White Bird (A Mayan 2012 Thriller)

by Tom Rich

  Or was Sylvie merely acting the part?

  If Aly was being manipulated, she didn’t mind; she was being manipulated in a way her soul approved. It was written all over Sylvie’s face that her great talent lay in being able to delve into that deep, dark void—that place inside the human still lacking a human component—and emerge with expressions that could touch on fellow soul’s emptiness.

  And didn’t the whole thing turn on a pivot of irony. Not just the irony that Sylvie needed approval from an audience for exploring the thing they wanted to avoid within themselves. But the irony that the place within her that she needed to be who she was, was the thing most dangerous to her.

  The Mayan Creators rained destruction on their first three flawed creations: the birds and deer for not being to say the Creators’ names; the mud people for facing in only one direction; the effigies of wood for babbling nonsense from having no minds. What characteristic would bring down the Fourth Creation? Was practicing irony to avoid, rather than seeking a way to fill that empty space within the soul the mistake that would bring on the next eradication?

  Captain Weeks suggested panic as being necessary to shake up people who only joked until it was too late. Now there was an archetype: the cartoon of the man in “The End is Near” sandwich board. Aly thought about her own joke, while stuck in the strangler fig, that even the trees hated tree huggers. Perhaps the Power Grid’s instincts for survival had thrown up the Industrial Entertainment Complex to keep everyone fiddling while Rome burned. What a false brilliance that was. And Sylvie was a hopeless tool of that process.

  “If you’re going to do a line,” said Aly, “I’ll do one with you.”

  Sylvie’s eyes focused. “And there goes your sobriety. All because of me.”

  “You don’t think I’m my own person? Just think of it as a ritual to bond our friendship.”

  “You know what? I feel like I’ve known you much longer than I really have. And I’ve never had that before. But enough about me. You mentioned an unfinished song. Something about sincere eyes?”

  “Yeah, well, that was a different song. The one I wrote is finished, just never sung.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You feel there’s no life under all your roles. I feel like life won’t begin until I get a song out there. It’s called ‘Back in Time?’ Some people…some people from the research project were wait—are waiting to get back into time. They feel they aren’t really living, that they’re outside of time because they gave up their identities just to deal.”

  “You’re so sly.” Sylvie waggled a finger. “But I’m on to you.”

  “Huh. I guess it does apply. But that wasn’t intentional.”

  “A little coinky-dink, right?”

  “Hmm. Something like that.”

  “Okay. But you said it was tied to the Woody’s project. It’s about those people?”

  “Wrote it before I even knew they existed. But now I think maybe it is about them.”

  “Look, we’ll do a line, then you can tell me all about your boyfriend.”

  “Over and done with. I’m over it.”

  “Your cop friend?”

  Aly shook her head. “Ha! That’s rich. Hardly.”

  “He is kind of cute. I mean, if you’re currently between beaus?”

  “Hadn’t noticed. What say we do that line.”

  “Okay. But if you’re serious about being friends?”

  “Right,” said Aly. “No holding back.” She nodded at the packet in Sylvie’s hand.

  “Uh huh. Got to loosen the tongue first.”

  They spent the next twenty minutes scrounging up paraphernalia. After doing three lines to Aly’s one, Sylvie said that coke without rum was like Beavis without Butthead. “I’ll skip the shower for now,” she said. “There’s so much coke and such little time.”

  “So you have been talking to the gods.”

  “Lines were busy. You’d think they’d have caller ID. Nah, they do. But just you wait until my career takes its next leap forward. It’ll be me snubbing them with endless hold.” Sylvie jiggled another pile of powder onto a small mirror and split it with the edge of a playing card.

  “Could be ringing up a divinity or two myself,” said Aly, looking at the pile. “At least put something else on.”

  “Don’t like this dress? And I thought only the birds hated it.” Sylvie handed Aly the rolled up bill. “Sunglasses and a big, floppy hat are all I need.”

