The Deadly Kiss-Off

by Paul Di Filippo

  “Your hospitality is extremely gratifying to my tender sensibilities, Glen,” he had said. “This is truly the kind of bighearted relationship which makes the type of work we do so much more than mere bash-and-grab. But I do not like to become the public face of any enterprise what could someday draw the attentions of our legally constituted authorities. And besides—no diss to your sweet little coochie—that Portagee food don’t sit too well in the Santo gut. I always get the trots from it. Now, if you had picked out a nice Italian spot …”

  So it was just the nine of us who assembled at seven o’clock in Morabeza’s colorful back room decorated with island motifs, both natural and cultural. At the edge of the room to respect our privacy, a young guitarist with the beatific look of a beachcomber saint sat on a tall stool, already tuning up. When he began to play, visions of tropical nights and lazy surf filled the room.

  The women were all dressed to stun. (I excluded Les from this lovely contingent since, while undeniably well-attired, she still maintained her male drag, and only Stan and I, apart from her lover, knew the truth.) Chantal wore heels and a floor-length gray chiffon dress whose gauzy see-through top was rendered seductively modest by filigree and beading. Nellie sported a supple cotton earth-tone dress, patterned like some mythical hybrid of snakeskin and giraffe hide, that fitted her like a second skin, its low-cut spaghetti-strap top showing off her splendid bosom while its short flaring skirt did justice to her gorgeous legs, which were laced up with the straps of her sandals. Sandralene loomed taller than ever in high black Louboutin boots and a violet cashmere sweater dress whose fabric lovingly caressed every voluptuous curve and plane. Even Rosa Luckman, who generally came off as severe, had managed to look at once festive and elegant in a nicely tailored pantsuit that mimicked a tuxedo.

  As for us men—and here I include Les—well, I guess we looked as good as males ever do next to beautiful women. But I couldn’t really pay much attention, not even to the riveting sight of Stan’s glossy palm-leaf-print silk evening jacket.

  Luckman, I was relieved to see, had pulled himself together, although he still had a fragile air, as if one more straw added to his burden would send him into a neurasthenic collapse.

  The space could have hosted a party five times our number, and at first I worried that we all might feel a bit like BBs rattling around in an empty bucket. But we staked out a big round linen-covered table in the brightly lit area next to the bar, where an employee was mixing up ponche. This sweet cocktail improbably blended high-octane native grogue, a kind of home-brewed rum, with crushed ice, molasses, lime, and condensed milk. The resulting drink packed all the kick of Babe the Blue Ox. After the first one, our little sphere of warmth and light and nascent conviviality began to expand into a whole universe of delight. And by the time each of us had downed a second cocktail, the walls of the larger room receded into meaningless infinity and we were minor deities inhabiting an Afro-Latino themed Olympus. All the cares and concerns and fears connected with the recent caper seemed to evaporate. We were in the winner’s circle, and nothing and no one could touch us.

  The head chef of Morabeza, a handsome middle-aged fellow with the dignified presence of a symphony conductor, actually came out to greet Nellie warmly and inform us of the menu. We were going to start with several appetizers, including goat cheese with papaya jam, camarão em vinha de alhos (shrimp in wine and garlic), and brochettes of fried eel. Then we’d move on to muamba, a chicken stew accompanied by a manioc glop known as funji. Then would come chamuças—stuffed savory pastries—and cachupa, the essential hominy stew I knew well from Nellie’s home cooking. Also included: half a dozen other mouthwatering dishes, all to be topped off with the famous coffee pudding and a mango mousse.

  The appetizers had a lot of work to do to sop up the alcohol, which had an unfair head start, and in this they were only marginally successful. And the drinks kept coming.

  Naturally, the dinner conversation turned mostly on the success of our venture. In deference to the more sensitive and innocent members of our party—Caleb and Luckman, mainly—we instinctively deemphasized the more illicit aspects of the production. And, of course, the conversation moved down other avenues, too, relieving us of the need to dissemble.

  I asked Chantal where she and Les were headed next.

