by Frank Sibila
She could only nod at the cosmic correctness of it all. “The Chinese nesting doll theory of packing.”
“Well, it’s one explanation.”
“And a good one.” She sipped her latest latte, felt the electrical activity of her brain spike to the point at which she could feel random cells rebounding off the terminal ceiling, and said, “Why don’t you go get yourself a coffee, Frank?”
He nodded and left.
Monica waited in true karmic placidity. There was no place else she wanted to be, not at this moment. She remembered a true story she had once read about an Iranian expatriate named Merhan Karimi Nasseri, who was forced by visa difficulties to spend eighteen years of his life living in a departure lounge at the Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris. The airline folk took care of him like a pet, giving him food vouchers so he could enjoy meals at the various concessions. At the time she’d encountered the story, she’d thought that it must have been a hellishly tedious existence. But during the last few hours, she’d started to see some plus side. Imagine the joy of being free to sit, with no particular place to go, no particular bills to pay, and no particular dirtbag husband to harass, while everybody else around you hustles to destinations? Heaven. Heaven. Or at least a fine break from marriage to the likes of Keith Custer.
Frank returned with a tall cup wrapped in an insulating sleeve and took his seat opposite her. “You look almost wistful.”
“No almost about it, Frank.”
“I figured.” He scratched the back of his head. “Let’s get to it, shall we? Call your husband’s cell.”
That was the last thing she’d expected. She stared at him, aware that she was gaping—no, not just gaping, blinking—invisible bright red question marks radiating from her head at complementary angles.
“Keith,” he said, as if she didn’t know who her own damned husband was.
She found herself reaching into her bag and pressing autodial for the bastard’s number. She didn’t hold the phone to her ear, so she barely heard the distant hello when he picked up.
“Talk to him,” Frank said.
She said, “Hello, Keith … ?”
Some husbands perk up when their wives call. For most of their marriage, Keith’s voice had sounded a resigned and wary note. “Monica? Where are you?”
“At a Starbucks in Salt Lake City. How random is that?”
Keith said, “What are you having?”
She took the phone away from her ear and stared at it, as if stung. “What difference does it make what I’m having? Don’t you get what I’m telling you? I’m in Salt Lake City, of all places, having a latte. Where are you, and who are you having?”
“Put me on,” Frank instructed.
Monica stared at him, seeing a certainty she hadn’t expected and wasn’t at all sure she liked. After a moment she surrendered to the inevitable and handed over the phone.
Frank mouthed a thanks and placed it next to his ear. “Hello, Keith?”
Silence.
“Yes. Me. And actually, I think she’s having some chai.”
Silence again.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Calm down. I haven’t told her anything you wouldn’t want her to know. I’m just having a quiet caffeine fix with a nice lady of my acquaintance, who I happened to run into while waiting for a connection out of Salt Lake City.”
Brief pause.
“What can I say? Coincidence makes the world go round.”
Pause.
“Yes, I do remember you saying that, which is why … Keith, listen to me…. I haven’t said anything, and I’m sitting right next to her….”
A long, long pause. With a wink. Monica found herself fascinated. She rested her chin on her knuckles and appreciated the artistry of a master at work.
“Nooooo,” Frank said, affronted that anybody would ever believe him capable of betraying Keith’s trust. “Look, if you don’t believe me, ask your wife. She’ll tell you. Monica, please confirm that I haven’t told you anything.”
Monica directed her voice at the proffered telephone. “He hasn’t told me anything, Keith.”
Frank placed the phone against his ear again. “See? I wouldn’t do that to you.” Another pause. “Don’t be silly. We could be talking about Britney Spears, for all you know.” Again. A deep, long-suffering sigh. “All right, then. For Monica’s benefit, I reiterate that you are not my client, I have no idea what you do with your spare time, and any relationship between us has more to do with the franchise deal than any purely hypothetical hanky-panky on your part.” Another pause. “The franchise deal.” Again. “The one we were talking about at lunch the other day. Remember? The business meeting Monica interrupted?”
