Deal to Die For

by Les Standiford

  “We’re in business with an appliance salesman?” Cross cut in.

  “Just listen,” Mahler said. “I ask him about porn, and he gets this look in his eye and calls over the manager of the karaoke bar who in turn calls up his business partner, who is a connected sort of a guy if you know what I mean, and he comes down to join us and we’re up into the wee hours going over what presently exists, which is either soft-core stuff from Hong Kong or this awful Japanese material dubbed in Cantonese—and finally we got onto discussing the possibilities of what might be.”

  “Chinese gangsters,” Cross said. “I don’t know. I’ve spent twenty years dancing around the mob…”

  “It’s not the same thing in China,” Mahler said. “These people are just businessmen. They had to organize to survive the goddamned Communists, that’s all.”

  “I read about these triads,” Cross said, glumly. “These people like to use hatchets to settle their differences…”

  “That’s gang stuff, and it’s just what goes on over here,” Mahler said. “Chinese-American kids a long way from home, and out of control. We are dealing with men of substance, people I have met. They are the ones who are going to put the Chinese economy back together again. Even the Reds know it, for Chrissakes. The ones who haven’t turned in their party cards and signed on for capitalism are sitting back ready to rake in the bribes for looking the other way while business goes back to work. The whole country is dying for a taste of the twentieth century. Who’s going to give it to them, Mao’s ghost?”

  “I still don’t see where we come in,” Cross said. “Seems a lot easier just to go buy Johnny Wad’s backlist.”

  “Carl,” Mahler said, “I am trying to be patient with you, but I’m beginning to wonder. I’m starting to think that you don’t have the necessary enthusiasm for this project.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Cross protested. “I’m trying to see the angle, that’s all.”

  “The angle is simple. First of all, you’re talking about shipping our idea of eroticism over to another culture, and that doesn’t necessarily work. You ever see any Japanese porn tapes?”

  Cross shook his head.

  “Well, I have,” Mahler said. “Nothing against the Japanese, but something gets lost in translation.”

  “So?”

  “So it works the same going the other way. Marilyn Chambers begging for it in Mandarin just isn’t going to work for the Chinese, nine times out of ten. They have different fetishes, positions, attitudes.” He broke off, giving Cross a look. “There’s much more interest in what they call ‘the blissful portal’ than there is in breasts, for instance. There’ll be a little bit of curiosity factor about your brazen Western slut, of course, and we’ll supply what’s needed. But what we have to offer is unprecedented, Carl. We are going to bring all the technological resources of the West to appeal to the erotic impulses of a billion people who haven’t had a suitably forbidden orgasm in fifty years. This is going to be the biggest union since yin and yang, and we have got the franchise. The exclusive distributorship. It is Klondike, after all.”

  “Uh-huh,” Cross said. “What about this studio on the Chinese mainland you were talking about?”

  “It’ll exist eventually,” Mahler said. “These men have been in touch with a couple of legitimate Hong Kong studios. We’ll let them crank out a kung fu film on the mainland every so often, just to keep up appearances, but that studio’s real function will be to simplify import and distribution, at least at first. Porn is like any other product, Carl. We can do it better. That’s where we come in.”

  Cross nodded dolefully, as if Mahler’s enthusiasm had overwhelmed him. He gave a bloodhound’s sorrowful look toward the tennis courts, where Cherise had engaged their wait-person in a lengthy conversation of her own. “I’ll never get that drink,” he said sadly. He turned back to Mahler. “So who puts up the money for this first run of films—your gangster partners?”

  “The money’s in place, that’s all you need to know,” Mahler said.

  Cross nodded. “So it’s your ass on the line, right?”

  “It’s a matter of demonstrating the proper commitment to these men,” Mahler said, feeling defensive. “Just make these movies the way I tell you to, Carl. That’s all you have to worry about. Make the movies and keep your mouth shut.”

  Cross shrugged. “You can count on me,” he said. “I’ll have to tell the wife, though.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mahler said. “Why would you want to involve your wife in this matter?”

  “Involve Cherise?” Cross laughed, and pointed down at the tennis court. “Where do you think I met her? If she’s going to screw a Chinaman, she’s going to have to know about it up front.”

  Mahler followed Cross’s gesture to where Cherise was standing, demonstrating a tennis stroke to the young waiter, one hand on his arm guiding the path of the racquet, the other at the small of his back. Mahler was still staring in surprise when the phone rang. The moment he answered, the familiar voice began its familiar, article-free delivery.

  “What are you telling me?” Mahler said finally. He was gripping the receiver tightly by now, his stomach constricting into a knot.

  “Not me,” the old man’s voice rasped. “What Gabriel say.”

  Mahler turned away from Cross, holding his hand to his other ear.

  “Say she find something, her mother not her mother,” Mahler heard, and he understood it perfectly this time. He held the phone down from his ear, staring out at the horizon, where the sun was slipping into the steely Pacific. He shook his head, fighting the feeling that his heart was going under with the purple sun, then picked up the phone and cut into the voice that was still droning on.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “Let me get right back to you.” He hung up the phone.

