“Alright Ralph, spare me the speech. We don’t want to exhaust your vocabulary. Please give Saint Chief my apologies, and tell him I’ll be saying grace shortly. It’s just that this case has gotten so complex, I honestly haven’t had the time.”
Ralph shakes his head and frowns. “This case only got complex when you were given this case,” he says. “Just get her to a church somewhere and save her soul, Willie. That’s all you’re meant to do.”
“I’m working on it, Ralph,” I say, “but unfortunately not all of us have souls as perfectly toned as yours. Some of us need to work our souls back into shape, so to speak, and Fernanda Shore is one of those people. I’m trying to put this in a way that will make sense to you, Ralph, but from that look on your face, I fear I’m not succeeding.”
“You’d be wise to stop talking and start saving, detective, because they’ve got me down here till you do, and I’m not happy about it. You want to know what happens when I get unhappy?”
“I have no idea, but I’m guessing it involves a barbell.”
He growls and drops me back down onto the stool with a thud, which I take as my cue to start investigating just about anything other than Ralph. So I hightail it for the door, feeling pretty confident that I’ll lose him soon enough. Losing people just so happens to be a specialty of mine, and Ralph’s not exactly Sherlock Holmes or any other detective you could name with a clear conscience.
Back out in the endless corridors, Kafka’s nowhere to be found, and I’m admittedly lost myself, walking for what seems like miles. You could carpet the entire state of Delaware with what they’ve got laid down in that hotel. Delaware: The Carpet State. Not to mention the plant nursery you could establish just with the roses they’ve got on the side tables down these corridors. I mean it’s more or less the Rose Bowl Parade in corridor form, and I figure nobody will miss a little pink rose, and that this little pink rose may well find true fulfillment tucked into my buttonhole. Your finer Italian suit will come with the buttonhole already poked through the lapel with the understanding that this suit will need a pink rose to make it as devastating as it needs to be. Don’t ask me the point of the buttonhole on suit lapels, but once you’re gone and looking back, I think you’ll find that it’s often the pointless things that still mean the most.
Even with the buttonhole rosy, however, it can’t be denied that I’ve been walking so long it’s starting to feel like exercise, and I’m about ready to give in and call it a night when I catch sight of Kafka darting through an open doorway. I follow him into what may well be the Second Chance Society benefit, I’m thinking, which is exactly where I don’t want to be. The plant-works is no longer posted at the door, however, and as I poke my head around the corner, I see that this is not the same conference room at all. Same chandeliers, same tables, same stage, except the people are Saudi and the dancers are of the belly variety. A dozen of them are up on stage making enough fleshy magic to short circuit your average cardiovascular system, which makes me all the more grateful for my invigorating little stroll.
God bless Saudi Arabia, I’m thinking, and go ahead and bless Kafka too. Then, as usual, I’m wondering if God’s name inadvertently got me through to the switchboard there, in which case I’d really better get in an official prayer just as soon as I finish pondering the sacred mystery of the belly, which might somehow turn out relevant to the case. Not to mention the mystery of Kafka, who’s somehow managed to get himself a seat right up front with a table of sheiks in red and white headscarves matching the picnic-patterned tablecloths the hotel has laid out for the occasion. These people have got it together in the style department, excepting the fact that there are no women present except for those dancers, and I wouldn’t have minded a quick reunion with my former blue-scarved paramour, or at least a little hello.
In any case, I go right on up to Kafka’s table and introduce myself to the assembled sheikdom and their matching mustaches. Can’t really make out too much of what they say, what with the finger cymbals going up there on the stage, but from what I understand every single one of these fellas is called Mohamed.
