[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

"That'll do it for now, Mas," he said.
They bowed to one another, the Oriental took the staffs, and left through another passageway at
the far end of the room. Barkin came across the rug liquidly, all the suntanned flesh rippling
with the play of solid muscle underneath. Handy found himself once again admiring the shape Barkin
kept himself in. But if you do nothing but spend time on your body, why not? he thought ruefully.
The idea of honest labor had never taken up even temporary residence in Huck's thoughts. And yet
one body-building session was probably equal to all the exertion a common laborer would expend in
a day.
Handy thought Huck was extending his hand in greeting, but halfway across the room the robed beach-
bum reached over to a Saarinen chair and snagged a huge, fluffy towel. He swabbed his face and
chest with it, coming to Handy.
"Fred, baby."
"How are you, Huck?"
"Great, fellah. Just about king of the world these days. Like the place?"
"Nice. Whose is it?"
"Belongs to a chick I've been seeing. Old man's one of the big things happening in some damned
banana republic or other. I don't give it too much thought; she'll be back in about a month. Till
then I've got the run of the joint. Want a drink?"
"It's eleven o'clock."
"Coconut milk, friend buddy friend. Got all the amino acids you can use all day. Very important."
"I'll pass."
Barkin shrugged, walking past him to a mirrored wall that was jeweled with the reflections of
pattering sunlight streaming in from above. He seemed to wipe his hand over the mirror, and the
wall swung out to reveal a fully stocked bar. He took a can of coconut milk from the small freezer
unit, and opened it, drinking straight from the can. "Doesn't that smart a bit?" Handy asked.
"The coconut mil--oh, you mean the shoji jousting. Best damned thing in the world to toughen you
up. Teak. Get whacked across the belly half a dozen times with one of those and your stomach
muscles turn to leather."
file:///F|/rah/Harlan%20Ellison/Ellison,%20Harlan%20-%20Love%20Ain't%20Nothing.txt (53 of 148) [1/15/03 6:37:33 PM]
file:///F|/rah/Harlan%20Ellison/Ellison,%20Harlan%20-%20Love%20Ain't%20Nothing.txt
He flexed.
"Leather stomach muscles. Just what I've always yearned for." Handy walked across the room and
stared out through the dark glass at the incredible Southern California landscape, blighted by a
murmuring, hanging pall of sickly smog over the Hollywood Freeway. With his back turned to Barkin,
he said, "I tried to call Crewes after you spoke to me. He wasn't in. I came anyway. How come you
used his name?" He turned around.
"He told me to."
"Where did you meet Arthur Crewes!" Handy snapped, sudden anger in his voice. This damned beach
stiff, it had to be a shuck; he had to have used Handy's name somehow.
"At that pool party you took me to, about--what was it--about three years ago. You remember, that
little auburn-haired thing, what was her name, Binnie, Bunny, something ... ?"
"Billie. Billie Landewyck. Oh, yeah, I'd forgotten Crewes was there."
Huck smiled a confident smile. He downed the last of the coconut milk and tossed the can into a
wastebasket. He came around the bar and slumped onto the sofa. "Yeah, well. Crewes remembered me.
Got me through Central Casting. I keep my SAG dues up, never know when you can pick up a few bucks
doing stunt or a bit. You know."
Handy did not reply. He was waiting. Huck had simply said Arthur Crewes wanted him to get together
with the beach-bum, so Handy had come. But there was something stirring that Barkin didn't care to
open up just yet.
"Listen, Huck, I'm getting to be an old man. I can't stand on my feet too long any more. So if
you've got something shaking, let's to it, friend buddy friend."
Barkin nodded silently, as though resigned to whatever it was he had to say. "Yeah, well. Crewes
wants me to meet Valerie Lone."
Handy stared.
"He remembered me."
Handy tried to speak, found he had nothing to say. It was too ridiculous. He turned to leave.
"Hold it, Fred. Don't do that, man. I'm talking to you."
"You're talking nothing, Barkin. You've gotta be straight out of a jug. Valerie Lone, my ass. Who
do you think you're shucking? Not me, not good old friend buddy friend Handy. I know you, you
deadbeat."
Barkin stood up, unfurled something over six feet of deltoid, trapezius and bicep, toned till they
hummed, and planted himself in front of the passageway. "Fred, you continue to make the mistake of
thinking I'm a hulk without a brain in it. You're wrong. I am a very clever lad, not merely
pretty, but smart. Now if I have to drop five big ones into your pudding-trough, lover, I will do
so."
Handy stopped moving toward him. Barkin was not fooling. He was angry. "What is all this, Barkin?
What are you trying to climb onto? No, forget it, don't answer. What I want to know is why?"
Barkin spread hands as huge as catcher's mitts. The fingers were oddly long and graceful. And
tanned. "She is a lovely woman who finds the company of handsome young men refreshing. Mr. Crewes,
sir, has decided I will brighten her declining years."
"She is a scared creature who doesn't know where it's at, not right now she doesn't. And turning
you loose on her would be a sudden joy like the Dutch Elm Blight."
Barkin smiled thinly. It was a mean smile. For the time it took the smile to vanish, he was not
handsome. "Call Arthur Crewes. He'll verify."
"I can't get through to him, he's in a screening."
"Then go ask him. I'll be here all day."
He stepped aside. Handy waited, as though Barkin might surprise him and leap back suddenly, with a
fist in the mouth. Huck stood grinning like a little boy. Ain't I cute.
"I'll do that."
Handy moved past and entered the passageway. As he walked hurriedly down the length of the
corridor, he heard Barkin speak again. He turned to see the giant figure framed in the blazing
sunlight rectangle at the other end of the dark tunnel. "You know, Fred chum, you need a good
workout. You're gettin' flabbier than hell."
Handy fled, raising dust as he wheeled the Impala out of the driveway and down the mountainside.
There was the stink of fusel oil rising up from the city. Or was it the smell of fear?
4
When he burst into Arthur Crewes's office at the studio, the reception room was filled with [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]