Fury and the Power

by Farris, John

  "Would she still have the collage she wanted the ticket stubs for?"

  "Oh, yes. I saw it in her room yesterday."

  "All right if I have a look at it?"

  "I suppose," Shelley Spicer said, with a frown to indicate her lack of interest in continuing the conversation.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Spicer. Then I need to be on my way."

  Charmaine was still by the pool or had gone shopping when Lewis Gruvver returned to their hyper-chromatic room at BahIa. He hung up his good suit and blue shirt and sat down on the bed in boxer shorts to review the photos he had taken with his new digital camera of Tracy Spicer's Las Vegas collage, which the precocious Tracy had named "Freekorama." She had worked twelve of Lise Ruppenthal's ticket stubs into the four-foot-long collage along with a spectacle of faces, off-the-wall characters, citizens of the under life, their flyblown karma captured fleetingly by disconsolate daylight. Some old desert jasper, his smile poignant in its lackadaisical toothlessness. A one-eyed man in a beret, shoulder-length hair with a despoiled whiteness like the wings of a dead angel. A woman who told fortunes in a mobile home, muumuu and turban, small barefoot children sitting cross-legged at her feet with that eerie nowhere directness in their gazes. A man with a handlebar mustache that hung down to his bare deltoids hawking photos of Elvis in his coffin. Autographed. A nearly naked young woman with tufts of orange and blue hair and a ballsy leer for the camera, playing cards tattooed all over her body. (Gruvver wondered if she had an ace in the hole.) Elderly women whose only known addresses were the nickel slot rows in some of the low-roller casinos.

  He used the credit-card-size magnifying lens he always carried in his wallet to closely examine the ticket stubs, and found that three of the shows Lise had attended were at the Lincoln Grayle Theatre. The last time she'd seen the show was three days before she boarded the plane for Germany. Across the face of the stub Lise had written "Lucky!"

  While he was pondering this information, Charmaine came in carrying a small gift shop bag.

  "What is this doo-wop business anyhow?"

  "Three-part harmony with bass and a lead singer. Those little records that I collect."

  "Oh, yeah. All those old-timers. Martha and the Vanderbilts. Dell and the Vikings. The Planters."

  "They don't come any better," Gruvver said with a slight wince, once again reminded in a subtle way that he was thirteen years older than Charmaine. What was that, half a generation?

  "I can listen to it," she said, giving him a glance to see if that made him proud of her. She sat beside Gruvver on the bed and kicked her sandals off. "What are you looking for, Lewis?"

  "I think I just found another Lucky Ticket holder at the Lincoln Grayle Theatre. Like Jimmy Nixon, and who knows? Maybe others I don't know about yet."

  "What's it mean?"

  "Means they got to meet the Man Himself after his show. Some sort of promotional thing he does."

  Charmaine stood long enough to shuck off her tank top and unbuckle her short skirt. She sat down again, a sleek thigh pressed against his.

  "What's that got to do with your police business?"

  "I don't know yet. Maybe I'll know more after I talk to Grayle."

  "Oh, are we gonna get lucky too?"

  "I'll see if Cornell or someone he knows can make an arrangement for me."

  Charmaine walked the fingers of her right hand down Gruvver's bulky quadriceps.

  "Lewis, did you ever notice how our legs are almost exactly the same length? Maybe you got half an inch on me."

  Gruvver put his camera aside.

  "Yeah, and right now I've got about seven and a half inches for you."

  Charmaine undid her bra and lay back on the bed, stretching, arms above her head.

  "Practice practice practice," she said. "We've got almost an hour until they do the pirate battle at the Treasure Island again."

  Chapter 23

  ROME

  OCTOBER 21

  7:10 P.M.

  Eden Waring's doppelganger was crossing the outrageously luxe lobby of the Excelsior Hotel on the Via Veneto when she heard Eden's name called—rather, the name she used while in Kenya, Eve Bell.

  She looked around and there was Lincoln Grayle, casual in a yellow cashmere sweater, V neck, nothing worn underneath, and khakis, half a dozen newspapers under one arm. Gwen felt a little stunned momentarily, recovered with a gracious smile.

  "Hello! Aren't you supposed to be in Zimbabwe?"

  "Aren't you supposed to be in Kenya?"

