The Insatiables

by Brittany Terwilliger

  “It just says 52.”

  “Mmhmm, 52 . . . okay, that’s not what I ordered for you. Let me make a phone call and I’ll call you back.”

  I hung up, and my phone immediately rang again. Clive.

  “Halleyamyesmokingdozenotfeet,” he said.

  “What?” I said.

  “Eestoobeeg,” he repeated.

  “Oh good,” I said. “You have Anthony’s tux and he has yours. You guys need to switch.”

  Celeste tumbled into a laughing fit that made her face turn red. Her nose made snorting sounds.

  Clive hung up, and I lowered my phone.

  She continued to smile and I wondered if this meant I was forgiven. I didn’t have the guts to bring it up.

  I called Anthony back but Clive had already texted him about the mix-up. Celeste motioned to a passing banquet staffer and ordered the espresso I hadn’t had a chance to get for her yet. In the nearly-setup event space, the entertainers practiced, then gathered on the floor for a group meeting with the entertainment coordinator. When I looked down at the army of people I’d hired, for a second I was amazed that I’d orchestrated something so huge. Occasionally they looked up at me or pointed me out, and I felt a little bit like the president of some small principality, pretending to be in control. I imagined most of the night’s guests, back at the hotel by now, showering and blow drying and zipping and fixing cuff links. Soon they’d be trickling down to the hotel bar to listen to the live jazz, sip pre-gala drinks and munch on cheese straws, their temporary happiness hinging on me.

  Susanne was in touch with the transportation company and announced that the buses were staged in front of the hotel. The police escort was there too—hired by Susanne to ride ahead of the buses and clear traffic. Without them the rush hour commute would have taken hours. She alerted me when the first bus departed. So far, we were running exactly on time.

  As the minutes ticked by, I got more anxious. No, maybe anxious wasn’t the right word. I was jumping out of my skin with anticipation. That magic moment was almost upon us, the moment when guests caught their first glimpse of the wonderland I’d designed especially for them. Entertainment was staged. The bartender started pouring our signature cocktail, a square rosé spritzer, into hundreds of Tantalus-branded glasses that were lined up on the bar. Tuxedoed waiters collected the drinks on trays and walked over to the room entrance where attendees could take a glass as they walked in. Celeste, Suzanne, and I put in our earpieces, and attached the two-way radios to our waistbands. Then we waited.

  I walked out to the casino entrance to watch the police escort pull up. Although the sun shone, the air was cold, and I hugged my arms around myself. Soon the flashing blue lights of a white motorcycle pulsed into view. The first bus stopped at the end of the red carpet and the first guests descended. Smoking jackets. Lacy cocktail dresses. Red lips. Shoes buffed to a glossy shine. I’d hired a crew of fake paparazzi and cameramen to photograph and interview everyone on their way up the red carpet. The video cameras were hooked into a live feed inside the ballroom, so the people inside could watch others arrive. Random tourists started to gather in the lobby to see what was happening, see which celebrity they were about to encounter. I didn’t want to tell them it was all fake. The tuxedos, the red carpet, the camera flashes—I’d constructed them to simulate a more profound, more beautiful reality, although I wondered now whether it wasn’t the other way around. Whether it was the simulation which was constructing us. The tourists took pictures with their cameras.

  At the end of the red carpet, two dapper casino staff members stood on either side of the entryway leading into the ballroom, opening and closing doors. Inside, contemplative underground lounge music circled and thudded. Waiters stood with trays of pink Tantalus cocktails for the taking, and more waiters approached with canapes: poached quail eggs with smoked salmon and caviar, sliced roast duck on discs of sweet potato, foie gras terrine with apple chutney. On the left side of the room, the Tantalus-spotlit crystal glowed. Guests photographed the two sober-faced bodyguards as if they were amusement park characters. On the right was a table with the giveaway bow ties, flowers, and a mirror. Straight ahead, the ice bar. In the foreground, scattered around the room, leather-clad men and women danced on white glowing cubes, as if under water. Aerial dancers hung from the ceiling, winding around long white silks that almost reached the floor. Two smooth, tan, almost-nude men performed a body art act on stage, muscles rippling. One of the men stood in a headstand while the other climbed up his body and held himself in a perfect T across his torso. At the back of the room, two models were being painted in six-foot watercolors by live artists, one standing and the other lying seductively on a lush white chaise. Projected onto a screen was a digital countdown on a black background, slowly making its way to zero. It was impossible to take all of it in at once. Standing in the middle of it, no matter where you looked, a hundred details passed you by.

