, um . . . the thing is, I'm just broke.  My
brother's been putting me up at his place, you know. 
     --That's cool.  I've been broke.  Don't sweat it, OK? I'm
not hurting for bucks.  
     --O, geez, that's real nice, Jack.  You serious?
     --Seriously!  You can always pay me back.  Think about it.   
   --I will.  Thanks.  Good to see you, Jack. 
     --Likewise. 
     Dawn returned with our victuals.  Putting the plates before
us she offered a parting shot.
     --Well! Here's your charred animal flesh!  Enjoy!  What a
rosy disposition, I reflected.
     After supper we walked across town to Gabbie's.  The Blue
Band was playing.  Between the Crow's Nest and Gabbie's you got
most of the decent music in town, together with an earnest
assembly of bikers, druggies, deadbeats and barflies, the
dredges, the college town drudges of whom I myself had been one.
Like all my generation looking for the authentic, the strange and
the revelatory, riding the periphery, anxious to leave white
bread suburban America behind, there you had me, an authentic 
late Beat.  Gabbie's had held out a turned down grungy
subterranean glamour for me, though nowadays it seemed only sadly
routine, a sanctuary for lost souls and common drunks.
     On this night, contrary to expectation, Gabbie's was,
however, jumping.  We ran into some of my buddies who hung there,
chief among whom it must be stated were Hans and Kurt and Walter.
Hard-core crazies, nucleus of that local chapter of the
transcosmic fraternity and royal disorder of hippies, ambassadors
plentipotentiated for the Woodstock Nation, Hans, Kurt and Walter
wore their hair long, drank stupefying quantities of beer and
hosed chicks on a frequent basis.  In high gear tonight, cackling
maniacally, the threesome tore about the bar opening beer
bottles, napkin dispensers, cases of beer--anything that could
mimic a mouth--simultaneously emitting a strangled garbled yoick!
the which appeared, by a kind of ventriloquist's art, to issue
forth from a variety of unlikely sources, the effect being high
hilarity, as this wrenching guttural yoick! sounding like a
squawk from a beast reeling from mortal disgust, animated, on
various occasions, restroom doors, cupboards, jars, books and
bread boxes, cabinets and canisters, thereby informing everyday
objects with a deranged sensibility, a cracked croaking
complaint, like a Disney cartoon gone decidedly awry. 
     Attired in t-shirts, jeans and work shirts, the three of
them with dark hair years now unshorn and worn down to the level
of their respective butts, the members of the weird trio
nonetheless managed to preserve their individuality.  Kurt, for
example, sported his trademark death black Lennon shades, though
it was night and we were indoors and it was dark.  Kurt was the
chief architect of a nonstandard psychoanalytic theory wherein 
all action and thought found both source and motive force, not in
Eros or Will to Power or World Spirit, but in the quality or
faculty of spite.  All was done and said in spite of what you
might think, believe, expect or prefer.  
     --Hey, Kurt. Hey, Walt.  Hans! I called, accosting them.     
--Goober says Hey, said Kurt.
     --Hey, back, Goob, said Hans.
     --Yoick! said Walter.
     --You know Jack, don't you?
     --Howdy, said Jack.
     What a bunch.  My companions all shook an elaborate series
of hippie handshakes, inspiring successive degrees of lunacy, the
impish trio cackling introductions in unison, heads back, crowing
at the ceiling. 
     --Yoick! they thundered, in chorus.  They had the room
turned upside down.  This was their favorite effect.
     --Isn't that Martha? said Hans, the handsomest of the bunch,
to me.  --Yoick! urged Kurt.
     Martha was plying her way toward us through the crowd on the
dance floor.  She knew everybody and acted for all the world like
she was having a fine time out on the town without me and
everything was cool.  She made me warm.  In spite of everything
Martha was still the only one in the room  for me.  Everybody
could see it.  What was my problem?
     --O, it is my lady, it is my life.
     --She's a good woman, said Walter, with a slight emphasis
that suggested I did not wholly appreciate this fact.  It was
true.  Walter was the soul of kindness and sincerity.  A serious,
funny and passionate guy, a heart-to-heart friend and first-rate
stony, Walter cared about everybody and found ways to let them
know.  He went to peace rallies and supported just causes.  I
listened to his advice.
     --What's up? she asked, no kiss.
     --Hi, I said.
     --Hi, she said.
     --So . . . do you wanna dance? I said.
     --Yoick! reiterated Kurt, who'd once informed me that,
whereas I thought I was pretty cool, I was really just a fat boy
with a big head. 
     We drank quite a lot that night, with time out in the beer
garden for a little doobie between sets, the ceremony of the
pipe, the fire, sweet acrid smoke like burning leaves.  After
words out back I danced with Martha.  Then Jack danced with
Martha.  Then Hans danced with Martha. 
     Jack told Martha about our bold plans for New York.  Our
plans had somehow taken shape on their own.  She looked surprised
and a little pained and asked what I expected to find in New
York.  Later, she managed to work up some practical enthusiasm
for the project.  I could check out the publishing world
firsthand.  Slow dancing, she asked how long we'd be gone and I
asked her on too joking a note if she'd miss me.  She shook a
little so I held her close and kissed her an innocent kiss on the
forehead like a brother while the band played Tequila Sunrise and
the lights burned low and blue. 
     In the early morning, still dark but lightening, I left her
place and walked back to my brother's, thinking how there was no
place that was my own, stopping by the merry-go-round in Green
Square Park to look out over the city, smoke a Marlboro and
strike a pose, feeling the tidal pull of familiarity for a town
and then the surge, the urge for going.  Time to check out the
big time.  I took a long last look.  Over the tops of trees the
dim pastel dawnlight forms of school halls, hospitals, churches
and offices of a sleepy little college town I'd probably
outgrown.  I tossed away my cigarette.  The coal hit the dew on
the grass, sizzling on impact with the misgivings of forethought. 
     Jack was awake and drinking coffee when I got back.  I
packed clothes and kit in the back of the Fiat, trying to think
of what I would need, trying not to forget anything.  My brother,
Gary, was sleeping.  Looking around, I registered an impression
for my private album, a long last look over his place: A
caricature of college life, dating from that era, the artist's
rendering of the unreconstructed hippie pit--an early work, not
without interest.  Vinyl records in psychedelic sleeves, tending
to rock and jazz, a sprinkling of classics, all gathering dust
and detritus.  Books by dead poets, intellects and cartoonists--
paperweights, countercultural memorabilia of historical
interest--the obligatory bong, a yin & yang graphic in black and
white, a tattered Whole Earth catalog, walls festooned with
Beatles, Bogart and Little Feat posters, a venerable concert bill
presenting the Rolling Stones.  Live!  Beggar's Banquet ...   I
smiled, looking at brother Gary sleeping, his face at rest. We'd
shared a room when we were kids.  Growing up.  I left him a note:
Gary, Gone to NY.  Chow.  Guy.  Then we were out the door and
into the car and it felt like a familiar dream, like a new pair
of jeans.  Like, serious wheels, man. 
