Ring Game

by Pete Hautman

  Crow had the impression that he’d seen her somewhere before. As he stared at her, trying not to be too obvious about it, sorting through his memories, she turned her head in his direction and smiled. Recognition hit him low and hard.

  Flowrean Peeche. His immediate reaction was to stop breathing. In his experience, that was what one did when one got this close to Flowrean. But he’d been sitting within a few feet of her for several minutes now and had smelled nothing other than the crowd’s melange of perfume and breath fresheners. How had he not recognized her? It had to be that he’d never seen her without her dead-goldfish necklace, or in any setting other than Bigg’s gym.

  A room-wide rustling and muttering sent Crow’s eyes back to center stage. Rupert Chandra had been working on Mrs. Frank’s face, pulling and prodding and squeezing her wrinkled features. The audience’s reaction was to a visible change in the color of her flesh. It had taken on a glow, as if her dermis had begun to fluoresce, and the sagging skin beneath her jaw had visibly tightened. Rupert Chandra himself, whose head appeared and disappeared from the light as he moved around Mrs. Frank, appeared to be changing as well. Perspiration rolled freely down his forehead and cheeks, and the front of his silk shirt was plastered to his chest, soaking wet. His eyes, which had glittered with vitality not ten minutes earlier, now sagged in braised-looking pouches. Deep lines bracketed his mouth. He seemed to have aged decades.

  Chandra’s hands continued to flutter over the woman’s face and neck. His chanting had become hoarse, and now sounded like “Wagga omma oof.” His fingers darted and stroked her as if she was a harp. Mrs. Frank had settled into a vacant, mesmerized gape, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was sitting on a stage with hundreds of people watching, being massaged by a sweaty man in an iridescent black silk suit.

  Once he caught the drift of the anti-aging demonstration, Crow had expected an illusion of some sort. He thought that Chandra might be able to knock a few years off the woman’s apparent age, maybe by inducing some mild swelling, bringing the blood to the surface to give her that flush of youth, but mostly by creating a state of total relaxation, a hypnotic effect, making her believe that the years were falling away. Creating anticipation and desire on the part of the audience would also be an important part of the package. They would see what they wanted to see. It would be no great trick for a charismatic and clever conjurer to produce the flush of youth in the old woman’s timeworn features. The same techniques were used again and again by evangelical preachers who regularly convinced wheelchair-bound believers to stand and take a few tottering steps.

  But Mrs. Frank’s transformation went far beyond such psychological trickery. He watched as Chandra’s manipulations caused lines and wrinkles to fall away from the old woman’s entranced features. Her lips grew fuller, her eyes larger, her cheeks became smooth and unblemished. The effect was utterly convincing. For all his self-imposed, fortified skepticism, Crow felt a part of himself wanting to believe. He had seen lesser examples of reverse aging in middle-aged people who had fallen suddenly in love, for example, or who had undergone cosmetic surgery, or spent a month at a remote health spa, but he had never witnessed so rapid and extreme a reversal of aging as this. Mrs. Frank looked younger than Liz Taylor had at forty, fifty, or even sixty.

  Without warning, Veronica Frank slumped forward, Rupert Chandra’s hands flew out to the side and his chanting abruptly ended. Giving forth a loud moan, he took four shaky steps backward, then collapsed. The stage lights flared to full brightness. The toga man and Chuckles, the big man who had opened the program, lifted their unconscious leader and carried him off the stage. The audience began to seethe, people rising half out of their seats, talking to one another, all asking the same questions—is he all right? Is she all right? What happened? Did someone call 911? The voices rose in pitch and volume. The woman on the stage appeared dazed, her upper body resting on her thighs, head hanging, arms dangling, hands flopping like dying fish on the stage floor. The sound from the audience rose to a hysterical drone. Polly rushed out onto the stage and embraced Mrs. Frank. She whispered something, then helped her up. The two women faced the auditorium.