  “I’ll look around.” Aly split a line in half, took a quick hit, then flitted around the apartment. Five minutes later, “Plenty of shades. Trish has a thing for cheap ones.” She dumped an armload on the table. “But she isn’t a hat person. All I could find was this baseball cap. But the underside of the bill is autographed by Pete Rose, so I don’t—”

  “Perfect. I know his daughter.” Sylvie snatched the cap and fitted it so the bill pointed over her eyes. She put on the largest glasses from the collection. “Ready.”

  This girl is going to look good no matter how incongruous her ensemble, thought Aly. Even better for the mishmash. “We’ll stick to Clove’s,” she said. “It’s the one place you might not be noticed.”

  41: The Party at the End of the World

  Out in the hallway Aly and Sylvie could hear the music down in the bar.

  “Won’t need a coat,” Aly said. “It’s just downstairs.”

  “But ahv course it is, dah-link. Madame Vouvray never stays anywhere that hahs no fahst floor lounge.”

  They descended the narrow staircase.

  Sylvie paused, pulled down her sunglasses. “My, peepholes. Quite the old fashioned touch.”

  “You like that, you’ll love Clove’s.”

  They passed through the opening behind the bar.

  At first glance, “Ohh, me likey.” Sylvie’s head turned side to side taking in the room. She froze. She pulled back the hat and lowered the glasses. “And me lovey.” Sylvie had spotted Clove in a silver lamé hostess gown greeting customers. Sylvie approached with both hands out. “Clove, Clove, Clove, Clove, Clove, Clove, Clove.” She took Clove’s right hand. “Only you could be the divine Clove.”

  “Oh?” Clove looked startled.

  Sylvie leaned in and whispered, “Ever think about dolling yourself up as Diamond Lil? Go perfect with your room’s theme.”

  “Oh, my.” Clove regained her composure. “And I’ll bet you were neighbors with Mae in a previous lifetime.”

  “Could be. That very well could be.”

  “Well, now, I’ve been wondering when you would make your debut to Clove’s End of the World Café.”

  “Been busy lately,” said Sylvie. “I’m a queen now.”

  “Tell me about it. But we must do sit and chat a spell. Shall we repair ourselves to the bar?” Clove lifted Sylvie’s hand and proudly led her. A small group of already-clustered fans parted.

  The girls settled onto stools. “Anything you like, of course. Pleasure of the house.” Clove turned a motherly eye. “Oh, but I mustn’t tempt you.”

  “Tut.” Sylvie backhanded an invisible fly. “News of my sobriety has been greatly exaggerated.”

  “Do tell. And you are so with the times. Or the end of time, as we like to say at Clove’s. Mark Twain is all the rage in Cincinnati just now. We’re hoping word doesn’t get out. Except to people such as yourself, of course.”

  “Wait a minute. I’m in Cincinnati?”

  “Of course you are, dear.”

  “Oh. Okay. Just checking.”

  “All of your many appearances must have you confused.”

  “Something like that.”

  Clove made a full body twist to fuse herself onto the barstool. “Now, if you don’t mind a bit of civic pride, did you know that Cincinnati is the birthplace of Theda Bara?”

  “The Vamp! That’s who I was when I knew Mae.”

  “See? I knew your young body held a very old soul. Before we get into that, though, I’d like to finish our little tour, which I’m
designing specially for you. Did you know our humble little town also produced Doris Day.”

  “I love her. The original Girl Next Door. She was so excellent with the double entendre in all those bedroom romps.”

  “Triple and quadruple when you factor in who was hiding under Rock’s bed.” Clove waved. “Oh, Patricia, whatever our guest prefers. Pleasure of the house.” She addressed Sylvie: “But I recommend the Apocalypse, Sylvia. Patricia created the bit of magic herself.”

  Trish was surprised to see Sylvie in the bar. She’d kept her presence upstairs a secret, thinking that was what Aly wanted. Trish smiled, finding herself at a rare loss for words. Sylvie nodded that the Apocalypse would be fine.

  Clove nodded to Sylvie’s Reds cap. “Of course you know that Cincinnati is the birthplace of professional baseball.”

  “Good for you. Those guys make more money than Stallone.”

