One Night

by Marsha Qualey

  She wasn’t born that way. Her left arm up to the elbow had been shot off. As she likes to tell it—no, wait, maybe not; she likes to tell it with lots of detail about the blood and pain, and to pepper the story start to finish with really raw language. Not surprising, I guess, that she tells it that way, because it happened when she was a war correspondent in Vietnam and was following some Marines on a small action that went wrong. She says the story should reflect the reality.

  But it’s her reality, not mine, so all I need to say is that she got it shot off in Vietnam when she was covering that war. And all I need to make clear is that I fell in love with my aunt the moment I laid eyes on that claw. It was the coolest thing I’d ever seen.

  *

  My office is the outer room of Kit’s suite, which I suppose makes me half receptionist, half guard. Before I knocked on the door to her inner sanctum, I listened for the postshow warning sounds. I heard typing. Kit does eighty words a minute with claw and fingers, fifty one-handed, but today the tap-tapping seemed slower than normal, so I figured she was unwinding with solitaire. As I opened the door, her computer erupted into tinny cheers and she sat back looking pleased.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “I just won Gaps, difficult level. Do you realize how hard that is?”

  “Not what I meant.”

  She shoved a paper to the edge of the desk. “Here are some things I want you to check before Friday. And I’m having doubts about tomorrow. Do we really want another show on genetic engineering?”

  “What about today’s show, Kit? What happened? We spent days prepping for Simone Sanchez, and you dump her? When did you do this? Who knew? Not Tyler, that’s obvious. You can’t make a move like this without telling your producer. You can’t.”

  She swiveled in her chair. “Those sons of bitches.”

  I stepped closer. “Did you dump her or did she cancel? Raoul and Jerry are outside, both of them madder than hell, so I’m guessing you dumped her.”

  “Those sons of bitches,” she repeated.

  “You dumped her. Oh, man. They have a right to be mad, Kit. Number one on the radio is nothing compared to number one in the movies. Her CDs make more in a week than your show brings in over a year. And you dumped her, for a community college professor who thinks he’s an expert on the war in Lakveria? Lakveria? Did this really happen, Kit?”

  “Your Lakveria research was excellent, Kelly. I was able to challenge him on several points. His area was the history, and I kept up. I owe you for that. Good stuff, you always find me good stuff. But I don’t suppose you listened today, did you?”

  “You dumped her to talk about a war no one cares about? Simone Sanchez?”

  She spun her chair around and faced me, furious. “Simone Sanchez used to be a good singer, back before everything she recorded started sounding like soundtrack schlock. And have you seen her last movie? She spent most of it in a gorilla suit, harassing an ex-husband’s new girlfriend. This is a woman I want to spend two hours with?”

  “What did you tell her? What excuse did you give?”

  Silence.

  “Kit, Tyler’s likely to get fired unless you cough up something. Who knows who his replacement will be, maybe someone you can’t ignore and walk over.”

  “I told her assistant that there were some breaking developments at the peace conference.”

  “Are there?”

  My aunt’s chair twirled and she looked at the skyline where the university buildings spread out along the banks of the river. She pointed and said, “Those sons of bitches.”

  I sat on the corner of her desk and looked out the window with her. Half a mile away world leaders were posturing at a special forum, making fine speeches about peace—or the lack of it—in Eastern Europe, especially Lakveria, the latest hot spot. The world’s most important men and women, and Kit had been denied access to each and every one.

  “Maybe,” I said softly, “just maybe when you had the former vice president on the show you shouldn’t have asked if he was a virgin on his wedding night. Or that interview with the former secretary of state? Do you suppose she liked being asked if she had a weight problem as a child? All these questions on the air, need I remind you? With your usual millions of fans listening in. Do you just suppose it might have destroyed your credibility as a serious journalist?”

  “He’s just pissed about the tree. I know that’s what it is. So petty. He blackballed me because of the stupid tree.”

