by Pete Hautman
Val rested her eyes on the pen, but made no move to pick it up. She said, “I do got a problem, though.”
Polly tilted her head, still holding the smile.
Val said, “The hair thing. I got a problem with the hair thing. I like my hair the way it is.”
Polly’s smile flattened.
“It’s the bleaching that concerns me,” Val said. “It’ll never be the same. Mr. Chandra said that I might be able to use a wig. Instead of bleaching it out, you know? That’s really hard on the hair.”
“A wig?” Polly sighed. “Look, Miss Frankel, you must have misunderstood Mr. Chandra. The hair is not negotiable. I really don’t have time to discuss this any further. I explained to you last week that would be required. If you have a problem with us changing your hair color, you should have said something then.”
“I didn’t think I was gonna have a problem with it. But now I’m worried it’s gonna go all brittle. Mr. Chandra said the hair wasn’t that important.”
Polly imagined herself giving Rupe his foot rub, dislocating one of his toes. What had he been thinking? The hair is not important? The hair was the closer, the thing that would dispel all doubts.
“Listen, Miss Frankel, I want you to forget whatever Mr. Chandra told you. You’re dealing with me, and I’m telling you that the hair is not negotiable. Do you want the job, or don’t you?”
“I could use the work,” Val said slowly. “I use to do a lot of ad work, but it’s mostly being done out of state these days, and I got a kid, too, you know. I need the money.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you what. I’ll throw in another eighty dollars, cash. You go down to Horst after the shows, and they’ll put your hair back where it was. Would that do it for you? Either say yes, or go look for another gig. Okay?”
Val squirmed for a few seconds, then leaned forward and signed the contract.
Polly stood up. “Be here at eight A.M. sharp on Friday. Be sure to wear something appropriate for a woman of sixty-five.”
Val smiled, relieved and happy now that she’d made her decision. “I’ll borrow something from my mom,” she said brightly.
Charles “Chip” Bouchet, Security Chief, removed the headphones and placed them on his desk. He reached up and rubbed the top of his head vigorously, reactivating his buzz cut where a band of short blond hairs had been flattened by the headset.
So, they were hiring another actress. Another false miracle. Compounding their crimes.
Chip was manning the Security Annex—what he thought of as the heart and soul of the ACO. From his swivel chair, he could monitor the four security cameras mounted on the outside of the building and the nine concealed microphones within the building. Seven of the microphones had been installed at Polly’s request, for the purpose of monitoring church employees, and to eavesdrop on conversations between members of the flock. The other two microphones, one in Rupe’s office, the other in Polly’s, had been personally and secretly installed by Chip Bouchet, for the purpose of monitoring his employers.
Some of the things he had heard concerned him greatly.
For instance, he had learned that the Anti-Aging Clinics, where Dr. Chandra performed the miracle of age reversal, were staged, using professional actresses such as this Val Frankel woman. He had learned that the First Elders smoked tobacco and drank alcohol, both of which represented Death Program behavior. And he had heard Polly refer to him, her very own Security Chief, as a “pig-faced Nazi son-of-a-bitch.”
Actually, he didn’t mind the “pig-faced Nazi son-of-a-bitch” comment. He was inclined to forgive that, especially since he had a special relationship with the First Eldress. When she called him her “little Nazi,” she meant it in an affectionate way. But the other things, especially the smoking, were clear violations of the Amaranthine Principles.
It’s a terrible thing, when one’s own religious leaders go astray.
12
Vary your play.
—Crow’s rules
BIGG BODIES WAS BUSY—typical for a Monday. Crow had to park between two of Bigg’s white limos at the back of the small parking lot. Beaut, perched behind the front counter, glared at Crow as he entered the gym.
After the weekend’s excesses, members were purging themselves by putting their bodies through another version of hell. All of the Stairmasters were in motion, as were the stationary bikes. Assorted groans, coarse shouts of encouragement, clanking iron plates, and the thud of dumbbells dropping to the rubber mats. The air was palpable, smelling of sweat and Ben-Gay and sweaty iron.