  The panicky buzzing subsided into slack-jawed wonder as the people got their first look at Mrs. Veronica Frank since the lights had brightened. Except for her gray hair and her baggy, boomerang-print dress, she now appeared in every respect to be a woman in her early thirties.

  Flo was thrilled and fascinated by what she had seen on stage, but not surprised, amazed, or frightened. After all, she had performed much greater metamorphoses on her own self. As a teenager she had gone from black virgin, to whore, to white virgin in a matter of minutes. Later in life, she had used weight training to transform herself from a fearful, scrawny young woman into a broad-shouldered, rock-hard Amazon. And by working at Solid Sam’s, she had lifted herself from the trash-heap of her old neighborhood to her own condo on the twenty-third floor of the Greensward, with downtown Minneapolis laid out like a game-board below her.

  Flo understood that the process of becoming someone new begins and ends between the ears. Even changing clothes, getting ready for work, or putting on a dressy outfit like the one she was wearing, began with a vision. Believing it and seeing it, that was the first and most difficult step. Once you can see, you can believe, and once you believe, you can slide into the attitude; once you own the attitude, then you got your shot at it, whatever it is. Once you got your shot, then you’ve got to believe you can make it. And once you make it, you’ve got to believe it was you that made it happen. The process was ongoing.

  With Joe Crow, for instance, she had the belief and she had the attitude, and now she was waiting for her shot.

  Funny how these things worked out. She’d been watching Crow, driving past his house a few times a day. Sometimes his car was there, sometimes it wasn’t. She had seen him once through his window, talking on the phone. She had been parked across the street from his place earlier that evening, fantasizing, and when Crow drove off in his yellow car, Flo had followed. Now here they were, sitting in the same room, witnessing a miracle together.

  She looked at Crow, who was staring intently at Mrs. Frank. What was he thinking? His face betrayed nothing, so Flo simply assumed that his thoughts reflected her own. She was sure he did not like being in this unfamiliar room crowded with strangers. They had that in common, she and Joe Crow. So why was he here? Was he, too, struggling to believe? Not an easy thing, Flo thought, despite having witnessed it. Some things were simply too incredible. For instance, Flo could not believe that if she flapped her arms fast enough she could fly, or that money would materialize in her purse of its own accord, or that she possessed the strength to bench press five hundred pounds. But she had seen the woman transformed. She wanted to believe. Flo began to alter her version of reality to make room for the possibility of age reversal. Maybe she had been wrong in some of her lifelong assumptions. Maybe she should be more flexible. Another ten or fifteen or one hundred years, it might come in handy.

  The woman with the platinum wig, Polyhymnia something, was talking again. Flo did not like her much, but she admired the way she came off as both intimate and untouchable. Flo had noticed this quality in other public figures, an ability to be inside you and on the other side of the universe, all at the same time.

  Polyhymnia was inviting those who wanted to learn more to join her in the reception area. She also promised an up-close look at the new Mrs. Veronica Frank. She led Mrs. Frank off the stage and down the hallway.

  Buzzing and scuffling, the gathering rose unevenly, many of the women having trouble untangling their purses and bags from the chair legs. The rows emptied into the aisles and headed for the exit. Flo tried to keep Crow in sight, but was blocked by a cluster of chattering matrons who had stopped in the middle of the aisle to give one another verbal recaps of what they had seen. She jumped up onto one of the seats and surveyed the exiting crowd. Crow’s dark hair did not appear in the sea of gray, white, silver, and
blond. Had he already made it out of the room? Flo scanned the crowd again, and this time she saw him—not heading for the exit, but climbing onto the empty stage. He looked back over the crowd, his eyes pausing briefly on Flo, then walked quickly into the wings.

  25

  During the Second Age of Mankind, which began with the discovery of the cell in 1665, the average human lifespan increased from thirty-six to over seventy years. The collapse of the Western military-industrial complex and the decimation of the human race by AIDS, Ebola, influenza, and Lyme disease will mark the end of the Second Age. This process will begin with the dawning of the millennium and will continue throughout the twenty-first century. On January 1, 2100, the mantle of world leadership will be assumed by a new race of Immortals: the Amaranthines.