“Think we could get a drink around here?” I say, which seems to get their attention. They come out with these sheikly smiles so tight I’m worrying we may have to call the house doctor for the treatment of pulled muscles. “Won’t you join us for tea,” one finally says in this British accent. Not sure who’s said it at first, but I take my cue from a little lifting of the mustache on the biggest one. Then he turns his head a millimeter or two and within milliseconds a few younger minor sheiks in matching headscarves but without the mustaches have surrounded the table with silver teapots, silver trays of little gold-painted glasses, and cookies with almonds laid on top. It’s almost enough to make you get excited about tea. I look over at Kafka, hoping he’s appreciating this, but Kafka’s discovering the female belly and may or may not realize that I’ve entered the room. Then the sheik’s pouring out tea from a height of about six feet, which makes the whole process into a sort of sporting event, and let me tell you he doesn’t spill a drop. I thank the whole table and promptly go back to those bellies, specifically the one being wiggled by a dark-haired beauty in pink and sequins. Most of the action’s in the hips, and they get to jumping so fast with those silver discs flying round that really it’s more than any man can handle, and I mean strictly from a mechanical point of view. She’s got a few gears in there that your average human being isn’t even aware of. They say we only use ten percent our brains, and I guess it’s the same with hips.
“Do they please you?” says the Mohamed next to me. I take a sip of tea and look back up to the stage to give this some proper reflection. Each of the girls is wearing a sequined arm band with a number on it, I now see, and occasionally a guy standing off in the wings in a pin-striped suit and a gold tie will make a little hand signal for one to dance off out of sight and out of competition. I’m rooting for twelve but am also partial to eight, or eleven, and twenty-four for that matter. “Do you have a favorite?” Mohamed says.
“I guess three plus seven plus eleven makes twenty one,” I say. “Though my math may be off and it’s twenty-two.” Mohamed laughs and slaps me on the back. Have to say I’m getting to like Mohamed, and that goes for them all, at least as far as our table is concerned. Give every indication of being comatose, but there’s a lot more going on than meets the eye.
Soon enough we’re down to ten bellies, and you can feel the tension mount. Over the speaker system a woman starts wailing like she’s being axed to a symphony of synthesizers, and the girls all line up and file down off the stage into the crowd. Three of them head straight for us, which is yet another advantage of being seated with a tableful of Mohameds with bank accounts. Before you know it, the girls are up on the table scattering almond cookies, such that you feel you’d be neglecting your duty as a man and a human being in general if you didn’t get up on that table and dance a turn yourself. Have to get a little boost from Mohamed, but he’s pleased to oblige, and soon he has all the gathered sheiks up on their feet and clapping with their hands in the air. I’m feeling good and throw caution to the wind, along with my suit jacket and my belt, including that rubied buckle. Getting the rhythm, I am. Moving to the music. Moving like it’s the last chance I may get to move like this for a while, because – and I don’t guess this needs to be said – nobody ever did a belly dance in heaven.
“Save some of that for later,” says number twelve through the veil as she dances up next to me, rolling her dark Arabian eyes as I undo the fourth button of my shirt. Jesus, she can move, and I do my best to pound my boots on the table in time with her bare heels.
“Your English is perfect,” I say, whipping that belly around such that they’ll have me in a spangled bikini before long.
“Yeah, well go figure,” she says. “They bussed us in from Colorado Springs. We do all the conferences up here.”
“The hands,” I say, doing a little wave from the fingers of my left hand to the
fingers of my right. “Never had the occasion to visit Colorado Springs, but explain to me about the hands.”
“Maybe just hold them up around your ears and sort of let them float there,” she says, turning to shimmy in front of Mohamed so fast that two breasts become one and you start thinking that second breast’s overrated. Never realized it before now. Took a girl from Colorado Springs to make you reconsider. Which I do, along with a few chorus line kicks with my hands on my hips for the benefit of Kafka, who’s up on his feet now and slamming his hands together to the beat, putting all the concentration he’s got left after umpteen drinks into making those palms come together, such that he may not even pick up on it when I get to shimmying myself. The whole place is up on its feet and roaring, and I get to pointing out head wraps in the crowd and dedicating patented moves of my own. I’m talking about the Inadvisable Moonlanding. I’m referring to the Extravagant Chipmunk. And then of course ultimately the Great White Wildebeast, a combination of acrobatics and crowd roar and maybe too many bourbons that will never be repeated again except maybe in more intimate groups of two or three.