  “Oh, perhaps Europe. Maybe Asia. The Defense and Security Conference in Bangkok is always profitable for us. Really, wherever our fancy takes us and money is to be had. Our fee from this affair will set us up nicely for some time, so there is no urgency to earn more.”

  Luckman chose this moment to interpolate in somber tones, “‘For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil, for which some have strayed from the faith in their greediness, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.’”

  Stan slapped the savant heartily on the back. “Prof, you slay me. It’s always easier to say money’s shit when you got plenty yourself. And you and the missus sure do now. So get useta it!”

  I turned then to Caleb with an impulsive urge. “You’re getting a bonus, too, you know. We couldn’t have done this without you. How does seventy-five sound?”

  Caleb had been mostly mooning over Sandy till now, but I had his attention. “Seventy-five hundred?”

  Stan seconded my previously undiscussed gesture of gratitude with gusto. “Jeez, Stinchcombe, don’t you West Virginia yokels know how to dream big? Seventy-five thousand!”

  “That—that is almighty fine of you, Stan. You, too, Glen. I can set up my business right smart once I get back home.”

  Course after course arrived, borne by efficient, smiling servers. The ponche flowed like spring melt, and I began to lose track of the fine details. I seemed to recall that at one point, Chantal was sitting on Les’ lap and they were drinking from each other’s glass with arms intertwined. Stan and Sandy were feeding each other messy morsels with their fingers. Luckman and Caleb were holding a spirited discussion on the more bizarre aspects of the Book of Revelation. In an odd pairing, Nellie and Rosa were talking about having kids. And I found myself trying to instruct the guitarist on how to play Prince’s “When Doves Cry,” despite there being no common language between us.

  Our little bubble of light and activity occupied a much larger realm of shadows, since the rest of the room’s lights had been turned down. At the back of the hall were the restrooms, two doors behind a decorative freestanding wall that afforded some privacy. I had visited the gents’ several times already.

  I looked up hazily from seeing how high I could stack empty clamshells. Sandy was holding Caleb’s hand and whispering in his ear. Luckman and Nellie were chatting about Cape Verde’s geologic origins—or rather, Luckman was lecturing while she listened politely. Chantal and Les were smooching like teenagers. I leaned over to break them up with some appropriate witticism, and Les grabbed me by the neck and smashed her lips over mine. Seeing me apparently French-kissing a delicately handsome Asian boy, Nellie faltered in her attentions to Luckman but showed admirable urbanity in deciding to ignore the whole thing.

  After the kiss, I noticed that Stan and Rosa were nowhere to be seen.

  Luckman stood up. “Excuse me, Miss Firmino, I have to visit the double-you-cee.”

  Some instinct made me jump up to follow him. “Hang on, Ron, I’ll leave a trail of bread crumbs so we can find our way back.”

  The walk across the darkened room seemed to take forever, as if we were crossing some vast and danger-fraught expanse. Eventually, we turned the corner of the partition.

  I have to give Stan credit. He wasn’t canoodling; he had stuck by his vow to break it off with Rosa. He stood frowning with his arms folded across his chest, keeping Rosa at a distance. But his chaste stance could not offset the impact of Rosa’s tear-stained face and sotto voce pleas.

  “What do you want from me?” she moaned. “What do I have to do? I can’t stand being with him anymore! Take me with you;
take me away from him. I don’t care if you have Sandy, too. I can share you. I just need to get away! Please, Stan, I’m begging you!”

  Luckman didn’t collapse physically, but things snapped almost audibly inside him. He seemed frozen in place for an eternity before he spun about and marched off. I didn’t try to stop him. What could I have said or done to negate what he had just seen and heard?

  Watching her husband’s broken retreat, Rosa grunted as if she had been kicked in the stomach, then rushed into the ladies’ room to retch.

  Stan was genuinely shocked, I could tell. His voice faltered as he tried to minimize the catastrophe.

  “This is bad juju, sure. But everyone’ll bounce back. You’ll see.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not.”

  49

  Uncle Ralph’s cramped, too-warm house was filled with delicious smells of turkey, stuffing, vegetables, and pies. With three chefs—Sandy, Nellie, and Ralph’s irrepressible squeeze, Suzy Lam, the Asian Ethel Merman—whipping up an array of recipes both traditional and exotic, I looked forward to eating myself comatose. After the past couple of nerve-straining days, I could use the all the ritual hearthside comfort and simple-carb overload I could get.