Crow stopped at the front counter. Beaut’s eyes flickered, but he did not move. Like many bodybuilders, Beaut avoided physical effort when he was not working out, subscribing to the theory that muscular hypertrophy was encouraged by a combination of heavy-duty training followed by periods of lethargy.
Crow said, “Is Bigg in? I need to talk to him.”
“In conference,” Beaut said. His eyes flicked momentarily toward the office door behind the counter.
“With who?”
Beaut blinked, but made no further reply.
Crow shouldered his gym bag and walked around the end of the counter to Bigg’s office door. Beaut watched him but made no move to intervene. Crow rapped twice on the door, then pushed it open. The tiny office was dark and empty. “Where is he?”
Beaut shrugged, a faint smile toying with his lips.
“Nice talking to you,” Crow muttered. He headed for the locker room, leaving the office door ajar. Sooner or later Bigg would show up. In the meantime, he’d get started on his workout. Today was leg day. Squats, leg presses, leg extensions, hamstring curls, and calf raises. The leg workout would leave him barely able to walk, but ultimately he would become stronger, a goal that Crow no longer permitted himself to analyze. He quickly changed into his sweats and threaded his way through the gym, giving wide berth to an obese man doing a set of flyes with five-pound dumbbells, flapping his arms like a Thanksgiving turkey attempting a vertical takeoff. Crow headed for one of the two squat racks. The other one was being used by a pair of acne-riddled kids—high school football heroes cutting classes to get in an extra workout. He tossed his leather lifting belt on the floor, shouldered the empty bar, and cranked out a quick fifty reps to warm up his legs. The two kids watched him, amused by the spectacle of him squatting the empty bar.
As he racked the bar, Crow saw the light go on in Bigg’s office. Bigg appeared in the doorway. What the hell? Had he been hiding under his desk? Crow added a pair of forty-fives to the bar. Bigg and Beaut exchanged a few words, then both looked at Crow. Seconds later, Flowrean Peeche came out of the locker room dressed in her baggy street clothes and headed out the front door. Crow fitted the bar onto his shoulders and lifted. It felt light. He must be getting stronger. He began a slow set of deep squats, pausing at the bottom of his lift, returning smoothly to a standing position. After fourteen reps he racked the bar and permitted himself another look at Beaut and Bigg.
Beaut was gone. Bigg sat in his place reading Muscle and Fitness.
Crow loaded two more plates onto the bar and did another set, twelve slow ones, his knees cracking. The noises coming from his joints had alarmed him when he’d first started working out, but now he thought of it as the audio portion of his workout. He racked the bar and leaned on it for a moment to catch his breath. Looking back at Bigg, who still had his nose in the muscle magazine, he tried to imagine that bulky body hiding beneath a desk in a dark office. It didn’t seem plausible. There was a large closet with sliding doors at the back of the office. Could he have been hiding in the closet? That seemed weird, even for Bigg. Maybe the doors led to something other than a closet—another room, or a larger storage space. Crow tried to visualize the layout of the club. What was behind Bigg’s office? The women’s locker room? He’d have to ask Bigg about it, see what he said. But first, he had to finish his squats. If he walked away from the rack now, it would be too difficult to psyche himself up for another set.
&n
bsp; He added a third pair of plates and wrapped his leather belt around his waist. He put Bigg out of his mind and focused on the set. Three hundred fifteen pounds for ten reps. Last week he’d done eight. Crow pulled his belt tight, centered the bar behind his neck, and lifted the loaded barbell off the rack. He stepped back and planted his feet solidly on the rubber mat. The bar bowed, and the plates clanked dully against one another. Crow made the rest of the world go away and slowly lowered himself into a full squat. He straightened his legs and returned to standing position. Like magic. The mind sends forth its command, the body responds. He repeated the movement. The second, third, and fourth reps were no problem, but he felt number five from his hamstrings up through his lower back. Six was worse. On the seventh rep, his right leg went soft on the way down. He almost didn’t make the lift, coming to a full stop halfway up, but a moment of panic sent a final surge of energy into his thighs, and he was able to slam the bar back onto the rack. Gasping, he stood with his arms draped over the bar. Seven reps, and last Monday he’d done eight. This was not good. He bent his right leg and straightened it. Something had happened down there, inside his body. He walked a few steps to the nearest bench and sat down heavily, massaged his thigh, searching for a sore point, but there was no pain, only weakness.