     We put in at a 7-Eleven for coffee and smokes and then
whoosh!  We were out on the interstate, eastbound, first light.
We didn't talk much.  Jack turned on the radio to some jammin'
tunes on KRNA but I wasn't listening.  Odd memories came round,
of people I hadn't thought about in years, of expressions my
parents used, personal stuff. 
     An hour passed and we were coming up on Rock Island,
crossing the noisy old suspension bridge while below the
Mississippi mirrored the early world, sun ascending.  It came
home to me that I was really doing it, spinning out into the
summer green, footloose, free, and on my own and I thought yes,
now we are gone, now we are on our way and I whooped and pounded
Jack on the shoulder. 
     Blue skies above, I was gone.

================================================================= 

                                  MUNICH
      [an excerpt from "In Search of Mozart, A Novel": chapter
seven]                           
                             by William Ramsay
 

      It was June, 1774, and the Electoral Prince of Bavaria,
Maximilian III, had just become his savior -- at least
temporarily.  A commission -- and for a new opera.  Plus a trip
to Munich at carnival time!  Wolfgang couldn't believe it -- and
for some reason the Archbishop was giving him leave!  Let Frieda
Zimmerman keep her precious virtue.  He had heard about the wild
drinking and dancing, the streets of Munich turned into ballrooms
-- the _women_.       
      And his father wanted to fuss and give advice about the
opera.  The Prince had asked _him_ -- not his father -- to write
it.  They knew that he was the best writer of operas around. 
Maybe the Fart-Assbishop of Salzburg didn't know that -- but he
was the only one in Europe -- and maybe America -- who didn't.    
    The summer sun coming through the tiny oval parlor window
felt hot on his face.  He had told his father he could write this
piece standing on his head.  "La finta giardiniera," yet another
mistaken identity drama.  In which nobody knows what should be
obvious to everybody.  A vulgar way to make the audience feel
immediately intelligent.  Well, it had the advantage that the
composer could do almost anything with it.  The audience would
have to swallow so much hokum in the basic plot that the composer
could just let his fantasy _go_ -- fly like Daedelus into the
divine light.
      His father had had a word to say about the birds and bees
-- imagine!  "Be careful with the girls in Munich.  You're only
eighteen, and it's easy to get into trouble."
      "Oh, come on, Father."  
      "I know," said his father, whining, "it's hard to always
think about your immortal soul.  But if you can't, think about
disease.  Disease is everywhere nowadays, it seems to be God's
punishment for sin."
      "Yes, you're right, Father, absolutely right."
      Honestly, what bullshit!
      The autumn seemed to stretch out forever.  The orange and
brown leaves hung persistently in the trees, the warm weather
held on unseasonably late.  Finally, the snowfalls began.  In the
first part of December, Wolfgang gathered his precious musical
manuscripts together, saw his wigs and clean shirts and stockings
packed into bundles and trunks, and he and his father set off to
Munich, the crisp weather like a promise of a sharp break with
Salzburg and the past.
      Wolfgang felt apprehensive as he was ushered into one of
the small salons of the winter palace by a tall servant wearing a
haughty frown, chin tipped as far toward heaven as his bull neck
would allow.  The Electoral Prince's musical director, Count
Seeau, was busy examining a new purchase, a Chinese painted
half-screen.
      "Isn't it lovely!  Don't you agree, Herr Mozart?" said
Seeau in his booming bass voice.
      "Yes, certainly, Your Excellency."  It certainly was odd,
anyway.       
      "An agent of mine found it in Rome.  Quite unique, I
think."         
      "Yes, the gun is unusual."
      "Yes, just think of these precious, fat little Chinese men
with this giant musket -- Portuguese, I suppose -- taking pot
shots at birds just as if they were big, lumbering Tyrolean
landowners."  And the diminutive Count talked about his screen,
while the ormolu clock on the mantel seemed to have stopped for
all eternity.
      Finally Wolfgang said, "Your Excellency, may I be so bold
as to change the subject and ask about the opera?"
      "What about the opera?"
      "Well, is what you have seen so far satisfactory to the
Prince?"       
      "My dear boy."  Seeau came up to him and waved his slender
fingers at him, not quite touching him.  "I don't even have to
look.  Even if I didn't like it -- but of course I will -- an
opera by Mozart is quite an event now.  My humble opinion
wouldn't matter a bit.  Don't you worry, just go about your
work."  He smiled broadly.  "Now, cher Mozart, take a look at
this new table, wooden, unfinished, but look at the little blue
wooden bells hanging below the table edge, it's Oriental too, but
so different..."
      A gentle warmth surged through Wolfgang.  His work was an
event.  An _event_.
      The premiere took place on January 13, 1775.  Everyone was
there -- except the Archbishop.  The applause afterward in the
small, elegant theater echoed through his head like cannon fire.  
    Late in January, the Electoral Prince received him and his
father in the Throne Room.  The Archbishop was sitting in a large
chair of honor beside the Prince.  He looked uncomfortable.      
"I was just telling His Grace that he missed one of the most
magnificent works that I have ever seen," said Kurfuerst
Maximilian III, his fat jowls waggling as he talked.  The
Archbishop looked even more uncomfortable, he shifted his
position in his chair several times.
      "We're so grateful to you, Herr Mozart," said the Electoral
Prince.  
      "You've made our celebration a success.  And," he added,
turning to the Archbishop, "we're so grateful to our cousin here
for lending us your talents."       
      "It was my pleasure," said the Archbishop Hieronymus, in a
harsh voice.      
      "I'm so pleased," said the Electoral Prince, patting his
ponderous belly with his fingertips.
      The tall Archbishop slouched in his chair.  The wrinkles on
his narrow face looked almost black in the pale light.  He
sniffed loudly.   
      Later, in his rooms, the Archbishop told Count Firmian,
"The Prince just does that to annoy me."
      "I don't know, Your Highness."
      "Well I know, and I'm tired of it.  It's you I have to
thank for this -- you gave young Mozart permission on my behalf
to take on this work."       
      "I'm sorry, Your Grace, I admit I didn't think..."
      "Well think next time!"
      "Yes, Your Grace, it won't happen again."
      "Mozart! I'm beginning to get more than a little tired of
that name!"       