  After Luckman had walked robotically out of Morabeza, the remaining partyers’ attentions had turned to consoling Rosa. The women had rushed into the john in a show of female solidarity, while we four men (including the rogue double-agent Les) dithered guiltily around the table, our mellow buzz rapidly evanescing. Stan had the grace to look hangdog and sheepish. I didn’t have the heart or desire to guilt-trip him. Sure, in the best of all possible worlds, he wouldn’t have gone sniffing around Luckman’s wife. But she had rushed into his arms uncoerced and was equally guilty of the infidelity. Then, when he had seen fit to break it off—selfishly or nobly or from a mix of both motives—Rosa had not followed a similar mature and stoic path. So no, I couldn’t blame Stan for this mess. Not entirely.

  Eventually, the women emerged from their powder room in group-counseling mode. Rosa Luckman had regained some composure but still looked demon haunted.

  Nellie said, “Glen, we need to get Rosa home. She is sure Ron took the car.”

  “Okay, of course. Just let me settle the bill.” I turned to the others and said, “Sorry to break this up early, friends, but I think you can see why.”

  In truth, no one felt like continuing the festivities, and we all were ready to call it a night.

  Caleb had his own car. Les and Chantal had already turned in their rental to the agency. They were flying out the next day and would get a cab to the airport. Stan said, “I’ll get Ell and Cee back to the hotel. C’mon, Sandy.”

  Nellie walked Rosa out the door to my car. The restaurant’s officious owner, perhaps alerted by the bartender to the disturbance, was hovering discreetly by the exit, formal but sympathetic. I gave him my credit card and added a 30 percent tip when the check came.

  Out in the chilly parking lot, the arms brokers and Stan stood beside his ridiculous Jeep, with Sandy seated up front. Rosa and Nellie were in the Lexus already, for I had given Nellie the fob to warm it up. I went over to Stan.

  “I fear this is goodbye, Glen,” said Chantal. “Maybe we’ll work together again someday. Thank you for everything.” She gave me a kiss that would have scorched the scaly lips of a crocodile, and Les followed with a similar one. Stan snickered.

  I staggered over to the Lexus, drunk on kisses and ponche. Luckman’s old Pontiac was indeed gone from the lot.

  We took Rosa home and got her settled. On the way back to the condo, Nellie said, “Ai, kantu tristi! We got to do something for that poor woman.”

  “Maybe we can patch it up between her and Luckman somehow. But right now, it doesn’t look good.”

  Stan and Sandralene had already gotten home.

  “How was Rosa?” Stan asked.

  “About as serene and cheerful as you might expect.”

  “Aw, Christ, Glen, lay off. I feel like shit already, okay?”

  “Sorry. Sorry.”

  * * *

  For the next two days, we tried to track down Luckman. We couldn’t really go to the police, for there was no cause. And we were likewise reluctant to involve the always-questionable resources of Vin Santo. The less Vin knew about any screwups, the happier he’d be and the safer we’d be. Conveniently, we had shut down the factory on the Friday before Thanksgiving, giving all the grateful workers a full week off with pay, so we were at least free of any headaches involved in keeping the assembly line going. But even that bit of breathing room was not enough for us to find the absent professor with our amateur detective skills. So by Wednesday night, still worried about Luckman’s condition more than about what he might do, insulated as we were by the all but impenetrable walls of holding companies, we gave up, turning our thoughts to the holiday.

  And now the holiday was upon us. All the invitees were assembled except for Rosa, who had reassured us by phone this morning that she really did feel with it enough to drive herself and would show up by noon. It might be a bit awkward to have Stan’s two women together, but we all felt we owed it to the deserted wife. I figured Stan was experienced enough to handle any scenes if a deflated and grieving Rosa were even so inclined.

