Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said Read Online Free PDF Page B

addition to my show. In fact, I appear at a number of first-class clubs, when I can squeeze them into my tight schedule.”
    “Gee,” Kathy said. “I wish I had heard of you; then I could be impressed.”
    He laughed.
    “Did I say something stupid?” Kathy asked timidly.
    “No,” Jason said. “Kathy, how old are you?”
    “I’m nineteen. My birthday is in December, so I’m almost twenty. How old did you think I am by looking at me?”
    “About sixteen,” he said.
    Her mouth turned down in a childlike pout. “That’s what everybody says,” she said in a low voice. “It’s because I don’t have any bosom. If I had a bosom I’d look twenty-one. How old are you?” She stopped fiddling with her type and eyed him intently. “I’d guess about fifty.”
    Fury flowed through him. And misery.
    “You look like your feelings are hurt,” Kathy said.
    “I’m forty-two,” Jason said tightly.
    “Well, what’s the difference? I mean, they’re both—”
    “Let’s get down to business,” Jason broke in. “Give me a pen and paper and I’ll write down what I want and what I want each card to say about me. I want this done exactly right. You better be good.”
    “I made you mad,” Kathy said. “By saying you look fifty. I guess on closer examination you really don’t. You look about thirty.” She handed him pen and paper, smiling shyly. And apologetically.
    Jason said, “Forget it.” He patted her on the back.
    “I’d rather people didn’t touch me,” Kathy said; she slid away.
    Like a fawn in the woods, he thought. Strange; she’s afraid to be touched even a little and yet she’s not afraid to forge documents, a felony that could get her twenty years in prison. Maybe nobody bothered to tell her it’s against the law. Maybe she doesn’t know.
    Something bright and colorful on the far wall caught his attention; he walked over to inspect it. A medieval illuminated manuscript, he realized. Or rather, a page from it. He had read about them but up until now he had never set eyes on one.
    “Is this valuable?” he asked.
    “If it was the real thing it might be worth a hundred dollars,” Kathy said. “But it’s not; I made it years ago, when I was in junior high school at North American Aviation. I copied it, the original, ten times before I had it right. I love good calligraphy; even when I was a kid I did. Maybe it’s because my father designed book covers; you know, the dust jackets.”
    He said, “Would this fool a museum?”
    For a moment Kathy gazed intently at him. And then she nodded yes.
    “Wouldn’t they know by the paper?”
    “It’s parchment and it’s from that period. That’s the same way you fake old stamps; you get an old stamp that’s worthless, eradicate the imprint, then—” She paused. “You’re anxious for me to get to work on your ID,” she said.
    “Yes,” Jason said. He handed her the piece of paper on which he had written the information. Most of it called for pol-nat standard postcurfew tags, with thumbprints and photographs and holographic signatures, and everything with short expiration dates. He’d have to get a whole new set forged within three months.
    “Two thousand dollars,” Kathy said, studying the list.
    He felt like saying, For that do I get to go to bed with you, too? But aloud he said, “How long will it take? Hours? Days? And if it’s days, where am I—”
    “Hours,” Kathy said.
    He experienced a vast wave of relief.
    “Sit down and keep me company,” Kathy said, pointing to a three-legged stool pushed off to one side. “You can tell me about your career as a successful TV personality. It must be fascinating, all the bodies you have to walk over to get to the top. Or did you get to the top?”
    “Yes,” he said shortly. “But there’s no bodies. That’s a myth. You make it on talent and talent alone, not what you do or say to other people either above or below you. And it’s work; you don’t breeze in and do a soft-shoe