Then the music stops, and I find I’m up there all alone, surrounded by screaming Mohameds, taking a couple of low bows to the applause, in a sheer panic that I may actually have won the competition as a walk on and may be taken back on a jet plane to Saudi Arabia to join a harem, or whatever they’re giving for the prize. So I just ease on back down to the floor and settle back into my seat for a sip of tea, for lack of anything more fortifying. The sheiks come around to offer their congratulations, then everybody settles down for what’s left of the cookies, excepting Kafka, who’s still up banging his palms to that music in his mind until finally somebody pulls him down to his chair.
“We’re going to Saudi Arabia!” he screams across the table like we’ve just won the Super Bowl.
“Maybe not yet, but if you’ll join us I think you’ll find the possibilities for travel extremely interesting,” somebody says behind me in an accent I’d place somewhere near Long Island. I turn and find at about face level the smooth stage announcer with the gold tie.
“Don’t tell me I’ve won,” I say. “Seems to me it’s just not right if it’s not done in a bikini, though admittedly I’m not up on the rules of competition belly dancing.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he says with a smile he seems to have got up in a pocket mirror. “Allow me to present myself. My name is Carlo Le Mons, and I am the Chief Executive Officer of a prominent live entertainment company, Mister….”
“Willie M. Lee,” I say. “M as in Mohamed and not as in Mons, which last I heard was a part of the female anatomy.”
He grins around at the other Mohameds, and give the brethren credit, they’re not grinning back. Fellas like us aren’t partial to the kind of grin that avoids the subject, particularly if that subject is the female anatomy. I nod around the table in recognition of the fellow feeling. Men like us just want to drink their tea and be left in peace. Again, I’m talking the finer things in life, such as a well-groomed mustache, which honestly I’m thinking of growing and maybe giving a name. Carlo sees what he’s up against and also sees his only way out may be Kafka, who’s grinning like a lunatic at anything he can set eyes upon.
“What I meant to say to your friend with the amusing hat here,” Carlo says to Kafka, waving a few girls to his side to aid in the presentation. Thankfully the girls also appear to have my wardrobe in hand. “What I meant to say is that we are always looking for fresh and entertaining talent. I am prepared to offer your friend a monthly salary that, if I am not mistaken, is more than he is accustomed to. Am I right or aren’t I? You could use a new suit, couldn’t you, Mister Lee?”
Which is about all I need to hear. Ralph was right. It’s time to get serious about this case, and I’m starting with Le Mons. “With all due respect to the ladies of Colorado Springs and the prospect of accompanying them in a worldwide capacity,” I say, “honestly I don’t think there’s room for you on my resume.”
He’s still grinning, Le Mons, but the girls are glaring behind the chief like they’d just assume use my belt in a whipping capacity. Catty bunch, belly dancers. Tough world to break into. Don’t make it easy for the fresh young talent. “This must be quite some resume, Mister Lee,” Le Mons says.
“Yeah, well I had some people come out from Los Angeles to try to get me to put it into movie form,” I say, flexing my fist beneath the table, “but what most of these movie types are looking for is a narrative arc, and mine just keeps going up like Sputnik. Also it’s just an impossible task to fit into two hours my shining moment, the reception of the Nobel Prize for the Brazilian Flying Fish.”
The Mohameds get to laughing real low. Sounds like the motor of a Jaguar or one of those Bentleys. Carlo’s still willing to play along, however, which suits me and my aforementioned fist under the table just fine.
“And what, may I ask,” says Carlo, with this smirk on his face that really just deserves it, “is the Brazilian Flying Fish?”
“Funny,” I say. “Thought maybe you would have encountered it in your travels.” Then brother I just give it to him – spin up out of my seat and launch the right from about waist level. And he’s reeling, stumbling back into those dancers, but there’s one thing I hadn’t counted on, and that’s the sudden appearance of an angel named Ralph with a fist of his own. If you’ve caught a few fishes on the chin in a lifetime, what he delivers feels more like a sperm whale, and if I’m not mistaken it’s the sperm whale who sings those sad songs as it swims through the deep, deep sea.
