The Hinky Bearskin Rug

by Jennifer Stevenson

  Yellow-bellied coward! “Oooh, all right. Put it in an envelope and address it and leave it by the toaster. It won’t get thrown away there.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Nina took a call from Jewel on Sunday at noon. “Where the hell are you? It's Sunday. I got tiramisu thawing on the counter.”

  Jewel’s heart sank. She was dying for comfort, but she couldn’t face the nosiness and needling that would come with it. “I have to work. Paperwork.”

  “Oh, bullshit. Clay didn’t turn me down over paperwork.”

  Jewel pushed open the sliding door to her balcony and went outside, where she could blame the water coming from her eyes on the wind. “You asked Clay before you called me?”

  “He’s been coming over for three months, what, you expected different? What’s the matter? Did you fight with Clay?” Nina said, getting right to the jugular as usual.

  “Something like that.”

  “Be careful. He’s too sneaky to put up with the cold shoulder.”

  “Yeah,” Jewel said tiredly, since this was no news to her. And a big part of the reason why she wasn’t talking to Clay right now.

  Nina picked at her for a few minutes before she gave up. Jewel stared down at a pair of geese arrowing along above the river and felt a hundred years old.

  What was the matter with her? Was she doomed to be alone? Was that what she’d been hiding from, hopping from man to man since college? Everybody who loves me dies, she’d said bitterly to Randy, and he’d told her, That’s my line.

  Randy was a big throbbing sore inside her, so big and tempting and painful that she couldn’t bear to think of him. Yet she couldn’t help herself.

  I don’t want him. I don’t.

  That lie lasted until the next goose flew by.

  Okay, she wanted him.

  But what’s the point? He’s done with me. The curse is lifted. Oh, and by the way, he’s ruined me for normal sex.

  At least Clay took it well. Clay might not mind having sex with a woman with a hinky social disease. But what if she ruined him, as Randy had ruined her? She couldn’t do that to Clay.

  An unbidden image rose in her mind, of Clay inside one of those glass cases at the Field Museum, naked, looking out at her, with his curly-headed golden retriever by his side.

  “So this is it,” she said to the wind whipping around the Corncob, shoving the gallery dream out of her mind. “No more sex. No Randy,” she added, as if somehow losing him was worse than losing sex.

  The loss was so big, she could only feel it one heartbeat at a time. Then numbness, cold, emptiness. Then she’d think of Randy again, and the hot pain came flooding back.

  The rest of Sunday was agony. She did her laundry. She took out the recylables. She vacuumed, that was how low she’d come. A boat honked on the river and she remembered her balcony and went to stand there again, staring out at the city and the river and the vast empty lake beyond. An hour later she was still standing there, her hand ice cold on the balcony railing.

  The hell with it. She left the vac in the middle of the floor and went to Olive Park Beach for a swim.

  In the cold, cold water, she could let her hot pain out. “What is the matter with me?” she said, over and over, as she backstroked out to the far buoy. I don’t want to feel like this, she chanted mentally as she crawled back toward the beach. When rage and panic and the desperate feeling inside grew too hot, she butterflied with great white splashes, working her body until the squirrel cage slowed in her head.

  As she walked back to the Corncob Building, she saw a pigeon wobbling on the edge of a city trash can with a lighted cigarette in its beak.

  “Be careful with that!” she yelled, waving her arms. Of course the rat-with-wings launched into the air and dropped its butt into the trash can. The contents of the trash can burst instantly into flames. “Oh, hell.”

  She phoned nine-one-one for the Fire Department and sat down on a nearby bench to watch. Not that she could do much, except keep passing tourists from sticking their hands into the fire. Then she hit speed dial on her cell.

  “Ask Your Shrink.” The connection sounded different.

  “Are we on the air?”

  “Sorry, no,” said the silvery voice of the radio call-in show host. “Did you want to be? I can record this call.”

  “No, that’s fine! I’m just surprised you answered.”

  “I’m always here for you,” Your Shrink said warmly.

  “Great.” Suddenly everything stuck in Jewel’s throat.

