by Anne Rice
They were on their way back to the courthouse when the blue sedan went out of control, careened onto the sidewalk and struck down half a dozen pedestrians. Leo Holdstrom was dead on arrival at Sutton Memorial Hospital.
The body was chunkier and shorter than the one he remembered, and more muscular. He stretched out his arm and stared at it, realizing from the color that he must be Asian. He tried to sit up, and heard someone nearby move toward him.
“He’s waking up,” said a voice Leo did not recognize.
“Great. I want him checked out by noon.” This second voice was low and harsh, as if the speaker were under pressure.
“Okay,” said the first voice. “He’ll be ready to travel.”
“The plane will be here this evening,” said the second voice. “We’ll be paid as soon as we deliver this first Dr. Holdstrom to Santiago.”
“Great,” said the first, and chuckled. “It’s pretty funny, isn’t it? The great Leo Holdstrom, a restoration himself now, and on his way to Chile where restorations are still legal.”
“Keep an eye on him. He might be listening. He’s awake enough for that.” The second voice was sharp with disapproval.
“I will,” said the first.
Leo was thinking quickly, trying to sort out what had become of him. He tried to speak and was appalled at the sound he made. He tried to sit up, but could not make his body cooperate.
The first voice sounded in his ear as he was helped to sit. “Steady now, take it easy.”
“I will,” said Leo in a husky whisper.
“How are you feeling?” The first voice belonged to a middle-aged woman with heavy bags under her eyes and a faded smile.
“Rocky,” said Leo, doing his best to speak normally.
“Don’t try to force yourself,” said the woman. “It takes time. You know more about that than I do.”
“Sure,” said Leo, better satisfied with how he sounded. Did all restorations feel as disoriented as he did? He wiggled his fingers and tried to move his legs.
“The gene grafts took very well on him,” said the second voice. The speaker was a slight man in a lab coat with thinning, light-colored hair.
“Good,” said the woman. “With these facilities, it isn’t easy.” She looked over at Leo. “You’re in a warehouse, Dr. Holdstrom. We use it as our lab.”
“Your lab? For gene grafting?” He stared up at the girders overhead and fought down a sudden flare of dread.
“You’re going to Santiago in Chile tonight,” said the man in the lab coat. “You and about ten other restorations. You’ll be put to work there.”
“In Chile?” Leo repeated, having trouble making sense out of what he heard.
“We have a contract to deliver you. And we will.” There was hard determination in the man’s voice now.
“But—” Leo began.
The man interrupted him. “And you know what I think?”
Leo shook his head, not daring to speculate now.
The man leaned over him with a brittle grin, laughing as Leo shrank from him. “I think it serves you right.”
CORPORATE TAKEOVER
MATTHEW J. COSTELLO
WE commiserated over martinis occupying our usual window seats at Spat’s Steak House, 5:15—the perfect time to study the secretaries scurrying in their sneakers for the subway.
Mark, sucking on an olive, clocked the ladies dashing underground and shook his head, distracted.
“It’s no fuckin’ good, Colin. Two into one won’t go, and believe me—heads will roll, buddy.”
Mark glanced around, his eyes shark-like, trolling the crowd at Spats. He spotted a trio of young women sitting at a table and then he nudged me with a chunky elbow—so suave and debonair. He grinned and put on his best Dan Ackroyd, Eastern Europe accent.
“Hey, Yortek … fox-es!”
Too much Nick at Nite for old Mark. Too little social life, too little of that magic stuff that could soothe a corporate financial officer at day’s end.
Mark was perpetually on the make, always searching for Ms. Right—or at least someone, anyone who would settle down with him.
“I like the brunette,” he said. “Nice tan.”
His bar talk was out of date.
“Very cute,” I said. I was also between relationships. At least, I assumed I was between relationships, the assumption being that there was, in fact, a new significant other waiting in the wings.
