Kalifornia by Marc Laidlaw

butler. The tuxedoed figure stood stiffly in a corner of the
ballroom, bearing a covered hors d’oeuvre tray. His face was a purplish mass of
wrinkles and soft pouches, perpetually dribbling on the silver dome that
provided essential protection for the canapes. The teegee watched Sandy through clusters of bright blue and red carbuncles, something like a scallop’s eyes.
Thaxter had been toying with aquatic designs, but not wanting to impinge on
patent rights, he had settled on something less mammalian than the sealman. Sandy wasn’t sure where the original genes could have come from. Cornelius seemed
peculiarly disturbed.
    “Excuse us,” Sandy said. “Is Thaxter at home?”
    The butler’s mouth proved an unwelcome sight. Instead of teeth, it
featured a fused beak and a parrot’s livid tongue. And instead of English, what
it emitted was a series of cackles and sputters, accompanied by some distinctly
rancid brine.
    “I’d like to see him if he is.”
    “Krrrawww,” the butler said, inclining
his head with the air of someone being as helpful as he could be under the
circumstances.
    “Could you maybe point out someone who might know?”
    “Krrrawww.”
    “Tan, dude. Thanks.”
    They wandered the upper halls, listening at doors until Sandy heard the distinct singsong of Halfjest’s voice, forever proposing solutions to
problems no one else had noticed. Sandy knocked softly and leaned in.
    A teegee guard with a face worse than the butler’s tried to slam
the door on Sandy, but the commotion caught the attention of Thaxter Halfjest,
embroiled in argument with a small group at the far end of an opulent chamber.
Halfjest beckoned to Sandy and the purple guard opened the door the rest of
the way. He was part seacow, Sandy realized. A slug with a spine.
    “Sandy, my boy!” cried Thaxter with his arms spread wide, ever the
showman. Cornelius folded his arms and remained near the door, just within
earshot. “I’m sure you remember Mario Vespucci.”
    Sandy nearly tripped on the end of an impossibly long
trailing robe of red velvet edged with sable. Its source was an enormous man
with a beaked nose nearly as bright as his vestments. The Pope of Las Vegas.
    “Santiago, great to see you,” said the pope. “How long’s it been,
eh? Five years? Ten?”
    Sandy remembered to bow and kiss the proffered
diamond ring. As he did, he was able to read the inscription around the band:
CLASS OF ’00.
    “Your Holiness,” he said. “I believe it was the ‘Figueroa Family
Christmas Spectacular.’ ”
    “Ah, yes. I floated in to bestow a special gift-tax dispensation.”
He nudged Sandy discreetly, lowering his voice as if to keep secrets from his
entourage. “Now I’m traveling incognito. That tightwad Scot in the White House
wants to tax all electronic memos that pass between the states. Can you believe
that? Taxing the business of politics! Bloody McBeth!”
    “Mario,” Halfjest pleaded, “calm yourself down. Find your alpha!
It’s not good for the cardiovascular system to get so excited.”
    “Mine’s solid plastic,” the pope said, thumping his chest.
    Sandy wondered how anyone could hide the Pope of Las
Vegas, especially in Halfjest’s society hothouse. “It’s not much of a disguise,
Your Holiness,” he pointed out.
    “I suppose not, but it doesn’t have to be.” Vespucci pointed at
the ceiling. “Like a god, I drop from the sky. Like Superman, I leap home again
in a single bound.” He winked. “No one’s the wiser. You’re out of the redwoods,
I hear.”
    Sandy shook his head. “Haven’t gotten high in weeks.”
    “Did I ask for a confession?” He threw up his fatty hands. “It’s
the curse of my profession. Everybody wants to spill his guts!”
    Sandy shrugged. “Sorry.”
    The pope leaned closer. “You’re not by any chance a sender these
days, are you? If you are, I’ll have to ask you to edit this meeting out of
your life.”
    “I’m strictly RO. But what about Thaxter?”
    The