She stops at a darkened tenement and opens the paint-peeled door. I follow her up three flights to another door, which has no lock. The wood creaks open and reveals a small, one-bedroom flat, clothes strewn everywhere. She lights a candle.
“Find a seat and rest a bit,” she tells me.
I collapse onto what I presume to be a mattress, though so many dresses and nightshirts blanket the surface I cannot be sure.
She goes to the pantry and shuffles some packages. She returns with a block of pale cheese. My eyes move from the cheese to her shadowed face and back to the cheese. The kindly whore’s mercy makes me want to weep.
“Go on then,” she insists. “Have your fill.”
I take the whole block and gnaw away as if it were a cob of Indian corn, feeling each bite in my sore gums. When I finish, she hands me a cup of lukewarm tea. She offers no lumps.
“I don’t recall seeing you before,” she says. “Gentle souls don’t belong.”
I wonder what she sees in me as I explain my predicament, how I came to London with dreams of conquest, to reap the riches of city life. Things have not gone quite as planned, I add, but I feel as though my luck is about to turn. Her generosity, I tell her, is a sure sign of the upending.
I cannot explain why, exactly, but I omit any mention of my bride.
Of course, I dare not speak of my looming hunt for Old Billy.
I sip my tea and ask her to return the favor, to share the story of how she came to London.
“I’m from Cotgrave,” she says. “You know it?”
My head wags no.
“Dreadful li’l mining town. I had enough of that early on. Came here first chance I got. I ain’t regretted it yet. A roof over my head. A warm bed all my own. Bread and cheese in the cupboard. The work is steady.”
“You’re a whore.” I take another sip.
“Right good at it too. Most women of my means, they have to share a room with three, four, even five or six of their lot—that is, if they ain’t dumb enough to have shacked up with a plain thief.”
“You mentioned bread?”
She retrieves half a loaf and slips it into my hands. I happily tuck into the brittle crust.
“Do you like the work?” I ask. Far too many days have passed since I last traded stories with someone who cares, or pretends to care, which is just as good.
“You do what comes natural,” she says. “Work is work. I’ve saved a bit, hoping it leads to something better. Don’t ask me what something better looks like. Ain’t got a clue, in fact.”
The lifting light chases shadows from the room. For the first time, I see her unblemished face, free of wrinkles or any signs of wear.
“Pardon my prying, miss, but how old might you be?”
“I’ll be sixteen in a just a bit,” she says. Her eyes look up, and she mouths words I cannot quite make out. “Four more months. In four more months I’ll be sixteen.”
My heart sinks. Here I am, thirty years old and the fire in my belly reduced to embers, a wretched beggar seeking sanctuary in the flat of a fifteen-year-old tom.
Perhaps today is the day to admit defeat and return to Berwick, resume the life Father had set out for me: a fisherman who cannot fish, a waterman who fears the water. Or perhaps I can beg Alice for the money I might need to nab a place like hers: warm, dry and safe enough. For all she knows, my pockets are bare.
Bollocks. If she can make it on her own wiles, I can do the same. I will track down Old Billy yet, clobber him to death and make a fortune on his knotted head.
“I should be getting on,” I tell her. “I won’t forget your kindness.”
“Don’t be shy if you need to come back,” she says. “I know how dreary the nights can get.”
I hurry out the door, belly full for the first time in weeks. My stomach does not know quite how to handle such fortuity. An odd sensation fills me. The edges of my vision go white. I stumble down the stairs, using the walls of the second-story landing as a brace.
Minutes later my feet touch cobblestone. The sun does its best to eat away at the stubborn fog. The skeletons of London Bridge and its smaller sibling, Monument, loom in the near distance.
Soon, I tell myself. Soon I will have the life I deserve.
Chapter 19
Crude Self-portrait
Bulcavage pulls a ceramic mug to his lips and takes an audible gulp. He taps his foot impatiently.