“So when are they sending you down there?” I said, trying to steer the conversation back to our earlier topic—namely, how the merger of Morra Communications with Island Pineapple & Sugar would affect our own particular stars. These were not good days to be out on our asses searching for jobs.
“Friday.” Mark turned and looked at me. “Ever been to Purgatory?”
I saw a woman, not so young, look over at us. Must sound strange—Purgatory. Except there were a lot of oddball islands in the Caribbean. Hell was a great place, or so I’ve been told. Sunburned tourists, human lobsters, come back to Kennedy Airport with their straw hats and T-shirts declaring “I’ve been to Hell.”
I hadn’t heard much about Purgatory, though. The entire island, one hundred miles east of Aruba, belonged to Island Pineapple & Sugar, a successful packager and producer of tropical fruits and sugarcane. There were no resort facilities but, our office manager told us, there was a wonderful city with two luxurious hotels.
“Bring your swim fins,” I said.
Mark downed his martini. “Right. I tell you, Col, some of us will be out on the street because of this. A stupid goddamn pineapple company….”
He looked up for the bartender who hovered nearby.
Yes, I thought. Some of us may end up pounding the pavement, but not you, Markie. You’re going down to Purgatory. You’re all set.
Yes, I thought … Mark’s in great shape….
His week-long visit stretched to two weeks and then three, until I thought that he’d never come back.
Good for you, old buddy, I thought. Enjoying the sun, the waves, the dark-haired women, and all those pineapples. Good for you….
At the end of the third week, two executives from the island, tall, dark-skinned Purgatory natives, toured our office while we stood up in our white shirts, watching them slowly inspect our banks of computers, our cubicles. Their faces were solemn, impassive.
“Cheerful lot,” I muttered to my secretary, a plump little meatball with three kids and a husband who drove a truck for the Daily News, New York’s picture newspaper.
She shushed me. And I saw one of the Island P&S executives look up, hearing the whooshing noise she made. I felt his eyes, dark eyes set in pale pools, studying me, wondering—perhaps—is this someone who we can cut?
It was a merger. But we knew that Morra was the one strapped for cash and Island was loaded. Low overhead, high productivity in the pineapple and sugar cane business. Now they were joined to a struggling conglomerate that owned a magazine division, a string of TV and radio networks, a fast food chain (Pizza Pronto—“Your pizza in ten minutes or—boing!—it’s free!”), and an assortment of quiet, slumbering industrial holdings that were, circa 1993, dying in the economic barrens of the Northeast.
The recession may have ended—but not here, sports fans.
The Island executives moved along. I took a breath, surprised at the sudden fear I felt. My secretary shook her head.
“You should be careful,” she said.
“And you should control your—”
I looked down the hallway and I saw Mark. He was back—and the bastard hadn’t even called me. He was shaking hands, saying hello to the other bean counters in our division. He was tanned, peeling, and flecks of his skin curled off him like parchment. He wore an oversized grin.
Mark was back … he must have flown in with the executives from Purgatory. I walked toward him and he looked up.
“Colin—” he came to me and gave me an exuberant bear hug. Mark was not reserved with his displays of affection.
“Good to see you, buddy.”
I nodded, feeling pale, wan next to his robust color. “Looks like you had some fun.”
Mark pulled me tighter, conspiratorially drawing me close. “Fun isn’t the word, buddy. Purgatory is a beautiful island. Beautiful! They got some sweet operation down there, runs like clockwork. Cheap happy labor, almost no overhead, and—”
Mark looked around and I smiled, seeing his beady shark eyes, a familiar sight at last. “And the women, Colin. The women are from heaven. Eyes to get lost in, skin like satin …” his voice lowered. “Tits to die for.” He repeated the words. “To die for.”
Good, I thought, Mark got laid. Good for him.
He pulled me away from the other cubicles, off to a corner.
“Like I said, sounds as if you had fun.”
Mark held me at arm’s length, the proud boy demanding that I see. Look what I’ve done. “No, Colin. You don’t get it.”
