A heavy drumbeat began, and a man wearing a headset scampered by, shooing bodies toward the stage. “Two minutes!” he called, pausing to fasten a golden horn to Pegasus’s head. The Velcro straps resembled a bridle, attaching behind his ears and below his chin.
“Fucking humiliating,” Pegasus grumbled when the man was out of earshot.
“Why?” Cupid asked, his pain-darkened eyes fixed on Psyche.
Psyche looked around the stage. “You know anywhere else where a woman who never ages and a horse with wings can find work?”
“Yeah,” Pegasus whinnied. “What were we supposed to do? Slap on a couple of vests and get jobs at Wal-Mart?”
“No,” Cupid said. “Why did you leave?”
Psyche’s green eyes filled with tears. “Because I couldn’t let you die. Not for me.”
“Die?” Cupid’s face crumpled with confusion.
“Your mother told me that’s how I gained my power. That every time we were…together, I took a little more of your strength. And that if we stayed together, you would die.”
“And you believed her?” Crixus wondered aloud. “That’s absolute bullshit! She made it up to get rid of you.”
“I was a woman with a mortal life up until that point. How was I supposed to know?” Psyche shouted.
“Communication,” I broke in. “You see how one little misunderstanding can lead to centuries of emotional pain?”
“Oh, Eros,” Psyche cried. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Forgive me. Please forgive—” Her mouth could make no more apologies after that, being fused with Cupid’s. They fell backward into the curtains together, disappearing among the velvet.
I looked over at Crixus and sighed. “I think someone’s going to be back to work before you know it.”
Pegasus eyed the cavorting couple with disgust. “There goes the whole fucking gig.”
“Not necessarily,” Crixus said. “I might know a couple nymphs trying to break into showbiz.”
“Wood or water?” Pegasus’s silvery tail swung out and swatted the G-string clad ass of a passing dancer. She turned back to him and winked.
“Water,” Crixus answered.
“Thank the gods. Last time I ran across a dryad, I had splinters in my flank for months.”
“Boy, do I hear that.” He and Crixus shared a conspiratorial laugh.
“Talk to me, man.” Winged horse and demigod wandered over to a side of the stage where Psyche’s understudy was making last minute preparations—like gluing glittery, rainbow-colored pasties to her nipples.
From this distance, I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but gathered the gist of the conversation from Crixus’s hand gestures.
“Dr. Matilda Schmidt?”
“Who wants to know?” I glanced over my shoulder and found myself staring down the barrel of a gun.
“It’s her,” said an oily, pockmarked face.
I didn’t notice the man behind me until a rag clapped over my nose. “Nighty night,” sang a gravelly voice.
*****
Stefano the Fathead’s rubbery lips pooched out from an equally puffy chin. His small, piggy eyes looked like they were being swallowed by a face the color and texture of rising bread dough.
This man had a remarkably fat head.
Additional facts surfaced slowly. Leather straps bound my wrists and ankles to a chair. A wad of fabric stuffed in my mouth leeched the moisture from my tongue and left a metallic tang in my throat. I had been kidnapped.
Again.
Liam, where are you?
I squinted against the light radiating from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind Stefano the Fathead’s vast desk. A stretch of the strip was visible beyond his enormous melon.
We hadn’t gone far from the Black Rock. Had Crixus realized I was gone? Was he looking for me?
“I think our guest is coming around.” The Fathead’s voice sounded as thick as the sludge scraped up from the gutters of Vegas every morning.
A shadow moved in my periphery, and I recognized the oily gunman as he pulled the gag from my mouth and dropped it in my lap. I peeled my parched tongue from my teeth and tried to speak, but couldn’t manage more than a broken whisper.
“Get her some water,” the Fathead said to Oily.
I followed Oily with my eyes as far as I could, taking in the expensive wood furniture, plush carpets, marble statues and paintings. Enough paintings to populate an entire wing of the Louvre. Whatever the Fathead did, he did it well.
