Kings of Infinite Space: A Novel

by James Hynes

  He glanced round the table, and J.J. and Bob Wier nodded eagerly. Olivia glanced wildly at Paul, as if afraid he might get away.

  “I, uh, can’t make it tonight.” Rick tapped his own wrist-watch, and he put his palms on the table, preparing to heave himself up. “I have other, uh . . . I won’t be able to . . .”

  “How about tomorrow morning?” snapped Olivia, restraining Rick with a hand. “Saturday morning, Paul?” she said, fixing Paul with her gaze. “Can you meet me here tomorrow?”

  Before Paul could say a word, Colonel grasped his wrist and said, “Yes he can, on one condition.”

  Olivia glanced furiously from Colonel to Paul and back again. Rick subsided into his seat. “What condition?” she said.

  “Well, it seems we can’t prevail upon our redoubtable leader here to favor us with a tune this evening.” Colonel glanced at Rick, who looked like a whipped dog. “But surely Olivia will grace us with her presence,” Colonel continued. “Perhaps the SMU fight song. Or even a cheer or two.”

  Olivia scowled. She was clearly calculating just how much face she could afford to lose.

  “Because if you put in an appearance,” Colonel went on, “I can guarantee the professor here will be at your beck and call tomorrow morning, bright and early.”

  “Wait a minute . . . ,” Paul began, and Colonel silenced him with a really brutal squeeze of his wrist.

  “Go Ponies,” said Colonel, crinkling his eyes at Olivia.

  Olivia lifted her eyebrows at Paul.

  “Professor?” said Colonel. “Tomorrow morning? Eight A.M.?”

  “Sure,” said Paul, miserably. He and Olivia would be alone, but at least it would be daylight.

  “That’s settled, then.” Colonel popped his laser pointer into his breast pocket and placed his palms on the tabletop. “I believe y’all will find an e-mail in your inbox with directions to Casa Pentoon.” He stood, and J.J. and Bob Wier stood as well. The meeting was over.

  “And remember!” cried Colonel, as Olivia minced out the door. “Everybody sings!”

  THIRTY

  “I CAN’T DO IT,” Paul said.

  “Can’t do what?” Callie’s passenger door was open, and she already had one foot on the curb.

  “I can’t go in there.” Paul had stopped his noisy little car in front of Colonel Travis Pentoon’s house in Westhill, the well-to-do community across the river from Lamar. The sun had still been up when he and Callie had entered the labyrinth of winding, leafy streets, and even though Colonel lived in the flatter, more down-market region of the neighborhood—the really expensive homes were higher up, along private drives or behind security gates—Paul had gotten lost. As the rat-a-tat of his decrepit old Colt reverberated off the creamy walls of $200,000 ranch houses, twilight had slowly gathered under the carefully tended stands of live oak. Callie hadn’t been any help; instead of navigating, she had frankly rubbernecked, bending towards Paul to peer out his window or hanging halfway out her own to get a good look at someone’s cavernous two-car garage or expensively landscaped lawn.

  “Dang,” she breathed. “Ain’t we in a drought? How do they keep the grass so green?”

  Paul had said nothing. He was searching among the looming hedges and ornamental shrubbery for the sign to Wicker Way, Colonel’s street.

  “They must spend more on water,” Callie said, “than I do on rent.”

  At last Paul had found the street, and they had crept through the twilight until they found the address stenciled on the curb. Colonel’s long, redbrick ranch house sat a little lower than the street, under the canopy of a huge, old live oak that filled the front lawn like a banyan tree. One massive branch stretched out and up from the broad-chested trunk, like a bodybuilder flexing his biceps. A couple of Japanese lanterns hung motionlessly from the branch in the breathless heat, casting a mellow glow over a limestone-bordered Japanese garden and a little flagstone walk. Another red lantern hung over the imposing front door instead of a porch light. Colonel’s enormous SUV was berthed out of sight somewhere, but three other cars—a family minivan that must have been Bob Wier’s and a couple of newish subcompacts—were parked in his wide driveway. Paul couldn’t even bring himself to switch off the engine, and his car rattled angrily in place. The last thing he wanted to do tonight was spend more time with these people.

  “What’s the problem?” Callie said. She was wearing the same skirt she had worn on their first date and a tight tee that bared her upper arms and displayed an inch and a half of belly button. “Is it the singing?