      "Don't get upset, Your Grace, it's bad for your liver."     
      "My liver is just fine, it's my musicians who give me
trouble."  He smiled faintly.  "I'll even the score with old Max
-- some day, some way."
                                    ***
      Wolfgang's father had to get back to Salzburg, but Nannerl
had come for the performance and stayed over to see carnival. 
Wolfgang's friend Basil Ammian was there too, and they went
around town, taking in the revelry.  As they walked down the
street one night, Basil said, "Hey!  There's a woman for  you,
Wolferl.  She doesn't seem attached.  _Busy_, maybe, but not
attached."   And he pointed out a girl in a blue apron who was
sitting in the gutter, her head bent over, vomiting.
      Wolfgang felt nauseated.  He gulped down the feeling and
chuckled.  "Hey, thanks anyway, Basil, old friend."
      "Go on, Wolferl, don't be so fussy!  I think she's
good-looking, all she needs is to be cleaned up a little."      
Wolfgang grabbed at the neck of Basil's shirt.  "Lend me some
linen to clean her up with."
      Nannerl, laughing, said, "Oh, Wolferl, you fool!"
      "All right," said Basil smirking, "Reject my helpful
suggestion, go ahead, reject them."
      Later they sat in Weingarten Zum Fruehling, talking and
drinking and singing -- "In Muenchen steht ein Hofbraeuhaus," 
"Im Himmel gibt's kein Bier" -- until his throat was sore and his
head ached from too much wine.  It just wasn't that easy, at
least if he wasn't going to literally pull them out of the 
gutter, thought Wolfgang.  It wasn't really much easier during
carnival in Munich than it had been in staid old Salzburg.  He
had been misled by all the talk about carnival.  There was plenty
of drinking, look at all the disgusting displays he had seen. 
But as far as all barriers being let down -- not really.      
"What are you mooning about?" said Basil.
      "Wondering how big the cock of the Man in the Moon is,
little pal!" he answered.
      "Naughty Wolferl," said Nannerl.
      "Oooh, there goes one!"  Basil raised his glass toward a
pretty girl in a dirndl who was just walking by with her boy
friend.  He rolled his eyes approvingly.  Girls with boy friends. 
Wolfgang was tired of watching couples have fun.  Why couldn't he
be part of a couple himself?  Did girls know he was different in
some way?  Did _music_ leave some kind of subtle trace, did it
infect the atmosphere about him?
      Did girls look on him as a freak, a non-human?
      He was boiling with impatience with himself, with Life, he
wanted to be a MAN in the most simple-minded and obvious sense of
the word.  He banged his mug of wine on the table.  Some of it
slopped over onto Basil's fat, freckled hand.      \
      "I know what's wrong with you, Wolferl," said Basil,
flinging the drops of beer on his hand at him.  "You're still
waiting for The Woman to come along."
      "Oh, nonsense."  But Basil was right, he did tend to dream
about a perfect mate -- The Woman.  
      "I don't think that you understand that girls may be
different -- but they're still the same as we are, if you know
what I mean."       
      Nannerl laughed.  "I keep trying to tell him that women are
people.  I think he's met too many princesses, that's what I
think."
      "Wolferl, shouldn't you just settle for 'A Woman,' not 'The
Woman'?"  Basil said.
      "Maybe you're right," he said grudgingly.  Was Basil right? 
He thought of Frieda back in Salzburg.  Was there any real chance
of anything there?  He tried to convince himself that there was. 
But he knew that that was illogical.  Frieda was a virtuous girl. 
     I could think realistically of marrying her, but -- fucking
her?  She had made it clear that carnal love was impossible.  And
how could I ever be interested instead in some slutty whore?  I'm
only attracted to women who are decent-looking.  Vulgarity is
fine for jokes, but a vulgar woman in real life?   Never!  But
that was arguing in circles, because if I only go after virtuous
women, I'll never know a woman that way, never -- until I get
married.  Not that I only think about fucking, that wasn't it,
but after all, those things hanging down there, what had God
given them to me for if not to use them?       
      Carnival was soon over, it was now March, and he was back
in Salzburg.  Back home, and still a virgin.  At the age of
nineteen!  Maybe he could become a monk.  While he had been gone,
Frieda had taken up with somebody else -- to  hell with her.      
  He needed a distraction.  And thank God, His Grace the
Archenemy had given him something to do.  A princely command had
been received, he was to compose an operatic pageant in honor of
the visit of the Archduke Maximilian to Salzburg.  It was to be
set to a libretto by Metastasio, "Il re pastore."        
      "My God, Papa, I believe he's haunting me."
      "Who, Wolferl?" his father said, getting up and putting
another log on the parlor fire.  His father was so proud of their
new house on the Makartplatz, he even seemed to feed the fire
with tenderness.      
      "Der Herr Kaiserlicher Dichter Pietro Antonio Metastasio,
himself.  I think he's sitting in his house on Am Hof in Vienna
casting spells, plotting to steal the soul of Wolfgang Amadeus
Mozart."
      "I don't see why it bothers you so much, Wolferl, everybody
uses him."      
      "I know, I know, but the question is why."  Looking at his
father's bemused face, he said, "All right, I know, he's safe,
he's respectable."      
      "Don't let it get you down.  Someday, Wolferl, someday."    
      "Yes, someday I'll write operas about real people with real
feelings."  Real feelings, like those of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart,
Reluctant Vestal Virgin.
       Sitting down to read through the libretto, he cursed
again.  The standard shallow tripe.  Two pairs of lovers singing
endlessly about Love -- and about the duties of good government. 
Good government?  A new low.  Alexander the Great was involved. 
He could have used some lessons in governing, all right.  And the
only passages in the text suitable for arias didn't have much
relation to the plot.  But he got down to work, trying to think
how to breathe some life into the drama.
       Where was his penknife?  He looked through the drawer in
the green pine table.  Under the old wig cap he found the old
hunting knife from Paris.  He hadn't looked at it in years.  He
extracted it from its sheath, tested the blade, and sharpened the
his goose quill with it. 
       After all, what limits were there to what he could do with
music?  Here was a chance to do some new kind of writing for
duets and tutti passages.  And the continual game of thinking up
new imitations of the vocal line by the solo instruments.        
As he put the knife away, he thought about Countess Lotte.  Maybe
there were no other women like her in the world.
