CHAPTER 13

WHITE IS THE COLOR OF EVIL

Lodged between two dilapidated tenements in an unsavory corner of Jaffna near the docks, the Corkscrew Pub was probably unique both in its unwholesome reputation and in its gaudy decor. Its reputation as a cowboy-tough bar catering to the ruffians of the high seas was legend from Port Elizabeth to Sydney; and like a bug-light, it attracted every breed of pleasure-seeking vermin one could possibly suppose. In other words, it was the perfect spot for a man of Lester's ilk to want to commemorate BeHolden Day.

Weeks ago, when Fornax was first here in the company of Red, he had judiciously avoided entering the premises — and with good reason. Even now, as he paused once again on the littered street in front of the Corkscrew, everything about the place told him to stay away, beginning with the appalling stench of fire-brewed tortan which intoxicated the muggy night air.

It didn't end there, though. There was also the amorous red glow of lights which bathed him from the doorway of the bimbooker-house next door, plus the growling of an unseen bio-canine which no doubt doubled as a guard dog when it wasn't out chasing stray cats. All of it said danger, stay away!

Suddenly feeling stupid, Fornax scolded himself for ever having agreed to meet Lester and the Captain here in this run-down neighborhood so late in the day. Next time, he would know better!

Though his heart was filled with trepidation, Fornax took a deep breath and shoved open the massive set of swinging doors which hung across the entranceway in the fashion of an American Wild West saloon. As he crossed the threshold into the jam-packed tavern, he was greeted by the nauseating odor of smouldering tobacco and the deafening roar of cack music. It was quite a spectacle to behold!

With the gin mill bursting to the seams with people, Fornax could barely make out the immense, twenty-meter-long bar which dominated the room along one wall or the dozen or so poker tables which were scattered haphazardly throughout the rest of the establishment. Adjacent to the bar, a row of tall stools provided seating for a lucky few, though most of the drunken patrons had to be content to lean against the brass rail and bang on the tabletop for service. Behind the counter, a half-dozen scantily-clad bartenders struggled feverishly to keep up with the incessant demands of the delirious holiday crowd.

BeHolden Day could count as its antecedents the American tradition of Thanksgiving, as well as English harvest festivals dating back at least a millenium. The religious fundamentalists who had been summarily thrown out of Europe found a cornucopia in the New World and their Thanksgiving Day was not only an acknowledgment of their good fortune, it was considered by them to be a day of grace as well.

Sadly enough, the holiday had devolved over the passing centuries into an orgy, and by Fornax's time, BeHolden Day was little more than an ugly caricature of its former self. Oh, the turkey was oftentimes still there, along with all of the trimmings, but nowadays, it was a carnival of engorgement marked by bouts of excessive eating and drinking. Like the Saturnalia festivals of ancient Rome, it was a period of orgiastic revelry; only in weight-conscious modern times, the overconsumption was often remedied with a round of forced regurgitation. In some circles, this latter event was even a matter of some pride, what with would-be throwers-up lining the streets, buckets in hand, to compete for distance or else for volume.

And if that weren't enough to mar the solemnity of this once holy celebration, by nightfall on this, the fourth Thursday of November, widespread brawling would typically erupt in pubs all across the land.

Having once read of these uncontrollable outbreaks of violent behavior, Fornax cautiously pressed ever deeper into the saloon, warily eyeing the faces in the crowd for the first hint of trouble.

The place was absolute pandemonium — a complete uproar! While he stood there mouth agape, drunken rabble-rousers jostled one another sloshing tortan-ale everywhere, bawdy bimbookers hustled the room trying to sell themselves, and macho revelers busily shouted gross obscenities and boisterous challenges at each other. Never in his life had he been in such a place!

Unaccustomed as Fornax was to the raucous holiday atmosphere, he carefully negotiated his way through the riotous, strobe-lit tavern taking a seat near one end of the grand bar. The cigarette smoke was so thick, and the high-ceilinged pub so splattered with restless shadows, he could barely make out a thing.

From where he sat astride his bar stool sipping the froth off a cold mug of tortan-ale, Fornax searched the throng for any signs of his partners. It was a difficult task, made doubly so by the annoying flash of the strobe. This, plus the mindnumbing blast of cack music and the commotion caused by the holo-people made locating either one of them a near impossibility. Technology had come such a long way, it was now all but impossible to distinguish a virtual image from a real one, that is, unless you reached out to squeeze a cute one on the behind. A virtual woman might give you an electric shock; a real one, a jab in the ribs! It was anybody's guess how many of which were in this crowd.

Once Fornax's eyes adjusted to the darkness, however, he spied Captain Michael sitting far across the room looking as if he had just lost his last friend in the whole world. Indeed, it seemed as if the Captain were in a trance, a trance so deep he didn't notice Fornax waving to him from across the room.