  I returned to my post at the dim corner table where Celeste still sat. We had a perfect bird’s-eye view of everything from there. My eyes scanned the growing crowd for Rousseau. I wanted him to see what I’d done here, this world I’d imagined into being. It felt representative of me, as if he might understand me better by seeing it. And, somewhere in my heart, despite the confusion and the anger I felt about what he’d done, I still believed we could go back to the way we had once been.

  But he wasn’t here. I didn’t know where he was. No one mentioned his absence, he simply ceased to exist, leaving in his wake only memories.

  Soon it was time for Anthony to go onstage and deliver the welcome. When the countdown clock reached five minutes, I made sure his video was loaded, and then went to get him mic’d and ready. I found him standing in a cluster with some VIP customers, drinking a gin and tonic. When I signaled to him, he asked me to go to the bar and get him a Tantalus cocktail for the toast.

  A French A/V technician clipped the black lav to Anthony’s lapel and ran the thin wire under his tuxedo jacket, securing the battery pack on the belt at his back, as I approached with his pink drink. When he saw me, he turned and said, “This is nice, Halley. Good job.”

  It was the only time Anthony ever complimented me. Actually, it was the only time I ever heard him compliment anyone. All at once I felt the glamour of the moment raining down upon me in tiny, shimmery flecks of gold. And then, almost as soon as it came, it was gone. I looked around, struck with the desire to go back and do it all over again, to soak up that feeling until it penetrated me permanently. If I’d known how lovely it was going to be, I’d have paid more attention.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, wishing I had a better word.

  The muscled body art guys left the stage as the countdown clock reached ten seconds. The crowd began to shout. “EIGHT . . . SEVEN . . . SIX . . . FIVE . . . FOUR . . . THREE . . . TWO . . . ONE!”

  BANG, a row of cold pyrotechnics shot off onstage, the lights in the room went out and the music went silent. The crowd cheered. The room was lit only by the ice bar and pedestals. The A/V tech started the video, a whirly music-pumped montage of product graphics and client testimonials that hyped the room into a united goosebumped fever. When the video ended, a spotlight followed Anthony onstage. For fifteen minutes he talked about Findlay, about the Tantalus and what it would mean to customers. He shared a few anecdotes about lives that had already been changed. There may have been a few tears shed in the audience. Then he held up his Tantalus cocktail and toasted our success.

  “To the Tantalus,” he said.

  “The Tantalus!” they repeated, clinking and drinking.

  Anthony gave the nod, and the DJ in the sound booth announced dinner. Jazz music came on the speaker system. As the group turned toward the balconies, where the tables were set, the lights were raised and the little white stars began to glow.

  It was almost time for Gus’s big entrance. I looked for the entertainment coordinator, but he was
backstage taking advantage of the break to scarf down some food. All the performers were on a break except for the bodyguards, who still stood on either side of the Tantalus crystal with their crossed arms and their black sunglasses, forbidden to break character.

  The main course was served. I started getting antsy. Attendees trickled out to smoke and go to the bathroom. Stuart Nadeau, of the Nashville Marriott biohazard incident, loitered on the main floor, obviously drunk. I wondered what mayhem he was going to cause tonight.