  “No,” Paul said. Having to sing was only a fraction of what made him anxious. What did his three lunch companions want from him? What was Colonel going to reveal to him this evening? And who knew what bourgeois horrors awaited him in Colonel’s suburban castle? And (he wondered, way at the back of his brain), how could Colonel afford a house like this on a TxDoGS salary? Worst of all, Olivia was going to be here. Even if he managed to relax in front of the men, how could he possibly relax in front of her? How could he enjoy an evening with Olivia when the next day, Saturday morning, he was going to be alone with her in the darkened cubescape at work? And did he really want to hear her sing?

  Callie got out and slammed her door, and she came around the front of the car and bent at Paul’s window like a traffic cop. “Step out of the car, mister.”

  “Callie, let’s just go.”

  “No way, cowboy.” She lifted the handle on Paul’s door and hauled it open on its groaning hinges. She leaned past him and switched off the engine, and the car coughed into silence, leaving the enthusiastic suburban crickets to fill the swelling darkness. Then she squeezed onto his lap, careful not to bang the horn, crooked her arm around his neck, and faced him nose to nose.

  “So fess up,” she said. “How long have you known about this evening, and when were you planning to tell me?”

  “I only found out about it today,” Paul lied. The pressure of Callie’s backside on his lap, the steady throb of her pulse in the long curve of her throat, the mild heat of her breath on his cheek—all were making it hard for Paul to maintain his stubbornness. He nuzzled her neck, but she tipped his head back with her finger.

  “You know what I think?” Thank, she said. “I think you didn’t want your coworkers to see you with your little trailer trash girlfriend.”

  Paul groaned, aroused and annoyed all at once. He locked his gaze with Callie’s and said, “That’s not true.” And, mirabile dictu, it wasn’t. It was the other way around—Paul didn’t want his lively new lover to see what a bunch of losers he worked with.

  “They already know about us,” Paul said, “or at least Colonel does. He told me to bring you.”

  “Whatever.” Callie pressed her cheek to his and whispered in his ear. “You promised me a night out.” She bit his earlobe. “If you were planning to get lucky tonight, you better deliver.” Then she was off his lap and out of the car, her heels clicking up Colonel’s twee little flagstone walk.

  Paul caught up to her breathlessly at the door. In the glow of the paper lantern, Callie straightened her shoulders and gave the hem of her top a pert tug. Then she pressed the bell, and inside the house they heard a recording of a gong, a long, muffled clang. Paul started to laugh and Callie slapped his arm, but before either could say a word, the door swung open and a tiny Japanese woman in an orange track suit lined with racing stripes beckoned them in.

  “Welcome!” she said, with an aggressive smile. Her hair was loose and attractively streaked with gray. “You must be Paul!”

  “And this is Callie,” Paul said.

  “Hey.” Callie stuck out her hand.

  “I am Yasumi, Colonel’s wife.” She took Callie’s hand and then Paul’s, giving each a brisk, efficient shake. “Or, as we sometime say, I am Mrs. Colonel, ha ha. Mind your step.”

  She led them at a trot down through a sunken living room, lit only by a single, dim lamp, and Paul glimpsed paper scrolls and a Japanese screen and a sixties-vintage fireplace
with a low mantle. The room smelled of air freshener.

  “You find us easy?” asked Yasumi without looking back.

  “Yes,” said Paul, hurrying to keep up as the orange track suit retreated into the gloom.

  “We got lost,” said Callie.

  “It’s not so hard,” said Yasumi. “Down the steps. Low clearance. Mind how you go.”

  Because it was built on a slope, Colonel’s house had that rarest of domestic amenities in central Texas—a basement. Paul and Callie followed Yasumi single file down a narrow, carpeted stairway, paneled in plywood and hung with framed photographs of Colonel in uniform. Paul held back to look at the pictures, but at the bottom of the stairs Yasumi ushered Callie past her and then gestured briskly for Paul.

  “No time!” she said, smiling ferociously. “You look at pictures later. We almost start without you!”

