Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Paperback(41)

The tabby’s tail switched back and forth. “In the past I’ve swallowed monsters whole to help certain mortals whom I loved. Who knows what wonders are yet to unfold?”

The pedicab driver snored in the background as Julian watched Puss who regarded him through slitted eyes. “Whatever shall I do with this one?” he asked.

Veronessa was no larger than the Cat who sat beside her. “He’s nothing special,” she replied, propped on a pile of gosling down pillows and seemingly amused. “Okay-looking but not compelling. He isn’t someone who’d succeed without a lot of help. The simplest way would be what you do most easily: a quick pounce, a bit of play, and done.”

The Cat ignored her. “It’s easy to get attached to the memory of one’s first pet. Mine was a wonderful young oaf without an idea or plan. His imagining he was my owner was what charmed me most. I get sentimental about those who remind me of him.”

Veronessa shrugged. Puss stretched and bared his claws. “Cardinal Richelieu had a litter of kittens in a basket in his study at all times.

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? Tales That Fairies Tell ?

He found their antics amusing, and a distraction from the bloody murder of running France. When the kittens grew up he gave them as presents to favorites who cherished them.”

“As a pet,” she said, “everyone will say that this one seems an odd and boring choice.”

“They said that about me when we first went out in public,” he replied. “And will say the same about you when they know me a little better.”





2.


Next morning, Julian woke up late and alone. His roommates were all at work. As he showered and shaved he remembered the Cat and Veronessa clearly. He wondered if he was crazy and if the insanity could be used artistically.

He left the apartment, descended in an unreliable elevator. As New York approached the mid-twenty-first century, artists were abundant and some were even talented. Though much of the city’s wealth was lost, most of its towers remained and the classier neighborhoods still blazed with nighttime light. In those enclaves the beautiful and desperate mingled with the famous and wealthy.

The city was, as always, restless, hard to please, and easy to bore.

Painters, chefs, comedians, dancers, actors, and even writers were each worshipped in their turn and then abandoned.

Julian hurried to work hoping he could get a coffee and roll out of the kitchen before his afternoon shift. Instead, when he came in the door, the ma?tre d’ immediately sent him to the manager’s office.

The manager, a brute of a woman, said, “Don’t bother changing into uniform.” When he asked why, she answered, “Customer complaint from last night. You ignored a request so he had to ask twice. That’s once too often and one complaint to many.”

“I don’t remember there being another one,” he said.

She replied, “Precisely.” He started to argue, but the large blank-faced man who escorted unimportant guests out the door when they misbehaved did the same for Julian.

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? Rick Bowes ?

He walked home in a dull panic. Thinking about the night before, he could imagine only one incident that could have produced a complaint.

Jack Reynard had snapped his fingers to get Julian’s attention away from Veronessa and Puss. The Fox had been irritated. He had gestured across the gym floor where a three-on-three basketball game was taking place. These were regular, staged events: shirts vs. skins. This time two of the skins were female one was male.

“One of my guests prefers the skins be all boys,” said Reynard.

It took Julian a few long moments to realize this was a command not an idle wish. Only then did he bow and go to find the maitre d’

with the Fox’s orders.

It had cost him his job. He was broke and alone.

Julian had been on the lookout for the next cutting-edge phenomenon since coming to the city. BIG, at the moment, was Crisis Fashion with its respirators built into collars and tops so silken it was impossible to believe they stopped bullets. But its hold was shaky.

Julian was an artist, but he had discovered he was no designer; he lacked both the instinct needed to tell him how far to go and the nerve to go an inch or two farther. Nor could he model clothes to any effect. “Buyers don’t really see you and they certainly don’t see what you’re wearing,” a very thin and bald agent once told him.

No Exit Comedy had been THE thing before Crisis Fashion. It took place in cellars with locked, guarded doors and standup comics with faces like vultures. Patrons, once they found they were not the evening’s entertainment, would laugh with glee and join the comics in lashing out at the ones fated to be the victims of savage ridicule.