  When the last waiter had served the last dessert, the balcony lighting began to dim. A spotlight trained in on two guys dressed like ninjas in black, “thieves” coming to steal the Tantalus crystal. They shimmied down some ropes on the right side of the stage. At the same time, three of our dancers walked by and “lured” the bodyguards away from their post. The crystal stood on its pedestal glowing and unprotected. One of the thieves grabbed it theatrically with his black-gloved hands and ran back toward the ropes. Another spotlight focused on a slick and tuxedoed Gus, as he emerged on a high platform near the ceiling, stage left. He took a deep breath, raised his arms above his head, grabbed the metal handles of the zip line and zoomed like lightning across the room, screaming all the way down. At the end of the line he crashed feet-first into Stuart Nadeau, who went flying into the starry wall and crumpled like a doll onto the floor. Gus tumbled next to him with a double roll and lay there for a few seconds, dazed. Then he stood up and walked toward the ninja crystal thief, who had started toward him to make sure he was okay. They engaged in a very mild version of the pre-choreographed fight scene that Gus had refused to practice, and Gus recovered the crystal in the end, holding it up and taking a bow. The audience cheered through their tarte tatins, delighting in the pleasure of our artifice.

  But Stuart didn’t move. I radioed Suzanne to call the med tech I’d requested, who was supposed to be waiting backstage to give Gus a once-over. She confirmed, and as the applause died down, two men discreetly carried Stuart out of the room, while Gus limped along behind them.

  I returned to my corner table, where Celeste rested her lame foot on a chair. The DJ cranked the music. Lauren and Max were the first up to dance.

  “Anthony said ‘good job’ to me,” I said.

  I should have been happy now, exhilarated. But I wasn’t, really. Now that it was over, it all seemed like no big deal. All the triumphs and the glory in the world wouldn’t stop time. And that was what we really wanted, wasn’t it? To remain stuck in the golden moments forever.

  “My leg is killing me,” Celeste said.

  “You should go. The first bus should be outside already.”

  “I think I’ll take a cab. I don’t want to climb the bus steps.”

  “I’ll radio Susanne to call one for you.”

  I helped her up, grabbed her purse, and walked alongside as she crutched her way through the throng of dancers, up the steps, and down the red carpet to the casino entrance. She didn’t look at me as she lowered into the taxi. I pushed her purse and crutches in after her and held the door open.

  “Celeste, I’ve been wanting to say something.”

  She sighed exasperatedly. “What?”

  “Even if we can’t be friends again, I want you to know that I’m sorry and I love you. I would reverse it all if I could.”

  Celeste’s face went gray with fury. Her hand shook as she reached for the open door, grabbed the handle and pulled it closed.

  As I watched the taxi pull away, hugging my arms around myself, Suzanne’s voice squawked through my earpiece.

  “Halley?”

  I took a deep breath and held the button down. “This is Halley.”

  “The man, Stuart,” Suzanne said, “the one who got hit by the feet of Gus? He is dead.”

  37

  I stood backstage as the police questioned Gus, the casino manager, and the entertainment coordinator. The idea that Gus had premeditated an assassination by zip line would have been funny if the result hadn’t been so dismal. Stuart’s body was eventually taken away to be held for repatriation. The police assured us the death would be ruled an accident and said they’d get in touch with the local consulate.

  On the other side of the curtain, the dance floor was full. Anthony was three sheets to the wind—something I’d never seen before—and decided it was a good idea to get up on stage with Lauren and do the “Thriller” dance. I guess even a guy like Anthony needed to lose himself every once in a while. His wife, Annabella, had disappeared. The videographer thought this was too good a spectacle not to project onto the big screen, and soon everyone else stopped what they were doing to watch.

  “Halley! Halley!” Jamie shouted at me. She was out of breath and all in a frazzle. After all, any damage to Anthony’s image was a blow to hers as well. I shifted backward to look her in the eye. “You . . . have to . . . get him . . . out of there! Look . . . people are taking videos . . . on their phones!”

  “I’ll get the videographer to take him off the big screen,” I said.

  I spoke a few words into my mouthpiece and Susanne passed the message on to the videographer. In a few seconds, the video switched to a floor shot.

  “He’s still dancing!” she shouted.

  I looked at her.

  “Well!” she said, “make him stop!”