       He felt surprisingly good about the finished score of "Il
re pastore."  It had to be done quickly, but his father told him
that it had real fire and spirit.  "Fire and spirit."  Pity the
poor composer, thought Wolfgang, burning with undirected flames
of passion.  He had been reduced to envying the pasteboard cutout
lovers of the pastoral libretto, hungering after their unreal,
saccharine happiness with each other.  Frustrated!  God!  Maybe
it wasn't just sex.  Maybe there was something else he wanted
badly, a woman he could worship, a goddess!  It couldn't be all
just sex.  Weren't there higher things, like true friendship
between a man and a woman?  He remembered sitting, waiting on the
stairs outside the door of Countess Lotte's room in the house on
the Rue de Rivoli.
       Maybe he should try suppressing these sexual drives --
after all, this was mortal sin he was talking about -- and being
patient until he found the right woman, until he had established
himself so that he had something material to offer her --
marriage to a respected Kapellmeister in some princely court. 
Control.  He couldn't escape from his animal nature, but he could
try to control it.
      Yes!  Measure in everything.  He must learn control. 
Cont-roll.  Cunt -- no, no, he mustn't think that.  It was mind
over matter, and he mustn't allow himself to be a slave to his
animal desires!
      But waking from his dreams of making love, the sheet wet
and sticky, he knew himself for the animal he was.  What a 
genius!  An adolescent animal, stuck in a small town in a flunkey
job.  Only a Man in his dreams.  He had to escape the
imprisonment of Salzburg -- and music was the only key available
that would unlock the door of his cell.
                                    ***
      The early autumn of 1776 was mild in Salzburg.  The cold,
drying winds from the Alps had not yet begun.  The Archbishop and
Count Arco had been discussing the American situation. The window
to the Archbishop's study was open and the air felt invigorating
but not chilling.
      "A difficult time for the English, Your Grace," said Count
Arco.      
      The Archbishop snorted.  "Only because their King George is
a bigger fool even than our beloved Emperor.  If anyone can ruin
the English power in the New World, it's that Hanoverian idiot."  
    "The situation is indeed..."
      Just then, Count Firmian came plodding in, wobbling
slightly on his short thick legs, like a fat hog in a mudpile.    
  "Hello, Count, what's new?"
      "I've been talking with Count Seeau, who's here from
Munich.  About Mozart."
      "The Kapellmeister?"
      "No, the Konzertmeister, the boy."
      "What does Count Seeau want?"
      "The Electoral Prince wants to offer Wolferl Mozart a job. 
He was very pleased with the last opera, you remember.  He would
like you..."      
      "Count Arco," said the Archbishop, "I needn't waste your
time with this.  I'll see you later."
      "Yes, your Grace," said Arco, bowing and leaving the room.  
      "A job, Firmian?  What one?  Music Director?"
      "Either that, or Court Composer."
      "Hmmm.  And Max wants my permission?"
      "Yes, Your Grace."
      The Archbishop thought a minute.  "Well, he can't have it." 
      Firmian's little eyes looked frightened.  "Oh."
      "Absolutely not."
      "What reason shall we give?"
      "We need give no reason."
      "No reason?"
       The Archbishop bit his tongue and smiled.  He clasped his
hands over his round belly and moved the thumbs up and down. 
"All right.  The reason is that we do not choose to lose the
services of our well-beloved Concertmaster Wolfgang Mozart.  And,
just between you and me, Count, that we are tired of  being used
as a springboard for ambitious young schemers."      
      "Yes, Your Grace.  But what if the Electoral Prince ignores
your wishes?"      
      The Archbishop continued to twiddle his thumbs.  His smile
grew larger.  "You know, Firmian, Maximilian has no children, no
direct heirs at all."      
      "Yes, Your Highness."
      "He's very anxious that on his death Bavaria pass smoothly
to his good friend and heir Karl Theodor of the Palatinate.  But,
aha!  Our revered Emperor Joseph also has designs on Bavaria.  He
has made all sorts of absurd territorial claims."
      "That's true, Your Grace."
      "Don't you think that Max would be glad to know that the
Archbishopric of Salzburg will neither support nor aid the
Austrians in anything that they might do to upset his precious
plans for the Bavarian succession?  I can't imagine our allowing
the Emperor's troops free transit through the Archbishopric, can 
you?"
      "Not if you say so, Your Grace."
      "Of course, I don't think I would want the Austrian troops
wandering around in our territory in any case.  But it doesn't
hurt for the Electoral Prince of Bavaria to know for certain
about our policy, does it?"      
      "No, Your Grace."
      "Now, Firmian, I want you to go out and tell Seeau that
you'll go to Munich and talk to the Electoral Prince in person
about the Mozart case.  We don't want to start rumors."  He
smiled.  
      "I'll do as Your Highness commands."  He bowed and left the
room.  Outside, Firmian gave a little slap to his own square jaw
and said to himself, smiling, "The devil will have to get up
early in the morning to get around _that_ man!"
                                    ***
      "Leo, I must say that I found your son's latest piano work
rather strange!" said Abbe Bullinger as they sat drinking in the
Abbe's study one spring day in 1777.
      "The E-flat major?  I don't think that 'strange' is quite
the word.  It's unique."
      "Yes, but so difficult."
      "No, Sepp, it's not difficult -- but it _is_ different. 
Listen to it, you'll find more distinct themes than you can
imagine."
      "I don't know, Leo."
      "Give it some time, Sepp, this concerto deserves it. 
You're in the presence of something new in music."  Leopold
filled his wine glass again.       
      "If you say so, Leo."
      "Yes, I do.  I say that my son is beginning to produce
something in music that the world has never seen before.  Never
before, never."      
      "Yes, all right."
      "The truth is, the truth is that my son is a genius." 
Leopold's eyes shone very brightly.
      "All right."
      "You want the truth, don't you?"  
      Bullinger noticed that his friend's speech was slightly
slurred.  "Easy, Leo."
      "Well, you want the truth, don't you?"  Leopold pursed his
lips and swallowed carefully.
      Bullinger leaned over and gave Leopold a brief hug.  "Hey,
Leo!  Who said  I wanted the truth?  Who wants the truth in this
world?  Maybe in the next world, let's hope so!"  And he crossed
himself.
      Leopold looked at him hard, blinking.  "Oh, Sepp, sometimes
you're impossible."
      "And sometimes you lose all connection with reality.  Take
it easy, Leo.  It isn't good for you to get obsessed with
Wolferl's career.  Take it easy."      
      "I'm not obsessed.  He will be a success, he will, he
_will_."      
      "All right, all right."
      "I'm not obsessed -- the s's were slurred -- I'm not, it's
just the truth I'm telling you.  I know, Sepp, I know."
      "Sit down and drink your wine, Leo.  Take a good gulp and
then a few deep breaths."
      Leopold smacked his lips and stared at Bullinger, his face
twisted in drunken anguish.  Finally he shrugged his shoulders
and smiled.  He lay his head down on his arms on the table. 