  A few heads turned at this exchange, as if those overhearing expected a couple of rootless characters from a Hemingway story. He gripped her shoulder lightly with his free hand and kissed her as she was laughing. Settled on his heels and looked at her with his own trace of surprise but warmly pleased, as if he'd been handed a valuable, unexpected gift on a day that otherwise hadn't gone well. Like her own day.

  "You first," Gwen urged.

  He shrugged. "The whole trip was a bust," he said. "Except for meeting you, of course. First the plane we chartered out of Nairobi had engine trouble, and we turned back. Laid over at the Norfolk when we couldn't get another plane; then in the morning we heard that the hotel we were booked into at Victoria Falls burned during the night. Sixty percent of it was destroyed, no casualties, fortunately. Some of our crew were already staying there."

  "Oh, the Elephant Hills," Gwen said, researching Eden's memory. "Sure, I've heard of it. The world's largest thatched roof, or something." She paused, still smiling, trying to get a grip on their meeting while thinking about how gorgeous he was up close. The word had its own dynamic when applied to straight guys. There was nothing minutely effeminate about Lincoln Grayle. None of that secretive, cool detachment when chatting up a woman. And the mere brush of his lips against hers had had erotic force. "So—walking across the Falls is out? What brings you to Rome?"

  "Another illusion I wanted to stage at the Colosseum this week. At night, with an audience. But the Romans suspended our permits today pending a review of possible structural damage—as if my team designed an illusion that would endanger one of the wonders of the ancient world. What it comes down to, of course, is corrómpere. They know I can't afford a delay. My theatre in Vegas has been dark for two weeks. I'm all out of 'vacation' time and I have bills to pay. I said forget it, there are just too many palms to cross in this town, and they'll think of some other way to hang me up tomorrow. NBC is pissed and so far I'm out a hundred fifty thousand of my own money, with nothing to show for it." He took her by the arm. "And that's enough of my troubles, promise. Were you going out just now? Or could we get a drink somewhere?"

  "Sure, no problem, I, uh, don't have plans."

  He looked at his sports-model wristwatch. "Have you been to Caffe Greco?"

  "I've never been to Rome before. This is my first day."

  "Tough to get a table this time of the evening, but they know me; my picture's on the wall in the back room between Sly's and Catherine's." He turned and curtly signaled a small dapper man in a black suit standing watchfully near the Excelsior's main entrance. The man turned immediately and went outside. The famed illusionist escorted Gwen, igniting covetous interest in other women around the lobby, to a BMW limousine parked on the interior drive. It was a stretch job but not so elongated as to be incompatible with many of Rome's narrow streets. Chauffeur by the rear door, also two men with the vigilant humorless aspect of high-priced bodyguards. Everyone got in and they were driven through the orange-toned Roman dusk and maddeningly disorganized traffic to Via Condotti.

  "Some of the best designers in Rome hang their shingles on Via Condotti," Grayle explained with the air of a man for whom the cosmopolitan cities of the world are one familiar neighborhood. "I wouldn't know; I don't have a wife for those dress-to-kill competitions?'

  "Or girlfriends?"

  He smiled, beginning to relax now, not as charged-up over business frustrations as he had seemed when he gave her that kiss. As for Gwen, her heart was still pumping
at twice normal speed. Head in a delicious whirl. Lincoln Grayle!

  "Diamond bracelet or a gold Bulgari watch, depending."

  "Which you order by the dozens," she said, with Eden's flair for deadpan mockery.

  "I leave that up to my secretaries. You didn't tell me what you're doing in Rome, or am I not supposed to know?"

  "No big secret."

  "You heard I was going to be here, and you couldn't wait until you saw me again."

  Gwen gave him a mild shot to the shoulder with her fist before setting him straight; he reacted, however, as if she'd hit him with a sledge.

  "Oh, God, what did I do? I'm sorry!"

  He covered the shoulder protectively with his other hand and shook his head gamely. But obviously he was in pain. He needed a few seconds to get his breath back while Gwen wished she were invisible; both bodyguards were looking at her as if waiting for instructions to throw her into the street.

