by Pete Hautman
Sophie said, “You just made it up, didn’t you? You’re not pregnant at all, are you?”
Carmen put a hand on her belly and rubbed in a slow circle. A missed period would not be that unusual. But that wouldn’t explain why her breasts had been feeling so full lately, or why she’d puked up her breakfast that morning.
“As a matter of fact,” she said, “I think that maybe I might be.”
33
There seems to be some disagreement about the exact origins of the Judge, but basically the option began life as a low cost GTO. By the time everyone had had their say, it had become a rather expensive option on top of the GTO package. The Judge became a parody of the entire musclecar movement.
—Web site devoted to GTOs
THE WORST PART OF traveling outside the country was coming home to the Hubert H. Humphrey International Airport in Minneapolis. Debrowski shuffled forward a few steps, dragging her two suitcases, waiting for her turn with the customs officer, waiting for him to direct her off into one of the inspection rooms so that one of them could paw through her belongings and hammer her with accusatory questions. They might even do a body search. It had happened to her before.
Debrowski had been in and out of the United States more than a dozen times in the past five years and, without exception, her return had excited the interest of the customs inspectors. The first time it had happened she had been flying in from Peru, where she’d gone to spend a few weeks with a group of coca leaf-chewing Indians. That had been during the last months of her druggie days, when she was still trying to convince herself that there was something hip and noble and natural about cocaine. She had gone in search of Native American wisdom and spirituality, but had found only a lot of drug dealers, guns, bad teeth, and poverty. She had returned to the States thoroughly depressed, only to be subjected to a ninety-minute inspection at the airport. She hadn’t been surprised or particularly offended. She figured it must have been the motorcycle jacket that made her stand out. Or the marijuana-leaf design stitched across its back. Besides, it was reasonable that they should suspect her. She might have been transporting a balloon full of coke in her rectum, as had been proposed to her by one of the coked-up Americans she’d met in Lima. Fortunately she had declined, and the customs officers had found nothing.
Her second trip out of the country had been a vacation in the Caymans. She had quit using by that time and had left her leather jacket at home, but was once again subjected to a search. She had thought, I must still look like a druggie. Maybe it was the multiple earrings.
For the return from her third journey, a business trip to Barcelona, she had disguised herself in a lady executive ensemble—a soft gray suit, low-heeled pumps, and a single set of pearl earrings. The customs guy took one look at her and directed her to the inspections table. Since then, she had tried a number of guises, but the customs experience was always the same. There was something about her that punched their buttons. She figured that she could wear a nun’s habit and they’d still search every fold.
This time, she decided not to fight it. If it was her fate to be searched by customs, then so be it. She would wear what she wanted. Little black sunglasses so dark they made it hard to see colors. Left ear heavy with metal and stone. Her hair, hacked short and dyed jet black this month, jutted from her scalp in asymmetrical spikes. Big bad black boots. Leather choker. Well-worn black jeans. Motorcycle jacket, decorated with chains and pins and graffiti, over a black T-shirt bearing a scrawled red circle “A,” for anarchy. Debrowski was no anarchist, but she liked the logo.
As she moved up in the line, she told herself to relax. It would do no good to antagonize them. One flip remark could turn a twenty-minute ordeal into hours. She was tired, her back hurt from hours of sitting, and the sandwich she had been served on the plane was performing gymnastics in her gut. She had to keep her feelings bottled, at least for a little while. Closing her eyes, she searched for her center but saw only phosphenes dancing across her retina. She opened her eyes. The man in front of her hand moved on, and the customs officer, a slack-faced man in his fifties, regarded her through the bottoms of his bifocals.
Debrowski read the officer’s name tag: “B. Monk.” She handed him her passport, saying nothing. Officer Monk’s eyes flickered from the photo to Debrowski.
“Anything to declare?” he said.
Debrowski gave him her signed declaration slip, which officer Monk inspected.
“You’re declaring nothing at all?”
“That’s what it says.”
“No alcoholic beverages? Fresh fruits or vegetables? Cuban cigars?”