Cool glass pressed against my lips, and I took greedy gulps of the cold, sweet water. “Thank you,” I said, trying my voice.
Stefano nodded, sending a ripple through his chins. “You’re welcome.” He looked over at Oily. “You can leave us now, Bruno.”
Bruno acknowledged the command with a tilt of his head and disappeared behind me.
“I have to say, Miss Schmidt, it’s a pleasure to meet you in person, finally.” Stefano’s eyes rolled down my face and body and took their time climbing back up. “I can see now why Luigi didn’t want to bring you in.”
The name failed to register until I replayed it several times. Luigi.
Liam had introduced himself as Luigi at first. Had he adopted the name to fit in with the likes of Stefano and Bruno?
“Of course, he and I will have to chat about disobeying orders.” An ugly smile folded back the Fathead’s thick lips, revealing teeth too small for the rest of his face.
“He wasn’t disobeying orders,” I said without thinking. “He was bringing me here when we were…carjacked.”
“Letting some punk getting the jump on him makes it worse, not better. It means that, in addition to being a lousy hit man, he’s a dumb-ass to boot.”
“That’s not true,” I insisted. “He’s actually quite intelligent, though he makes a point of playing it down so not to compromise the image of brutality he’s contrived. And regarding his professional capacities, I can assure you, his tactics are extremely effective. I was intimidated on a number of occasions. He’s quite good at what he does.”
“Is he now?” A crooked smile puckered one of the Fathead’s meaty cheeks.
“Quite.” I pushed away memories, not wanting Stefano to see me blush.
Gold rings winked from short, stubby fingers as Stefano folded his hands on top of his expansive desk. “Your recommendation is touching, but his job was to bring you here, and he didn’t.”
I searched his fleshy face for an indicator of weakness but found no softness in his iron jowls. “But he brought me most of the way here. And if it wasn’t for the…carjacker, he would have delivered me personally.”
Deep grooves appeared in Stefano’s forehead as his bushy brows migrated toward one another. “In all my years of business, I’ve never once heard a delivery defend the deliverer. Don’t you want to beg me to let you go? Or at least to kill you quickly?”
My stomach threatened to add acid to the sour fear already seizing my throat. “Of course not,” I said. “I can appreciate what it takes to run a business, well let’s be honest—an empire—as large as yours. I completely understand your reasons for bringing me here.”
The folds in his forehead deepened into caverns. “You do?”
“Don’t be modest, Stefano. What you do requires an intricate understanding of innumerable details, the ability to make spontaneous decisions, a masterful comprehension of human nature, a physician’s sensitivity to the limits of human anatomy. You’re not just the owner of a casino. Not just a mob puppet master. You’re a visionary. You’re a prophet. You’re…an artist,” I said, loading the last word with as much awe as it could hold.
Shallow breaths inflated the cavernous barrel chest beneath the jacket of the Fathead’s black suit. He rose from his desk chair as if tugged by a string from the heavens. His small black loafers made no sound as they sank into the carpet, each step drawing him closer to me.
Would he hit me? Or worse, kiss me?
I summoned the strength to look up at him as he
towered over me like hydrocephalic colossus. Then all at once, he collapsed to his knees and began to sob, his head as heavy as a prize-winning pumpkin in my lap.
“I wanted to be an artist,” he wailed into my skirt. “But my old man said art was for pussies. Then one night, he found me under the covers with a flashlight and, and some…paintbrushes—”
“Go ahead, Stefano,” I urged. “Cry it out.”
His whole body jiggled with the gale of tears that had overtaken him. I could feel the vibrations through the stomach molding around my knees like a sack of pudding. “He said there wasn’t no room in the art world for some ugly kid with a…with a…fat…head!”
I made comforting noises in lieu of patting him on the back, my wrists still being strapped to the chair.
After a few gasping breaths, he continued. “Dad said I’d only make it in the family business. So he left me the casino when he knocked off, and I’ve been running it ever since.”