Within a few minutes he dozed off.  Bullinger carefully moved his
wine glass away.  He wondered at the ironies of gifts from God. 
Poor Wolferl, spoiled rotten with adulation, surrounded by a sea
of mediocrity, his strongest weapon a sometimes self-defeating
arrogance.       
      Lord, he prayed, Your designs are obscure to us sinful
mortals.  But if it be Your will, let them -- both Leo and young
Wolferl -- escape forever from this town and its burden of envy
and frustration!

================================================================= 

                               THE PROCURER
                              
                             by Otho E. Eskin                     
                             

                          MYRON SLOAT IS THE NAME
                            IMPORTS IS THE GAME

...reads the card held in the pale hand stretched across my desk. 
The person attached to the hand looks as you would expect someone
named Myron Sloat might look: bulging forehead, sallow skin, eyes
set close together, thin lips, sparse, brown, oily hair brushed
straight back. He wears a jacket with red and black stripes and a
small, yellow bow tie.
     "Delighted to meet you," he says. "Truly delighted." He
scoops up a pile of catalogues lying on a chair across from me
and sits.  "I'm looking forward to doing business with you."     
Then he smiles broadly - - one of those smiles which moves only
the mouth.  The eyes stay the same.
     I don't get all that many visitors and very few of them
smile. 
     He asks: "You are in the import-export business, are you
not?"
     "Yes.  Of course."
     Sloat glances at his watch.  "Ah," he says.  "Ah. Time is
money, don't you agree? Let's get right to business."
     "I was wondering, Mr...."
     "Sloat."
     "... Mr. Sloat, what your business is."
     One can't be too careful. This guy could be a cop. Or
collecting debts.  Although I don't think so.
     "Import and export," he says and the smile disappears.     
"Where?" I ask.
     "Here and there."
     Sloat wears two gold rings on his right hand and three rings
on his left, including a pinky with a fake diamond large enough
to stun an ox. Around his neck he is wearing a gold chain with,
for some reason, the name "Sven" spelled out in gold letters.     
So I decide on a new tactic.  "What do you import and export?"
     "This and that." 
     I am beginning to think he is my kind of guy.  Sloat hitches
his chair closer to the desk and looks around the office as if to
make sure we are alone.  Now my office is ten by fourteen and is
mostly filled with filing cabinets and empty sample cases.  The
only living things that could overhear us are the cockroaches and
they long ago lost interest in me and my visitors.
     "I would like to put in an order," Sloat announces. His
mouth smiles.  His teeth, I notice, are very large and all the
same size and shape.  Odd.
     I scramble for an order form.  I remember seeing one
somewhere and find it at last under a six-month old copy of
_People_ magazine.
     "Shoot," I say, trying to sound business-like.
     So Sloat sits forward. "I need two gross of Carter-Mondale
campaign buttons."
     I guess I must have a strange expression on my face because
Sloat has a worried squint.
     "You can fill that order, can't you?" he asks.
     "Of course," I burble. "It's just that...I don't get much
demand for that particular item."
     Sloat leans back in his chair and looks at me out of the
corner of his eye.  
     "Of course you don't." And he gives me this big wink.  "I
understand perfectly. You are obviously a man of experience and I
am going to enjoy doing business with you.  Do you take cash?" He
pulls out a thick roll of bills. Again he looks around the room
and lowers his voice.  "As I am sure you can appreciate, this
must be kept strictly confidential. And I will need delivery on
Friday."
     "That's in three days."
     "Is there a problem?" Sloat asks, concern in his voice, and
he pulls back the wad of greenbacks.
     "Not at all," I say, wondering hysterically how I am
supposed to find those things in three months - let along three
days.  "No problem."
     He peels off a thousand dollars in 100-dollar bills.  "Do
you think that will cover it?"
     I nod, having, for the moment, lost the faculty of speech.   
  "Excellent." Sloat smiles.  His bright, even teeth seem to
light up the room. "I will be back here in three days."  Sloat
shoots his cuffs with practiced aplomb and is gone.
     As I think about it afterwards, I find it difficult to
believe what happened.  Only the cash in my palsied hand
convinces me that I didn't hallucinate the whole thing.
Naturally, my first instinct is to take the money and leave town. 
That has always worked for me before. But something makes me
hesitate. Perhaps it is all the money that Sloat put back in his
pocket. 
     Incredibly enough, I am able to fill the order.  After a
dozen calls I find a collector in Des Moines who has what I need
and two days later the shipment arrives in a large cardboard box.
So Sloat shows up at around seven in the evening of the third
day. He opens the box, dipping his hands into the heap of
campaign buttons like it was Kim Basinger's hair.  His eyes
gleam.
     "They're mint," he whispers.  "They're mint."
     This is how my relationship with Myron Sloat begins - a
relationship which, surprisingly, is to change the course of
history of the universe.  
     Everything goes well for a while. Once or twice a week Sloat
shows up, always at night, with new orders. Sometimes he
telephones - usually from a bar as far as I can tell. His lists
get longer and more complicated. Some things are easy to find -
like a dozen Ken and Barbie dolls with complete outfits and
accessories.  Others are harder. Like a set of first editions of
Jackie Collins' novels.
     At first he picks the items up at my office but as the
orders get larger this becomes impracticable. One evening, about
a month after his first visit, he shows up and tells me to close
the office. 
     "Get your hat," Sloat announces. "We're going on a trip."    
  So we go down the freight elevator and get into a car parked in
an alley behind my building and drive out into New Jersey
somewhere.  It takes about an hour but eventually we arrive at a
large warehouse complex surrounded by a twelve-foot high chain-
link fence. Sloat unlocks the front gate and we drive past a half
dozen large warehouses and stop near a loading platform above
which is a sign which reads:
                        Intergismo Trading Company
and, below that:
                         Import and Export
                                 M. Sloat
              President and Chief Executive Officer
     Sloat turns in his seat and says to me: "From now on you are
to deliver the merchandise here."
     "If that's what..."
     "I mean personally. Don't have it sent.  You are the only
one who knows where my warehouse is.  You must on no account tell
anyone else about its location.  This is very important.  You
will bring the goods and leave them here - on the loading
platform.  And then you will go. Immediately.  Do not enter the
warehouse.  Don't talk to anybody. And don't ask any questions.
Is that clear?"
     I assure him of my absolute loyalty and discretion.  He
starts the car and we drive back to the city.
     And that's the way it goes. For a while. I don't mind.  Even
the once-a-week trips to the boonies.  The hours are odd but the
pay is good.  Sloat is always there with cash and he's not too
particular about book keeping. For once, I am flush.  I even buy
a second suit. In short, it is too good to be true.