  “A problem?” Cross asked. The young waiter had given Cherise her racket back and was headed toward his tricycle, something that seemed to lift Cross’s spirits.

  Mahler stood, motioned that he’d have to go inside the bungalow for privacy. “Just this business,” he said. “Always one more fire to put out.”

  “Ain’t it the truth,” Cross said, affable, settling back in his chair to await his drink.

  Chapter 28

  “So that’s about it,” Deal said. “Her sister wasn’t at the hotel she’d moved to. That’s about as far as we could take it.”

  Janice nodded as he finished his recap of the previous twenty-four hours; her hand was at the collar of her housecoat, her expression neutral as she listened. After they’d discovered that Paige Cooper was registered at the Grover Cleveland but hadn’t been seen since the morning, they’d left word for her, and Deal had Driscoll take him back to the fourplex. He’d picked up the Hog and driven quickly to the clinic in the Gables, spent a few minutes convincing the receptionist to bend the rules and call Janice down after visiting hours.

  They were sitting in a spacious visiting “parlor” now, a kind of sun porch you might expect to find in a comfortable country house. There was a fireplace against the back wall, some tasteful fabric wall hangings flanking it, a number of softly burning floor lamps scattered about, artful objets on the side tables. Windows ran around three sides of the place, giving a view out onto a well-tended yard, its flower beds and shrubs and trees illuminated now by discreetly placed floodlights. There were a couple of round tables in the room, ready for bridge or mah-jongg players, he supposed, and several groupings of overstuffed furniture arranged for some degree of privacy, though Deal hadn’t seen another soul since he’d arrived.

  He sat forward in his chair, uncomfortable with the way Janice eyed him. “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” he continued. “But it seems Barbara deserves that much.”

  “She cared about you, Deal,” Janice said, her voice distant. “I always said that.”

  He glanced at her. No edge in her voice, no accusation in her gaze. Just that gut-sapping matter-of-factness,
a neutrality that made Deal feel he could be anyone sitting here, passing the time of day. But at least she was willing to recognize him, he told himself. That was some kind of step forward.

  “She’s responded well to the medication. But don’t press her, Mr. Deal,” the doctor’s voice echoed in his ears. “Don’t make any demands of her. Be the kind, supportive husband you’ve always been. And be patient. Try your best not to take this personally.”

  Deal thought it was a mark of his own progress that he hadn’t snapped at the doctor over that one. Don’t take it personally. Your wife looks at you with all the feeling she’d give the change attendant at the tollbooth and you’re not supposed to take it personally. Okay, Doc. No problem.

  He shook his head, gave Janice a buck-up smile. “A hell of a day, all in all,” he said.

  “Paige Nobleman,” Janice said absently, gazing out at the night. “I don’t remember seeing any of her pictures. Does she resemble Barbara?”

  Deal shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess she does. I mean, I never thought about it. She looks like Paige Nobleman to me.”

  Janice nodded. “I always thought Barbara was your type,” she said.

  “Jesus, Janice,” he began.

  “I’m not saying you two were running around behind my back, Deal. I’m just stating a fact. Chemistry is chemistry. If I hadn’t been there, if you’d met her first, who knows…”

  “A lot of things might have happened, Janice. The woman is dead.” He heard the exasperation in his voice, saw her eyes going blank.

  He softened his voice, and tried again. “The way I see it, Barbara not only saved my life, she brought you back to me. That’s worth everything in the world to me, Janice. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

  She stared down at her hands, picked at a nail as if she hadn’t heard. She glanced up at him after a moment. “They said I could see Isabel,” she said. “Why didn’t you bring her?”

  As if they hadn’t gone over that already, he thought. He passed his hand over his face, took a deep breath. “She was already asleep when I got back. I’ll bring her with me tomorrow.”

  “Good,” she said softly. “I’d like to see my daughter.”

  “Of course you will,” he said. He felt as if he’d swallowed broken glass. He put his hand out to hers, but she drew away.

  “I’m tired, Deal,” she said, pushing up from her chair. “I’m going to go back up now.”

  He stood, watching helplessly as she moved toward the doorway to the wards, the rooms, whatever they called them in this place.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he said, his hopefulness ringing hollow in his ears.

  She nodded, moving quickly on. At the doorway she paused. “And Deal,” she said, a question in her voice.

  “What?” he said.

  “You shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss suicide,” she said.

  He stared at her dumbly. “What are you talking about?” he said.

  “It’s what happens when people think there aren’t any choices,” she said.

  “Janice…,” He started toward her.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t feel that way. All I meant was, maybe Barbara did.”

  “Janice…,” he repeated.

  “I’m all right, Deal,” she said. “I’m going to be just fine. You go home now.” She turned then, slipped through the door.

  He heard a lock snap shut behind her.

  ***

  “I’m telling you,” Deal said, fighting to keep his voice even, “she mentioned suicide.” He was at the receptionist’s desk, phone in hand, just as he’d been for the last half hour, waiting for Janice’s doctor to respond to his calls.