  "Some ligament damage—I haven't had time to repair surgically. I take a lot of MSM and see my chiropractor twice a week." His grimace eased into a smile. "So now that you've caught up with me—"

  "I had no idea that I'd ever see you again. Tom had business in Rome and Bertie had a shoot, and I—I didn't want to be left behind. Etan and his wife went to their house in Mallorca until her asthma clears up, so there wouldn't have been anyone to talk to at Shungwaya. I was bored." And she had been annoyed, almost since their arrival in Rome the night before. Right now Tom and Bertie were at the residence of the U.S. Ambassador to Italy with Katharine Bellaver, calling on the U.S. Ambassador to the Holy See and envoys from Leoncaro. A meeting to which she pointedly had not been invited. More than likely if the Pope did agree to meet with them she'd be excluded again. Tom and Bertie had been pleasant and reasonable in explaining why they didn't feel she could be helpful. More likely, Gwen concluded, they were afraid she'd somehow embarrass them. Not being used to or understanding the nature of doppelgangers, even though every living human had one, from birth. So stupid! She was Eden, with only one important distinction that someone who didn't know Eden very well would never notice. If Eden had had the confidence to send her to Rome on this urgent mission, who were they to deny her the chance to convince the Pope that he was in serious danger?

  The more Gwen thought about it, the angrier and more rebellious she became. Two days had passed; Eden hadn't tried to contact her with advice or instructions. Confidence—which Gwen knew she had earned, plenty of times.

  "You're doing that thing you do" Lincoln Grayle said.

  "Pardon?"

  "You rock from the waist up, with your chin elevated. Endearing. But your eyes are half closed while you're rocking, and it's as if you've gone to the other side of the universe."

  "Oh. That thing."

  "Makes a man feel insecure. Unworthy of your company."

  "It's jat-leg. I mean jet-lag."

  "Happened twice while we were having lunch at the Stanley, Eve."

  "It did? Never again, on my honor." Paparazzi on motor scooters were suddenly buzzing around the limo, trying to detect who was inside, adding to the racy, high-octane excitement pumping through her veins, the thrill of glamour, of being there. "You know, I really don't care for Eve all that much." She laughed nervously. "New place, new pers—identity. Could you just call me—let's see, how about Gwen."

  "Okay," the magician said indulgently. Finding that endearing too, from the way he smiled.

  "It's short for Guinevere," she said, feeling just a little foolish and then, with a rush, blissfully liberated.

  "I know." He moved his bad shoulder cautiously, fingers pressing here and there. "As long as we're on this kick, why don't you call me—"

  "No, no, I love Lincoln. Linc. It's perfect. For you. Don't change a thing."

  They were getting out of the limousine in front of the Caffe Greco, which had a modest dignified facade and cheery lighting inside, when she noticed a spot of red that had seeped through his sweater just below the shoulder.

  "Oh, Linc, you're bleeding! Now I really feel terrible about hitting you."

  He looked, unconcerned, at the blood spot. "One of your kamikaze African insects. Camel fly I believe it was. I scratched the bite and it bled. I guess the Band-Aid popped off when I was flexing."

  One of the bodyguards handed Grayle a blazer, which he draped around his shoulders Continental-style before they went inside.

  The Greco's foyer was jammed with standing Italians, mostly men in sharp dark designer suits killing time with an espresso and gossip before meeting wives or girlfriends for dinner. "Italians eat late," Grayle said, making their presence known to a young woman like a beautiful centaur, long-necked, lithe, and curvy from the waist up and with a marvelous flowing black mane, big in the hips and thick-legged below.

  Grayle's chauffeur, Gwen assumed, had called ahead; there was a table waiting in conspicuous isolation in the snug back room. The magician nodded amiably to a couple here and a foursome there when they entered, all of them with the shapely auras of big money or secure fame. He paused to kiss the pallid cheeks of a young Roman pop star dressed in trendy tatterdemalion. Grayle spoke to the girl in Italian. The movements of his hands, the lilt in his eyes were second and third languages. The pop star adored him instantly. It was just something he spread around, Gwen thought, like sparkly dust in the air. Or a pleasant sort of flu.

  "How do you know so many people wherever you go?" Gwen said to him when they were finally in their seats.

  "The entree to the famous is fame itself. A novelist friend of mine wrote that 'Las Vegas is the crossroads of the civilized universe.' He tends to be a cynic, but the fact is, sooner or later the whole world shows up in Vegas. Or if some of the world is slow in coming, somebody puts up a Vegas version, more fabulous than the original. Venice, Paris, New York. Ancient Egypt. You have to go some to out dazzle the Luxor, but I made a good try with the Lincoln Grayle Theatre."

  "I wish I could see it."

  Campari was brought to them. Gwen had hers with soda. He looked at her over his raised glass.

  "You've spoiled my surprise."

  "What surprise?"

