Wonders Never Cease

by Tim Downs

  She grinned. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Just bring us some beer and glasses,” Kemp said. “Clean ones if you’ve got any.”

  The waitress winked and waded back into the sea of bodies.

  Wes finally addressed the issue of the unexpected visitor. “Who’s your friend, Kemp? When you called this emergency meeting I assumed it would be private. No offense, sir.”

  “None taken,” Emmet said. “You must be Mr. Kalamar, since you’re the youngest of the three. That would make you the publisher.”

  Wes didn’t reply.

  Emmet turned to Biederman. “And you must be Mr. Biederman—the talent agent, Mr. Kemp said. Is that right?”

  Biederman just looked at Kemp.

  Last of all Emmet turned to Tino, who had said nothing so far. “That would make you the man from Baltimore—Mr. Gambatti, is it? The investor—the man with the pocketbook.”

  Tino kept his eyes fixed coldly on Emmet. “That’s odd. You seem to know all about us, but we don’t know anything about you.”

  Wes glared at Kemp. “You know, this is the second time you’ve expanded our membership without asking us.”

  “I can explain,” Kemp said. “Emmet works at the hospital—on the same floor I do. He’s not a nurse, he’s just a janitor. A couple of weeks ago, when we were working on—you know—our little project? Well, Emmet happened to—he sort of—”

  “I walked in on him,” Emmet said with a smile. “A man pretending to be an angel—never saw anything like it in all my born days. I remember seeing you a few days later, Mr. Biederman, come to pay a visit the moment that poor woman came out of her coma. Right nice of you, I remember thinking. A soul needs a friend at a moment like that—someone to lend a guiding hand when your mind is all muddy and confused.”

  Biederman looked as if he’d swallowed those Irish nachos.

  Emmet turned to Wes now. “And you, Mr. Kalamar. What a lucky man you must be—blessed, I’d call it. I heard about the new book coming out, and in record time—almost like you wrote it before it even happened.”

  Wes opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  Emmet looked at Tino last of all. “And Mr. Gambatti—I don’t know exactly what part you play in all this, but you sure know a good investment when you see one. Hookin’ up with these three—what a bargain that was.”

  “Emmet’s the second angel,” Kemp explained. “You know, the black one—the one Liv Hayden told Oprah about this afternoon. Hayden wasn’t just making it up, guys. Emmet figured out what we were doing—he came into Hayden’s room each night after I was finished and before she went back into her coma. He—he sort of—”

  “I threw in a few thoughts of my own,” Emmet said. “Sort of a closing comment, you might say—a different take on things.”

  Wes Kalamar looked at him indignantly. “You did what? Who do you think you are?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Are you a writer? Have you ever published anything? Do you have any concept of character development or plot or pacing? Do you have any idea how to—”

  Emmet interrupted. “Can you tell me how to get to Valencia?”

  “What?”

  “Valencia—can you give me directions?”

  “No,” Wes stammered. “I’ve never been to Valencia.”

  “Then I best get directions elsewhere,” Emmet said. “You don’t give directions to a place you never been.”

  “We’re wasting time,” Kemp said. “The point is, he knows—and he wanted to meet with all of you right away.”

  Tino glared at Kemp. “And you agreed.”

  “I had no choice—he threatened to tell if I didn’t. What difference does it make? He knows—he figured it out.”

  “He figured it out. All by himself.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did he figure out our names all by himself?”

  Kemp just stared.

  Emmet leaned across the table. “Mr. Kemp was nice enough to brief me on your names earlier this evening—just so’s I’d know who’s who.”

  “That was very thoughtful of him—and very bad for us.”

  “What’s the difference?” Kemp said impatiently. “He knows!”

  Tino slowly shook his head. “Bobby, you are a very stupid man.”

  “Huh?”

  “Why do you think this man wanted to meet the rest of us? Because he only knew about your involvement; he didn’t know about the rest of us until you told him. If he had tried to blackmail you, I could have easily killed him—after all, he could only have exposed you, and why would I care about that? But thanks to your stupidity, now he can expose all of us. You’ve practically made him a partner, you fool.”