“No,” said Debrowski. “No and no.”
“Okay then. Thank you.” He motioned her toward the exit and turned his bifocal gaze onto the man behind her.
Debrowski said, “Wait a minute. You aren’t going to search my bags?”
Officer Monk frowned. “Do you want us to search your bags?”
“No. But why aren’t you doing it?”
“What do you mean, Miss?”
“It’s Ms. I just mean, why did you decide not to search me this time? You guys always search me. Did I do something different? How do you decide these things?”
Officer Monk seemed to consider his answer. He said, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Do? I don’t want you to do anything, I just want to know how come all of a sudden I’m getting a pass.”
Officer Monk tipped his head back. The fluorescent lights turned his spectacle lenses into featureless white discs. “I believed you when you told me you had nothing to declare. Do you?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t see the problem.”
“Look, I have never gotten through customs without getting searched. I just want to know what I did right this time.”
“You didn’t do anything. You seemed to me to be a nice girl. That’s all.”
Debrowski said, “Nice?” She looked down at her leathers. “You think I look nice?”
“You remind me of my daughter.”
“Your daughter? You’re passing me because I look like your daughter?”
Officer Monk sighed. “Perhaps I made a mistake,” he said.
According to the sidebar in USA Today, 78 percent of American males believed themselves to be better-looking than average. Twelve percent described themselves as “extremely handsome.” Only 3 percent confessed to being “extremely unattractive.” Crow raised his head from the paper and looked around the waiting area. Of the dozen men in sight, at least half of them had to be among the “extremely unattractive.” This did not support the poll results. Crow wondered whether there was any relation at all between a man’s actual appearance and his self-image. It seemed to him that a guy on the extreme ugly end of the scale—say with a grotesquely oversize nose and cheeks covered with suppurating sores—would be hard pressed to see himself as an Adonis. But what about a guy like the guy sitting across from him—pasty skin, sagging jowls, protruding eyes, and crooked, yellowish teeth. How did that guy see himself?
Could go either way, Crow thought.
The clock on the wall read 6:32. He had been waiting for Debrowski for nearly an hour. Her flight had arrived late, but not that late. Apparently she was having trouble getting through customs.
Crow stood up and went into the restroom to look at himself in the mirror. Better than average looking? He had always thought so. Not great looking. Not movie star good-looking, but on a scale of one to ten he’d always considered himself at least a seven or eight. But then, so did eight out of ten other guys.
The numbers were disturbing. Crow leaned into the mirror. Was it even possible to see one’s self? He stared at the reflection of his nose. The harder he looked, the broader it became. His pores enlarged into gaping pits. His eyes became small and piglike; his lips grew swollen and ropey. Better than average looking? For an unemployed middle-aged gambler, perhaps. He returned to the waiting area to find Debrowski standing between her two huge su
itcases looking lost and tired and pissed off, looking at all the ugly men, looking for Joe Crow.
“So they searched your bags?”
“They sure did. Can you believe it? The guy was going to let me through, I ask him a simple goddamn question, next thing you know they’re going through my underwear. Jesus, Crow, where’d you park? Canada?”
“Why don’t you let me take that?”
“I got it, I got it.” Debrowski had consented to let him carry only one of her suitcases. “So this guy says I remind him of his daughter. You know what his daughter does? She teaches second grade.”
“I could see you doing that.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You’ve got nice handwriting, and you can spell.”
“Thanks a lot. Are we there yet? My arm is numb.”
“I think it’s up about three more rows. Tell me something, do you think I’m good-looking?”
Debrowski stopped and dropped her suitcase. “Compared to what?” She massaged her right arm.
“Compared to, say, the average guy.”
“Sure.”
“On a scale of one to ten, where would you put me?”
Debrowski squinted at him. “Nine point two,” she said.
Crow grabbed both suitcases. “Thank you,” he said.
Debrowski followed. “Feeling a little insecure these days?”
“I was just checking.”