  “Look,” I said, “it’s going to embarrass him if I yank him offstage mid-‘Thriller.’”

  “Go tell him there’s a phone call for him or something.”

  I looked around and then back at her again. “The song’s almost over. Can we just let it go?”

  “Do it, Halley,” she said. “Do it now.”

  I studied her face. Her “Rachel” haircut. The stiff lines around her mouth and the threatening glint in her eyes. I thought about dead Stuart on his way to the morgue, evil Molly, Anthony’s ‘good job,’ Celeste’s silent rage, Phil Collins, Rousseau. Suddenly I felt very tired. Tired of everything.

  “No,” I said.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I mean no,” I said. “If you want to get him off the stage, do it yourself.”

  She stared at me in semi-drunk, incredulous rage.

  “You know who I’m meeting with tomorrow, don’t you?” she said.

  I looked at her and shrugged.

  “Gus,” she said with a smile.

  Then she turned and walked back to her table.

  I stepped out of the ballroom to get some air. Darren sat at the bar in the casino lobby, ashen-faced, chugging a glass of water.

  “Hey,” I said as I approached.

  The bartender glanced at me and I pointed to Darren’s glass. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

  “Vodka soda,” Darren said.

  “Oh,” I said. “Even better.”

  His eyes glistened. “I quit my job.”

  “What?”

  The bartender set a fresh drink on a little square napkin in front of me.

  “Yep,” he said. “I was talking to Gus right before he left. Asked him for a promotion. I figured I deserved it, since I’ve been the one doing most of the work around here. But he said no.”

  “No, now, or no never?”

  “I don’t know. Just no. He tried to tell me I was lucky to have had this opportunity, that the company cared about me, and I just lost it. Told him he has been exploiting me. Then I quit.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He said he’d alert HR, then he took The Backpack, got in a taxi, and left.”

  “Look, he’s had kind of a rough night,” I said. “He zip lined a guy to death. He’s not thinking clearly.”

  Darren’s eyes widened. “Wait, Stuart died?”

  I took a big swig. “Yep. Your prophecy has been realized.”

  “Wow.” He stared at his hands. “I didn’t think he’d actually die though. That�
�s terrible.”

  “Anyway,” I said, reaching out to touch his shoulder, “I’m sure you can go to Gus tomorrow, tell him you changed your mind.”

  “No,” Darren hardened. “Fuck him. And fuck Findlay. There’s no future for me here, except more of the same old shit.” He sucked down the remainder of his drink and waved to the bartender for another one.

  I sat there with him silently for a while, no idea what to say.

  “Max did a half-assed autopsy on that cat he killed,” Darren said. “You know what he found? Nothing. No cameras, no surveillance. It was just a regular cat. You know how many people have tried to steal The Backpack in all the time I’ve had it? Zero. I’ve never used that Taser once. Kathleen, Gus’s wife he divorced because she was supposedly ‘revealing trade secrets’ to his enemies, swore up and down that she’d never spoken to Tim Cook or Jeff Bezos in her life. It’s bullshit. It’s all bullshit.”

  The bartender brought Darren’s refill, and Darren took the lime wedge off and set it on a cocktail napkin. He took a big drink before he started talking again.

  “Gus is just paranoid,” he said, letting out a small hiccup. “He has accumulated all this stuff, and now his ego is so dependent on all of it that he spends every waking moment terrified of losing it. Actually, I think it feeds his ego, this fantasy that he’s such a big shot and his projects are so important that Jeff Bezos and Tim Cook are desperate to steal them. That’s the answer to our question, Halley. That’s what’s waiting for us after we’ve done our time. It never gets better, not even when you reach the top. It’s just more of the same. It’s a rat race. And I want out.”

  “So what are you going to do now?” I asked.

  He looked solemn. “My uncle has an insurance agency down in Lexington. He said I could come work for him.”

  It sounded so dismal, and I wondered if he would end up regretting it. Maybe he just needed a break, some time to get back on his feet, and then he’d be back at it again. Or maybe not. Maybe we were shooting stars, meant to burn brightly and then burn out.