A warm pool of tears began to soak through to my skin. I resisted the urge to squirm. “Don’t you see, Stefano? You didn’t compromise your dreams of being an artist. You brought all that talent with you, and you’ve used it to turn your what father had into to something greater. Something bigger. Something—” I paused for dramatic effect “—beautiful.”
The new round of sobs this comment elicited shook the chair and me with it.
“Your dad came from a different time, Stefano,” I continued. “He did what he could with the knowledge and experience available to him. He didn’t know how to love—”
Muffled shouts in the hallway had Stefano surging to his feet faster than I would have thought possible for a man of his size. By the time the door burst open, Stefano had his gun out and pointed toward the noise.
Another muzzle came within kissing distance, and Stefano backed away.
“Liam,” I shouted, seeing the hand gripping the gun.
My joy was short lived when the rest of his body followed the gun into the room. His shirt and slacks were torn, the exposed skin scored by road rash. His face was bruised, his lower lip swollen and crusted with blood where it had been split.
“What about me?” Crixus asked, pushing in behind Liam. “You going to shout my name too?”
“Look, shithead,” Liam said to Crixus without moving his eyes or gun from Stefano, “you helped me get in here, but I could shoot you and him in less time than it takes you to adjust your dick. Which would work out fine for me, because I’m leaving this room with one woman. Everyone else is optional.”
Seeing the expression on Crixus’s face, I remembered where I’d first seen his name: Roman history. Could he be the same gladiator I had read about so long ago? “Shoot me, and you’ll get to watch as I carry her away while you writhe in agony and pray you’ll bleed out before the shock wears off and you understand how it feels to have every bone in your body crushed into gravel.”
It was then I noticed that Crixus and Liam were precisely the same height. That is to say, about six foot-I-can-rest-my-cheek-on-your-pectoral.
I gave them each two notches in the Made Me Come column on the secret notepad in my head. A relatively new addition to my ledger.
“Who’s this character?” Stefano asked, jerking a couple of chins toward Crixus.
“Someone who knows you’ve got the wrong lady strapped to your chair,” Crixus answered.
“He’s right,” Liam added, looking like the words pained him. “She’s not the Matilda Schmidt who ran up that debt.”
Stefano looked from Liam to Crixus and back again. “You think I don’t know that?”
Now it was my turn to be amazed. “You do?”
Stefano smiled at me over his shoulder and lowered his gun. Liam did the same. “One look at you, and even I knew there wasn’t no way you gave a knob job to Double Amputee Louie.”
Relief washed over me in warm, rolling waves, even as I contemplated the icky implications of what he had said.
“I swear to God, Liam,” the Fathead continued, unbuckling my straps, “if you wasn’t my sister’s husband’s brother’s cousin’s nephew, I’d have put you through a grinder and sold you by the pound. Dragging this sweet girl all this way for no reason.”
“Sorry, Stefano,” Liam said, looking suitably chastened. “I’ll find the Matilda Schmidt that owes you money. I swear it.”
“Forget about it,” Stefano said with a wave of his fleshy hand. “This lady has redeemed anyone lucky enough to share her name.”
I captured that same hand with mine and brought it to my lips, kissing his dimpled knuckle. “Stefano,” I said. “I think it’s time you got a new name.”
“Oh yeah?” His heavy features looked lighter already.
“Yeah. From now on, it’s Stefano il Piccolo Artista.”
“The little artist,” Stefano said, a grin smeared across his cheeks. “You got that, Liam?”
“Yes Stefano,” Liam agreed. “I’ll make sure the boys know.”
“Good.” Stefano wiped his face and smoothed his coat. “Bruno!”
“I think he might be a little…impaired,” Liam said.
“Then make yourself useful and tell the chef I want something different for breakfast. Something…steamed.”
Liam’s stricken expression rivaled the moment he’d discovered Cupid smoking his dead grandfather’s cigar on the bed in our motel room. “Sure thing, Stefano.”
Stefano turned his attention to Crixus. “What about you? You looking for work? You got a talent for making threats.”
