1.19 Izzy Intuits, Cleo Perceives
1.19.1 Isador Bott MD Tends PROFATPOL's Injured, Dreams of Acting
The Infirmary on the PROFATPOL Campus, Richelieu
About 11:30 am Thursday 3 April 1987
Behind the microscope-eyeglasses required by his task--repairing a lawman’s split eyelid--the doctor’s expression was gloomy. He hadn’t a taken a sabbatical from his practice in Shunway, Illinois, to do this kind of pigletwork, he complained inwardly. He included under that heading, pigletwork, not only this busted-eyelid job, but also the cracked ribs, contusions and other assorted injuries sustained by no fewer than five PROFATPOL officers, all in one bungled roadblock.
No, he’d come to France—the substance crime center of the universe, supposedly—for one reason only: to work with users, supervise their fasts, help them back to health. And what does he find? These bozos get to drive 400- horsepower stinkpots but they can’t even catch up with a Gaeadamned user in a lumbering hycell! In a roadblock, yet. Okay, that punk in the red Mercedes—the Red Baron as they call him—he might be one hell of a driver....
A thought came to his mind out of nowhere. That dimensionally disadvantaged joker in the Brûlante Afrique place—might he be the Red Baron? Unlikely, but not impossible. He tried to dismiss the idea but it stayed in the back of his mind….
His suturing hand must have jerked or something. "Huh? Oops, sorry about that! I mean, uh, pardon!"
For a time he kept his mind on his knitting. But then it began to wander again.
Maybe it was time to think of getting out of medicine altogether. Try what that dude Leo had suggested--acting. Holovision, maybe. Something with a medical background, like daytime HV hospital drama. Trouble is, casting always goes for the preppy type. Oriental features--like his slanty eyes, for instance--was a definite negative.
A negative, that is, unless you create some sort of niche role. This wasn’t a new idea for Isador Bott, but since that private meeting with Her Extreme Lowness Madame Cava, or the Cat as everyone called her—lot of hot bitch left in there, lot of chien as the frogs say, makes you wish you were forty years older, ha ha—the idea of a niche spot suddenly had a new shine to it. Yeah, a niche, that’s it! Inscrutable-oriental type niche, just as Leo suggested….
He stopped sewing for a moment to give the concept his undivided attention. Izzy Bott becomes inscrutable Izu Botu—hnn, not bad!
In response to signs of impatience from the owner of the semi-repaired eyelid: "What? Okay, you’re right—it’s déjeuner time. Sure I'll get on with it. Just relax, huh? Relaxez-vous, or whatever, okay?" Gaea-damned frogs, always thinking about lunch!
Not that Izzy was indifferent to lunch. He’d already decided to go with his Mid-Western inclinations and order a thick, juicy slab of prime zucchini, grilled rare. Better go at it with chopsticks, he thought, work up the Izu Botu character....
Just then Izzy remembered he and Leo were supposed to see the Cat again, at lunch this time. Along with the big-name science research honcho, Professor Ducru, what's more. Well, that's it for the chopstick thing.... Better hustle, he told himself. Wouldn't want to stand them up.
1.19.2 Cleo Sights Professor Ducru
Kitty Kat Salon, Place du Marché, Richelieu
10:30 am Friday 4 April 1987
Cleo hustled to fill yet another order: Same again: Rhum à l’émulsion de soja, fort, or in other words rum ’n’ emulsified tofu, good n’ strong.
Newly installed behind the bar in Madame Cava’s Kitty-Kat Soyfood Salon, the young waitress had to concentrate to get each order exactly right. Rhum à l’émulsion de soja, fort meant two dashes rum, fill up with the white hi-fat, hi-protein goop.
"Voilà!" she said, sliding the tall glass across the counter.
She’d aimed for a nice bright waitress-type tone, but her voice lacked its usual pizzazz. She felt uneasy. That woman was on her third drink and was lapping it up as if there were no tomorrow. Already she was showing the classic signs of excessive long-term fat intake, like bulging mammary development. Probably a milkic on probation or rehab or whatever, trying to kick the pus habit by chugging the veggie-based lookalike. Probably hit the red line already. Better refuse her next order—wouldn’t want to take a chance on the Cat losing her license.
Yes, that could happen, she reminded herself. Soy products, being entirely of plant origin, weren’t illegal, but because of their excessive protein and fat content and consequent low Nutrient/Calorie ratio, you had to have a license to sell them. The Cat's political enemies would be delighted to take advantage of any irregularities in Kitty-Kat.
Cleo frowned. What a drag, worrying about milkics and licenses and stuff! She could have kicked herself for getting into the sleazy business of selling semi-harmful substances, How much happier she’d be working in a nice ordinary totally legal restaurant like Les Dhuits! Or the one she’d passed up the previous day, Le Gardon....
But she wasn’t just a waitress, she reminded herself, she was a histerian. Or an investigative journalist, depending on how things worked out. And in the Kitty-Kat she’d secured an ideal vantage point from which to observe the comings and goings of persons of interest, including the one person of particular interest. Incidentally, it was getting late. Why hadn’t the Old Fart showed up already?
She took an order for two servings of strawberries marinated in Grand Marnier, with a topping of mint-perfumed whipped tofu. She carefully charged the blender, touched the button and then let her thoughts drift to the whirr of the machine.
Apparently something had gone wrong. According to her latest intelligence, Professor Ducru invariably appeared in Kitty-Kat early each Friday morning, thence to mount the stairs at the back of the salon that led to Madame Cava’s first-floor apartment. She considered various possibilities. He’d come in all right, but in some clever disguise. Or perhaps he’d blind-sided her with the potent synthetic sex pheromones he was rumored to be working on. No, impossible, she told herself; sex pheromones pose no threat to the prepubescent!
The truth of the matter never occurred to the young investigator: Professor Ducru, bored with his long-time paramour and distracted by reports of promising research developments, was simply running late.
Cleo spooned whipped tofu over the strawberries, closed her eyes to savor the icy scent of crushed mint, and when she opened he eyes again, there he was! The OF, correction, subject. A wiry, quick-moving geezer in a George Washington style knee-length jacket-knickers combo, medium heels--it simply had to be him. He did not enter the Salon proper, but scampered directly up the stairs leading to the doorway to Madame Cava’s apartment. According to her Advanced Primate Reproductive Protocols course at Bennett High, the flashy outfit was a sure sign of a male bent on enticing a female into mating activity, definitely not a repairman come to check the Düngermischmaschine. Another tip-off: the snatch of music as the door swung open, Du bist der Lenz from "Die Walküre," reportedly one of the subject’s favorite songs! And to round out the identification, he looked just like the guy shown accepting the Légion d'Honneur on the HV history channel! Had she not been on duty behind the bar, Cleo would have let out a whoop of triumph.
But of course she was on duty, and her customers were becoming restive. Reverting to her professional manner, she hastened to serve them: "Mesdames ’sieurs, fraises Grand Marnier au purée de tofu chantilly à la menthe."
"Voilà!" she added with even more than her usual pizzazz.