With the number of bar stools at a premium, and with Fornax himself reeling from the dizzying first effects of the potent drink, he was reluctant to give up his seat, at least for awhile. When, an instant later, a festively-clad Jaffnian nymph came up to him from behind and began rubbing her lithe body against his, Fornax forgot about the Captain altogether.

The temptress was real, no holo-image at all, and she laced her arms about his waist, baiting him with her wares, and probing him with her powerful hands. Fornax never saw her face, but her firm breasts left an indentation in his back, her perfume an indelible imprint on his brain.

Before he could turn in his place and begin taking advantage of his good fortune, a fracas broke out at the opposite end of the bar.

Instinctively, the muscles in his abdomen tightened. His eyes narrowed. A sixth sense told him that something was amiss, that the woman was a contrivance to distract him, that the fisticuffs were a cover for something much more sinister!

His survival reflex suddenly triggered, Fornax broke free of the woman's arms. Though the femme fatale tried to hold him back, he fought his way through the mob in the direction of Captain Michael's table. Every step of the way, though, he found his progress hampered by the thickness of the horde.

The scuffle soon became a fight, and the fight, a free-for-all which rapidly engulfed the entire tavern in a blizzard of flying bottles, crashing chairs, and pommeling fists. Even so, Fornax kept his eyes fixed on the Captain. Though he was nervously staring about with a wild look of terror in his eyes, Captain Michael remained obediently seated. It was as if he were expecting someone — anyone — to help rescue him from the midst of this mayhem.

Fornax had approached to within perhaps eight meters of where the Captain was seated when he saw it — the glint of an upraised blade! Though the knife appeared to have come out of nowhere, this was definitely no holo-image!

Fornax shouted a warning to his friend, but the place was so loud, the sound of his voice was lost in the din. There was nothing he could do to stop the assassin's attack!

In the next fraction of a second it happened. Silently approaching the seated Captain from behind, the killer grabbed Michael's head, locking it firmly into the crook of one arm. Then, as if he were thoroughly enjoying himself, the assailant snorted out a staccato laugh before moving to brutally slash the Captain's throat.

The cut to the man's neck was so deep, his head flopped to one side like a slab of meat, a blood-stained ear coming to rest on his otherwise untouched shoulder. Then, without making another sound, the killer tossed the murderous knife on the table in front of him and melted into the chaotic throng.

Fornax was horrified! It had all happened so fast, he never even saw the thug's face, nor how he was dressed. All he saw now was blood — lots and lots of blood! And all he smelled was perfume, the same unusual perfume he had smelled before, the perfume worn by the wench who had been working her magic on him only seconds earlier!

Fornax spun to face her, but she too had vanished into the crowd without a trace!

Fornax was sick. A good man now lay dead and he was at least partially to blame. Like Vishnu before him, the Captain had died right before his very eyes, and he had been powerless to prevent either man's death. How close did he have to be to make a difference?

Positive he would be ill, Fornax stared in disbelief at the drunken faces around him. No one in the pub seemed to care. To them, Michael's murder was unremarkable. In this neighborhood, at this time of day, people were murdered all the time; stabbings and killings were a nightly event. One more or one less, what did it matter?

As Fornax stood there, his stomach doing somersaults, he realized that the BeHolden Day festivities would carry on with scant notice being given to the corpse — or to the widening pool of blood collecting on the creaky wooden floor. Eventually the Jaffna police would be summoned, of course, but it would be more of a courtesy call than anything; the police wouldn't take the time to investigate the death of a lowly DUMPSTER, and certainly not in a place as notorious as the Corkscrew. The authorities would tag the assassination as an "accidental homicide," and it would soon be forgotten.

Smothering the urge to scream, Fornax covered his mouth with his hand and marched stiffly from the saloon. By now he was in a panic. Could there be any doubt that he would be the next to die?

Looking both ways, he stumbled out into the middle of the moonlit street. Though his feet were like clay, his instincts told him to run. He was just about to when, all of a sudden, from out of the darkness, a hand clamped down upon his shoulder.

Figuring this was it, Fornax acted to defend himself. Summoning every last ounce of courage, he grabbed for the man's wrist with one hand, even as he fumbled for his blade with the other. Clamping down hard, Fornax spun to confront his attacker.

He was jolted by the face that stared back at him. It was Lester!

"They killed Michael!" Fornax panted, his face ashen, his body shaking like a leaf. "They slit his throat not three steps from where I stood!"

"There was no other way — it simply had to be done," Lester calmly replied, trying to quiet his jittery friend. "He was working undercover for the British. You and I are working for the Chinese."

Fornax didn't know what to say. He didn't know whether to hug Lester or gouge his eyes out with his blade.

"We need to get outta here before the coppers arrive," Lester said with some urgency. "BC's waiting for us; plus you have an appointment to keep in Hong Kong."

Too numb to argue, Fornax blindly followed Lester towards the tube-station. He had no idea what trouble lay ahead.