  Kemp looked at Emmet.

  Emmet nodded. “That’s about the size of it.”

  Kemp tried his best to drum up some justification for his actions but could think of nothing.

  Tino ignored him and focused on Emmet instead. “Why did you want to meet with us, old man?”

  Emmet cleared his throat. “First of all, I wanted the chance to say to each and every one of you: Shame on you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Shame on you—shame on each of you—for taking advantage of a poor young woman, and for putting words in the mouth of the Almighty. You ought to be ashamed—and fearful too, though I imagine you’re all too thickheaded to know it.”

  “That’s all you wanted? To slap our hands?”

  Emmet paused. “No. I want in.”

  Tino smiled. “Of course you do. Why should a little shame cause you to miss out on a business opportunity like this?”

  “I like to think some good can still come from all this,” Emmet said.

  “Why not? A new car, maybe—or a couple of weeks in Vegas.”

  “The point is, I know who you are and I know your whole plan, and that makes me practically a partner—you said it yourself. Like it or not, a part of this ‘message’ belongs to me—and I think that entitles me to something. Fair is fair.”

  “And what do you consider fair—exactly?”

  “I’m a reasonable man with reasonable needs. I been thinkin’ it over. I don’t want to make it too hard on you boys. I was thinking maybe . . . ten thousand dollars.”

  Kemp looked at him in disbelief. “Ten thousand? Is that all you—”

  Tino quickly held up a hand and silenced him. “Ten thousand dollars,” he said. “That’s a lot of money.”

  Emmet shrugged. “Fair is fair.”

  At that moment Kemp’s pager went off; he unclipped it from his belt and checked it. “It’s an emergency code,” he said. “I have to get back.”

  “You go on ahead,” Emmet told him. “I’m sure the four of us can wrap things up without you. You go on—they need you at the hospital. I can fill you in later.”

  Kemp looked around the table and slowly got up from his chair. “I’ll go with whatever you guys decide,” he said.

  Tino nodded. “Yes, you will.”

  Kemp quickly disappeared into the crowd.

  Emmet watched until he saw the door open and close again—then he turned back to the rest of the partners. “Now down to business,” he said. “I want one million dollars—not a penny less.”

  Biederman stared at him in astonishment. “A million dollars? What happened to ten thousand? Did I miss something?”

  “I think you boys know I just said that for Mr. Kemp’s sake. He never would have left without some kind of offer on the table. I figured ten thousand would be just little enough to set his mind at ease.”

  “It set my mind at ease too,” Wes said. “What’s this nonsense about a million dollars?”

  “I want a cashier’s check,” Emmet said. “Make it out to cash.”

  Tino nodded admiringly. “Bobby didn’t really have to go back to the hospital, did he?”

  “You mean Mr. Kemp? Is that his real name?”

  “That’s right—Bobby Foscoe.”

  “I can
see why he changed it. I wouldn’t do that to a dog.”

  “Did you arrange the page?”

  Emmet nodded once. “Thought it might give the rest of us a chance to talk business.”

  “Fair enough. What’s on your mind?”

  “I told you—a million dollars.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  “The chance to keep doin’ what you’re doin’—that’s about all, really. See, when Mr. Kemp told me your names this evening I wrote ’em all down right away—I wrote down everything I saw and what I figure each of you did. I dropped that letter in a mailbox on the way down here—addressed it to a lawyer friend of mine. I told him that if anything should happen to me, he should mail that letter to the police.”

  “That was good thinking,” Tino said.

  “But a million dollars is out of the question,” Wes complained. “You have to be reasonable. The book’s barely out—there’s no revenue yet. There’s no way on earth we can—”

  “When do you want it?” Tino asked Emmet.

  “Saturday morning,” Emmet said calmly. “That’ll give you all day tomorrow.”

  “I appreciate that. Where? When?”

  “The lobby of UCLA Medical Center. My shift ends around seven; I like to tidy up a bit and grab a bite in the cafeteria. Meet me about nine.”