  —The Amaranthine Book of Truths

  THE OFFICIAL TEACHINGS OF the Amaranthine Church of the One forbade the use of alcoholic beverages, tobacco, or caffeine. The ACO also counseled the Faithful to avoid red meat, refined sugar, and saturated fats. The Faithful expected to live a very long time and were therefore expected to take good care of their bodies. This was common sense. Why spend eternity in a wheezing, alcoholic haze? Or waddle through the next millennium with thighs swishing, or a belly hanging out over your belt?

  No one would want that—especially not Rupert Chandra who, before his extraction, had smoked three packs of Winstons a day, weighed in excess of 300 pounds, and whose idea of healthy eating had been to swallow a handful of vitamins and herbal medicines with a Bloody Mary for breakfast. That was the old Rupe, the mortal Rupe. The new Rupe was a clean machine.

  Nevertheless, Rupe felt he deserved a good stiff drink after making it through another anti-aging demonstration. About four ounces of Glenfiddich would release the tension he felt in his chest. And a small cigar, one of the slim Havanas he’d brought back from his last trip to England, would help quell the mild nausea he’d been experiencing the past few days. That was his reward to himself, both for having achieved immortality and for shouldering the burden of leadership.

  Rupe propped his feet atop his desk blotter and reclined in his high-backed leather chair. The sun’s last tangential rays sliced across his office, illuminating golden dust motes and blue curls of cigar smoke. He sent a series of smoke rings toward the sunbeam, watched them catch the light, waver, then disintegrate. He swirled the scotch in his glass. Yes, this was a well-deserved reward. He had done his job and done it well. He had created the perfect illusion, had opened the door, had shown the Pilgrims a way to believe. Now it was up to Polly and the rest of the Faithful.

  The fact that the demonstration had been staged bothered him, but only a little. It was a clear case of the ends justifying the means. Regrettably, it was necessary to deceive the Pilgrims in order to give them the gift of immortality. In the early days Rupe had questioned the need for such deception but, as Polly argued so convincingly, it had advantages. Nothing else they had tried had brought so many new Pilgrims into the fold so quickly.

  Rupe took a large swallow of scotch. One day soon, the church would become rich enough and powerful enough that such crude recruitment techniques would become unnecessary. Soon, Stonecrop would be completed. He and Polly and a select handful of the Faithful would be residing happily within its twelve-foot-high limestone walls, safe from the collapse of the twentieth-century military-industrial complex, safe from the ravages of the Death Program, ready to reemerge after one hundred years of solitude into the Third Age, the age of enlightenment.

  Rupe puffed on his cigar and imagined himself at the completed Stonecrop, deer and rabbits scampering alongside him through the parklike landscape. In the meantime, he was looking forward to his and Polly’s sabbatical at Stonecrop. Most of the building remained unfinished. For four weeks, Rupe and Polly would have Stonecrop to themselves, a taste of utopia to come. Free from the day-to-day aggravations of ACO business. Free to let their bodies heal.

  The door opened and a compact, dark-haired man stepped into the office. Rupe felt a twinge of fear. He did not know this man, and this part of the building was supposed to be off limits.

  “Can I help you?” Rupe asked. He set his drink on the leather blotter. The man appeared to be harmless enough, just a guy in blue jeans and a striped, short-sleeved shirt. He looked like a referee. Probably a Pilgrim looking for the restrooms, but it paid to be careful. The church had a way of attracting some fringe elements.

  The man said, “How’s it going, Rupe?”

  Rupe frowned. Only Polly called him Rupe to his face. He pulled his feet off the desk and sat forward. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Do I know you?”

  The man smiled. “My name is Joe Crow.”

  “How do you do?” Rupe said automatically. The name meant nothing to him.

  Joe Crow looked around the office. “This used to be Mr. Bongard’s office,” he said. “I used to spend a lot of time in here.”

  “Who is Mr. Bongard?”

  “He was the vice principal.”

