Alien Nation #6 - Passing Fancy (35 page)

Now the tears flowed freely. She hugged them both—made Iris’s hug
especially
tight, because it made the old babe so uncomfortable—and bade them goodbye. Her vision was out of focus from the tears, and it wasn’t until she wiped them away that she saw another visitor standing in the doorway.

Wearing a real shit-eating grin on his face, too.

“Hey, Fancy,” he said.

It was one of the nicest smiles she’d ever seen.

“Matt,” she said softly. “Matt Sikes.”

He gestured with a sheepish shrug toward the outside, toward the exit of Dallas and Iris. When he spoke, she noticed he was a bit out of breath.

“I, uhh, overheard some of what was going on,” he said, “so I ran down to the gift shop to get you something.”

He approached her, and now she noticed the thin, long, beribboned box he held. He placed it on her lap.

“I hope you like it,” he said, and stood back.

She just touched the box at first, savored the feel of its ribbon under her fingertips. Then she carefully lifted the lid.

Inside it was an exquisite long-stemmed rose.

And a small card.

She opened it.

It read:

I TOLD YOU SO.

—MATT

And this time he stayed to see her reaction.

FIVE YEARS FROM TODAY;

SIX WEEKS BEYOND DAY FOUR . . .

A
NOTHER CASE ALTOGETHER.

Detectives Matthew Sikes and George Francisco had a convenience store staked out in anticipation of an attempted robbery by a street gang. There was some reason to believe that the gang was being bankrolled and encouraged by the elusive Serovese Corporation, but neither of the two detectives held out much hope of proving it.

Matthew’s prediction had been right. In what was now being referred to as “the Stabilite Case,” all avenues of investigation into the Serovese Corporation had followed intricate paper trails leading nowhere. As for this street gang currently under investigation? The Serovese Corporation, if involved, wasn’t about to entrust incriminating information to a bunch of punks. Doubtless the teen hoods were considered small fry by their “benefactors,” to be used only as pawns in a much larger game.

Then again, that “small fry” attitude had been known to make master criminals cocky, careless. You just never knew. The Serovese Corporation couldn’t be infallible
all
the time.

So with what little hope they had, the two detectives sat in their unmarked cruiser and played anagrams. Matt wasn’t nearly as fast as George, and sometimes he had to use a pen and pad, but he had a knack for finding uncommonly nasty ones.

He pointed to a new billboard.

“What can you make out of
that
one?”

“That one I tend to leave alone, Matthew. That one I prefer to savor . . . in its pure form.”

Matt didn’t quite see what the big deal was, but he understood the reasoning behind his partner’s feelings. “Your call,” he said politely, and moved on.

The billboard advertised a new product. A breath freshener that came in three formats: mint, spray, and wash. Also in two distinct varieties: one for Newcomers, one for humans.

The presentation of the product was fairly matter-of-fact: The various formats of the product were displayed neatly under a large version of the logo, a positive-negative silhouette design. Looked at one way, it resembled an unevenly shaped goblet. Looked at another, it resembled two faces—one human, one Tenctonese—in intimate proximity.

The billboard, of course, represented the campaign and logo design of Susan Francisco, in whose accomplishment George took uncommon pride. She had not, after all, been fired; and her comments to her employers had not, after all, fallen on deaf ears, jaded human ears though they may have been.

Susan regularly expressed to George her mixed feelings about the firm that paid her salary these days. She wasn’t so sure anymore that she wanted to keep working there. But stay or leave—George was quick to remind her—for the moment she could do either on her own terms. She liked being reminded of that, and he liked the spring in her step the reminder produced.

As much as he liked the billboard.

And her logo, underneath which was the slogan containing the product’s new name.

“A Little
SCENTS-ITIVITY®
Goes a Long Way . . .” it read.

Not especially clever.

Not particularly flashy.

Plainness itself, really.

But you sure couldn’t argue with the sentiment.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DAVID SPENCER
was lyricist to composer Alan Menken, and co-librettist with Alan Brennert, for the recent SF musical
Weird Romance
(original cast album on Columbia Records, published version by Samuel French). He has also written the English adaptation and new lyrics for
La Bohème
at the Public Theatre; book and lyrics for
The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz,
based on the novel by Mordecai Richler (music by Alan Menken); the music and lyrics for
Pulp,
a one-act musical (book by Bruce Peyton) that has been produced in various regional venues as the most acclaimed segment of the anthology evening
Stories; Playthings,
a one-act play produced at Theatre Three in Los Angeles; the music and lyrics for two new musicals, currently in progress; as well as scripts and stories for episodic television.

Mr. Spencer is on the faculty of the BMI-Lehman Engel Musical Theatre Workshop and a member of the Dramatists Guild.

Alien Nation: Passing Fancy
is his first novel.