  The weather outside was splendid, bracing but sunny—a day made for parades and high school football games. On the garish oversize couch that Suzy Lam had installed a couple of years ago sat Uncle Ralph, Caleb, and Stan, looking like the Pep Boys and bathed in a downpouring of sunshine, drinking beers and watching the concluding segments of the Macy’s parade. Lura was lying down in her bedroom, having a last-minute nap. Rosa was due to pull up any minute, with dinner to be served in about an hour.

  But by twelve thirty, she had not shown.

  Nor by one.

  Stan looked apprehensive. I had been trying to tamp down the same feeling in myself. Sandy came out of the kitchen, wearing an apron and drying her hands on a dish towel.

  “I think you should call her.”

  “Good idea.”

  The call went straight to voice mail.

  Stan said, “Maybe she went down for a nap and overslept, or something. Let’s go get her.”

  Now Nellie and Suzy were out in the living room as well. “What about the food?” I said.

  Suzy Lam berated me. “You big-time koo-koo or what, nephew? Food not important; girl is! Just go!”

  Caleb wanted to come, too, so the three of us set out in my car.

  The drive out to the burbs where the Luckmans lived seemed like one of those nightmares in which the dreamer travels an endless road that never delivers him to the desired familiar place but instead substitutes one peril after another for the usual landmarks. If the traffic hadn’t been negligible, I would have caused half a dozen accidents on the way. But eventually, we got there.

  The front door was slightly ajar. We rushed in.

  Rosa Luckman was dead—she had to be, lying unmoving on the carpet with what seemed a quart of blood pooled by her head, her face pale as skim milk.

  Stan and Caleb moved swiftly to pick her up.

  “What’re you doing!” I gasped. “Don’t disturb the body! The police—”

  “Hey, Mr. CSI, she ain’t fucking dead! She’s just out. Reb, go find me a wet cloth. And some booze.”

  Stan tenderly bathed the ugly wound on Rosa’s skull with the warm rag, then used whiskey to sterilize it. I nervously chafed her bare calves for lack of anything better to do, until Stan yelled at me to stop.

  Rosa groaned and stirred, but didn’t come around.

  Caleb said, “I think she needs an ambulance. She’s got a concussion.”

  Stan got up. “Guess so. I was hoping she’d wake up first and tell us what happened.”

  “Luckman?” I ventured.

  “More’n likely.”

 
The ambulance raced up in less than seven minutes. The EMTs had Rosa well in hand and loaded on the stretcher in jig time.

  As they were wheeling her out, she did finally come around. Her not-quite-focused eyes found Stan, and she limply raised one arm.

  “Wait … please …”

  The EMTs weren’t happy, but Stan had gotten a hand on the gurney to halt it. He bent his head tenderly to Rosa’s lips, and she spoke so softly I couldn’t hear. When she was finished, the ambulance crew took her away.

  Stan’s eyes smoldered, and his lips were tightly compressed. “Luckman, all right. He came back, but just for a gun. Ignored Rosa till she tried to stop him; then he slugged her.”

  I pictured Luckman tracking all of us down to Uncle Ralph’s, showing up and blasting away. “Did she have any idea where he was headed?”

  “Oh, yeah, he told her. Back to the factory, where he’s been holed up since the night he took off.”

  50

  I pulled into the parking lot adjacent to Luckman Enter-prises—a shabby weed-dotted expanse of cracked asphalt and rusting stretches of fence interrupted by vandal-torn gaps. Luckman’s faded blue Pontiac of ancient vintage was slewed across three spots.

  None of us had been to the factory since last Friday, almost a week ago, when we had shut things down and given the staff their pay and bonuses and said, “Happy Holiday!” And in our search for the missing inventor, it had never occurred to us that he would return to such an obvious, risky place where anyone might spot him. We had pictured him blowing town in disgust at all of us, or maybe holing up in some anonymous motel under an assumed name to drink horrible liqueurs and nurse his psychic wounds. Or taking a dive off a convenient bridge into the bay. But in retrospect, we should have known that he would go to ground with the thing he loved most in the world: his detector.

  Loved most behind Rosa, or before?

  I got out of the car, and the others followed. The day was still beautiful, but now, transformed by the savage attack on Rosa, it possessed an air of numinous menace, like a bejeweled fish with venomous spines.