Crixus gave Stefano a dazzling smile. “I have a decent gig. But believe me, you’ll be the first man I’ll call if that changes.”
“Well, can one of you boys get this little lady home?” Stefano asked.
Liam and Crixus nearly tumbled over each other in their eagerness to volunteer.
I rose from my chair and held up a hand. “As much as I appreciate the offer, I think I’d prefer to get myself home. I’ll just catch a cab to the airport.”
“But you don’t have any money,” Liam protested.
I smiled at him and reached into my shirt, pulling a stack of cards from my bra. I fanned them out for all to see. “Driver’s license, debit card, and credit cards.”
“What’s that one?” Stefano asked, pointing to the paper card on the end.
“Business card,” I said, handing it over to him with a covert wink. “Never know when I’ll meet a potential client.”
Liam’s face held a mix of confusion and wonder. “How did you get those?”
“Swiped my wallet from your duffel bag after we…turned in for the night,” I reported.
Stefano wagged a thick finger at me. “Full of surprises, you are, Dr. Matilda Schmidt.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” Crixus asked, applying emphasis to one word in particular. “I could get you there quicker than any airplane.”
Quicker than any rocket, for that matter. “I’m sure you could,” I agreed. “I do appreciate the offer. But I think I’ve got this covered.”
“I guess I’ll see you around, lady,” Liam said, capturing my hand and kissing it.
Crixus was next. “I’m sure we’ll be in touch.” His wink sent a ripple through my body that had me returning a warning glare.
“Thanks for stopping by,” Stefano added, planting a heavy hand on each shoulder and kissing my forehead.
And so it was that I walked out of a mob kingpin’s office and down to the elevator, leaving a hit man and a demigod slack-jawed in my wake.
*****
“Dr. Schmidt! OhmyGodyou’reokay,” Julie squealed, leaping out from behind her desk to crush me in an overzealous hug.
I smiled in spite of myself. “Hi, Julie.”
When she finally released me, her milk-chocolate brown eyes were swimming in tears. “Dr. Schmidt, I am so, so sorry. If I had known, I—”
“It’s okay, Julie. There was no way you could have.”
Her blonde curls shook in disbelief. “
I don’t know what came over me that day. One minute I was sitting here, working on email, the next minute there was this loud popping noise, and I was in the closet and—”
“Really, you don’t have to explain,” I said, squeezing her shoulder.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “You look…different.”
“Oh?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “I can’t put my finger on it. It’s like you’re more…relaxed.”
“I’m always relaxed,” I said. “One of the benefits of yoga. First appointment at 9:00 a.m.?”
Her smile informed me she not only knew I was changing the subject, but also knew why. “Sure is. Oh, I almost forgot. Here’s your mail.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking the stack from her.
When the office door shut behind me, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
Upon opening them, I found my office had been restored to perfect order in my absence. My diplomas had been reframed and hung back on the walls. The vase filled with cobalt blue marbles had resumed its place on my shelf.
“Sigmund,” I crooned, rushing across the room and dropping my coat and briefcase on the floor.
Julie had replaced his tank with a larger one, complete with a tiny castle and green pebbles. I sprinkled a pinch of fish food on the water and watched him rise to the surface, lifting my heart right along with him.
I slipped into the familiar comfort of my leather desk chair and began sifting through the pile of mail.
On the bottom, I found a copy of the Las Vegas Sun News. Dead center on the front page was a picture of the Little Church of the West with a line of couples winding out the door and down the block.
Love Wins Big in Vegas! The headline screamed. February brings the highest number of weddings Sin City has ever seen, the caption continued.
My face split in a wide grin as I picked up the paper and unfolded it.
A red envelope slid from between the pages and fell into my lap. Setting the newspaper aside, I picked up the letter and turned it over.
Dr. Matilda Schmidt looped across the front in a florid cursive script.
Not wanting to tear the edges, I used my letter opener to make a neat incision, revealing the lacey edges of a heart-shaped valentine.
Unlovable Page 8