“Never hurts. Listen, you don’t have to carry both of those. Hey! Good-lookin’! What about me? Aren’t you gonna tell me how gorgeous I am?”
Crow stopped and set the suitcases down. “You know you look great. I like your new hair. Do it yourself?”
“As a matter of fact, yeah. Come on, Crow. One to ten. Lay it on me.” She lifted her sunglasses onto her forehead, revealing startling blue eyes and an even, white smile.
Crow held up two imaginary scorecards and said, “Nine point nine.”
Debrowski arched an eyebrow. “Not a ten? What, have I got something in my teeth?”
“If I said ten you’d think I was flattering you.”
“Flattery I can handle. Now, where the hell’s the car.”
“We’re here,” he said. They were standing beside the GTO.
Debrowski took a step back, blinking in the yellow glare. She tipped her sunglasses back over her eyes. “Crow? What the hell do you call this?”
“Sixty-nine GTO,” Crow said, grinning. “The Judge. Three hundred sixty-six horses.”
Debrowski shook her head. “Jesus, Crow, I leave you alone for a couple months …” She gave him a searching look. “You aren’t having your midlife crisis, are you?”
34
Never, believe me
Appear the Immortals,
Never Alone
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge
THE SPANDEX-CLAD BLONDE AT Bally’s knew of no one named Florian, or Flo Rain, or Florie, or any woman who matched the description of the green-shoed beauty. Chuckles thanked the woman and limped out to his Corvette.
For the past week Chuckles had been using his spare time to search for the woman whose heel had penetrated his thigh. She’d said her name was Florian, or something close to that, and he knew from the quality of her physique that she worked out. He also believed that wherever the woman did her workouts, she would be noticed and remembered.
He wasn’t surprised to have struck out at Bally’s. A body like Florian’s came from lifting tons of raw iron, not from dressing up in spandex and playing with brightly painted Nautilus and Cybex machines.
A copy of the Minneapolis/St. Paul Yellow Pages lay open on the passenger seat beside the pair of lime-green high-heeled pumps. Chuckles uncapped a felt-tip pen and crossed off Bally’s. There were only about forty health clubs and gyms in town, so unless she had her own private workout facility, or unless she was from out of town, he would find her. He ran his finger up the listings. He had to be back at the church by six for the elders’ address to the Faithful, so he was looking for a gym he could check out on the way there. Minnesota Muscle? Too far north. Gold’s Gym? He looked at his watch. Three fifteen. Not enough time. His finger stopped at the listing for Bigg Bodies. Just a few blocks out of his way. Chuckles started the vette and pulled out onto Nicollet Avenue, driving with one thick-fingered hand resting atop the steering wheel, the other one idly fondling the smooth patent leather surfaces of Florian’s green shoes.
Drew Chance reclined in his BackSaver Executive and looked at the three Alan Orlich originals taped to his office wall. Alan’s mother, Gert, had dropped them off that morning.
The first painting, a composition in red and brown, depicted a large hairy creature—possibly a bear—impaled on a spike. Drew thought it might have something to do with Russia, or Wall Street. Or maybe it was simply a bear on a spike. The second painting showed a burning boat sinking into a black ocean. That could be about an oil tanker accident, or a terrorist attack, or something going on in the Black Sea. The third painting showed a mushroom cloud rising over a burning city. That one seemed pretty straightforward.
Little Alan Orlich, the six-year-old clairvoyant finger-painter, had first attracted media attention a week ago when his third-grade teacher noticed that his fingerpaintings had clearly anticipated major disasters, including the crash of a Northwest Airlines 737, the eruption of a volcano in the Philippines, and a drive-by shooting in south Minneapolis that killed two children. Each of these three paintings, according to the teacher, had been completed approximately 72 hours before the actual events occurred. The teacher had called a local radio station and gone public with her discovery.
