Fitzgerald began with Alva Edison, who agreed to meet with Fitzgerald only if it were in a public place. Edison showed up at the appointed time, in one of the Hotel's empty ballrooms.
"Yes, Mr. Fitzgerald, I don't happen to have specifically a ghost-catching device," said Edison, a round-faced man with a shock of white hair, who looked a bit like Spencer Tracy. "I do have this, however." Edison lifted a large device to the tabletop. "It's called a 'Faraday cage.' It was designed to contain ectoplasmic energy."
"I don't even know if I'm dealing with 'ectoplasm,' or with a body, or exactly what," Fitzgerald said. "But it's a good place to start. How much--"
WHAMMMM! Through the doors of the ballroom, knocking them off their hinges, came a tall, bulky cyborg with a hammer-and-sickle logo etched into one shoulder. "How are you gentlemen?" said the cyborg. "HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
"It's Yarm Volkov!" Edison cried. "Finally found me!" The cyborg fired off a missile in Edison's direction. Edison grabbed his prototypes and dived through the nearest plate-glass window into the Hotel's grounds, with the Cyborg in hot pursuit. So much for Fitzgerald's first attempt.
The next day, Fitzgerald showed up at the door of the "Holy Retribution League." Actually this was a misnomer. The "Holy Retribution League" turned out to be a one guy, in jeans and a t-shirt, occupying a bunk upstairs in the Author Dormitory. "Hey, where are you going?" the guy called, throwing down his copy of "Watchman." "I can sell you some Holy Water! Garlic! How about a piece of the True Cross?" Fitzgerald was already in the elevator.
The next day turned out a little better. Someone named "Detective Howitzer" refused to sell Fitzgerald any guns, but he did give Fitzgerald a couple of new leads, both of whom Fitzgerald agreed to see the next day. . . .
Finally, Fitzgerald was able to get an appointment with Ernesto "Che" Guevara. Guevara was sitting in a chaise longue overlooking the swimming pool. He was dressed in Army fatugues and a maroon beret, and was smoking a Cuban cigar. "Yes, senor I will sell you many AK-47's, if you are a friend of the oppressed peoples of the world, trying to escape their shackles. I have done the same in Coo-ba and een South Ameeer-ica!"
"I only need one machine gun," said Fitzgerald, handing the man his money. Guevara handed over the sub-machinegun and several clips of ammunition.
"Stick aroun', amigo, there is going to be a fashion show! Many girls with beeg titties, dressed in nightgowns!" Guevara grinned and re-lit his cigar.
"Another time, perhaps," said Fitzgerald. "I, er, have a second appointment. . . ."
Fitzgerald's second appointment was in the Concourse garage, with someone known only as the Sharpshooter.
"Where's the money?" the man said from behnd a concrete pillar. "If you were followed, I'll cut your throat."
"Here," said Fitzgerald, handing over a stack of bills. The Sharpshooter handed Fitzgerald a heavy pistol. "This is a .454 Casull. It only holds five rounds." "See for yourself." Fitzgerald opened the chamber. The gun only held five rounds because the chambers for the bullets were so large only five could fit in the cylinder. The bullets were almost as big around as a tube of lipstick. Sharpshooter handed Fitzgerald fifteen runds of .454 ammunition. "It packs quite a kick, this gun," said Sharpshooter. "Try not to let it break your wrist. Amateur. Now you leave before I leave." Fitzgerald walked back to the elevators. When he turned, the Sharpshooter was gone. . . .
Fri Jan 17 16:38:17 2003
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F-Cup Fitzgerald