“I still don’t groove.”
“Don’t you know 431?”
“No, I don’t.”
“The Belly Statute. Hell, lad, you know that one.”
“Brief me.”
“The Rees rammed it through the minute they read the writing on the wall. They’d have got more in, but there wasn’t time. The Benefit was a live thing, wasn’t it?”
“Of course.”
“So, figure it for yourself. The only entertainment medium the Rees have sewed is the legit stage, and all because of the Belly Statute. It’s funny, too, because the legit stage was the only place you could get a few Vike kicks, back in the old days. Now all the kicks are canned, and you can’t get a live charge except...”
“Come on, dad, mainline it.”
“Okay,” Fields said. “Statute 431, Section 62-A, better known as the Belly Statute. Its roots: the Mayor La-Guardia regime in New York City. Mild legislation against grind joints, in the days when such ledge was needed. A damn good mayor, La Guardia.”
“I’m listening,” Van said.
“That was many moons ago, lad. The Rees seized on the old legislation when the power began to run out. They rammed through 431, tacked it up neatly with Section 62-A. The statute reads like a Puritan textbook. It makes the exposure of carefully defined parts of the human anatomy on any commercial stage in any public gathering place a crime against the citizenry.”
“Not against the government?”
“No, sir; not municipal, state or federal. It’s a crime against any private citizen who cares to press charges.”
“On what grounds?”
“Infringement on civil liberties.”
“Oh, horse man...”
“I didn’t write the law, Van; I only interpret it.”
“But civil liberties! That’s contradictory as hell.”
“Not when someone determined is using the statute.”
“What civil liberties? How the hell does a strip...”
“The Dignity of Man, Van.”
“What?”
“The Dignity of Man. The statute holds that an exposure of anatomy on any commercial stage is affronting the dignity of the audience. The parts of the anatomy are defined in detail, and they...”
“Which parts?” Van asked.
“On a female, the breasts, the navel, the rib cage, the crotch, the thigh and any portion of the leg above the knee, front view. Back view, the buttocks, the spine above the...”
“Oh, the hell with it. Has Pelazi got a case?”
“He has; if he can prove he was in the audience that night.”
“He had to be there, huh?”
“That’s right. And chances are he wasn’t.”
“Then why all the stink? Doesn’t he know we can prove he didn’t attend?”
“If he didn’t attend,” Fields said, “it might be tough proving it. If he was there, you’d better get ready to pay him whatever he wants.”
“But why me? I didn’t expose my leg above the knee.”
“That’s where 62-A comes in. It holds anyone in any way connected with the exposure as liable as the actual exposee.”
“Rocks,” Van said.
“That’s covered in the male definition of parts,” Fields said, unsmiling.
Van didn’t smile either. “So what do we do?”
“Give it a little time; let me gather my fold around me. I told you, you’re the tenth one I know who’s received the Suzy Q. Maybe we can bunch everybody together and try the case that way. A sort of group effort versus Dino Pelazi, the outraged citizen.”
“Do we have a chance?”
“Sure,” Fields said.
“And if we lose?”
“You pay the man.”
“This annoys me,” Van said. “It’s a goddamned nuisance.”
“Maybe that’s all Pelazi wants; the nuisance value.”
“How do you mean?”
“He’ll be tying up just about every agent in town. By the time this gets to court, by the time we get a case set... well, it’s going to cut into your time a little, lad. Same as everyone else’s.”
“Yeah,” Van said. “You’ll take care of it, Carse?”
“Why, sure. Have no fear, Fields is here.”
“Grooved,” Van said. “Keep me in touch, yes?”
“Will do.”
“So long.”
Van clicked off, looked at the summons again, thought of Pelazi, and murmured, “I’ll bet this is all he has to do with his time.”
Chapter 6
Dino Pelazi cursed the old man silently, but there was a smile on his face that lent it a choir boy innocence.
The old man looked at the smile and nodded, and Dino nodded in return.
“So you are Dino Pelazi,” he croaked. His voice was withered and old, a drying waterhole on a desert, the skeleton of a boat on a barren stretch of beach. It creaked with its age, it stank with its age, it filled the room and the ears with its age. Pelazi winced slightly.
“Yes,” he said. “I am Dino Pelazi.”
The old man shifted in his chair, and Pelazi heard the dry rustle of his bones. Death was not far off for this one. Death watched over his shoulder, and breathed down his neck. Death lingered in the gnarled hands that curled greedily on the cane top. Death was in the eyes sunken deep in the skull-like face, and the odor of Death was rank on the old man’s breath.
“And you come to me, eh, Pelazi?” The eyes snapped with sudden life, sparking blueness into the sombre grey of the room. “Why?”
“You are a Ree, Mr. Kurtzman,” Pelazi said softly. You are the worst kind of Ree, he thought. A super-Realist.
“I am a Realist, yes,” Kurtzman said. “There are other Realists. Why me?”
There was shrewd intelligence in the blue eyes. The eyes crouched behind their lids like panthers waiting to pounce. The old man’s harsh breathing filled the room.
“We need help, Mr. Kurtzman,” Pelazi said. “You have helped the Rees before.”
“I have helped the Realists.” Kurtzman corrected. “I dislike these abbreviations, Pelazi; they dishonor the Realist.”
“Your pardon,” Pelazi said, deferentially. “You are, then, a Realist.” And a dirty bastard Ree, he added silently. “We need your help. Realists everywhere need your help.”
“My help, eh?” Kurtzman cackled. “Me, eh? An old man. You know how old I am, Pelazi?”
“No, sir.”
“Eighty-seven, Pelazi. You know any Vikes live that long, eh? You know any Vike still around at eighty-seven?”
“No, sir.”
Kurtzman nodded his head, and his eyes wandered into their private revery. He’s an old man, Pelazi thought. Be patient. He has what you want.
“Know why I’m still around, Pelazi?” Kurtzman’s eyes narrowed shrewdly.
“No, sir.”
“Plenty of women,” he said. He saw the surprised look on Pelazi’s face and slapped his open palm onto his knee. “Yessir,” he said, enjoying the joke, “plenty of Grade-A wenches.” He nodded in self-satisfaction. “And another thing, Pelazi.”
Pelazi steeled himself. “What, sir?”
“Sales resistance. Against people like you.”
“I think, Mr. Kurtzman...”
“Isn’t anybody in this world hasn’t got something to sell!” Kurtzman snapped, holding up his hand. The hand unsnapped suddenly, a forefinger pointed at Pelazi’s nose. “You’re no different. You’ve got something to sell, too.”
Pelazi stood up. “Yes,” he said. “Survival.”
“How’s that?” Kurtzman was surprised. “Sit down, Pelazi. Sit down.”
“I’ll stand. I’m selling survival, Mr. Kurtzman. For you and your children and your grandchildren. Survival because we damn well need it.”
“Survival, eh? I’m eighty-seven years old now, Pelazi. I’ve done all right so far. I don’t need any young...”