  Paul reluctantly turned away from a photo of a younger, thinner Colonel at attention in a dress uniform, behind an enormous cake that read DUTY, FREEDOM, HONOR in red, white, and blue frosting. At the bottom of the stairs, Paul stepped into the brighter light of a long, paneled basement. To the right of the stairs a plywood partition with a plain wooden door in the middle cut across the room, but to the left the room ran all the way to the end of the house. The long walls of the basement were hung with movie posters—The Great Escape, Bullitt, Seven Samurai, but also Gigi, My Fair Lady, and The Umbrellas of Cherbourg. Immediately to the left of the stairs, in an alcove in the inside wall, a bar with two padded stools was backed with a mirror and an impressive array of bottles; on the wide bar top were platters of cold cuts, crackers, cheese, and crudités, and a stack of plastic plates and cutlery. Across from the bar, the outside wall was interrupted by a wide, glass sliding door. Beyond the glass, and through his own reflection and the glare of the room, Paul saw a couple more paper lanterns shining from the branches of a live oak, and a lawn sloping away into the dark.

  “Professor!” cried Colonel from the far end of the room. He stood on a small, raised platform behind an array of electronic equipment upholstered in black and hung with a tangle of wires. A wide projection TV screen hung on the wall, and two black speakers as tall as Colonel’s wife flanked the little stage. Colonel picked up his drink and stepped down from the platform. He was out of uniform this evening, in an immense Hawaiian shirt splashed with giant red-and-orange flowers, a pair of loose cotton trousers, and big plastic sandals. Paul had never seen Colonel in a short-sleeved shirt before, but he was not surprised to see that the man had arms like a stevedore’s.

  “You found us!” Colonel swung gut first round a couch and an assortment of comfortable chairs—an old, overstuffed armchair, a plush loveseat, a La-Z-Boy—arranged in a semicircle facing the platform. “We were about to send out a search party.”

  Despite its tidiness, the basement had a musty smell, as if the carpet had been soaked and improperly dried. Paul worried it might squish under his feet and fill his sandals with brackish water.

  Colonel swung his hand in a wide circle and met Paul’s in a crushing grip; his bulging forearm was thickly carpeted with steel-gray hair. “She’s a firecracker.” He winked towards Callie, his breath a haze of Rémy Martin. “I can see already that she’s going to be the life of the party. Drink?”

  Behind the bar, Colonel made up a scotch and water for Paul, while Paul worked his fingers to restore his circulation and watched Callie introducing herself at the far end of the room. As Yasumi chaperoned, Callie shook hands all around, even with Olivia. She was glowing from within, like one of the paper lanterns outside, and Paul could tell, with a mixture of embarrassment and tenderness, that Callie was prepared to enjoy herself, that she meant to be a little loud and flirty this evening. She was swinging her shoulders and shaking hands vigorously with a flushed Bob Wier, who looked like Pat Boone in a pullover, slacks, and penny loafers without socks.

  “What can I fix your lady?” asked Colonel. “She looks like a Wild Turkey gal to me.”

  “Sure,” said Paul. J.J. eyed Callie hungrily from the La-Z-Boy, where he reclined in a pair of sharply pressed trousers, a blue, double-breasted blazer, and a fiery red ascot. A pair of narrow Italian-style loafers were propped on the chair’s footrest, and he held a martini at a dangerous angle, the skewered olive threatening to pitch over the lip of the glass. He looked like a surly adolescent masquerading as Dean Martin. Olivia sat by herself at the corner of the couch, perched right on the edge, her legs tightly crossed, improbably attractive in a tight pink top and a pair of capri pants that showed off her firm cheerleader calves. She cradled a drink in both hands and directed her sour expression particularly at Callie. She looked like a prom queen in mufti, forced to socialize below her station.

  Colonel gestured at the food and said, “Fix yourself a plate.” Then he handed Paul his scotch and a tall whisky for Callie, and he came around the bar and gave Paul a manly squeeze around the shoulders. “Better fix her one, too, huh?” he added, in a lubricious murmur. “Bet she has an appetite, am I right?”

  He sailed off, carrying his own drink, and Paul crept after him, trying to look invisible.

  “Gang’s all here!” announced Colonel. “It’s showtime!”

  “Oh, goody!” said Yasumi, clapping her hands.

  “Everybody topped up?” asked Colonel.

  J.J. blearily waved his glass in the air.

  “Outstanding!” said Colonel, hopping up onto the platform.

  Callie took her drink from Paul, and she smoothed her skirt and sat on the loveseat, tugging Paul down next to her. Immediately Yasumi bent to whisper something in her ear, and Callie blushed and stammered, “Oh gosh, sure. I didn’t know.” She stood and pulled Paul up with her, leading him to the couch.

