Memphis

The main thing that sets Memphis apart from other clubs however is that it plays only music by dead rock stars.  Any time that a well-known rock singer dies is no-cover night at Memphis, and yearly bashes are thrown on the anniversary of the deaths of Jimmi Hendrix, Buddy Holly, John Lennon, and Elvis Prestley.

Memphis' sound system is prodigious, looking like something that is normally found at a Metallica concert, and the decor is a cross between that of a normal dance bar (pictures and memorabilia of rock stars, chrome, flashing lights, etc.) and the decorations for the Dia de los Muertos.  Waitresses (all gorgeous) and bouncers (all handsome and muscled like slabs of beefcake) all dress in understated black garb - dark without being goth.  Many of the booths are named, and decorated with memorabilia of the appropriate rock star -- one can, for instance, sit in the Jim Morrison booth, the Chubby Checker booth, the Janice Joplin booth, the Richie Valens booth, the Kurt Cobaihn booth, etc.  The more famous the rock star, the higher the prestige of the booth and the more difficult it is to get a seat.  Those who aren't anyone have to settle for the unamed booths, marking them as "little people."¹

It's possible to get food at Memphis, but there's no menu.  One order what one wants, and if it isn't in stock someone goes out and gets the materials and makes it.  Waiting time for a meal therefore ranges from a few minutes to several hours - and one pays by the hour.  Smart customers who want something special will call 24 hours in advance.  Food is sometimes more expensive than it should be - if the kitchen runs out of buns, the price of hamburgers goes up.  But if one need to ask how much a given dish costs, one shouldn't be ordering at Memphis anyway.
 

Regrouping

He looks around for his companions of infortune, taking in the sights.  "Yeah, yeah," he murmurs, apparently to no one, "I get it: Memphis, Egyptian city of the dead Kings, not Memphis, Tennessee."  He looks around to snag a table, no matter how lowly, from which he watches for the arrival of his companions of infortune: Kitty, Charlie, Nigel, Sam, Marda.  He greets his fellow travelers with genuine concern and relief when he sees they are relatively all right.  Then he starts repeating for them the gist of his reflexions:

"I never intended to stay this long at the Terminal.  I need to pick up some paperwork from Customs and Immigration to apply for a work visa.  Perhaps some of you will also need to visit C&I again?...  Getting the various permits so I can start looking for a job is now my priority, as I'm rapidly running out of money.  Anyone wants to come along?"

When Nigel shows up, he adds: "Sir, thank you warmly for your spectacular help with the thugs in the bar.  If it wasn't for you, several of us, including me, might have been far worse off.  By the way, I don't know if this has been mentioned to you, but it seems Al Amarja requires psychics to register with the Center for Paranormal Control; you may fall within that category.  I have to get more info about the Center, so I'll be happy to give you copies of the material if you're interested..."

Charlie has a terrible time figuring out what, and where Memphis is; but he makes the meeting.  "I'm 'fraid you'll have to count me out.  I'm here strictly as a tourist, so Immigration isn't terribly interested in me."

He scans about the room; as his eyes find Kitty, his face breaks into a great smile.  He gathers a pair of double whiskeys from the bar and approaches her table, offering one and saying, "I don't suppose a display of machismo would pay off, after you saved m'chestnuts back there.  But I have to say, it's been a long while since I saw a woman of your charm handle herself so well in a brawl!"  With an admiring glance, he adds, "You don't talk Irish; but you do look and act the part!"

He means this as a compliment, and would be confused if Kitty was offended.  In Charlie's mind, Irish is the highest praise.  And it's a good thing he didn't overhear that "Paranormal Control" business, as he believes it's all hocus-pocus...

Kitty pipes up.  "I also have to talk to C&I again if I want to explore this island with money in my pocket.  I would check with the Control Center," she shivers slightly, "anyways.  Who knows what strange laws they have in this place...  Like the situation at the bar, in my hometown you would be thrown in the hole just for being at the area of the fight."

Taking the double wiskey from Charlie with a smile, quietly running it under her nose for aroma factors, she adds with a smile, "Being polite to a lady never done anyone bad."  She takes a sip.  "If you plan on staying here for a while, even as a tourist, the Terminal Hotel is expensive and, well, the hotels in the barrios are still roughly near $50 a night."

"Mary-n-Joseph!" exclaims the writer.  "I don't suppose we'll be stayin' there long...  but what's the alternative?  I don't fancy sleepin' on a bench, regardless the nice weather."  Sip.  "What brings ye here, anyhow?"