     So this goes on for four months until, one day, the sunshine
goes out of my life.  I am sitting at my desk going through
catalogues looking for Tab Hunter recordings when suddenly a
shadow darkens the frosted glass of my office door. I look up and
standing there is a man with shoulders as wide as a crosstown bus
and thighs as thick as telephone poles.
     The man steps into the office and pulls a small, fake-
leather folder from his inside jacket pocket and flips it open. 
There's a three-dimensional holograph picture of him in color and
a lot of printed matter.  My heart drops like a pop fly ball. I
can't read the words - they are in a foreign language - but I
know what they mean. They mean cop.
     "Grody," he says.  "Lieutenant Everet Grody.  Everet spelled
with one 't'." The voice is a deep resonant bass which sounds
like somebody talking from the bottom of a Dempster Dumpster. The
Vanna White coffee mug on my desk rattles.
     He sits on the chair opposite me.  Actually, he doesn't so
much sit on it as he envelopes it.  The chair kind of disappears
under him.
     "I am obliged to warn you at the outset," the man announces,
"that you are the subject of an Transcosmic Trade Authority
investigation."  He snaps shut the folder and puts it back into
his pocket. "Of course, your planet is outside our enforcement
jurisdiction. Therefore, the investigation must be somewhat
informal."
     I may be slow but I have been around long enough to pick up
on some things. "You mean you have no jurisdiction over me?" I
ask.
     "Correct.  We can carry out investigations but cannot
prosecute." He sounds disappointed.
     "That means you can't arrest me?"
     Grody nods.
     "You can't put me in jail?"
     Grody shakes his head sadly.  "I'm afraid not."
     "You can't hurt me or anything?"
     "I never said that."
     I glance uneasily at the door.
     "In any case, it is not you that we are interested in. 
Although, if this were a civilized planet and a Party to the
Intergalactic Environmental Defense Agreement, you would be
locked up for life for your part in this crime."
     "Crime," I croak.  "What crime?"
     Grody ignores my question.  "What I'm really interested in
is your accomplice, Myron Sloat."
     I think I make a funny noise.
     "You do know Sloat, don't you?"
     "Could be," I parry.
     Grody leans over the desk so his face is a few inches from
mine. His skin has the texture of a fifty-cent cheese Danish.     
"I trust you will cooperate.  While it is true that what you have
done is technically not a crime on this planet, I can make life
very hard for you.  Believe me."
     I believe him. Naturally, it comes as a shock to learn that
not only have I been involved in some kind of criminal activity
but that my partner is an extraterrestrial. Of course, in my line
of work, you meet all kinds.
     "I'll do anything you ask, Lieutenant," I whimper helpfully. 
    "You will assist me in the arrest of Myron Sloat. I hope that
you are not troubled by out-of-place notions of personal loyalty
to Sloat."
     "Of course not."
     I always try to cooperate with the proper authorities,
particularly when I have no choice.  Even, as in this case, when
I have never heard of the authority and have no idea what it is. 
I try not to let on that, until today, I was unaware that there
was anybody else out there.  I had always thought that we were it
- universe-wise.
      I am beginning to regain my natural bonhomie and decide to
ask a question of my own.
     "How come, if you can't touch me, you can arrest Sloat?"     
"Because he is from TkIISaminn."
     I look blank.
     "The planet TkIISaminn is a signatory of the Intergalactic
Environmental Defense Agreement and its nationals are subject to
enforcement measures."
     "You mean he's not human?"
     Grody shakes his head. "He has utilized the Myers-Lydiliqx
Molecular Transform technique so as to be able to mimic local
species characteristics."
     Aa image of what Grody might look like in his natural state,
before he transformed himself into human form, crosses my mind.
It doesn't bear thinking about.
     "How did you find out about Sloat?" I ask, changing the
subject in a hurry.
     "About six months ago we discovered copies of _Princess
Daisy_ on a Chloktian ferry outside the Pollago Galaxy.  A few
weeks later, a videocassette of a Morton Downey, Jr. TV show
turned up on Thrizthnos.  Serious, but not alarming.  But then we
began getting reports that unexpurgated copies of _Jonathan
Livingston Seagull_ were appearing on the Ming 2.6 satellite
planets.  You can imagine what a furor that caused."
     "I can imagine," I lie.
     "The bibbleqwuip was all over the wall, believe me.  The
Agency top brass wanted action.  Right away."
     "I'll bet they did."
     "We put some of our people into the Sector.  Gave the
operation high priority.  But still, those of us who've been
around a while tend not to get too excited. We've seen it all. 
Or so I thought. Even when we found toreador pants being sold
openly on both Chilthinx and in the border towns of the Palknis
Asteroid Belt, I wasn't too worried. These things happen. The
occasional Pat Boone record will show up on the market from time
to time.  Maybe even a Pee-Wee Herman movie.  Usually these are
from the private collection of some pervert somewhere. But when
we learned that the works of Jacqueline Susann were appearing all
over the Hristos Nebula, and in original dust jackets, we knew we
had a serious problem."
     Grody leans forward and speaks in a low, confidential voice
which sounds like what a dyspeptic water buffalo might make.
"Just between the two of us, I don't get too wrought up about
this kind of thing.  I don't care if some sicko wants to watch
_Hollywood Squares_ on his VCR or collect lava lamps.  So long as
it is among consenting adults.  But this was more serious."     
"It must have been a real worry," I say.
     "We were in deep khapoola."
     "I can see that, of course."
     "We realized we had a new dealer on the scene. And one with
seemingly unlimited access to sources."
     I shake my head in sympathy.
     "Things went down hill from there.  Everywhere we looked, we
discovered illegal trade in Wayne Newton records and videos of
old _Family Feud_ shows."
     "That's incredible."
     "That's what I thought.  But there was more."
     "No!"
     "Two months ago we found six crates of mood rings in a
warehouse on Yoook.  It was then we knew we were dealing with
organized crime - professionals who would stop at nothing."     
"I'm surprised it's worth anyone's trouble to ship these things
all over the galaxy, like you say."
     "Trouble!  Do you have any idea what the street price of a
Barry Manilow record is on XXanxxos?"
     I shake my head.
     "Do you know how much certain inhabitants of Ding9Haptix
would pay for the original, uncut version of _Gidget Goes
Hawaiian_?" Grody demanded.
     "I guess I don't."
     "We're talking big money." Grody sits back in his chair. "I
am going to stop these people.  I am going to close down their
organization and put everyone involved away." He looks at me and
his eyes are as hard as last week's bagel.
     "What do you want me to do?" I ask.