  “And they use more steroids than he does botox. I, myself, have nothing against contrived enhancement.” Clove shimmied her chest.

  “Gal’s gotta go with what she gots,” said Sylvie.

  “Especially if she had to go out and get it.

  “But back to our tour,” continued Clove.” We’re also called The Burg that Beer Built; a nod to our German heritage.”

  “Achtung. You must see me do my Marlene Dietrich sometime.”

  “Dolly, I’d like to see us both doing your Marlene Dietrich.”

  “Do tell. Hmm.”

  Patricia set down an Apocalypse for Sylvie, one for Aly who was sitting on the other side of Sylvie, and a Manhattan for Clove. Clove knocked hers back. Trish poured a refill.

  “You know, Clove,” said Sylvie, “when it comes to special performances… Let’s just say that I have more talents than the general public knows about.”

  “My, I’ll keep that in mind. I certainly most do will.” She held up her glass. “And speaking of special effects, Steven Speilberg also hails from just up the lane.”

  “Oh, him.” Sylvie frowned. “Well, everybody has to be from somewhere. Did you know he passed me over for Drew Barrymore when he made ET.”

  “You must have been heartbroken.”

  “Actually, I wasn’t born yet. But he could have waited. Don’t you think? It would have been twice the picture. And he would have made loads more money.”

  “I’ll be sure to snub Steven when he comes in.”

  Sylvie took Clove’s hand. “Oh, not you. You could never do that to anyone.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. Then I’ll have him stand right over there and make him tell everyone how those people managed to look so young when they came off his Mother Ship. Rumor has it they stopped at a secret spa deep in the Arizona desert.”

  “Ponce’s Oasis of Youth. Actually, it’s in Nevada.”

  “Oh? But I suppose the waiting list is positively unreasonable. The A List must be killing to get in.”

  “I could talk to Ponce. He still owes me for stirring up the anemic Pebbles look back in my vitamin commercial days. His business from the girl bands of the Eighties alone paid for his Italian villa.”

  “That would be much appreciated. I have so much Halston and there’s such little time. Even taking Mark Twain into account.”

  “I did hear an interesting rumor about this city. Must have been a joke though.”

  “If it was about the river catching fire, that’s Cleveland, to the north.”

  “Bigger burn than that. Someone said Jerry Springer used to be your mayor.”

  “Oh, but it’s true. He even aspired to the governorship. Then his political career was derailed by a taste for ladies of the evening.”

  “Nothing new there.”

  “Hardly. But the headline did send him down his new career path: ‘Kennedy-esque Politico Who Secretly Desires Being Caught Writes Check to Hooker.’”

  “No he did not!”

  “Cleveland may well have written the recipe on how to flambé a river, but no one burns bridges as spectacularly as we do in Cincinnati. But never mind that. The most important thing of all, especially taking into consideration your latest role, is that Cincinnati is most famously the Queen City.”

  “Ahv course it is, dah-link. I would naht be here for any other reason.” Sylvie tasted her drink. “Not bad.”

  “Pleasure of the house, dear. All evening.” Clove turned. “Ah, Eliot, I’d like you to meet a very special guest of ours this evening.”

  The passing Eliot halted his march to his usual seat. He brought his nose off the ceiling and regarded the special guest. His eyes widened. He took Sylvie’s hand, kissed it and said, “Milady.” It was the first word anyone had heard Eliot speak in weeks.

  Aly watched closely to see if Eliot placed Sylvie’s hand anywhere unwanted. But he held it softly as he crooned the first verse of “Let’s Make the Morning Never Come.”

  Sylvie feigned shyness by hiding behind her free hand. She actually blushed, then dropped the hand and changed her eyes to look as if being gradually aroused. The gathered crowd applauded for more when Eliot stopped short. He blushed, covered his lap with his notebook then dashed to his regular spot at the far end of the bar.

  Seeing Sylvie’s accessibility, the crowd pulled her from Clove.