  The fire truck pulled up. Guys in yellow rubber got out and hauled their hose toward the burning trash can.

  “What’s the problem? Coral, isn’t it?”

  “Emerald.” Jewel swallowed. “I think I just broke up with this guy, only it never really was a relationship. And now I’m miserable. And I think I hate myself. He hates me. He doesn’t need me any more. I was sick of it when he needed me and now I hate this, too. I’m not a hater, I’m really not. My life is good,” she said, choking on a sob.

  Water gushed from the fire hose over the trash can, making stinky smoke.

  “Tell me straight, doc. Am I crazy?”

  “You have a broken heart.”

  Jewel took the phone from her ear and made a skeptical face at it. “I can’t have. I don’t do relationships!” One of the firemen looked up as she raised her voice.

  “Very well, then, you’re crazy.”

  “I think I liked broken heart better,” Jewel said.

  “Jewel? It’s me, Dave,” the fireman said, coming up to her bench with a big smile. “Remember me?” He clearly intended to remind her of their deathless night together. Jewel sighed.

  “I gotta go,” she told Your Shrink and hung up. “Dave, you’re as cute as ever. Don’t call me.”

  She turned her back on his puzzled smile and headed home.

  o0o

  Next morning Jewel signed in with Harry at the desk at Artistic Publishing Company. Her personal life was in shambles. But she had a clue and a contact and she was by-god going to follow up.

  The sound of the presses pounded through the floor. “Guess Onika found some more printers,” she remarked to Harry.

  “Oh, we got ’em back next day. It was just stupidness. Onika’s in the still studio on one.”

  Thank heaven. Randy would be upstairs on five, in Hot Pink. Don’t think about what he’s doing.

  She found Onika having an argument with a photographer.

  “I know it’s traditional, but it’s not sexy.” Onika jabbed in the photographer’s direction with her diamond-crusted cigarette holder. “It looks uncomfortable.”

  “We can see both her tits and her ass,” the photographer explained patiently.

  “You could see Mr. Gumby’s tits and ass, too, if you tied him up in a pretzel,” Onika said.

  “Really, it’s okay,” said the nude beauty, twisted on hands and knees under the lights. “I’m used to it.”

  “I pay your chiropractor bills,” Onika said to her, “so don’t try to bullshit a bullshitter.”

  Jewel spoke up. “Miss Tannyhill? Have you got a minute?”

  Onika turned. “Oh, it’s you.” She sent a glower at the photographer. “Traditional. Hmph.”

  The photographer and his subject resumed work.

  “Can we talk about Steven Tannyhill?” Jewel said.

  “Let’s go upstairs for that.”

  In Onika’s office Jewel turned down a drink. Her hostess poured a tall Scotch. “What about Steven?”

  “Someone told me he inherited a piece of the business. Someone else told me he has, and I quote, ‘a hard-on for the building.’ I want to know,” Jewel said slowly, “what Steven has to do with this company and with this building.”

  Onika puffed, choked, coughed, sucked Scotch, puffed again, and coughed. “Lemme tell you a story. I’ve been knocking around this place since I was ten. My mother had shit fits, but they were divorced by then, and my father had the money, and she lik
ed to ski in Switzerland, so.”

  She swivelled back and forth like a kid in her daddy’s big leather desk chair.

  “My father wanted me to have everything, and I got everything. Switzerland, Rio, climbing the fucking pyramids, boys, cars, diamonds, champagne, the works. And when I’d used all that up, he let me come home and mess around at the company. He always said I would take over someday, but he didn’t trust me enough to leave me full power.” Slowly and carefully, she drew in smoke and let it out. “He saddled me with a board full of dead white guys, including my nephew Steven. Do you know that Artistic didn’t have an Internet division until I started one?”

  “Really?” Jewel said. “I’m surprised.”

  “My father was old fashioned. Didn’t take the Internet seriously. He drove us into the ground. He died and I took over. Then that shit-heel Steven convinced the board we should sell, and I had the dickens of a time convincing them to give me two years — two measly years! — to get my Internet division and my women’s film division up and profitable.”

  Two years! Jewel added another one to her list.

