Mack Reynolds - Once Departed

After the elevator had passed the eighth floor without either of its two passengers making any signs of debarking, Quint said, “Three’ll get you five we’re heading for the same party.”

The other said, in surprise, “You’re an American.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I meant… So am I, but you don’t look like an American.”

“What does an American look like?” Quint said. Actually, the man could have been his twin in many respects. They were both about five foot ten, one hundred and seventy, in their early thirties and dressed conservatively. They differed in that the other wore a crew cut and no beret, spoke in a voice a trifle louder and more hurried than did Quint. On top of that, he had the air of aggressiveness that types Americans to Europeans.

His fellow passenger laughed and held out a hand. “Bart Digby,” he said. “I hope you’re going to the Dempsey party.”

“Quint Jones,” Quint shook. “That’s right. But why hope?

The other looked uncomfortable. “Well, I was supposed to come with a friend. Englishman named Brett-Home…”

“I know Ronald, more or less. Met him at a few cocktail parties, and we work out at the same gym.”

“Well, he didn’t meet me when we agreed. But earlier he insisted that it was okay for me to crash the party.”

Quint said definitely, “Nobody has ever crashed a Dempsey party.” Then, when the other looked increasingly uncomfortable, “They’re all open-house affairs. Anybody, anybody at all, can wander in. They’re invariably informal affairs. Brawls.”

“Oh.” Bart Digby suddenly grinned a boyish grin that went with the crew cut. “I wanted to meet this Nicolas Ferencsik. Ronald said he’d be here.”

“Interested in surgical medicine, or looking for a pet?”

“A pet?” Digby said blankly.

They’d reached the penthouse and the elevator boy opened the door for them.

Quint Jones chuckled. “Didn’t you read about that latest experiment of Nicolas Ferencsik’s? He grafted a second head on a dog and it lived for over a month. Now, that’s something I could use around the apartment A two headed dog. Talk about a conversation piece.”

They were both laughing as they entered the penthouse foyer. There was no one there to greet them but party sounds erupted from several directions. The elevator door closed behind them.

“At any rate,” Bart Digby said, “if Ronald Brett-Home isn’t already here, I wonder if you’d, well, sort of introduce me to our hostess?”

Quint had to chuckle again. “You just won’t believe me, eh? By this time of the evening Marty Dempsey is probably so stoned she doesn’t know she’s the hostess and this is her own home.”

To make a liar of him, a fluttery woman in her early fifties and making no attempt to hide the years, zeroed in on them.

“Quentin,” she screamed. “ Dahling !”

Quint winced. “My mistake,” he muttered. “Marty must be taking the cure again.” He turned on the faucet of his charm, kissed her on the cheek, then turned back to his new-found companion.

“Martha, may I present an old, old friend of mine, Bart Digby. Mrs. Dempsey, our hostess. You might say Bart and I came up together, Marty. Side by side we rose to the heights.”

Marty Dempsey simpered at the newcomer. “How thrilling. So both of you dahlings are writers.”

“Writers?” Digby said blankly. He looked at Quint in accusation. “Quint Jones,” he said. “She called you Quentin. Holy smokes, you’re Quentin Jones.”

Marty Dempsey looked from one of them to the other. Didn’t get it. Decided it was beyond her. Looked vague. Said, “I suppose you dahlings can find your own,” and wandered off.

Quint laughed in easy self-deprecation. “Don’t tell me I’ve got a fan.”

Digby said earnestly, “Listen, those three or four articles you did on segregation. You know what they did in my home state? They ended segregation there. It was laughed out of existence. Listen, those articles were damn good.”

Quint was embarrassed. “Well, thanks,” he said. He hated this sort of thing. One of the reasons he lived abroad was so that he could avoid gushing readers who seemed to be able to find considerably more message in his columns and articles than he usually intended to put into them.

He said, “Shall we join the party? From here on in, you’re on your own. Anybody might be here and you probably know as many of the guests as I do. The last party the Dempseys threw, the guest of honor was the head of the anarchist underground in Spain, sort of a left-over from Spanish Civil War days. While the police were searching for him on the streets—tracking down rumors he was in town—we were drinking champagne with him up here.” Quint added dryly, “He told us what he and his buddies figured on doing to us decadent capitalists after the anarchists took over.”

Bart Digby said, “Ronald told me they liked to base their get-togethers on controversial figures. Any rate, thanks again, uh, Quint. I guess the party’s center is over in there.”

’That’s pronounced bar,” Quint told him. “See you later.”

Quint cornered himself a Scotch at the commercial size bar which dominated the Dempsey living room, and began drifting around through the shrill, milling guests. He would have preferred Fundador brandy, but the Dempseys were of the breed who drank nothing of Spanish origin—at least not so long as they were in Spain. He had a sneaking suspicion that when they made trips to Scotland they ordered Fundador in bars and hotels, and that probably they drank French cognac in the States, and bourbon in France. He brought out a tiny notebook and scribbled a few lines in it. Might make a gag bit of business for the column.

He spotted his host, Ferd Dempsey, at the far side of the long room in heated discussion with two other obvious Americans and turned off in another direction. Ferd was in his arguing stage. Two drinks more and he’d start reciting quatrains from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. At that point, Quint usually made a practice of going home.

Somebody said, “Hi, Quint. Long time, no see.” The words were American but the accent was Spanish.

He turned and said, “Hello, Senor Garcia.”

“Joe to you,” the other told him. He was a man of middles. Middle age, middle height—given his lift heels—middle in weight. The man was a hanger-on of the foreign colony, and especially the Americans. Quint Jones didn’t particularly like him, for no particular reasons. Like the rest of the group, he used Jose Garcia Mendez when he needed some red tape cutting, or some information pertaining to life in Madrid. How to locate an apartment. Where to find a maid. How to keep your car in Spain after the six months legal deadline had elapsed. And, like the rest of the group, was hence obligated to tolerate the man.

A maid went by with a tray of entremeses and Quint snagged one. The Dempseys were doing themselves well tonight. They’d remembered to serve food. Often enough, Ferd and Marty, when on a binge, couldn’t stand the sight of refreshments other than alcoholic ones. But for that matter, the party seemed out of the usual, anyway. Quint Jones couldn’t put his finger on just why.

He said, to make conversation, “Seems to be a lot of newcomers around tonight.”

Garcia nodded, sipped his champagne, wiped his mustache dry with a forefinger. “Should be some fun and games before the evening’s through, eh? You know who that sleazy looking character is over there?” He indicated direction with his head, but before Quint could answer said, “Vladimir Nuriyev. Nice guy, Vlad. Used to be a top hatchetman for the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya . Killed more innocent people than the plague. I doubt if it was a matter of his conscience ever hurting him. The story has it that the C.I.A. paid him a hundred grand to defect and spill his guts. So he’s spending it here in Spain. Where else?”