Harsh Oases Read Free Page A

wasn’t every day—or night—that one’s bar was elected to cater the official party following the premiere of a Nike original.
    When the boozy fleet had anchored in the Bay, and everyone had been ferried ashore, I had managed to become separated from Jasmine. Now I was contriving earnestly to stay out of her clutches for a bit longer, no easy task in such close quarters. I knew I would pay for my rashness in the morning, but it didn’t signify now.
    I had to talk to Nikki Nike alone.
    Something about the woman had intrigued me deeply. Obviously, the awesome sky-fires she had ignited played a part in my fascination. But she exuded a personal force and charm that had snared me like a net of unbreakable spidersilk. The dignity and aplomb with which she had stepped from the capsule, as if out of Botticelli’s painting. The transfiguration lighting up her features after the celestial show. These bespoke a deep inner-directedness, a self-assured capability that transfixed me more strongly than anything sexual.
    Ducking behind a dizzy debutante as a shield, I wove my way toward the largest knot of people, knowing I’d find Nikki there.
    On the outskirts of the group, I spotted her, trapped in the middle. Still wearing her silver suit, sans headgear, she looked like a chromed product of Detroit or South Korea, save for her face, which was pixieish without the least trace of cloying feyness. Her teeth were very white and small, as she smiled valiantly at the fawning compliments, but her grey eyes looked nervous and weary.
    I used my weight to shoulder people aside. “Excuse me. Excuse me, please. Message for Miz Nike.”
    People parted at the sound of the twentieth-century magic incantation. Reaching Nikki, I said in a voice meant to carry, “Miz Nike, telephone call for you. I believe it’s New York.”
    She sized me up instantly, and wasn’t fooled. Still, she said, “Oh, yes. I was expecting it Where can I take it?” Her eyes were a thankyou-card Hallmark never wrote.
    I led her to the bar. Still no sign of Jasmine. We stopped near Meadows. He turned his placid face, behind which there was always something going on, toward us.
    “Marty, Miz Nike,” he said. “Anything wrong?”
    “Not a thing, Larry. Just wondered if the back room was empty.”
    Larry’s left eyebrow twitched slightly. Otherwise, nothing registered. “Sure. Feel free.”
    I took Nikki’s ungloved hand. My autonomous nervous system almost gave up breathing. I felt like a cloddish adolescent. What was the matter with me? Perhaps I’d swallow my tongue when we started talking.
    The private rooms of La Pomme had been the living quarters of the last owner. Now, one served as Meadows’ office, the others as storerooms.
    The party sounded like a distant war once the door was closed.
    “You looked as if you could use a little peace and quiet,” I said. “I took it upon myself to help.”
    She stood a few feet from me, her left knee locked tight, her right bent outward slightly, foot forward. Her crossed arms compressed her small breasts. She gauged me again, totalled my second score with my first, averaged the result, and passed me.
    Her form slumped. “Well, yes, you were right. Being spam in a can is more tiring than you might think. And the show was so perfect, it drained me even more.”
    “Sit down, then,” I said. “Let me get you a drink.”
    She collapsed into a deep chair. I went to the small bar on the far wall.
    “Larry’s private stock,” I explained, pouring two scotches. When I handed her one, she looked a bit irked, and I kicked myself for not having asked what she wanted. But I was so used to servicing Jasmine wordlessly, that I had acted on automatic.
    She took it though, and sipped. “Do you bring all damsels in distress here?” she asked.
    “Hardly,” I said. “Larry and I play cards here occasionally.”
    “He called you Marty,’“ she said.
    I winced. “Larry’s the only one who calls me that. It’s Martin.