"I've never been to any other place other than around the United States and I was offered a trip, so I took it," replies Kitty, politely trying to avoid the question.  Taking another swig of her drink, she glances around the table.

A writer knows an evasive answer when he hears it.  She could have been sent by the CIA or she could have won the trip in some bloody Yank laundry soap sweepstakes.   Charlie has written enough spy novels to know not to press it.

He thinks for a minute, which means that he drinks, and then offers a hand to Leo.  "Charlie Kennedy.  We didn't have time for introductions, what with exploding wogs and little Hitlers leaping about and the like..."  He has to shout to be heard over the music.  The nightclub is so loud that all are afraid that they might expectorate their lungs at any moment.

The group has gotten one of the "no name" booths in the back (thus marking themselves as little people - which is likely a good idea).  The music is loud enough to sterilize frogs at 200 yards, and the dance floor is packed tight with gyrating bodies.  Its difficult to tell in the dark, but several members of the group think they might catch a glimpse of faces they recognize from newspapers or television.  Thus far, a waitress has appeared and brought drinks, but other than that the group is ignored completely.

"Work visa?" Sam repeats from Leo's earlier words, shouting over the deafening music. "How long can you work in Al Amarja without one? I may have to get one of those."

Charlie asks, shouting, "Visa?  I thought you needed American Express!"

Kitty finally cracking a smile and laughing, shouting over the music.  "Have any of you actually looked for work yet?  Or know where you are going?  If you want to work security, I have a couple names to give you later."

Leo makes a face, then draws a deep breath before attempting to shout loud enough to be understood by his companions.

"I called around," he comments, "to find out about the work visa requirements.  It took me a couple of hours of wait on the phone -- about the same as trying to get in touch with the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service.  It turns out that it's possible to get a work visa on Al Amarja, but in order to do so you must visit the offices of the Al Amarja department of Immigration, located in Freedom City.

"The office is open from 10:00 am until 2:00 pm with a two-hour lunch  break between 11:00 and 1:00.  An appointment is required.  In order to make an appointment you must actually go to the Department of Immigration and speak with the appointment officer.  So you need at least two trips to Freedom City in order to get a work permit.  Working without a permit is illegal, and violators are subject to icky, icky pain."

He smiles wryly and takes a long swig of his drink, already a bit hoarse from that long speech.  "Now, I don't know about Al Amarja," he continues, "but in some other countries (and I've worked in many), you often get very different answers depending on which bureaucrat you talk to.  I still plan on checking with the C&I office in person, if I can fight my way through the crowd.  I wouldn't mind some company on the trip since this place is a madhouse.

"In any case, I won't have a choice but to stay for a while, and so I must earn a living -- I don't have enough money to stay here as a tourist.  Kitty, Sam and Marda have already heard my reason to be here, but for Nigel and Charlie's benefit, I should explain that I'm here looking for a missing friend, and I'm very worried about her.  I can't just go back home without finding Serena, or at least knowing what happened to her.  So in the morning I'll swing by the hospital first to visit Bruce, then I'll head for C&I.  After that...  I may try some, uh, not so legal employment, but not until we can wiggle out of the Terminal and into The Edge proper."

Charlie, hollering: "What's a hedge popper?"

Kitty, hollering back: "Maybe this place wasn't a good place after all.  We could have always gone back to...  Anyways, after C&I, who is heading over to the Control Center?  After that I should be heading over to a dojo."

Charlie makes a wry face.  "Holy Mother of God, Flannery O'Connor meets Steven Segal!"

Kitty sniffs.  "No offense to anyone who likes him, but Steven Segal is old and slow!"  Taking her last slip of liquor and smiling at the glass, she adds, "To find work that is...  Security places want background checks and, well, I don't even want to be a house hand."
 

The Dance Floor

"Wanna try the dance floor?" he bellows to Kitty, gesturing in the direction of a tightly packed but lively area.  The DJ is playing 'Blue Suede Shoes', doubly appropriate as both Carl Perkins and Elvis Presley are pining for the fjords.  It's so loud one can feel one's bones vibrating, along with the floor and the furniture.  Leo grins and offers his hand to Kitty as he stands up.

Kitty looks at the napkin, scribbles on it with the pen left on the table "I'll be there, who else?" and then takes Leo's hand, leaning over to say something to him and follows him to the dance floor, doing her absolute best to dance in the era of the deceased musician.  As she follows Leo to the dance floor, she descretely wispers to him,
"Leo, do you know anyone here? Just nod yes or no, hon."