I waited, letting his shit-eating grin hang there, the human Cheshire cat.
“Don’t get what?” I said. I still felt confused. I saw one of our new corporate partners glance over, seeing Mark literally frothing over—
“I’m married! I met someone, a dream—and we got married.”
Oh, shit, I thought. That’s great. Mark was providing an American green card to another pearl of the Caribbean. I was reluctant to yank him off his cloud.
“Hey, I know what you’re thinking. It’s too fast. But she worked in the hotel, she was the concierge. I took her out, drinks and stuff. I tell you, Myra’s wonderful.” His shark eyes returned. “To die for, buddy.”
I nodded. Everyone else had returned to their work. The large room was filled with the chipmunk clattering of keyboards. I had a lot of work to do, dealing with taxes, getting forms filed in the wake of the merger.
I looked at Mark and wondered if this was the end of our post-game cocktail hour.
He looked up, thinking. “Tell you what. Why don’t you come by tonight? Meet Myra. Yeah, come for dinner, drinks. What do you say?”
What could I say?
And, I had to admit, I was more than a little curious to see what Mark brought home from Purgatory.
“Sure.” I smiled and then went back to my work.
Mark’s apartment was only four stops on the Seventh Avenue subway, and for the entire bumpy ride he extolled the virtues of Purgatory for me.
“You see, Col, they got a great system there. I guess, hell, it’s like communism, or a dictatorship. But, shit, everyone has what they need, everyone’s happy. The workers all live close to the factories and the plantations. You haven’t seen a cleaner place, it’s spotless.” Mark nodded, “I tell you, we could use some of that efficiency here.”
The subway screeched to a halt at the 14th Street station. I followed Mark out.
“Myra’s whole family works for the company, her father, mother, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts. Some in the plantation, others in the packing or business end. And—”
“But not Myra?”
“Eh?”
“Not Myra—she didn’t work for Island?”
“Oh, sure. Not in the pineapple or sugar end. But the company owns the hotels, damn fine hotels, and she worked in the one I stayed at.”
“And she just left her job?”
“Sure.” Mark grinned, happy with his prowess at luring such a find to America. “Guess love will do that for you, Colin. You should try it.”
I was about to remind him that I had, in fact, tried it—far too many times—when we arrived at his apartment. The elevator whisked us up to the third floor, to apartment 3-G, and a hallway filled with the dizzying smell of onions and spices.
Mark turned the key in the door. “And wait till you taste her cooking….”
He threw open the door and the full aroma of dinner surrounded me, way too strong, and my appetite retreated. I felt the need to get to the window and gulp some good old New York air.
“Myra, sweetheart. We’re here.”
Mark had thoughtfully notified his wife that he was bringing someone home for dinner.
He called for her, and we waited. That should have been the first tip-off, the first peculiar thing.
“Get you a drink, Col? A beer, gin and tonic—”
I was looking toward Mark’s small kitchen area, waiting for Myra to make her much heralded appearance.
“Maybe she’s not—” I started to say, when she slipped out into the hall. The light was behind her so I didn’t get to really see her. She was simply a silhouette … but a very nice one. She took a step closer, and some light from the living room caught her eyes. They were beautiful—sleepy, dark eyes that stared right through me. Myra wore a simple black shift, short and sleeveless, and sandals. Another step, and the light caught her sleek legs, the caramel texture of her skin, and—for sure—the wondrous swell of her breasts.
Mark was going to be a very happy man.
“Myra, babe. This is Colin, my good buddy.”
She slowly extended her hand. She was close to me now and—though the smell of onions, and paprika, and things more exotic was still overpowering—I could smell Myra, some perfume on her, perhaps her shampoo. She was a mixture of Spanish and African and Anglo, and her beauty was stunning.
I had to wonder: what the hell is she doing with Mark?
And: why the hell is she moving so slowly, so deliberately?