  “This is no longer Mr. Bongard’s office,” said Rupe. “Might I ask what you are doing here?”

  “You don’t remember me? I used to be one of your customers at Ambrosia Foods. Didn’t you used to be heavier?”

  Rupe made a strained smile. He was supposed to remember every customer from the old store? “Are you here for the clinic?” he asked.

  “Yes. It was quite a show. That smells like a good cigar.”

  “It’s quite good. May I ask what you are doing here? This is not a public part of the building.”

  “That’s all right.” Crow sat down in one of the two chairs in front of the desk. “I just wanted to talk.”

  “Look, Mr. Crow, I am very tired. If you want to talk, I’d like to ask you to call tomorrow and make an appointment with my secretary.”

  Crow showed no sign of departure. He laced his fingers behind his neck and leaned back. “That a Cuban?”

  Rupe looked at the cigar. “Yes. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “I enjoyed the show. How often do you perform?”

  “Are you referring to the age regression?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was no show.”

  Crow laughed. “Sure it was. I can see the makeup on your hands. It’s all over your sleeves. You should have cleaned up better. You never know who’s going to come walking in on you.”

  Rupe stood up. “That’s enough. Get out.”

  “Is the woman a regular, or do you use a different one each time?”

  Rupe wanted to leap across the desk and throw the guy out, but the man was so confident and relaxed that Rupe wasn’t sure he could handle him alone.

  Crow said, “Relax, Rupe. I’m not here to bust your act.”

  “What is it you want?” Rupe asked.

  “I want to talk to you about Hyatt Hilton.”

  Rupert Chandra had a remarkably flexible and mobile mouth. When he spoke, his dark lips massaged and softened the words, giving them a warm velvet buzz with an inviting lilt at the end of every sentence. Even when he said “Get out,” his lips oiled and caressed the words to make it sound like a polite, slightly regretful request.

  Rupe had changed a great deal since Crow had last seen him behind the counter at Ambrosia Foods, when Rupe’s aspect had been that of a wheezy sumo wrestler. His claim to have lost a hundred fifty pounds, at least, appeared to be true. The new Rupe had a slim, roll-free neck, a single chin, and nicely concave cheeks. His eyes were large, clear, dark, and long-lashed, and his once pudgy hands had become slim and elegant. His lips were still full, but had lost their pouty aspect. Rupe had transformed himself into an attractive, sleek man, radiating the smug but sincere solicitousness of your typical guru.

  When Crow mentioned Hyatt Hilton’s name, Rupe’s mouth contracted into a large maroon asterisk. Crow almost laughed, but restrained himself. If he wanted to learn anything, it wouldn’t be a good idea to totally alienate the man. Still, he found it difficult to
take Rupert Chandra seriously. The man was covered with makeup. It showed between his fingers, on the sleeves of his shirt, and under the arms of his blue silk shirt. He had smudged it under his eyes and deepened the lines that bracketed his mouth, trying to make himself look aged and tired. At close range, with the sunset pouring in through the window, the makeup on his face appeared crude, like something a four-year-old might do. But Rupe had applied it to himself surreptitiously, without a mirror, in front of a live audience—after removing it with his bare hands from the face of “Veronica Frank.” As he had stripped away her illusion of age, he had applied her years to himself. On stage, under controlled lighting, it had been utterly convincing.

  Rupe said, “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Talk about Hy?” Crow shrugged. “Is there some reason you don’t want to talk about him? Would you rather talk about how you pulled off that fountain of youth trick out there?”

  “You are an extremely offensive man,” Rupe said, pointing his cigar.

  “Sorry,” Crow said. “It’s just that I have this reaction when I see somebody running a game on innocent people.”

  “You have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Possibly, but it doesn’t matter. I came here to talk about Hy.”

  Rupe frowned. “What does he want? Is it money?”

  “What makes you think he wants something?”

  “Why else would he have sent you?”

  That surprised Crow. “Hyatt didn’t send me. I’m investigating him for a client. A third party.”