After hearing about the ominous fingerpaintings, Drew had contacted the boy’s parents and convinced them to sign an exclusive television deal with Hard Camera in exchange for a quick five hundred dollars. Drew was now trying to decide whether he should show all three of the kid’s paintings, or leave out the nuclear holocaust. If any one of the predicted events came to pass, he’d have a monster story. But if it was the nuclear bomb one, well, maybe nobody would be left to give a damn. He was trying to figure out which painting he should use for the opening shot when Annie buzzed him. Drew snatched up the phone.
“I’m busy,” he snapped.
“Sorry, Mr. Chance,” Annie said. “It’s Mr. Hilton on line one. He insists on talking to you.”
Drew drew a blank. “Who?”
“Mr. Hilton. He says he’s one of our reporters. Isn’t he the man who brought you the Evian?”
“Oh. Hy the Guy.” Drew hadn’t thought about Hy in over a month, not since he’d run out of Evian. “What does he want?”
“He’s on line one.”
“Okay, okay, okay.” Drew turned his irritated sneer into a wide smile and punched the lighted button. “Hy! Sorry to keep you waiting! What can I do you for?”
“Just checking in, Andy. Saturday’s the big day. You’re coming, aren’t you?”
“Sure, sure.” Big day? Drew couldn’t remember what he was supposed to be remembering. He remembered Hyatt’s idea, sort of. Something about getting married, but that was weeks and weeks ago. Drew had sort of put it out of his mind. Lots of other stuff had been coming down the pipe. Big stories, like the clairvoyant fingerpainter. He’d put Hy’s story in his “If it happens, I’ll be there” mental file.
Hyatt said, “You got an invite, didn’t you?”
“Ahhhh …” Drew remembered, now, the invitation to Hyatt’s wedding. Junk mail. He said, “You know, Hy, I don’t believe I did.”
“Andy, you’re just as full of shit as ever.”
Drew blinked and his smile fell.
“Listen, you’re going to thank me for this one, Andy. You gotta be there. This story has network written all over it.”
Drew opened his mouth to make an excuse, say his mother had died or something, but the word network rang in his ears. “Uh, when did you say it was? Saturday?”
“Andy, don’t flake out on me. I’m counting on you. Be there. And bring a
cameraman.”
“You want me to tape your wedding?”
“Just have a guy there. I want you at the wedding because we’re friends.”
Drew said, “Oh.” He frowned. “So, I suppose that means I have to buy a gift.”
“We’re registered at Dayton’s. Look, if you don’t want in on this, tell me now and I’ll talk to the guys over at WCCO.”
“Did I say I didn’t want in?”
“You aren’t exactly coming across gangbusters.”
“Yeah, well, if you’ve got a story—that’s what we’re talking, right? This isn’t just Hy the Guy gets hitched, right?”
“Jesus, Drew, you ever listen to me? This is gonna be huge!”
“Right. You got a story, then I’m your man.”
“We’re gonna have a story, Drew, remember?”
“Uh, this is the thing with that cult, right?” It was coming back now.
“That’s right. The Amaranthine Church.”
“The vampire thing, right?”
“That’s right. What the hell is wrong with you? Did we not discuss this in detail right there in your office?”
“I talk to a lot of clients, Hy. I got stuff coming at me every which way. I got a kid that draws pictures of the future.”
“You want a picture of the future, Drew? I got two of them. One, you’re sitting on a pile of cash. Two, you got your head up your butt. Which one you want on your wall?”
“Okay, okay. Look, you want to run through it again for me, Hy? I mean, just the high points.”
Hyatt turned off the phone and set it on the coffee table. He looked through the archway into the kitchen. Carmen stood at the stove wearing a red apron over her white bra and blue panties, stirring something in a big saucepan. He said, “Shit!” Carmen did not look up. Hyatt raised his voice and slammed his fist on the table. “Shit!”
That time Carmen turned her head toward him, smiled, then went back to stirring. Hyatt flopped back into the sofa. He didn’t understand how she could be so utterly incurious. Anybody else would have asked him what was wrong, and who he’d been talking to, but Carmen showed no interest whatsoever. All she seemed to care about lately was this stupid wedding. At least it was keeping her busy. But it would have been nice if she worried about Hy Hilton now and then.