  You would not think this pleasant Midwestern city was a hotbed of diplomacy. Agriculture conventions you would expect, but not international peace forums. However, Dakota City is the birthplace and home of one Allen Ripley, former vice president of the United States, former ambassador to India, and, most recently, the former UN High Commissioner of Human Rights. That last job pretty much wore him (or Mrs. High Commissioner) out, and two years ago he came home to a statesman’s retirement, which apparently involves serious gardening, frequent dog-walking, and hosting summits at his alma mater, Dakota City U.

  Everyone knows about his resume, of course. I happen to know the details of his retirement because this particular former vice president of the United States lives next door to Kit and me. I get along fine with him; whenever we meet out walking, we always chat. But he’s at war with my aunt. What the world does not know: The highflying diplomat does not get along with his neighbor. For two years they’ve been arguing over a diseased tree on her property next to his garage that she refuses to cut down. And of course, there was the wedding night question.

  Kit snapped to attention, snapped her fingers. Her eyes were fierce. “I want to be back in there, Kelly. I want it.” Then her eyes faded to middle distance, dreaming about the past, probably mucking about in some war-ravaged country. I’ve read her stuff, stories so clear, you can almost smell the explosives and gunfire and blood.

  After twenty years of combat reporting she settled in Washington to cover the men and women who made those wars. Two Pulitzers, three best-selling books—she was as famous as the world leaders she covered. And a better talker. Her experience and wit soon earned her prime television exposure as a talking head. Before long she had multiple, lucrative offers to create her own current affairs show; everyone from PBS to MTV was in the chase to own a piece of Kit Carpenter, witty, war-seasoned, photogenic, one-armed Kit Carpenter.

  She walked away from it all. Turned her back on the hot television lights, left the cast of the most important political theater in the world to start a radio show from the prairie. Like the veep, she turned her back on what she loved and came home to Minnesota. Came home to take care of me.

  I want to be back in there. Guilt and gratitude began their familiar roiling. It’s a combustible combination, I assure you. I stayed mute, knowing it would pass, likely the moment she opened her mouth.

  Kit breathed deeply and brought herself back. She leaned forward and said, “Sketch it out for me, hon. You do that so well. So clear-headed. Ironic, isn’t it? Sketch it out and I’ll figure out what to work on, what to fix.” Then she barked the command familiar to millions: “Talk now.”

  I counted it off on my fingers, rippling them in the air. I loved doing this to her; it made up in part for the frequent little comments like the one about my clear-headedness. “One, you book Simone Sanchez to come on the show the day before her only Dakota City concert in two decades. Simone Sanchez finally comes back to the town where she got her start and you’re the one who gets the face-to-face. Simone Sanchez, the number one moneymaker for the big ugly media company that pays your salary.

  “Two, without telling anyone, you dump the number one moneymaker to interview a small-time professor, hoping you can remind people that once upon a time you were a serious journalist.”

  She cleared her throat. “I didn’t ask for motivation, Kelly, just the high points.”

  “You apparently give the guy the whole two hours because you want to score some points with the people attending a dull conferen
ce. People who are probably not listening.”

  “I don’t need your speculation, either.”

  “Three, you have royally ticked off the bosses.”

  Kit opened her eyes. “Ticked off? Oh, honey, ouch.” She smiled. “What should we do?”

  Under the heat of her cheerfully expectant gaze I dropped my head and looked down at my bare urchin feet.

  “Nice dress,” my aunt murmured, following my gaze. “New, isn’t it? You know, I think I have some sandals that would be perfect—”

  “Kit, what’s next? You have to decide.”

  She thought a bit. “Simone Sanchez. We work on her and make her happy.”

  I nodded. “Be a peacemaker, just like the warlords meeting over at the university. And how do you plan to do this?”

  She flipped and caught a pencil with her claw. “Oh, no, you’re the one who did all the research on her, Kelly. That part’s for you.”

  *

  Dakota City is a small town. The numbers might add up to Big City, but don’t let that fool you. Want proof? Three million people, but only one hotel ritzy enough for potentates and movie stars.