  “We’re almost profitable, but we’re also almost out of time.”

  “Sounds like an ambitious schedule,” Jewel said.

  “I didn’t have a choice. Steven found this scummy Asian porn company to buy our mailing list.” Her eyes narrowed. “What he really wants is our building. It’s worth a fortune. This neighborhood’s going condo as fast as it can go potty.”

  “How close are you to profitability?”

  “Very close. A week, if the launch of Velvita’s new movie goes well. Her past four launches bumped sales ten percent each time. The new picture is terrific. It could bump us right over the line.”

  “Phone, Onika,” Lena’s voice came from the intercom. “Steven Tannyhill on one.”

  Onika chuckled. “How does he sound?”

  “I’d say the cob is embedded between four and four-and-a-half inches up his butt,” Lena’s voice said dispassionately.

  Onika grunted, then coughed. “Put him on speaker and come in here.” Her voice was rough and hoarse. “Too many cigarettes,” she said to Jewel. She hit the intercom. “Steven, how’s tricks! I’m thinking of renaming the company, did I tell you?”

  “What for?” Steven said with suspicion in his voice. “What are you up to, Onika?”

  Lena came in and sat at the end of Onika’s desk. What does he want? she mouthed.

  Jewel made as if to go, though she didn’t want to.

  Onika held up a forefinger. Stay, she mouthed. “It’s called rebranding. Artistic is a hundred years of fuddy-duddy porn for men. Tannyhill Porn — now that’s a woman’s porn house.”

  Onika yukked silently. Lena high-fived her.

  “You’ll lose old customers,” Steven said.

  “Who wants ’em? You keep telling me the old fashioned stuff doesn’t sell.”

  “They won’t be able to find you online.”

  “Ever hear of auto-redirect, Steven? Ninety-four percent of our customers will find us just fine. That’s how much our revenue stream has shifted in the twenty-three months since the board magnanimously gave me permission to start an Internet division.”

  Silence from Steven.

  “Tannyhill Porn,” she mused. “Maybe I’ll take it public when I finally get full control. Could be bigger than Baysdorter Boncil Tannyill.” She clicked her tongue. “Oh, but you won’t get your partnership until you’ve got your paws on my building. And you never will, Steven.”

  “You’re not profitable yet,” he snarled.

  “Did you call about something special, or were you just hoping to gloat about our lousy numbers? How disappointing for you.” Onika laughed again.

  “You old witch!” he said, and swore.

  Onika laughed harder, then started coughing. “Oh-oh, Steven, you’re killing me—” She doubled over and reached for her highball glass.

  “I hope you croak!” Steven yelled.

  Onika turned red. Jewel reached out a helpless hand. Lena came to her side with a glass of water and chewed her lower lip while Onika fought for breath.

  “I’m — I’m fine — oh, h-hell—” That set off another fit of coughing. After a long, scary moment, her snappy old blue eyes widened and she took a slow, deep breath through her nostrils.

  “One sick day, Onika,” Steven said over the sound of her wheezing. “You miss one day and the board will force you out on a medical. I’ll make them do it!”

  The old lady pulled in a deep breath and held it, then breathed very shallowly and carefully. Jewel watched her fists clench. “You’re a vulture, Steven,” Onika said in a weak voice. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Steven laughed, long and nasty. “Try me.”

  Another convulsion came on. She slapped the phone dead. “Okay,” she squeaked. She signalled for her highball and Lena handed her water. She waved it away. Lena put the Scotch in her hand and Onika drank deeply. “That’s better.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jewel said. “Why try so hard to drive Steven crazy?”

  Onika cleared her throat. “It’s a strategy. Don’t trouble your pretty head. It’s all worked out. I know exactly how to corner him on the edge of his personal cliff.” She chortled hoarsely. “And then I’m gonna stick out my pinky and push him over the edge.” Her chest tightened visibly and she took a slug of Scotch. “Honey, call Harry up from the front door and get out your notary seal. I need two witnesses. You’ll witness something for me, Miss Thing?”

  Jewel nodded, worried.