  “Done.”

  Wes and Biederman sat frozen in their chairs.

  “You—you just gave away a million dollars,” Wes said.

  “A million dollars of our money,” Biederman added.

  Emmet shook his head. “Mr. Kemp’s money.”

  “What?”

  “Why should you boys be out a million dollars? This is all Mr. Kemp’s fault—why shouldn’t he pick up the check?”

  Tino smiled.

  “I think Mr. Gambatti here already had that figured out,” Emmet said. “That’s why he’s sittin’ there grinnin’ like an old tomcat. He’s not out a million dollars—neither are you boys. Mr. Kemp is.”

  “How do we explain that to Kemp?” Wes asked.

  “We don’t,” Tino said. “We just tell him: his mistake, his money. Fair is fair—isn’t that right, Emmet?”

  “It is in my book. We have an understanding, then?”

  “We do—but there’s something I want you to understand.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll meet you in the lobby—I’ll bring your money—but after that I don’t expect to see you again. Don’t come back to us in six months and tell us your ‘reasonable needs’ have increased. That would make me very, very upset. Do we understand each other?”

  Emmet nodded.

  “You’re a very smart man, Emmet. It was a pleasure doing business with you—though I doubt Bobby will feel the same. You know, I believe you’re about as clever as your friend is stupid.”

  “He’s not my friend,” Emmet said.

  “He’s not mine either. You can pick your friends, but you can’t always pick the people you have to do business with.”

  “True enough.” Emmet rose from his chair and took a last look at each of the men. “Shame on you all,” he said again.

  “Shame on all of us,” Tino replied.

  Emmet squeezed between two students and vanished into the crowd.

  37

  Natalie sat on the edge of Leah’s bed and gently stroked the hair back from her eyes. It was almost eight in the morning; she had stopped in to check on her daughter hours ago and never left. In the half-light of the bedroom Leah’s face looked pale and wan; Natalie held the back of her hand up to Leah’s nose and mouth to feel the reassuring warmth of her breath. Six years old, she thought. It’s not fair—no one should have to go through what she’s been through when you’re only six years old. The shouting, the fighting, the stupid and senseless divorce—and now this. It’s just not fair.

  She looked at the side of Leah’s head and wondered what it would look like without hair; she imagined the horseshoe-shaped scar where the plate of bone would be removed to allow the surgeon access to her brain. She wondered if Leah would need radiation; she wondered if the hair would ever grow back on that spot. What’s wrong with me? My daughter has a tumor that could take her life, and I’m worried about whether she’ll have pretty hair. It’s not important, she told herself. It just doesn’t matter.

  But somehow it did.

  She heard the doorknob slowly turn and heard the hinges make a shrill squeak; she turned just in time to see Kemp poke his head into the room. When he opened his mouth to speak she quickly raised one stern finger to her lips, then eased her aching body from the bed and followed Kemp into the hallway. She quietly closed the door behind her.

  “I just got home,” Kemp said. “I couldn’t find you. I looked everywhere.”

  “It’s a two-bedroom house,” Natalie said. “How hard did you have to look?”

  “Sounds like somebody had a bad night.”

  Natalie glared at him. “Leah had her MRI yesterday—or don’t you remember?”

  “Yeah, sorry I couldn’t make it. I was about to, but something came up last minute. How’d it go?”

  “Fine. Thank you for your interest.”

  “C’mon, it was just an MRI. No big deal.”

  “Not to you, maybe. We work in a hospital, Kemp; we’re immune to all this stuff—all the needles and drugs and equipment. Leah is six years old—can you even remember that far back? She was afraid of the machine; they had to place an IV to sedate her a little. The nurse couldn’t find the vein in the back of her hand—it took her three tries. Leah was in tears.”

  “You’re a nurse—you could have done better than that. Why didn’t you do it yourself?”

  “Because I don’t like to cause my daughter pain. Does that make any sense to you at all?”

  “Not much. If you could do it on the first try, that’s less pain for Leah.”

