Flatlander - Larry Niven [11]
Across the width of the Mars Bar a girl in a peach-colored dress sat studying me with her chin on her fist. I got up and went over.
My head felt fine. It was the first thing I checked when I woke up. Apparently I’d remembered to take a hangover pill.
A leg was hooked over my knee. It felt good, though the pressure had put my foot to sleep. Fragrant dark hair spilled beneath my nose. I didn’t move. I didn’t want her to know I was awake.
It’s damned embarrassing when you wake up with a girl and can’t remember her name.
Well, let’s see. A peach dress neatly hung from a doorknob … I remembered a whole lot of traveling last night. The girl at the Mars Bar. A puppet show. Music of all kinds. I’d talked about Owen, and she’d steered me away from that because it depressed her. Then—
Hah! Taffy. Last name forgotten.
“Morning,” I said.
“Morning,” she said. “Don’t try to move; we’re hooked together …” In the sober morning light she was lovely. Long black hair, brown eyes, creamy untanned skin. To be lovely this early was a neat trick, and I told her so, and she smiled.
My lower leg was dead meat until it started to buzz with renewed circulation, and then I made faces until it calmed down. Taffy kept up a running chatter as we dressed. “That third hand is strange. I remember you holding me with two strong arms and stroking the back of my neck with the third. Very nice. It reminded me of a Fritz Leiber story.”
“‘The Wanderer.’ The panther girl.”
“Mm hmm. How many girls have you caught with that cigarette trick?”
“None as pretty as you.”
“And how many girls have you told that to?”
“Can’t remember. It always worked before. Maybe this time it’s for real.”
We exchanged grins.
A minute later I caught her frowning thoughtfully at the back of my neck. “Something wrong?”
“I was just thinking. You really crashed and burned last night. I hope you don’t drink that much all the time.”
“Why? You worried about me?”
She blushed, then nodded.
“I should have told you. In fact, I think I did, last night. When a good friend dies, it’s obligatory to get smashed.”
Taffy looked relieved. “I didn’t mean to get—”
“Personal? Why not. You’ve the right. Anyway, I like—” maternal types, but I couldn’t say that. “—people who worry about me.”
Taffy touched her hair with some kind of complex comb. A few strokes snapped her hair instantly into place. Static electricity?
“It was a good drunk,” I said. “Owen would have been proud. And that’s all the mourning I’ll do. One drunk and—” I spread my hands. “Out.”
“It’s not a bad way to go,” Taffy mused reflectively. “Current stimulus, I mean. I mean, if you’ve got to bow out—”
“Now, drop that!” I don’t know how I got so angry so fast. Ghoul-thin and grinning in a reading chair, Owen’s corpse was suddenly vivid before me. I’d fought that image for too many hours. “Walking off a bridge is enough of a cop-out,” I snarled. “Dying for a month while current burns out your brain is nothing less than sickening.”
Taffy was hurt and bewildered. “But your friend did it, didn’t he? You didn’t make him sound like a weakling.”
“Nuts,” I heard myself say. “He didn’t do it. He was—”
Just like that, I was sure. I must have realized it while I was drunk or sleeping. Of course he hadn’t killed himself. That wasn’t Owen. And current addiction wasn’t Owen, either.
“He was murdered,” I said. “Sure he was. Why didn’t I see it?” And I made a dive for the phone.
“Good morning, Mr. Hamilton.” Detective-Inspector Ordaz looked very fresh and neat this morning. I was suddenly aware that I hadn’t shaved. “I see you remembered to take your hangover pills.”
“Right Ordaz, has it occurred to you that Owen might have been murdered?”
“Naturally. But it isn’t possible.”
“I think it might be. Suppose he—”
“Mr. Hamilton.”
“Yah?”
“We have an appointment for lunch. Shall we discuss it then? Meet me at headquarters at twelve hundred.”
“Okay. One thing you might take care of this morning. See if Owen registered for a nudist’s license.”
“Do you think he might have?”
“Yah. I’ll tell you why at lunch.”
“Very well.”
“Don’t hang