I took her hand, her slim fingers. I squeezed gently, but even my gentle handshake seemed too strong. Her eyes were locked on mine. Her stare seemed full of promise, as if Mark wasn’t there and I could just pull her close, press her close….
I knew that it would be a wonderful experience.
I squeezed her hand. Her fingers felt cold as if she had been at the sink, running cold water on them. Her lips opened.
“I’m very glad to meet you.”
And—at that moment—I was equally glad to meet her.
Mark didn’t show up at work the day after our dinner. Can’t say that I blamed him—must be hard to leave the little love nest with such a limpid beauty waiting there for you.
I thought about the dinner … Mark had rambled on about Purgatory, while I nodded and looked over at Myra, watching her slowly remove the plates from the table, leaning toward me, looking up. When her eyes locked on mine, it was electric. And though I was probably Mark’s best friend, I could burn for what I wanted to do with his wife.
And she acted as if she knew, looking at me, her dark eyes on mine, hanging there until I felt all hot and sweaty. It was as if I was back to high school again.
When Mark came back to work, he looked a little green around the gills.
“What’s wrong?” I said. “Too much honeymooning?” I imagined pear-shaped Mark rolling on top of Myra, an unlikely image to be sure.
He nodded, smiled wanly, his normal ebullience gone. “The food I think.” Another smile. “Too strong, the spices. I—I don’t feel so good.”
Just then his intercom buzzed. They wanted him in the main office, three flights up.
Big stuff, I thought. Mark is rising up in the business. Maybe I should wangle an invite to Purgatory….
In those first days, Mark didn’t have time for our after-work cocktails. Okay, I thought. That’s understandable. Sure, a new wife, coming home to that creamy skin and black pearl eyes. Myra continued to dance in my fantasies.
But I started to worry.
Mark didn’t look so good. In fact, he looked worse every day. He quickly lost his color from his trip south. His skin still peeled and flaked, only now the new skin below was chalky white and mottled. His eyes had trouble making contact with mine. They seemed to float in his head, buoyant marbles inside a milky globe.
He looked sick. When I asked him about it, asked him if he had seen a doctor, he brushed the thought away.
“Just a little fever,” he said. “Probably picked up something on the island.”
I nodded. It wasn’t my job to push. But I wondered wha
t was happening to my friend….
Then he was gone. I came to work one day and his cubicle was empty. I asked his secretary and she told me that Mark had been sent back to Purgatory to look at some more things connected with the merger.
“Oh,” I said, surprised that Mark hadn’t told me. My concern over his health was replaced with concern that Mark was leaving me behind. When the shakeout came—and we all knew there would be a shakeout—he was definitely in. And me? Well, I was beginning to feel that I was out….
I began to see new faces in the office, people obviously connected to Island. IP&S was bringing some of their people to New York. I kept waiting for my chance to go to Purgatory and still there was no word from Mark.
Until—one morning—there was a message from Myra. “Please call me,” it said.
I did. She asked me to come and see her. She said that she was worried about Mark. I was too, but that wasn’t the reason I went to see her. No, I still harbored those fantasies….
After work, I went to the apartment, feeling like a traitor. I knew what I hoped might happen, didn’t I?
Myra opened the door. She wore a red sheathe dress; a sere purple scarf pulled back her long black hair. She invited me in. She offered me a drink, fixing a gin martini that was wondrously cold.
Myra told me that she hadn’t heard from Mark in weeks. She told me she was worried that he had taken up with someone else.
“There are so many island girls,” she said.
I nodded, thinking that Mark would have to be nuts to walk away from this one. I knew that I wouldn’t. She looked at me again, and it was like getting a gift, having those eyes fall on me, devour me. She made me another drink and then sat down—even closer, I thought.
I’m a traitor, I told myself.
I didn’t care.
I sipped my drink, and it felt hot in the apartment. I smelled her perfume, so spicy, exotic—not what the little legal secretaries in their Anne Klein suits dab between their ears.