One of the high schoolers asked him, “You okay, dude?”
“I think so.” He stretched the leg, flexed it, stood and bent over, touching his toes. Everything worked. He decided he had torn some tiny, insignificant muscle fiber deep in his thigh. He would give it a few minutes, then resume his workout, hit the leg extension machine. This would be a good time to talk to Bigg. He crossed the weight room and rested his elbows on the counter. Bigg was chewing on something, making his sideburns quiver.
“You got a minute?” Crow asked.
Bigg closed the magazine and lifted his eyebrows.
Crow said, “Remember that card game at your house?”
Bigg nodded and swallowed. He dug into a paper bag on his lap and pulled out a handful of dried banana chips. Tossing them into his mouth, Bigg resumed chewing.
“You know that Hyatt Hilton?”
Bigg shrugged. “Wha’ ’bout him?”
“Where do you know him from?”
Bigg leveled his eyes at Crow, who waited patiently, knowing that Bigg wouldn’t tell him if it was raining outside without trying first to divine his reason for asking. Bigg swallowed and asked, “Why you want to know about him?”
“I was wondering how you know him, that’s all.”
Bigg licked his lips. “I thought he was a friend of yours. Why don’t you ask him?”
Crow sensed that pushing the question now would cause Bigg to dummy up. “It’s not important. I was just wondering how you two knew each other, that’s all.”
“That what you came over here to ask me?”
“Partly. Mostly I was wondering how you did that trick with your office.”
“What do you mean?”
“A few minutes ago I looked for you in your office, and you weren’t there. Then I see you come out. What gives?”
“What were you doing in my office?”
“Looking for you.”
Bigg inflated his cheeks, staring at Crow as if making a decision. He let his lips part, expelling a cloud of banana-scented air, and pointed toward the glass-fronted cooler next to the counter, which contained an assortment of energy drinks, fruit juices, and bottled water. “Hilton’s the Evian guy.” The sudden return to the topic of Hyatt Hilton surprised Crow. Apparently, Bigg did not wish to discuss his magical appearance from within his office. Or maybe he’d just decided to be helpful. “He sells it cheap, too,” Bigg added.
“That’s how you know him? You buy water from him?”
“That’s right.” Bigg grabbed another handful of banana chips. He offered the bag to Crow. “Want some?”
“No thanks.”
“Lots of potassium,” Bigg said, chewing. His throat pulsed, sending the masticated chips toward his digestive system. He reached across the counter to grab a half-liter Evian from the cooler, cracked it open, and poured a few ounces into his mouth. The image of all those banana chips rehydrating inside Bigg’s body made Crow slightly queasy.
“That’s all you know about him? He sells you water?”
“Every couple of weeks he drops off a few cases.” Bigg examined the Evian bottle.
“How did you happen to invite him to that card game?”
Bigg shrugged. “I didn’t invite him. Zink did. You sure you don’t want to try some of these chips?”
“Zink? Zink invited Hy? How do you know Zink?”
Bigg took another swallow of Evian. “I know Zink through Hilton. Hilton sells him Evian, just like me. Zink sells it out of his bar, though why anybody would go in that dump for any reason other than to get shit-faced I don’t know.”
Crow, who dropped by Zink’s Club 34 a couple times a week for lunch, tried not to take Bigg’s comment personally.
Bigg continued, “You buy from the regular Evian distributor, you pay an arm and a leg. Hilton’s got the good price. He’s got a nice little business. Hell of a lot easier than running a goddamn gym. You want to buy a gym, Crow?”
“No thanks.”
Bigg gave the bottle another look, tasted it again. “To tell the truth, I don’t know what people see in it. But what the hell do I know?”
