The Best of Michael Swanwick Read Free Page B

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    Kaplan dug fingers into Wolf’s arm, brought his mouth up to Wolf’s ear. “You see? You see?” he demanded. Wolf shook him off impatiently. He wanted to hear the music.
    The concert lasted forever, and it was done in no time at all. It left Wolf sweaty and emotionally spent. Onstage, the woman was energy personified. She danced, she strutted, she wailed more power into her songs than seemed humanly possible. Not knowing the original, Wolf was sure it was a perfect re-creation. It had that feel.
    The audience loved her. They called her back for three encores, and then a fourth. Finally, she came out, gasped into the mike, “I love ya, honeys, I truly do. But please—no more. I just couldn’t do it.” She blew a kiss, and was gone from the stage.
    The entire audience was standing, Wolf among them, applauding furiously. A hand fell on Wolf’s shoulder, and he glanced to his side, annoyed. It was Kaplan. His face was flushed and he said, “Come on.” He pulled Wolf free of the crowd and backstage to a small dressing room. Its door was ajar and people were crowded into it.
    One of them was the singer, hair stringy and out-of-place, laughing and gesturing widely with a Southern Comfort bottle. It was an antique, its label lacquered to the glass, and three-quarters filled with something amber-colored.
    “Janis, this is—” Kaplan began.
    “The name is Maggie,” she sang gleefully. “Maggie Horowitz. I ain’t no dead blues singer. And don’t you forget it.”
    “This is a fan of yours, Maggie. From Africa.” He gave Wolf a small shove. Wolf hesitantly stumbled forward, grimacing apologetically at the people he displaced.
    “Whee—howdy!” Maggie whooped. She downed a slug from herbottle. “Pleased ta meecha, Ace. Kinda light for an African, aintcha?”
    “My mother’s people were descended from German settlers.” And it was felt that a light-skinned representative could handle the touchy Americans better, but he didn’t say that.
    “Whatcher name, Ace?
    “Wolf.”
    “Wolf.” Maggie crowed. “Yeah, you look like a real heartbreaker,honey. Guess I’d better be careful around you, huh? Likely to sweep me off my feet and deflower me.” She nudged him with an elbow. “That’s a joke, Ace.”
    Wolf was fascinated. Maggie was alive , a dozen times more so than her countrymen. She made them look like zombies. Wolf was also a little afraid of her.
    “ Hey . Whatcha think of my singing, hah?”
    “It was excellent,” Wolf said. “It was”—he groped for words—“in my land the music is quieter, there is not so much emotion.”
    “Yeah, well I think it was fucking good, Ace. Voice’s never been in better shape. Go tell ’em that at Hopkins, Kaplan. Tell ’em I’m giving them their money’s worth.”
    “Of course you are,” Kaplan said.
    “Well, I am , goddammit. Hey, this place is like a morgue! Let’s ditch this matchbox dressing room and hit the bars. Hey? Let’s party.”
    She swept them all out of the dressing room, out of the building, and onto the street. They formed a small boisterous group, noisily wandering the city, looking for bars.
    “There’s one a block thataway,” Maggie said. “Let’s hit it. Hey, Ace, I’d likeya ta meet Cynthia. Sin, this is Wolf. Sin and I are like one person inside two skins. Many’s the time we’ve shared a piece of talent in the same bed. Hey?” She cackled, and grabbed at Cynthia’s ass.
    “Cut it out, Maggie.” Cynthia smiled when she said it. She was a tall, slim, striking woman.
    “Hey, this town is dead !” Maggie screamed the last word, then gestured them all to silence so they could listen for the echo. “There it is.” She pointed, and they swooped down on the first bar.
    After the third, Wolf lost track. At some point he gave up on the party and somehow made his way back to his hostel. The last he remembered of Maggie she was calling after him, “Hey, Ace, don’t be a party poop.” Then: “At least be sure to