  He leaned toward her with one of his beguiling gestures. Magic on his mind, at his fingertips. She was gathered in as if by the flourish of an invisible cape, cloaked in intimacy.

  "If we're forced to scrub the Colosseum shoot, then I'm flying home day after tomorrow. Plenty of room on my Falcon, and there'll be a fun bunch aboard. I want you to come with me."

  "When did you decide this?"

  "On the way over." He raised his glass. "Chin-chin."

  They sipped their drinks. Grayle said, directing her eyes to images of the renowned on the wall near them, "Keats, Goethe, Wagner, Liszt; they all might have sat where we're sitting now, at one time or another. That rake with the big nose is Casanova. Caffe Greco goes back to the mid–eighteen hundreds."

  "Casanova? Your patron saint?"

  "I love women. What I don't have is time to pursue them."

  "Is that why we're moving so fast, Linc?"

  "As long as we're going in the right direction."

  "I'm charmed. Really. Can't we just enjoy now?"

  "Yes. And I'm going to enjoy having dinner with you at Il Fiorentmo later. And the drive to Naples in the morning. You're not allowed to leave Italy without seeing Naples, Gwen. That's been known to provoke international incidents."

  "Okay, but—"

  "Or Florence. My God, we have to spend at least a day in Florence."

  "But I—"

  "I've been pushing myself hard for two years," he said, staring at her as if he was in a somber confessional mood and she was his only hope for absolution. "The TV special I've been working on, Madison Square Garden this past spring, command perf in London right after that. Ten shows a week at my own theatre. I badly need to take some time just to catch up to yesterday. And I want to spend that time with you." His smile was well placed but sweet and sincere. "Please tell me I'm not being unreasonabl
e."

  "No, but—"

  A British actor with an alcoholic glaze to his face and wise suffering eyes approached to give Linc a friendly pawing, leaning on the shoulder that wasn't damaged and whispering at length in his ear. The illusionist laughed at the anecdote and sought to introduce Gwen, but the old pouf turned away from their table with a suddenly lost look, fumbling for a cigarette.

  "Sorry. He's like that."

  "Rude to his competition?" Gwen said with a wide-eyed smile. "But they're all fascinating." Looking around the clubby room where majestic creative monsters from dimmed centuries had passed some of their down time. She held up her empty glass, blood tingling in her cheeks. "If I could have another of these? Then I think I ought to change for dinner. Roman women know how to dress. But I can hold my own."

  Tom Sherard and Bertie Nkambe had returned from their meeting at the Ambassador's residence when Gwen walked into the seventh-floor suite at the Excelsior. Bertie was napping on one of the large beds in the room she and Gwen shared. She fell asleep easily, like any healthy animal with nothing else to do, but her head lifted alertly from the pillow when she heard Gwen going through some of the eight shopping bags lined up against a silk-covered wall.

  "Hi, how did it go?" Gwen said, not looking around. She pulled a beaded Fendi clutch from one of the tissue-filled bags, opened three boxes of dress shoes. This season ankle wraps were back in style.

  "His Holiness has agreed to see us." Bertie yawned.

  "Eleven o'clock tonight, in his apartment at the Gemelli Polyclinic."

  "Clinic? Is he sick?"

  "Just getting over an ear infection is what we heard. Also Tom and I will attract less attention there than we would at the Apostolic Palace."

  "Eleven o'clock. Okay. Should I meet the two of you at the clinic?"

  "Where are you going now?"

  "To dinner. I have a date."

  "Oh." Bertie looked at her with muted curiosity, then commented obliquely, "Looks as if you blitzed every shop on the Via Veneto."

  "When in Rome. Besides," Gwen said with a pointed glance at Bertie, who was sitting on the bed now with her legs crossed, reaching high above her head, "I had the afternoon off. I—we—have really good taste in clothes, just never had enough money." She unwrapped the shoes she wanted to wear, tried them on again. "It's a kick, isn't it? Being goddamned rich." Bertie was still reaching for the coffered ceiling and didn't reply. She had wonderful breasts, Gwen observed. Mahogany-tipped, a shade darker than a brown hen's egg, with overtones of brass in the yellow lamplight: her Chinese bloodlines. The dpg wondered what Tom Sherard was holding back for, with Bertie so crazy for him. Maybe a buffalo had gored him in a bad place. "You would never guess who I ran into today, I mean this evening, right here at the Excelsior."