Crow wondered—not for the first time—how a guy like Hyatt Hilton got an Evian distributorship. The stuff was everywhere. Every gas station, mom and pop, and newsstand sold the plastic bottles of Evian, all doing their part to drain every last drop of groundwater in France a half liter at a time. But why would an international company like Evian have anything to do with a guy like Hy?
“How come he introduced you to Zink?”
“Who?”
“Hy.”
“I forget. It was a long time ago. You done grilling me, Crow?”
“I’m confused,” Crow said. “Everybody knows everybody else, and people who shouldn’t know each other are playing in the same poker game.”
“It’s a small fucking world.” Bigg picked up his Muscle and Fitness magazine and pointedly began reading. “Don’t forget to rack your weights,” he said as Crow turned away.
The luncheon with Sophie had gone rather well, Hyatt thought. He pulled his van off the freeway at the Lyndale exit and headed south toward his house. He was a few minutes late, but Carmen was used to that by now, and besides, those extra few minutes with Sophie had made all the difference. She’d been delighted by his willingness to compromise on the meatball issue.
As he drove past the vacant storefront that had once been Ambrosia Foods, he thought about how the little things mattered so much. When he and Polly and Rupe had founded the ACO—back then they’d called it the Ambrosia Long-Lifer Club—and they’d started signing people up for their seminars and supplement program, he’d been amazed by the little things that would close a sale. He’d be pitching the program, telling people that the human body was capable of stepping out of the D.P., or Death Program, that eternal life was not an unrealistic goal, and they’d be listening but not 100 percent convinced of it. He’d try this and that—telling them that they could see their great-great grandkids or how a healthy body could support a dozen or more orgasms a day, or telling them their saggy triceps would firm up—you just never knew what would get them. One woman he remembered had cared about nothing more than clearing up the yellow deposits that had formed at the corners of her eyes. The fact that she could live forever was incidental. She did not want to live to be one hundred fifty years old if she had to do it with yellow eyes.
Hyatt pulled up in front of his house. Carmen was sitting on the front steps, waiting.
“You’re late,” she said as she opened the car door.
“Sorry. Sophie and I were working on the meatball issue.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not really sick. Which hospital are we going to?”
“Our Lady of Mercy.” Hyatt pulled away from the curb. “In case you were wondering, Axel’s going to get his Swedish meatballs.”
“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”
“It worked for Sophie.”
In the end, it wouldn’t matter what they served at the reception. He didn’t plan to be there anyway.
Crow finished his workout without putting much into it. For his last few sets of seated calf raises, he used half the weight he was capable of handling, just going through the motions. Tomorrow, he told himself, he’d make up for it with a few extra sets. He kept thinking about Hyatt Hilton, wondering what he would find. The best outcome would be for him to discover some spectacular crime in Hyatt’s past. For instance, if Hyatt had three wives and had murdered each of them, that would be good. Axel would really appreciate knowing a man like that. Carmen might like to know it, too. He hoped Wes had left him a message.
On his way out of the gym Crow made sure to thank Bigg for sharing what he knew about Hyatt Hilton, even though he hadn’t told him much of anything. Always be polite.
He felt less like being polite thirty seconds later. Instead of a lipstick print on his windshield, he discovered a vertical crease four inches long and half an inch deep on his driver’s side door. Since he had parked between two of Bigg’s rental limos, and since Beaut Miller worked for Bigg, it was clear to him what had happened. The only question was whether Beaut had acted on his own, or done Bigg’s bidding. Crow breathed deeply, trying to force it into perspective. It’s just a bit of sheet metal, he told himself. It’s not like he swung on me.
13
Blood alone moves the wheels of history.
—Benito Mussolini
OUR LADY OF MERCY triage nurse Deedee Feider had a theory about emergency room patients. If they weren’t unconscious or bleeding, she believed, they were almost certainly faking. Every day she saw hours of valuable ER time being wasted on people who claimed to be having heart attacks or internal bleeding and who turned out to have nothing that a spoonful of Maalox wouldn’t cure. People who wanted attention, that’s all, bunch of crybabies. If it was up to her—and sometimes it was—somebody came in and couldn’t show her blood or severe swelling, she’d give ’em a couple of Tylenols and triage ’em the hell out of her ER.