Future Crimes Part 11

"Impressive, Shalimar!" Gil's voice soared over the applause.

"Quite professional. My father would have enjoyed that--he always did like watching the faces people put on when they appear in public."

She shot him a quick look.

"A dubious compliment at best. Leading up to what?"

He spread his hands.

"Whatever you will. Name it, it's yours. That's what you're used to, aren't you?"

His voice rose.

"The rest of you don't know, but we have a V.I.P in our midst.

Shalimar is a member of the Andamanese Governing Council--a leader, a politician. A manipulator of lives." Pause.

"Ah, Kimmel--your open and honest face tells me you already knew Shalimar was a national councilwoman. She told you."

Kimmel mimicked Gil's own hand-spreading gesture.

"This is something new," Phoebe remarked to Gil.

"You used to try to disguise your rudeness." Milo snickered.

But Gil's attention was back on Shalimar.

"Do we get an encore?"

"I think not." She handed her stage cape to LaB oz and took her seat.

"How disappointing," Gil mock-groaned.

"Remember the man we are honoring. You do remember dear old dad, don't you? The clown who was willing to keep your bed warm, for whenever you felt like using it? Or him."

Oh-ho from Milo.

Gil ignored him.

"He turned to you for help, Shalimar.

He was at the lowest point of his life and he went looking for you. Why didn't you help?"

Shalimar took her time answering.

"That was between your father and me, Gil. This is no place to--"

"What better? A stage, an audience--" "Oh, this is de trap," Milo moaned.

"Honestly, Gil, there's only so much melodrama one can take in a single evening! If you're fixated on your father's s.e.x life, then that's your problem. But for heaven's sake, leave the rest of us out of it!"

Gil raised an eyebrow and slowly clapped his hands.

"Ver-y good, Milo. Nothing like a little accusatory Freudianism to discredit me and make yourself look good. But that's your style, isn't it? Puff yourself up at the other guy's expense."

Milo stood up.

"I want to go home."

"Not yet," Gil said curtly.

"Shalimar. When my father returned from the Andamans, he was depressed to the point of being near-suicidal. He walked around in a trank-haze for three weeks. His judgment was off, his reactions were slow--he should never have taken the yawl out. But he wouldn't have been in a drug stupor if he'd come home in anything like a normal frame of mind.

What happened, Shalimar? What did you do to him?"

Milo decided he wanted to hear the answer to that one and sat back down.

Shalimar's eyes were wide.

"You're blaming me for your father's death?"

"You contributed. What went wrong? He went to the Andamans with such high hopes."

"High hopes," she repeated.

"He came to me hoping for a lifeline. He was already close to a breakdown.

Just one business reversal too many. It finally got to him." She slid a quick sideways glance at Kimmel.

"He came to the Andamans wanting me to make everything right for him. I couldn't do it. He asked for too much."

"You couldn't?" Gil asked.

"Or wouldn't?"

"Probably couldn't," Kimmel interposed.

"Your father could be a demanding SOB."

Shalimar said, "Gil, I hadn't seen your father for two years. Then he showed up unannounced, expecting me to put my own life on hold to--well, I did what I could, but obviously it wasn't enough. I'm sorry. He and I were close once. But I didn't create your father's problems."

"You merely aggravated them. He came to you looking for relief from pain, and you sent him away with more pain."

Milo abruptly began singing.

"Happy death day to you .. . happy death day to you.. .."

"Shut up, Milo," Phoebe snapped.

"Gil, stop this.

Stop it right now."

Gil blew her a sardonic kiss.

"We're just getting started."

Shalimar and Kimmel consulted briefly, stood up.