“Enough with the suspense,” he says. “Are you going to open your goddamned mouth and say something, or should I do a few laps around the building and then track down a fresh cup of mud?”
“He’s getting to it, sir,” Herbert says. He lowers his voice and turns to Basil. “Get to it, buddy.”
Basil stands at the far end of the conference-room table, motionless, mountainous, beside an easel draped in a black sheet.
“Well?” Bulcavage says.
“Sin,” Basil says finally.
“What about it?” Bulcavage says.
“That’s the campaign.”
“Just get to it,” Herbert says, nervously.
“I will, but only because I know Herbert probably has to throw up again,” Basil says. “I’m afraid at least one of us had a little too much fun yesterday.”
Basil takes a deep breath and yanks the sheet from the easel. The sheet catches the edge of the poster board, and the whole thing topples to the ground. The wooded legs of the easel clack together, and the poster board smacks the conference-room floor, ruining the board’s upper right corner. Basil fumbles to correct the easel and places the poster board back into position, using his body to shield Herbert’s skilled etchings. A moment later, he steps to the side to reveal their creation.
The room is silent as all three stare at the cartoonish image: a cloven-hoofed demon, with a pitchfork and oversized horns, leaning against a barbecue grill with its lid lifted, heat lines rising from the rack of ribs smoldering on the slats. In the quiet space to the left of the grill, two words jump out in a bold script worthy of a logo for a caped superhero: Devil Smoke. A jagged, fiery flourish makes each word pop off the page. Beneath the logo sits a three-word phrase in an unremarkable sans serif that could use some TLC: Too Damned Good.
“Viola,” Basil says.
Herbert shakes his head and mouths a correction to his copywriter.
“Voilà,” Basil says.
“What’s this?” Bulcavage asks.
The boss looks unimpressed. Even a little annoyed.
“A rebranding,” Basil says. “What do the words ‘Hooke Patio Cookers’ say about anything? What does ‘Model Number X-Three-Five’ communicate to anyone who might consider buying it? Nothing. It says nothing. It says shit, in fact. Less than shit, really. Why would anyone remember it? Why would anyone care? Now this?” He points to the caricature of himself, more or less. “This says something.”
“I told you to write up an ad, not tear everything down and start over.”
“I know, sir, but this is better.”
“How is defiance better than giving me what I asked for?”
“Hooke’s old identify was pointless. Stale. Useless. It said nothing about what they were trying to sell—and what we, as their marketing arm, were failing to help them sell. What is delicately smoked meat, after all, but an indulgence in a conquered land where man has earned the power to say, ‘I will run no more!’ Man has tamed the world around him, and he should enjoy the fruits of his conquests. The war against nature has ended, and man has secured the right to call himself a god. He should enjoy the privilege of taking the time to cook a dead animal on his patio if he so chooses, because there’s nothing left to come and take it from him.”
“You do know Marvin Hooke is a devout Christian, right?” Bulcavage says. “His wife is a goddamned pastor, for chrissakes.”
“Christians will love this more than anyone,” Basil assures. “Imagine the appliances section of every department store, or wherever else people buy grills and smokers, each one with a big, red
inflatable of this mischievous fella”—again, he points to the caricature—“practically daring them to buy something that looks just a little wrong but also a heck of a lot of fun.”
“It’s the fucking devil.”
“It’s not really the devil,” Basil says. “It’s a cartoonish interpretation of the devil. Now if we changed the name to … I don’t know—Satan’s Meat Smokers, let’s say—now that could pose a problem. I’ll grant you that. Call this an interpretation. Call it folksy.”
“It’s you.”
“No, sir. I am not the devil. And my skin is black, not blood red.”
“It sure looks like you.”
Herbert interjects.
“Sir, what I think Basil is trying to say—”
“I don’t want to hear it, Herb.”
Basil’s shoulders drop.
“It’s brilliant,” Bulcavage says. “Fucking brilliant.”
* * *
Basil slows his heartbeat, his trembling knuckles poised inches from the inch-thick frosted glass of the door bearing Melody’s name.