  “I didn’t expect you to understand. I never expect you to understand anymore.”

  “Pardon me for making a practical suggestion.”

  “I don’t want practical suggestions—I wanted you to be there. I wanted you to sit beside me and hold my hand and tell me everything would be all right.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “If you don’t know the answer to that, you’ll never understand anything.”

  “Look, I didn’t know this was so important to you. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I shouldn’t have to tell you. You should have known.”

  “I don’t read minds, Natalie.”

  “Is that what I’m asking you to do—read my mind? Do you have to be a mind reader just to notice when I’m worried or anxious or afraid?”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Why didn’t you come yesterday?”

  “I told you, something came up last minute—I’ve got a lot going on right now.”

  “Your ‘business deal.’”

  “Our business deal.”

  “The one that’s going to save us from all our problems.”

  “Wait and see.”

  “You know, Kemp, I’m trying to believe you. I’m desperately trying to believe that all these extra hours and time away from me and Leah are because you’re trying to provide for our family—and not just because you’re a selfish, heartless jerk.”

  “Now wait just a—”

  “She has a tumor.”

  “What?”

  “Leah has a brain tumor. Her MRI showed a grape-sized tumor in the hippocampus of her brain. It’s putting pressure on the medial temporal lobe—they think it’s creating a condition called temporal lobe epilepsy.”

  “Epilepsy? But she’s never had a seizure.”

  “Maybe she has. They call them simple partial seizures—they don’t affect consciousness. The neurologist thinks that might be why Leah’s been seeing angels; people with temporal lobe epilepsy sometimes experience paranormal sensations. They sometimes see bright lights or hear voices; it’s possible they could even see angels.”r />
  “So what’s the prognosis?”

  “I talked to a neurosurgeon right after the MRI—he says the tumor’s operable, but it needs to come out right away. He can’t tell if it’s malignant until he removes it and they do a biopsy.”

  “Wow, that’s tough. Babe, I’m so sorry.” Kemp wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in close.

  Natalie rested her hands lightly on his hips. “Her surgery is Saturday.”

  Kemp pulled away and looked at her. “Tomorrow? What time tomorrow?”

  Natalie gave him a smoldering look. “Why?”

  “I’ve got this thing. It’s part of that deal.”

  “Change it. Reschedule. Cancel.”

  “I can’t. It’s important.”

  “It’s important,” Natalie repeated slowly.

  “Look, you have to understand—”

  “No—I don’t have to understand. I spent the whole afternoon imagining what you might say when I told you this news, and there’s only one thing I wanted to hear: ‘Of course I’ll be there, sweetheart—nothing on earth could keep me away.’ That’s what I wanted to hear from you, Kemp. That’s the only acceptable response—nothing else even comes close.”

  “What time is her surgery tomorrow? Maybe I can squeeze it in.”

  “Forget it. I don’t want to be ‘squeezed in’ to your precious schedule. Just once I was hoping to hear that Leah and I would come first—that you’d drop everything else to be there for us. I should have known better. Get out.”

  “What?”

  “Get out—right now. Take everything you can cram into that ridiculous car of yours, then come back and get the rest. I want you and everything you own out of this house by the end of the day.”

  “Where am I supposed to sleep?”

  “Where have you been sleeping? Start packing—right now. If I come back from that surgery tomorrow and find anything of yours left in this house, I swear I’ll take it out in the front yard, soak it with gasoline, and set it on fire.”

  “Calm down, babe. Let’s not get crazy here.”

  “I’m way past crazy, Kemp—I’m fed up and I’m terrified. My daughter could die, and she’s the only thing I have in this world. I sure don’t have you; I must have been out of my mind to ever think I did.”

  “This is nuts! You’re letting your emotions get the best of you. Tomorrow is the kickoff of this whole deal—it’s like opening day for a new business. I can’t miss that—there’s no way. I can’t help it if both things happen to take place on the same day. I didn’t schedule Leah’s surgery, you did—if you’d bothered to check with me first we might have avoided this whole thing.”