I don’t know how long I’m under, but when I’m eventually returned to the world, I feel a little tickling about the nose and open my eyes to a thousand silver stars glittering down. For a moment I panic that I’ve been whisked back up onto my cloud. Then I rub the eyes a little, and those stars become an exceptional pair of breasts, which is a particularly pleasant way to be welcomed home. It’s number seven, I believe, who’s bent over me with some concern. My old friend twelve’s huddled there next to her, I see now, bare feet arched up off the floor. Every few seconds one of them will dab at my cheek with a scarf. Two perfect foreheads bunched up in concern for yours truly.
“Oh girls,” I say, moaning a bit for our mutual pleasure. “The three of us aren’t made for this kind of thing. What do you say? Cast off those arm bands and let’s make this a conga line in room 142.”
Some giggles from the girls here, and if I’d known God at the time of creation, I would have encouraged him to put all the girls in spangles just to watch them giggle all over.
“Before we get to that, however, I’d be curious to know what happened to the big guy.”
“Hotel security,” number seven says. “Took three of them to drag him out. What did you do to that creep?”
“Stopped to smell the roses,” I say, which gets their foreheads all bunched up again, this time in concern for my sanity.
“If you’re okay, we have to go,” number twelve says.
“Alright, girls, but remember that seven plus twelve plus Willie equals room 142.” Then they rise up on the balls of their feet to wiggle off. Before they’re gone, however, they turn for one last glance at me, which I acknowledge with a little double-eyed wink that really brings the point home. Our little secret, and it’s those little secrets that give a man hope when he’s been laid out on the floor in front of a troupe of belly dancers. Because that’s what we’re looking at, and in my earthly experience that’s precisely the moment where some kind of hope, and I mean more or less any kind, is absolutely essential.
14
Back in the suite I crack open the door in anticipation of my spangled guests and start the bath running. In the bathroom mirror I check Ralph’s damage to the face, which is nothing more than a slight cut to the cheek and, if you ask me, nicely balances out the previous damage to the ear. As the mirror begins to steam, I remember the name Jeffrey got from Fernanda’s purse – Professor Barry Farsinelli, I beli
eve – and go back out to the bedroom for a quick glance at the Madonna folder.
Sliding my suitcase from underneath the bed, I take out the folder, and after a minute or two of flipping through pages, I find what I’m looking for. It’s a stamped paper certifying the authenticity of Harry Shore’s Blue Madonna, signed by a Professor Barry Farsinelli of Denver, Colorado. The next paper tells me he teaches at Denver University and is well-known to be one of America’s foremost experts on Botticelli. There’s a phone number there too, which thanks to Jeffrey I’ve already got. Very interesting, indeed, I’m thinking, as I replace the folder in the suitcase and slide it back under the bed. Stripping down to the essentials, I can’t help but thinking that Fernanda may in fact be a step ahead of me on this one. Although what she wants from an expert if she hasn’t got a painting for him to see is another mystery entirely. I decide I may have to pay a little visit to the professor myself, but for the moment that bath’s calling. Turns out there’s a button that makes a bath a Jacuzzi, and I’m more or less champagne by the time I slip off into dreamland.
The sound of jingle bells wakes me, and I’m up out of that bath like a tsunami. The water’s gone arctic, and from the sound of that tinkling, belly dancers await. Hopping across the tile floor with chattering teeth, I wrap myself up in three or four of these thick towels they’ve got. End up looking more Saudi Arabian than Italian, but then I don’t intend to be wearing those towels for long. And who knows, I’m thinking as I step out into the bedroom, a couple of girls from Colorado Springs might well appreciate the chance to indulge some sheikly fantasies.
In the bedroom, however, I get a surprise. First, there’s only one girl, which is a disappointment. More serious, however, is that this girl’s armband says four, and I don’t recall any conversations with a four. Also she’s found my suitcase under the bed and is studying the Madonna folder. When she hears me come in the room, she snatches up the folder and takes off running, which leaves me no choice but to take off after her, which is about the last thing I want to do, particularly in an outfit made of bath towels.
Planet Willie Page 12