“Are you coming in or not?” It’s Melody, from the other side of the door.
Shit.
He steps inside and sees Melody standing at the reception desk, rifling through piles of loose paper.
“What do you want?” she demands.
“I was just—”
Shit. He should have rehearsed.
“You were just what?”
“Where’s your secretary?”
“Audrey saw it in her infinite wisdom to have a migraine today—and a slight case of food poisoning. ‘A slight case,’ she said in her message. How can you have a slight case of food poisoning, and how the fuck do you know it’s a slight case?”
“She’s lying.”
“Of course she’s lying. Am I an idiot? Are you?”
“Sorry to hear about your troubles,” he says. A brown rectangular placard on the secretary’s desk reads: AUDREY PERNIE, GATEKEEPER. Two makeshift signs—sheets of bleached-white paper with printed type, bold and imperfectly centered—read: “Do I Look Impressed?” and “Go Ahead and Ask. I Dare You.”
“She must be important,” he says.
“Audrey? She’s feckless, but she takes care of the paperwork, which I abhor. Normally I wouldn’t care if she weren’t here. It’s just that today was a … never mind. Are you here to pile on?”
He sighs sharply and reminds himself he has nothing to lose. Nothing, that is, but abject failure and the indignity he will never live down.
“Would you like to have dinner tonight?”
“With you?”
“Well … yes.”
She takes two deep, drawn-out breaths. Her tight smile grows wider and wider, and she laughs until she is practically in tears. He has never seen her look happier.
“Christ. Why the hell not? I can’t imagine today getting much worse, so if there ever was a day to break bread with the Prince of Darkness, this would be it.”
“I’m not the Prince of Dark—”
“Do you have someplace particular in mind?”
“Wherever you like. I could pick you up at sev—”
“Let’s say Carlo’s, right at the corner of Second and Barberry. I’ll meet you there.”
She turns and disappears into another room. The door eases shut.
Only then does he realize they didn’t confirm a time, but he’s not about to follow her around the corner and ask.
* * *
Basil raps lightly on the door to Bulcavage’s office.
“A minute, boss?”
Bulcavage waves Basil in and directs him to have a seat.
“Listen,” Basil begins, “I’ve been meaning to mention it, but it hasn’t really mattered until now.”
“Is it Karen? Is she trying to put the screws to you again?”
“No, sir. Karen’s fine, though I do wish she would stop hissing at me every time she passes my desk. Still, at least she notices. I prefer scorn to snubbing. It’s just …”
“Just say it, my boy.”
“I appreciate you giving me a place to live—I honestly do—but I thought you should know that I have yet to receive a dime for my work.”
Bulcavage feigns surprise.
“Must be a problem with payroll,” he insists. “I’ll sort it out in the morning.”
“Mighty kind of you to look into it, sir, but I need money tonight.”
“Hot date?”
“Melody and I will be dining out.”
Bulcavage leans back into the cushion of his oversized chair and clasps his hands behind his head. Darkened spots color the fabric beneath Bulcavage’s armpits.
“Mano a mano with the Ice Queen, eh?”
“Pardon?”
“Nasty old bitch. I bet her nipples could cut glass, not that I’ve ever had the pleasure.”
Basil has no idea what he means.
“She wasn’t always such a cold fish, so maybe you can warm her up—bring her back from the tundra, as it were,” Bulcavage continues. “Where are you two lovebirds going?”
“Carlo’s? I think that’s what she said. I don’t know the place.”
“Just tell those oily wops you’re a friend of mine. Better yet, I’ll call ahead and let them know you’re coming. It’ll be on the house.”
“I’d rather pay with my own money, sir. Money you owe me.”
“Sure, sure. I understand. I’m glad you said something.”
Bulcavage bends at the waist and unlocks the bottom drawer of his desk. He retrieves a dinged metal lockbox and fishes in his front pocket for the key.
“How much you need?”
“I don’t know. How much do I need?”