Leo looks around, then shakes his head.

Kitty and Leo step, or rather wade, out into the tightly packed mass of people on the dance floor.  The music is loud enough to begin resynchronizing their heartbeats to 4:4 time, and the heat of the gyrating bodies is palpable.

Any average human being would rapidly be stomped, mashed, elbowed, and crushed into a lifeless mass of jelly (well, not really, but they would be bounced around) but as both Kitty and Leo are above average in the manual dexterity and reflexes department they manage to stake out a piece of the floor and hold onto it.  Through the tightly packed dancers they catch occasional glimpses of their fellow travellers, who seem to be talking to a fat man in a white outfit.

As they half-dance, half-dodge about the dance floor, the two come suddenly upon an island of open space in the midst of the tightly pressed mass.  This open space is demarked and enforced by unsmiling men wearing sunglasses and dark suits.  Dancers have apparently learned to avoid these individuals, since they don't actually have to swing the rather large cudgels that they are carrying.  In the  middle of this ring of a dozen thugs is an older looking gentleman dressed very nicely in a tailored suit of european cut.  He is quite sweaty and is obviously overweight.  He is enthusiasticly dancing with a girl of around 12 years, who is dressed WAY more provocatively than a girl of 12 years should be dressed.  The girl does not seem to be enjoying herself as mch as the man is.

Something about the man's face strikes a note in Kitty's and Leo's mind.  They've seen him before somewhere.  Maybe on TV?

Leo gives an inquisitive glance to Kitty and cocks his head, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the fat dancing man, his underage partner, and their circle of Men In Black.  He mouths: "Know them?", articulating exaggerately.  As he does so, he moves a little bit closer to the strange circle to observe better, though not enough to attract any trouble from the MIBs, or to lose Kitty on the packed dance floor.

On the dance floor "Blue Suede Shoes" hits the bridge.  The fat guy continues to dance with the youngster, who continues to look rather forlorn.  The reason for this becomes apparent when the fat guy bends over and gives her a kiss, full on the mouth.  Not the sort of a kiss one usually gets from a parent.

The girl reacts predictably, by squidging up her face and making "ick" noises.  This apparantly isn't the hoped for response, since the man scowls and slaps her, saying something in a harsh, slavic dialect.  The slap isn't particularly hard (since the fat guy isn't particularly strong) but it does leave a big dent in the girl's makeup.  She puts one hand to her cheek and sniffles a bit, but the man is already dancing again, forcing her to move to the music.

Leo's good mood is fast evaporating.  He gives a scowling look to Kitty.  Yes, he remembers what happened the last time they got into a bar fight.  Yes, Al Amarjan law is probably very surprising on the topic of "age of consent" -- he's starting to realise just how different the island is from the rest of the world.

He bends down to say in Kitty's ear: "Should we follow when they leave?"  Competing with the sound level without yelling for the MIBs' benefit as well is nearly impossible.  Annoyed, Leo pulls his pen out of his pocket and scribbles on his hand instead.  After showing the question to Kitty, he licks his hand clean, looking much like an elongated cat, and rubs the message out.

Kitty looks at the man and then the child with a angried look.  She reads what is on Leo's hand, reluctently nods yes and points a finger at Leo as if to say, "What about you?"

Leo glances at the unhappy couple, then at the professional goons, then back at Kitty.  Still dancing (the music is good, after all), he mouths "Distraction," and winks at Kitty -- keeping his face turned away from the goons, of course.  Holding on to their little area of dance floor firmly, he keeps an eye on the little group though now he tries to stay a little further off to avoid getting in trouble with the bodyguards.

Every once in a while, he remembers to glance in the direction of their companions (Sam, Marda, Charlie and Nigel), to see what they are doing.  He notices that Charlie seems to have disappeared.
 

The King?

The individual reveries are interrupted, however, when a man steps up to the booth.  He is round like a Buddha, with black hair now greying around the temples.  He is wearing a white outfit that looks like it contains enough material to make a sail for a small catamaran with.  His voice,when he speaks, is melodious, and carries a noticable southern American accent.

"G'd evenin', n' welcome ta Memphis.  Ah you enjoyin' your stay?"

He's wearing blue suede shoes.

Charlie gives a nod to the Elvis impersonator, pays his tab, and rises to leave.   He is tired, looking forward to an early bed.

To Be Continued...