  The Poppy Hotel was thick with thugs—swarming with security guys intent on protecting the leaders and diplomats of every nation on earth, or at least every nation that wanted to be seen as concerned about peace in yet another war-torn small country in Eastern Europe. The local police had set up a security check at the hotel, and, patiently, I went through metal detectors, smiled while they checked my name against a list, waited cheerfully while they placed a phone call to the room upstairs to verify a final time that I was expected. A pair of Dakota City cops was handling everything, but they were being watched by what had to be a multinational phalanx of dark suits.

  Before they ran the wand over me, I handed over the bag I was carrying. Kit had told me not to bother with gift-wrapping. She’d warned me that I and anything I was carrying or even wearing would be subjected to maximum security. No lie. I was fine with the wand, the questions, the close and skeptical scrutiny of my wallet and KLIP ID. I didn’t even squawk when they confiscated my cell phone, a cop explaining apologetically that all electronic devices that hadn’t been pre-screened would have to be held until I returned from the twentieth floor. Fine. But I must have made a noise when they started in on the gift I was taking to Simone Sanchez, because suddenly all the dark-suited men stiffened and stepped close.

  “It’s a rare book,” I said. “It’s fragile.”

  The Dakota City cop looked it over and then handed it to his partner, who scanned it with a wand and riffled the pages.

  “A kid’s book?” she said.

  “A rare kid’s book,” I replied. “Rare and expensive.” Probably twice as expensive as it really should be, because the dealer had sniffed out my desperation.

  “You’re taking a kid’s book to Simone Sanchez? A used one?” The cop shrugged, then handed the book over to the nearest dark-suited thug. Then it got passed around, and one by one they made a show of personally examining Little Girl, Big River.

  After they finally handed back the book, two guards escorted me to the elevator in the Center of the lobby. I balked. “When we called, her people said we should take the private elevator. They said to come up that way. I’m expected on that one.”

  Simultaneously they pointed at this elevator just as the door slid open. My escorts were twins: both tall, big, and mean-looking. Deciding I wasn’t really in the mood for argument, I stepped into the elevator with them right behind. The one on my left did the buttons while the other one watched me. I hugged the gift bag.

  Just as the door started to close, two well-dressed and very tan shoppers rushed toward the elevator, their Neiman Marcus bags banging against their legs. “Hold please,” the man called while his companion popped her mouth open and closed in silent distress. One of my guards held up his hand, palm out, and said, “Sorry.” Outside the elevator, yet another suit stepped into view, barring their entrance. The elevator door closed and we began the smooth ascent.

  “How come they don’t need an escort?” I asked.

  No answer.

  “Should I have put the book in a Neiman bag? Flashed cash? Worn different shoes?”

  The guy on my left was watching me with mask-like disinterest. I widened my stare, daring him to look down past the tasteful, cleverly belted dress to my feet, now clad sensibly in a pair of gleaming white, never-used Nikes I’d found in my aunt’s office.

  His pal cleared his throat. “They were going to a different floor.”

  We reached the twentieth floor—the special floor—in seconds. The door opened and the thugs nudged me out. Not surprisingly, it was no ordinary hotel corridor with a long row of doors. This was penthouse country and there were only two doors: one to my left and one to my right. The thugs nudged me to the left, 20-B. I looked over my shoulder at 20-A, wondering who was staying there and why they merited this security. No doubt one of the powerbrokers arguing impotently about peace. Thug Number One nudged me yet again, trying to move me along. I stopped and faced the jerk. “Don’t touch me,” I said “Don’t ever touch me again.”

  *

  During my first dance with heroin, every now and then I slept in dark places in a favorite park. This wasn’t your stereotypical homeless junkie crash, a sorry public collapse at the edge of an OD. I had a home with my mother and stepfather, and more often than not I snorted and nodded in the pastel splendor of my own securely locked bedroom. But sometimes nature-loving me (admittedly, she’s easily confused with impatient, craving, can’t-wait-to-get-home me) preferred the park. And one time I woke up to find some walking grunting blob of body odor digging through my backpack-pillow with one hand while his other hand struggled to get under and up my sweatshirt. The guy was huge and no doubt loaded on something, maybe insanity, and was intent on both working me over and ripping me off.