Bulcavage pulls a stack of bills from the belly of the lockbox and counts out five hundred dollars in twenties and fifties. He places the cash on the desk in front of Basil.
“Need anything else, Romeo?”
“Such as?”
“Party favors. Blow, pills, something to get her in the mood—even if she’s not in the mood, if you catch my drift.”
Bulcavage dangles a plastic bag dotted with small white pills, each one bisected by a thick slash. He opens the bag and plucks out half a dozen pills. Each shock-white orb pops against the mottled pink of his meaty palm.
“One or two of these and a glass of red, she’ll be yours for the taking.”
Basil dabs each pill with the talon of his index finger, counting one by one.
“The money is all I require,” he says. He pushes Bulcavage’s hand away, and the pills drop onto the glass-covered desk. Each pill shoots off in a different direction—one skittering onto the floor, another spinning to a stop at the base of a paperweight—as if trying to escape.
“Right,” Bulcavage says. “You got it all figured out. Now what are you going to carry your cash in, numb nuts?”
Chapter 20
The Big Night
It’s a few minutes shy of seven o’clock when Basil opens the door to Carlo’s. He passes through a black wrought-iron gate and approaches the host at reception: a rail of a man with a pocket of dark, sagging skin beneath each eye.
“Table for two,” Basil says. “Away from the kitchen, if you—”
“She’s already seated,” the host says in a crater-deep voice that belies his insignificant frame. The man’s nametag reads Paolo. “We do have a dress code in the dining room, sir.”
Basil looks down to consider his nakedness.
“Might you have a blazer my size?”
“Not likely, sir,” Paolo says. “A moment.” He turns and whispers into the ear of a dark-skinned teenager in a crisp white shirt, the makings of a mustache riding his upper lip. The teenager disappears and returns a moment later with a redand-white checkered tablecloth, folded neatly. Paolo takes the tablecloth and unfurls it with a firm snap. He then hands it to Basil. “Don this table drape if you please, sir.”
After the briefest hesitation, Basil accepts the tablecloth-cum-blazer. H
e holds it to his nose, smelling dust and fryer grease. He sighs and wraps the tablecloth around his back, as if it were a shawl.
“Perfect fit,” Paolo says. “You can follow me.”
The dining room smells fishy, as in sole or salmon. He sees Melody from across the restaurant, her head down, reading something propped on the table. The part in her dark hair shines like a beacon. His heart thumps in his chest.
“You didn’t have to dress up on account of me,” she says without looking up. “Nice fanny pack.”
He shifts the fanny pack Bulcavage gave him as if to imply, “This old thing?” The vinyl yellow-and-red pouch bears the garish logo of Just Dandy Corndogs, a purveyor of frozen foot-long corndogs that, according to Bulcavage, had been a Savage Communications client for a brief moment in time. Basil’s muscled gut tests the limits of the buckle adjoining both ends of the adjustable waistband.
“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show,” she says. “Have a seat before someone finds another way to make you look silly.”
He mouths a thank you to the host and turns back to her.
“I was running late, apparently,” he says as he eases into the chair. “Frankly, I’m a little surprised to see you here.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who would be surprised easily,” she says. “I thought you would have asked me out sooner, the way you’ve been sniffing after me.”
“I hope I didn’t frighten you.”
“Not in this lifetime. So why did you?”
“Why did I what?”
“What synapse fired in that watermelon-sized noggin of yours that finally gave you the nerve to ask me out?”
“I guess today was one of those days where everything went right. I haven’t enjoyed too many of those, especially up here, so the timing seemed appropriate.”
A young lady in a white button-down shirt and black slacks creeps toward their table. Her trembling hand places a menu on the edge of the table in front of Basil. The menu catches on a bread plate and slides off the table, falling flatly to the crumb-specked floor.
“It’s okay, honey,” Melody says to her. “He won’t bite. I’ll make sure of it.”
The waitress smiles and hurries away.
Burn, Beautiful Soul Page 17