  “The loveseat’s reserved,” she murmured to Paul, who was alarmed to find himself in the middle of the couch, with Callie hotly clutching his hand on the left and Olivia stiffly ignoring him on his right. Callie sniffed her drink, then squeezed his hand and leaned against him.

  “Wild Turkey,” she whispered happily. “How did you know?”

  Yasumi kicked off her track shoes and curled up on the love-seat with her feet under her. Bob Wier settled into the overstuffed armchair, holding a can of Sprite with the tips of his fingers. His wide, fixed smile was belied by his eyes, which looked as if he expected someone to sneak up behind him.

  On the platform, Colonel moved to center stage and cleared his throat into a hand microphone, and out of the speakers came a seismic rumble that resonated in Paul’s chest and rattled the bottles behind the bar. Yasumi theatrically clapped her hands over her ears and shouted, “Too damn loud!” Colonel adjusted a knob on a console to his right and cleared his throat again; the rumble wound down to a tremor. Yasumi gave him two thumbs-up. Colonel sipped his drink and lifted the microphone.

  “Good evening, colleagues,” he said, his voice bounding off the plywood all around. “Good evening, ladies. Welcome to Casa Pentoon. For those of you who’ve never joined us before,” Colonel intoned, “what we’re working with here is the Murakami MeisterSinger 9.1, a professional, Japanese karaoke machine.” He placed a paternal hand on the matte black console to his right. “You can’t get them here in the States. Hell, even in Japan you can’t even get one for home use. This mean, song-slinging son of a bitch comes with six thousand songs already stored up.” He tightened his grip on the corner of the console, as if he were ruffling its hair. “You heard me right, compadres. Six thousand songs. If it’s got lyrics and a melody, it’s in here.”

  From the depths of his chair, J.J. shakily saluted the mighty MeisterSinger with his glass. Yasumi clasped her hands tightly before her, her eyes wide with devotion. Even Callie, pressed to Paul’s side, looked flushed and happy.

  “Of course, this puppy’s got a few custom modifications of my own design.” Colonel paused to sip his drink. “Some of y’all know what I’m talking about,” he added, to knowing laughter from J.J., Bob Wier, and Yasumi, “while the rest
of you have some surprises in store.”

  “Patton!” shouted J.J.

  “Shh!” hissed Yasumi, with a sharp glance at the La-Z-Boy.

  Colonel dipped his head modestly and lifted his drink. “I’m not promising anything,” he said. “We’ll see how it goes.”

  Yasumi cupped her mouth as if she were shouting across a stadium and said loudly, “Sit down!”

  Colonel raised his glass. “We who are about to sing, salute you,” he said. “Let the games begin.” He stepped to the controls and flicked some switches; a row of little red lights on the console streaked to its fullest extent, then subsided. The projection screen behind him flickered to life, showing a soft-focus view of a garden, a slow-motion shower of cherry petals. As “Sukiyaki” oozed through the speakers and the row of red lights pulsed, Colonel worked a dimmer switch that lowered the lights in the basement. He bent to a little microphone in the console.

  “Who’d like to go first?” he breathed, his jowls devilishly limned by the red lights.

  To Paul’s horror, Callie shifted eagerly on the couch next to him, unlocking her grip on his fingers to slowly raise her hand. But before Paul could snatch her arm down, Yasumi had shot to her feet.

  “I go first,” she said. “Break the ice.” She leaped barefoot onto the platform and seized the microphone. “You know what I want to hear,” she said, and Colonel gazed into a little monitor next to the console and worked a touch pad. Then he gave his wife a kiss, stepped down off the platform, and settled heavily on the loveseat, spreading his orangutan arms wide. A throbbing eighties beat pounded from the speakers, and on screen appeared a twenty-year-old work-out video, showing ripe young women in tights and leg warmers and headbands, swinging their asses and pumping their arms. The words to the song crawled across the bottom of the screen in purple letters.

  “ ‘Let’s get phys-i-cal, phys-i-cal,’ ” sang Yasumi, only half an octave below a tuneless Yoko Ono screech, “ ‘I wanna get phys-i-cal, phys-i-cal.’ ” She bounced up and down on her toes, punching the air for emphasis. “ ‘Let me hear your body talk, body talk.’ ”