A Talent For The Invisible (v1.1) by Ron Goulart

where he guessed Conger’s groin to be.
    The estimate was off, but the pointed boot connected with Conger’s stomach anyway. Conger grunted out air, doubling. He got himself straight and moving after a few seconds.
    The Chinese ran, swinging out to topple the flamenco android into Conger’s probable path.
    Conger swerved. Not soon enough to keep the falling machine from tripping him. He fell on top of it, banging his chin on the sharp metal strings of the guitar.
    Angelica let the Chinese run on by her. She then came over to help Conger untangle himself.
    The US ambassador and the green duchess were still trucking inside, joined by many others.
    The noise of that plus the music of the robot orchestra had kept the sound of Conger’s struggle from attracting attention. No one came out onto their balcony. “Those China II agents aren’t men of their word,” said Angelica, dusting at Conger’s clothes.
    “You don’t have to do that. Nobody can see me except you.”
    “Well, I don’t like looking at grimy spies.”
    “Was that guy Big Mac’s partner?”
    “Yes, his name is Jerry Ting,” replied Angelica. “I assumed we had a truce for tonight. I wouldn’t have danced with them, though Big Mac is a pretty fair ball room dancer, if I’d known they had orders to kill me tonight. Those guys never let down.”
    “How are you?”
    The pretty girl raised her eyebrows. “Me? Oh, I’m in excellent shape,” she said. “Thanks, by the way, for rescuing me.”
    “I figure I can co-operate with NSO that much.”
     
    Angelica reached out, smoothing down Conger’s hair. “There. Are you here anticipating Machado?”
    “I was.”
    “You’ve already heard then that he’s not going to show.”
    “Yeah, I was hunting for you to tell you about it.”
    “That was very thoughtful,” said Angelica. “Though I’m sure it won’t endear you to your home office. Want to escort me home to my hotel?”
    Conger watched her. The night wind came drifting across the unprotected terrace and gently flicked at her hair. “Okay,” he told her.
    The Gypsy violinist said, “Hey, cut that out.”
    Conger stepped back from him, frowning. “Don’t you have a turn off switch?”
    “Well, certainly not,” the middle-sized violinist replied, lowering his fiddle and adjusting his crimson head scarf. “I’m a living breathing human being, not a robot.”
    “You play like a robot.” Conger returned to the green plyo hammocksofa he’d been sitting in when the Gypsy fiddler entered Angelica’s hotel suite and commenced an air.
    “Boy, are you a grouch,” said the middle-sized man. “Miss Abril ordered the Intimate Dinner For 2, you know. Which includes two Gypsy musicians.”
    “Where’s the other one?”
    “I thought, you big sourpuss, you didn’t want any Gypsies.”
    “I don’t,” replied Conger. “I’m just making small talk before I throw you out.”
    “I’m glad Muscha came down with the Etruscan flu and didn’t come along with his tambourine,” said the Gypsy, working his way across the living room toward the exit door. “Oh, before I go, do you want me to punch up the candles?”
    “Candles?”
    “Yes, grumpy, you get two authentic romantic real tallow candles to go on the table when you order the Intimate Dinner For 2. They come out of a slot in the dining room,” explained the slowly retreating man. “I’m supposed to punch the candle button after I do my Romany medley.”
    “I’ll take care of the candles.”
    The Gypsy shook his head and his golden earrings tingled. “Well, I’ll get back to the soccer match I was watching.” He let himself out.
    Conger rocked gently in the hammock sofa, watching the black Rio night and then the door of Angelica’s bedroom.
    After a few moments more the lovely dark girl reappeared, wearing a fresh short-skirted evening dress. “Jerry Ting tore a couple holes in my other dress trying to assassinate me,” she said.
    “Who were you talking to?”
    “A