  Clove slid over one stool. “Allison, please forgive me for not saying hello earlier.” She put a hand on Aly’s shoulder. “I hope I didn’t seem rude. It’s just that Sylvia and I are mutually acquainted from long, long ago. Have you been busy working on your Central American project? I haven’t seen you.”

  Aly had felt slighted. But here was Clove just as interested in Aly as she was the movie star. Aly was bursting to spill everything about Franz in Indianapolis and how it all connected to Dr. Arbanian in Guatemala. Not to mention the impending polar flip-flop from Clove’s book. But even with all that on her mind, the thing eating at her most was Tencho. Had he really put saving Aly’s life before being with his family? Had he really gone to great lengths just to get her home safely? Or was it all a set up, as suggested by Jones Pelfry? “There is a certain aspect to the project that’s been bothering me.”

  Clove waved. “Patricia, myself and Allison, if you would. And don’t stop. Allison’s preference is to be the pleasure of the house the entire evening.

  “Now, tell me everything. I’ve been dying to hear about the work you do.”

  Aly watched Trish practice mixology for a moment. She turned to Clove. “There are some people at the center of the project. Actually, it’s turned out these people are what the entire thing is about. They’re trying to preserve traditions the rest of the world would look down on. I seem to have found myself involved—in a very personal way—in helping them maintain these practices.” Aly took a sip of her Apocalypse. “But what I need to understand is whether or not I’ve been used by someone I trusted as much as any one person can trust another. Maybe it sounds like I’m putting some insignificant point of my own before the survival of an entire civilization. But if everyone is here only to use everyone else for their own ends? And trust between us means nothing? I don’t know. Maybe I’m just a confused twenty-something arrested by my lingering adolescence.”

  Clove examined Aly’s face. “Allison, you mustn’t sell yourself short.” She pushed her cocktail glass two inches north. “I don’t pretend to have the answers. But I do know the question you’re dealing with strikes at the very heart of what it is to be human. We can be a treacherous, deceiving species.” She shook her head, reflected for a moment. “Evil practices are the easy way around. Besides, aren’t there enough things out there waiting to get us? Must we really be our own worst enemies? But as a person who considers trust to be the most valuable human asset—as a person who does not take the easy way around—that’s something of which you should be proud. Though, of course, you believe trust should be a matter of course and not the exception. That’s because you understand trust is the very dynamo of community.

  “That said, to address your more immediate dilemma, I think you
may have to ask yourself a question. And that is, what is more important; helping these people you are involved with to exist more easily within the greater world, or helping them to be exactly who it is they are meant to be? Myself, I believe it all boils down to quality of life versus duration of life.”

  “We’re talking about traditions based on bloodletting and human sacrifice,” said Aly. “The people I’m talking about are a cult that keeps these ancient practices alive. Meantime, they’ve been waiting for the return of a legendary king who died as a matter of his own self-sacrifice twelve centuries ago. Actual physical evidence able to prove this king’s existence has recently been found. Believe it or not, one of the artifacts is a self-operating decapitation device. I’ve seen it. But the people claiming ownership of the device aren’t in possession of it. And these people have killed someone close to me because of that. Now I find myself in a position where I don’t know who I’m helping or who I’m betraying or whose laws or civilization means anything to me.”

  Clove moved in to offer a hug. She stopped short when realizing Aly was struggling to stand on her own. “If you will indulge me for a moment,” said Clove “because what I’m about to say is…well, I’ll just say it. There are people in certain unenlightened countries who continue to stone women for committing adultery. Of course, I would never, ever, condone such a horrible act. But these people live in a part of the world that is in constant turmoil only because they have something the rest of the world needs. And all of their centuries-old traditions, good and bad, are being compromised in the continuing transaction. Now, the way I see it, if those people did not have what everyone else wanted, nor the wealth it provides, there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that the most decadent elements of wealthy nations, such as ours, would pay good money to watch and wager as those people conducted continuing vendettas with saber and musket from the backs of camels. Who can tell me where the term ‘civilization’ lies within that scenario.”

  “It would seem there are no easy answers,” said Aly.

  “I apologize if I haven’t helped you, Allison.”