     "Take me to the place Sloat stores his merchandise."
     "Sure," I say. "Let's schedule it for sometime in February,
right after I get back from Mexico."
     "Tonight."
     "Tonight?"
     "We're leaving now."
     Grody has a rental car parked across the street from my
office and we drive through the city in silence.  By the time we
hit the Jersey flats my curiosity is too much.
     "Wouldn't it be better to just allow customers to buy these
things freely?"
     Grody shakes his head slowly.  "I know the arguments:
legalize the stuff; make it easily available and the costs will
go down. Then there will be no more criminal element. Well,
forget it.  Apart from the fact that the merchandise which Sloat
is trading is profoundly repugnant and violates the moral
standards of every civilized race in the galaxy - which ought to
be enough for anybody - these things are dangerous."  
     "They don't seem so ... so very bad to me."
     Grody glances across at me.  "I'd expect someone like you to
try and justify this heinous business."
     "I didn't mean that exactly..."
     "For one thing, many of these items are highly addictive.
And it has been medically proven that they can cause permanent
damage to the central nervous system. Let me tell you a story. 
An old schoolmate of mine - a very respected professional with a
wife and children - somehow or other got hooked on new age
music."
     "I can't believe that a man with a career and family could
let that happen."
     "Of course, he tried to hide it.  These people are very
skillful at masking their obsession.  Fortunately for him, his
friends recognized the telltale symptoms and forced him to see a
doctor.  He has been undergoing intensive therapy at a special
facility ever since. I understand that he has the habit under
control, although they say this kind of addiction can never be
truly cured.  He has returned to society but he has lost his wife
and his career. Today he earns his living as a bottle inspector
at a pickle factory."
     "A truly frightening story."
     "But one we can all learn from."
     "Still," I said, "you seem to be going to an awful lot of
trouble to track Sloat down."
     "Perhaps - if it was only a question of a few isolated cases
- as tragic as they are. But we are talking about a trade that
corrupts entire societies and can destroy the whole fabric of
civilization."
     "Oh," I observe.
     "Researchers have concluded that the economic and moral
decline of the planet group Naxthos IX can be directly attributed
to the easy availability of polyester doubleknit suits."
     "Golly."
     "At one time astrology charts were in widespread use on
Xzathkjus-Phtikus."
     "It boggles the mind."
     "And this, of course, led directly to the outbreak of the
infamous qweepworks massacres. And you know what became of the
CHlothic-QQulls."
     "Not in detail."
     "So don't give me any drivel about legalizing this trade. 
It may seem a small matter for people to listen to Lawrence Welk
but soon the victims need stronger and stronger doses to get
their kicks. It's only a small step to cooking with tofu and bean
sprouts or watching _Love Boat_.  Before you know it, they are
wearing Nehru jackets."
     We arrive at the warehouse complex a little after eight in
the evening and the place is deserted.  Grody parks about a block
away, leaving the car out of sight, and strides to the front
gate.  It is locked tight and there is no one in sight.
     "I guess we had better come back tomorrow," I suggest.     
Grody pays no attention to my advice. Instead, he grasps the
massive padlock which secures the gate and snaps it in half.     
"Show me the building," Grody orders.
     So we go through the gate on foot and I lead him to Sloat's
warehouse. Grody jumps onto the loading platform with an easy
leap.   
     "Why don't I stay here," I whisper. "Sort of keep watch."    
 "Come with me," Grody growls.
     He pushes open the sliding door and we're in a large
warehouse with steel racks, piled with crates and boxes from
floor to ceiling.  Grody pulls the door shut and for a moment I
can see nothing.  Then Grody switches on a high-powered
flashlight and works his way down one aisle, turns right and goes
along another, flashing the beam of light back and forth,
obviously searching for something. As I follow, I catch glimpses
of crates full of pink flamingoes, racks of leisure suits,
shelves of Harold Robbins novels, cases of New Coke, shoe boxes
full of pumps with stiletto heels, cartons of harlequin glasses
and anatomically correct dolls and videocassettes of the movie
_Ishtar_. We pass a barrel full of quartz crystals. Along one
wall are a dozen David Keane pictures of children with saucer-
size eyes.  I even think I see six Ford Pintos parked at the far
end of the warehouse.
     "This is where we wait," Grody says, pulling me into a side
aisle where we hide behind a crate of _Wheel of Fortune_ board
games.
     "What are we waiting for?" I whimper. 
     "For Sloat."   
     "He's here?"
     "He'll be here soon. We've had one of our informers contact
his representative on TakhLLix with a rush order for the
collected works of Richard Nixon.  At a price Sloat couldn't
resist.  We know he is overstocked on this item.  And he must
ship them tonight to close the deal.  They are stored right
across from us.  Next to the autographed photos of Robin Leach.   
  "What am I supposed to do?"
     "Be a witness," Grody answers brusquely.
     "A witness to what? 
     "To Sloat's crime. All I need is to able to prove that he
put his hand on a proscribed article to be able to convict him of
trading in illicit goods.  That's a capital offense."
     "You mean he will be..."
     "Correct. His blastophrams will be denucleated."
     "That sounds painful."
     "Are you backing out?"
     "It seems kind of severe."
     Grody sighs, sounding like an irritated whale.  "I thought
it might come to this. Let me show you something."
     He switches on his flashlight, holding it close to his chest
so that we are standing in a small pool of light.  "I brought
these along, just in case I needed to convince you."
     He takes two photographs from his pocket and hands one to
me.
     "That's a resident of Blbx2," he says, pointing at what
seems to be an oil slick floating on top of a strawberry
daiquiri.  "It came across a copy of the Harvard Business Review. 
Notice the discoloration of the diaplasm. The case is of course
hopeless; the victims must be institutionalized for life.  How
would you like it if one of your kids read a copy of the Harvard
Business Review?"
     I allow as how the mere thought makes my blood run cold.     
"Now I want you to look at this."  He holds out a second
photograph and I see his hand is shaking.
     "These are two inhabitants of the star cluster BetaChriks. 
As you can see, they have been partially fused." The picture he
shows me in the light from the flashlight defies description.
"The medical diagnosis?" He lowers his voice even further.
"Listening to too much Andrew Lloyd Webber music."  Grody
shudders and, for a moment, seems unable to speak.  "Who is
responsible for this pain and suffering throughout the civilized
galaxy?" Grody demands. "Your friend, Myron Sloat."
     "He's not my friend," I protest.  "I don't know him
socially."
     "Sloat is the one who smuggled these items onto those
planets and preys upon their inhabitants, taking advantage of
their weaknesses. He's got to be stopped.  He can't be allowed to
carry on this frightful trade, bringing misery and destruction to
countless billions."