  I sat up, or as up as I could get with his giant paw pressed against me, and said, “Get off me now; I’m going to hurt you.”

  A rapist or a killer wouldn’t have been dissuaded, but Bigfoot was. He ran, fast, something in my voice and eyes showing him I meant business. My growling voice and glow-in-the-dark violet eyes.

  Or maybe it was simply the sharp point of the switchblade attached to the charm bracelet on my left wrist.

  *

  The security guy nodded. “Sorry,” he said.

  I cradled the gift bag in my left arm and rubbed that bare wrist with my right hand. No one messed with me. Ever.

  His pal had already knocked on 20-B. It swung open, and there she was: Simone Sanchez, the great lady herself, her world-famous face contorted by an award-winning scowl. Right behind her were two more dark suits, one male, one female, Jack and Jill bodyguards. Simone Sanchez looked at each of my escorts, then glared at me as she yanked me on the arm and pulled me in. She slammed the door, shutting them out, and said, “This had better be good; I was about to get a massage.”

  I’ve been doing this job for six months, ever since I was released from the halfway house and got permission to work unsupervised. Kit’s show is a must for people grinding out publicity, and she gets the full range of guests. I’ve researched them all and met quite a few. Not much surprises me now, and even less interests me.

  Simone Sanchez grabbed my interest on the spot. It wasn’t because she’s been famous for longer than I’ve been alive. And it wasn’t because I’m generally interested in people who grab hold of their lives and change them, somehow morphing into something new, maybe turning Judy Podolski of Boise, Idaho, into Simone Sanchez, star of the world. And it sure wasn’t because this big shot celebrity was nearly naked under a gaping robe, her well-publicized implanted breasts pointing here and there.

  It was the skin. A tabloid headline rolled through my head: Film diva battles midlife acne; aliens blamed for outbreak.

  Who knew? Movie makeup must really be magic.

  But that’s the reality of being an ex-junkie gofer: Everyone y
ou meet gets reduced to something banal. The movie star with bad skin. The radio host with one arm. The retired vice president who goes nuts over sick trees. Even Meryl Streep. I’d always thought she was this serious older actress, but she did Kit’s show when she was in town promoting a movie, and now I know that—

  “Delivery Girl? Hello, Delivery Girl. Wake up, Delivery Girl.”

  The solid gold voice yanked me out of the daydream riff. I felt the bag in my hand and took a breath. “Ms. Sanchez, Kit Carpenter extends—”

  “Oh, please, don’t tell me she apologizes.”

  Okay, lady, I won’t.

  “I didn’t miss a thing by sleeping late today, Delivery Girl. I don’t need Kit Carpenter; she needs me.”

  A smart ex-junkie gofer would have agreed, handed the old book to the movie star, and gotten out of there. But I said, “No, she doesn’t.”

  Honest, the suits behind her stiffened. I guess anything less than complete obsequiousness must be a threat. One even patted his suit coat. An automatic gesture, no doubt, but I wondered if maybe he would’ve pulled a gun if I’d actually insulted her, if I’d said something like, Hey, lady, ever hear of benzoyl peroxide?

  Simone tapped my arm. Weird: She was all smiles. “So the delivery girl has brass balls, just like the lady she works for.” The female suit leaned in and whispered in the star’s ear. Her eyebrows shot up upon receiving whatever information was relayed. She tilted her head, then Jill Bodyguard whispered a second dose of dirt.

  I knew what it was. Simone moved closer and her eyes searched mine.

  Never fails. They always do it. Once anyone knows, they check it out. Are you clean? Are you high? The eyes don’t lie. I suppose for the rest of my life people who know will check it out. And because I live with a woman who talks to the world for two hours a day, plenty of people know.