No Such Creature Read Online Free Page A

no, no. Each one of these is perfectly cut, perfectly identical. This is work of brilliant, painstaking craftsmanship. It makes my heart glow to look on ’em.”
    “Too bad they’re going to be so hard to fence,” Owen pointed out.
    “Thou sayest right, lad. Setting’s utterly unique, and therefore recognizable. Split these dazzlers up, they lose eighty percent of their value. Shame.”
    “Still, great show tonight. How about my entrance? I finally get why you showed me all those pirate movies.”
    “A touch over the mark, lad. Spectacle over substance.”
    “ I’m over the mark? We could have been out of there twice as fast if you hadn’t got lost in dreamland.”
    “Rubbish. I was sharp as a laser.”
    “Max, it looked like you forgot where you were.”
    “Bollocks. I engineered another exceptional show—worthy of the Pontiff himself.”
    They took off their evening wear and changed into more casual clothes. Their dinner jackets went onto hangers and into dry cleaning plastic. Max was a stickler for keeping kit in good shape, particularly wigs. The black curls and the ginger rug went onto Styrofoam heads and then into boxes. Max’s cover, should he be required to produce one, was wig salesman and distributor, and he’d already visited several customers. San Francisco was home to some of his biggest accounts: theatre troupes, gay cabarets and college drama classes.
    “If the Pontiff’s so damn brilliant,” Owen said, hanging up his white T-shirt, “how come he’s in prison and we’re out here on the road?”
    “He’s not in prison anymore. I told you, they’ve put him in hospital, where he’s probably going to die.”
    “You didn’t answer my question.”
    “Why did he end up in the brig? Very simple. An ill-chosen associate made a colossal blunder. Gun goes off, and a security guard ends up dead. Not John-Paul’s fault. But what a string of successes the man had! Wells Fargo, Chemical Bank, Lufthansa—no one can touch him. And character! The Pontiff is your quintessential gentleman of the road. No friend of his ever went hungry while he had a dime in his pocket. Looked after families when his brothers went up to Oxford. A great soul, that man, a great soul.”
    Owen combed his hair, naturally brown, and inspected his face for any remaining traces of spirit gum. “I don’t know about you, but I was ready for dinner about an hour ago.”
    Max turned to him from the mirror, tweed jacket, khaki pants, polo shirt. “How do I look?” he said. “Old money?”
    “Old perv is more like it.”
    “Nonsense. I’m a splendid specimen of manhood.” He slapped his belly. “Not bad for sixty-four.”
    “Sixty-four!”
    “Doubting your loving uncle yet again. Tsk, tsk . Suspicion is the habit of a guilty mind. Causes ulcers, cancer, all manner of plague and carbuncle. A healthy mind is free and open, willing to be informed.”
    “Max?”
    “What, boy?”
    “Can we please go eat?”

THREE
    “I T’S FOUR O’CLOCK,” THE E LVIS CLOCK SAID , “ and I’m all shook up .” It was a passable imitation of the King’s voice, but it still gave Zig Zigler the creeps. Apparently his partner Clem didn’t like it either, because he threw his apple core at it and cursed when he missed.
    Their acquaintance Melvin Togg was into Elvis in a big way. He had vinyl copies of all the King’s albums on a beautiful shelving unit built around his stereo. The shelves and the stereo were the only things in this grunge pit of an apartment that didn’t make you want to hang yourself. First off, it was a basement joint, hardly any light squeezing through its two windows. Second off, it was in one of the noisiest neighbourhoods in Las Vegas, jet planes blasting overhead every five minutes. Third off, the ceiling was low, meaning that if you actually employed the hot plate for any cooking you’d be inhaling your curry or whatever for the next month. Not to mention bathroom smells.
    “Melvin,” Zig said, “how can