     "Why did Sloat come to this planet?" I ask.
     "Because Earth is the source. Here is where this poison is
produced.  When the Stellar Alliance was formed, this solar
system was omitted through a technical oversight. Over the last
few millennia no one has seen any reason to invite one primitive
planet in the system to join the circle of galactic
civilizations.  However, there was one unforeseen consequence. 
Because Earth lies beyond our police jurisdiction, it has been
free to make products which violate all norms of civilized
behavior and have been banned everywhere else.  The general view
in the Alliance is that we should just delete Earth with a fusion
torpedo but apparently a few nitpicking, bleeding hearts think
there is some kind of constitutional bar to wiping out an
inhabited solar system.  Until these technical barriers are
removed, we have to deal with the situation as best we can by
creating a total blockade on all goods from Earth.  If you people
want to destroy your minds and bodies by attending Elvis Presley
impersonator contests or watching Sylvester Stallone movies - go
ahead. Look at _Family Feud_ all day long - see if I care.  Just
keep your poison at home.  Unfortunately, there are creatures
like Sloat who are so lacking in moral standards that they are
prepared to profit from the misery and degradation of others by
selling what you produce here to other societies."
     Grody's massive hand grabs my arm and holds it vice tight.
"Quiet."
     I strain to hear but for a long time there is only silence. 
After a few minutes, I see a faint light, probably from a pencil
flash, moving along an aisle about twenty feet away.
     Grody and I hold our breaths as the light stops a few feet
in front of us and I hear some clunking sounds.
     "Freeze!" Grody shouts. "Police!"
     Suddenly the lights in the warehouse are on.  Sloat stands
across the aisle, hands in his pockets, his mouth smiling
broadly.
     "You are under arrest for violating the Trade in Prohibited
Articles, Section...," Grody begins.
     "So, Lieutenant Grody," Myron Sloat says, unruffled. "We
meet again."
     "You have the right to remain silent..."
     I look at Grody and realize things are not going as planned. 
Grody is staring wide-eyed at the racks of articles surrounding
us. One side of his mouth is twitching. Something is wrong.     
"If you do choose to speak," Grody goes on, his voice shaky,
"anything you say may be..."
     "Whatever you want - it's yours," Sloat says.  He waves his
arm expansively to include the entire warehouse.
     "...used against you."
     "All you have to do is ask."  Sloat picks up a driftwood
clock.  "No? How about a first edition of _Valley of the Dolls_?" 
    "Sloat! I'm warning you. You can be charged with attempting
to suborn a peace officer."
     "What about a fluorescent hoola hoop? In three colors?"     
"Please," Grody moans.
     "Or a genuine replica of the Atlantic City Miss America
crown with authentic zircons."
     "Don't!" Grody whispers hoarsely.
     "A one hundred and twenty piece china dinner set with
pictures of Ronald and Nancy Reagan.  In color."
     "Stop it!" I cry, unable to contain myself any longer. "You
can't do this.  It's too awful."
     Sloat pays no attention.  He rushes to the end of the aisle
and switches on a Super Laser Quadriphonic stereo system and the
warehouse fills with the sound of massed accordions playing _Lady
of Spain_.  I see Grody clutching at his shirt collar, his face a
mask of pain.
     "How about a lifetime subscription to _Ms_ Magazine?  I can 
arrange an invitation for you to attend a Geraldo Rivera
television show."
     Grody holds his hands tightly over his ears but I know it is
already too late for him. I grab at Sloat's arm.  "He's had
enough."
     Sloat shrugs me off and approaches Grody, who shrinks back
against a shelf filled with copies of the authorized biographies
of Donny and Marie Osmond.  Sloat is holding something in his
hand. Grody screams and flings his arms over his eyes.
     "They're yours, Everet." Grody's voice purrs. 
     Grody's body twitches away but there is no escape now.     
"It's all here, Everet.  The collected works of Shirley
MacLaine."
     "Just say no," I plead but Grody does not seem to hear. He
makes a strangled cry and reaches out, his hands devouring the
books greedily.  Sloat stands up and turns away.  "It's all
over," he says.
     Grody lies in a fetal position, clutching the books to his
heart, sobbing great gulping sobs.  The sound of the massed
accordions fills the echoing warehouse.
     "It was awful," I say.
     "Lieutenant Grody knew the risks."
     "How could you?" I ask.
     "It was easy." Sloat turns and walks away.  I catch up with
him near the front door of the warehouse.
     "You were expecting us, weren't you?" I ask.
     "Of course."
     "Why did you set us up?"
     "Grody was getting too close. I thought he might interfere
with my new project.  So I did what I had to do.  Get him to the
warehouse.  Surround him by thousands of forbidden objects. 
Everybody has his price.  Grody's wasn't particularly high.  I
was prepared to go as far as offering him my Frankie Avalon 
collection.
     "You're inhuman."
     Sloat opens the door. "Coming?" he asks.
     I step out onto the loading platform and he pulls the door
shut behind us.
     "I don't think we'll be doing any more business together."   
  "I'm sorry about Grody," I bleat.  "It wasn't my fault."     
Sloat waves his hand dismissively.  "I'm out of the import-
export business.  It's too hot for the moment for me to move my
goods.  In any case, I've found something much better."  He jumps
off the loading platform and strides quickly along the side of
the warehouse.
     "What are you into now?" I ask breathlessly as I try to keep
up.
     "Let's just say I've decided to go into the talent
business."
     "I don't get it."
     "I'm going to book personalities on the galactic circuit. 
Supper clubs, concerts, late night TV variety shows, afternoon
talk shows. I've got William F. Buckley, Jr. on a two-year
contract and I've just about wrapped up a deal for the comeback
of Jim and Tammy Bakker on Alpha Tao.  Evangelists are going to
be the hottest thing since bran muffins in this quadrant of the
galaxy."
     "There's money in that?" I ask, bewildered.
     Sloat stops and looks at me witheringly.  "You don't
understand anything. I'm not in this for the money.  For four
thousand years the civilized planets have lived in peace, harmony
and prosperity.  Everyone leads rich, productive and happy lives. 
I can bring all this to an end. I can now destroy the entire
fabric that holds the family, society and the galactic community
together.  It may take time. But eventually, the whole system
will collapse.  Then I will step in.  And I will have power
unequalled in the universe."
     Sloat glances at his watch. "Got to be going now.  I'm
working up a deal to send Norman Mailer and Gordon Liddy on the
talk-show circuit in Alpha Centauri."  He shakes his head.  "With
talent like that, I'll have the galaxy on its knees in a year." 

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