  “I understand.” The doctor’s voice came back over the telephone through a light haze of static. Deal suspected he was on a cellular phone, probably on his way home from dinner somewhere, Mark’s Place, Chef Allen’s, everything just perfect, here’s Deal busting up the night. “Did she say she had contemplated suicide?”

  Deal took a breath. “No,” he said. “But she said it’s what people do when they think they’re out of choices. Those were her exact words.”

  There was a dropout on the doctor’s line then and Deal fumed helplessly until he heard the voice pop on again, midsentence. “…the context of this remark.”

  “I couldn’t hear you,” Deal said impatiently. “You’ll have to say that over.”

  “I’m trying to find out what the context of this remark was,” the doctor came back, his voice louder. “What were you talking about that might have prompted it?”

  Deal hesitated, closing his eyes momentarily. “A friend of ours died last night,” he said finally. “The police said it was suicide. I told Janice about it.”

  There was a pause on the doctor’s end of the line, as if Deal were being judged. “Then your wife’s response would be perfectly normal, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, yes, but…”

  “Mr. Deal,” the doctor cut in, his voice solicitous, “I understand your concern. I’ve already spoken with the staff on your wife’s unit, and they will be sure to exercise every caution. But let me assure you, I have spoken to your wife in great depth, upon several occasions. She is upset, and from your perspective, certainly, she is not herself. She has been under a great deal of stress and she has been undergoing profound self-examination. At times, this has led her to deny old behaviors, and to act out new impulses, to try on new hats, if you will, and this can be quite disconcerting for those who know her only as her old self. But nothing—I repeat, nothing—suggests to me that she is self-destructive.”

  Deal felt as if he were caught in some time warp, forced to listen to one of his college professors lecture him on something he was supposed to understand but couldn’t. The logic was there in the doctor’s words, but he hadn’t been there, couldn’t feel what Deal felt. And what good was it going to do, running up the meter on this guy’s cel-phone?

  Deal took a deep breath. “I sure hope you’re right, Doctor,” he said. “I sure to hell hope you’re right.”

  “I assure you that your wife is receiving the finest care possible,” the doctor replied.

  “Okay,” Deal said. He felt exhausted. “Thanks for calling me back.”

  “Not at all,” the doctor said. And then the line was dead.

  ***

  All the way home, Deal pondered the doctor’s words, running the phrases over and over in his mind until what had seemed to have had a modicum of sense at the time of their phone conversation had become a mantra of meaningless gibberish. “New hats…from your perspective…not her disconcerting self-destruction…”

  “I am losing my wife,” he shouted suddenly, banging the wheel of the Hog with the heel of his hand so hard he had to fight to keep from swerving into the oncoming lane. There was a blare of horns as he swung back across the center stripe, realizing he’d climbed past sixty in this residential zone.

  “That’s what it comes down to,” he repeated to himself, gripping the wheel grimly, forcing his foot back off the accelerator. “I am losing my wife and there’s not a goddamned thing I can do about it.”

  The words were so grim, so disheartening, as to shock him into numbness. No thoughts. No images in his mind. Just an awful white blare of nothingness, a roar of noiseless noise in his ears. He glanced about like a man coming out of a dream, having to check just how far he’d driven in his distracted state. Half a block past his usual turnoff, he swung off the busy north-south street onto a narrow lane that led past a neighborhood park for a long couple of blocks, dumping out between a pair of two-story houses across from the fourplex. He swung across the street into an open spot in front of his building, parked, slid out of the Hog, still so distracted that he didn’t see the ghostly white limo parked at the curb across the street, didn’t register her voice until she called a second time.

  “Mr. Deal?” she said.

  He turned to see Paige Nobl
eman moving across the street toward him, the look of distress on her face so great that for a moment, he was pulled up out of his own.

  ***

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, hesitating as he stared at her.

  Deal wondered what expression she might have seen on his face. “It’s all right,” he said. “You surprised me, that’s all.” He glanced back at the limo, where a burly shape sat motionless in the driver’s compartment.

  “I’ve been waiting out here,” she said. “Your housekeeper”—she gestured toward the fourplex—“she said you’d be back before too long.”

  Deal nodded, imagining Mrs. Suarez finding a strange woman on his doorstep late at night. It could have been the Queen Mother, she’d have to wait outside, or come back another time.

  “You got our message, I guess,” he said. “I didn’t mean to bring you all the way across town.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “What message?”

  He stared at her. “We came by your hotel, the little place down on South Beach,” he said. “A couple of hours ago.”

  She looked at him strangely. “I left there early this morning,” she said, shaking her head. “But no one knew I’d moved there. How did you find me there?” She turned back to the limo. “Did you talk to Florentino?”

  He followed her gaze. “I don’t know any Florentino,” he said. He gestured at the south wing of the fourplex, where a light burned in one of Driscoll’s windows. “One of my tenants used to be a cop,” he said. “He figured out where you’d gone.”

  “That wouldn’t be Vernon Driscoll, would it?” She held up a battered business card. It took him a moment, but then he remembered—it was one of Driscoll’s, the only thing he could find to write his number on the night before.