  Lena went to the phone. When Harry arrived, he and Jewel signed what turned out to be a power of attorney, ceding control of Artistic Publishing to Lena “until I get back from sick leave or I croak,” which didn’t look legal to Jewel, but nobody was asking her. Lena sealed and notarized the power of attorney. Jewel eyed her. Onika must really trust her.

  Onika was still wheezing. One hand kept pawing at her chest, while the other clutched the Scotch glass. She signed the letter, let out another squeak, grabbed her throat, and then held absolutely still.

  Lena froze, notary seal in hand, her eyes big.

  Harry said, “I’ll call you an ambulance.”

  “Sure,” Onika wheezed, “In about, oh, ten minutes.”

  She went off into another coughing fit.

  “I think now,” Harry said.

  Lena put a hanky to Onika’s lips and took it away spotted with blood. She told Jewel, “You’d better go.”

  Jewel left, realizing her question was unanswered. What did Onika hope to accomplish by pushing Steven over the edge?

  o0o

  When the Consumer Services investigator was gone, Onika hacked painfully for two solid minutes. Then she said, “Time to tell you the rest of the plan, I guess.”

  “Yeah, explain to me why you want to drive Steven nuts?” Lena watched her anxiously. The wail of an ambulance siren sounded outside the window.

  Onika sent her an evil grin. “Revenge, honey. For trying to destroy my company. And for being mean to you.”

  Lena said nothing.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t want to see him lose his job, his friends, and his sanity. Did you ever go down into the printing plant?”

  Lena frowned. “You’re coughing less.”

  “Ever look behind the door marked Do Not Enter?”

  Lena remembered tile walls, red votive candles, and Wilma posters. “Yes.” Her eyes widened.

  “Ever light a candle to Wilma?”

  Lena shook her head.

  Onika sipped whisky calmly. Her cough seemed gone. “Guess you were never desperate enough. My father did, though.” All the creases in her face reshaped into a smile.

  “You faked that attack! Should I send the ambulance away?”

  Shaking her head, Onika showed her the bloody handkerchief. “Here’s the plan.”

  It sounded loony to Lena, but she sat holding Onika’s hand, listening, while the paramedics strapped her into the str
etcher.

  As they rolled the old lady across the sidewalk to the ambulance, Lena said, “You didn’t tell Jewel Heiss about Wilma.”

  “And have her shut down my company?” Onika coughed. “No way.”

  Light broke for Lena. “That’s why Steven is afraid of Artistic, isn’t it? He’s not afraid of you. He’s afraid of Wilma!”

  “You’re getting smart, honey.” Onika’s grin disappeared behind an oxygen mask, and then the double doors slammed shut.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Jewel’s next stop was Maida Sacker’s office at Baysdorter Boncil. “You’ll be happy to know that my case is complete.”

  Maida narrowed her eyes. “In what way?”

  “As in closed, finished. I know what caused your little impromptu orgy. Two things, a powerful aphrodisiac and a toxic corporate culture.”

  Maida’s face showed no recognition of personal guilt. Well, it wouldn’t.

  Jewel went on, “I guess you personally can’t fix the culture, but you could blow the whistle on them.”

  “Let us shelve your opinions,” Maida said.

  “For the moment. If you don’t want another orgy, however, you can stop ordering Hoby’s pastries.”

  “Stop — pastries?”

  “The cinnamon,” Jewel said, wondering if Clay had trained her well enough at lying, “apparently comes from a shipment tainted with psychoactive fungal spores. Hoby has disposed of the problem cinnamon, but you had best keep your people away from their products for a while. The spores linger in the human system for months. Even a taste of ordinary cinnamon, in the context of a work atmosphere like this one, could reactivate the spores and send somebody over the edge.”

  At the word edge, Maida’s eyes flared.

  Jewel crossed her legs. “Oh, and by the way, I figured out why you phoned in the anonymous complaint about the orgy. You had been feeling guiltier and guiltier about Steven molesting your daughter, and the orgy put you over the edge.” Maida flinched. Jewel showed her teeth. “What I don’t know is, how long have you been the majority stockholder of this firm?”

  Maida froze. Her eyes went deer-in-headlights. “Majority what?”