Another wink at Monica, who was not just fascinated but, by this point, feeling the first pangs of something that may or may not have been love but was certainly in the same zip code.
“Yes, that franchise deal. That’s still covered under our contract.”
Pause.
“Of course. Like we said, old contracts still apply. So the first question your wife asked me, when we ran into each other, was just how that deal was going, and I had to tell her that it was going great. In fact, another business associate of mine has come into a rather substantial sum, and he’s determined to see to it that we get cracking on the plans for the deal right away.”
Pause.
“I am telling the truth, Keith. Anything else would be fraud.”
Pause.
“Anyway, since you were so instrumental in the planning, so much a central figure in the business model we discussed the other day, I think the best way for you to show your interest in this deal would be to show up at the investor’s meeting in Vegas, two days from now.”
Pause.
“That’s right.”
Pause.
“Yes, I know that’s very short notice. But isn’t that what you taught me? That time’s of the essence? That sometimes you have to go with the window of opportunity?”
Pause.
“Well, that’s your prerogative, Keith. But this is intricately connected to the business still left standing between us. And is that truly the message you want to send about your intentions? That you’re not working on a joint venture with me? That we haven’t been talking about this for six months? That this wasn’t what we were talking about at the table with Tiffany when Monica showed up and we almost had that silly misunderstanding? Do you really want to suffer that kind of blow to your credibility and mine, given what’s at stake?—Excuse me, Monica. Be a dear and hand me the Sweet’N Low. Thanks.”
Pause.
“Day after tomorrow. Yes. I’ll have my office fax you the precise time and location. And hey, since Monica’s traveling, why don’t I just tell her to meet you there, too? You two lovebirds really are overdue for a vacation….”
Pause.
“Feeling’s mutual, pal.”
Pause.
“Don’t worry. I won’t. Day after tomorrow. Clear the slate. It’ll be a true occasion to remember. Have a good one.”
He hung up and handed Monica the phone.
She applauded lightly. “You really are dancing on the edge of fraud.”
Frank seemed almost offended. “Not really. I haven’t requested any money from him or described the franchise as a done deal. I just said that another business associate of mine came into a lot of money recently, which happens to be true. Nor have I given up any confidential information about anything your husband might or might not have done, just built upon a meeting you’ve already been privy to. I just placed him in a position where, whether he was simply in business with me or lying to you with my help, he would now have to meet us in Vegas in two days. Both explanations support that action on his part. In short, I have made use of the Second Law of Successful Lying. You do know the Second Law of Successful Lying, don’t
you?”
“I’m afraid I never went to Liar’s School.”
“That’s strange,” Frank said. “You struck me as a professional with an advanced degree.”
“I’m self-taught. Which is to say, I understand the principle, but not all of the underlying theory.”
“Ah, well. The Second Law is this: Never tell a lie if telling the truth costs you less time and trouble. If Keith is lying about working a franchise deal with me, and I’m noting once again for the record that I’m not saying whether he is or isn’t, then Keith now has to support that lie by flying to a business meeting that doesn’t exist with an associate who has cut off all ties with him in order to support an opportunity that doesn’t interest him, all to fool a wife who has seen through him since almost the beginning of their relationship. That’s pretty formidable.”
Monica found herself absolutely fascinated. “What’s the First Law?”
“You ever hear the story about the guy who sees his best friend at the health club take off a frilly pink bra? He says, ‘Joe, how long have you been a secret transvestite?’ Joe says, ‘Since my wife found it in the glove compartment.’ That’s the First Law: The bigger the lie, the longer you have to live with it. Now excuse me.” He took out his own cell phone and dialed a number, winking again as it rang. “Hello? Mrs. Yorick? This is Frank Sibila.”
Pause.
“No, I’m afraid the wine stains are going to be permanent.”
Pause.
“That’s okay. I don’t expect you to be.”
Pause.
“Remember what I told you yesterday? About it being too soon to cash in your investment in your husband? Well, I’m prepared to show you what I mean.”
Pause.
“No, I’m still not confirming he’s a client.”
Pause.
“Remember what I said about bullshit.”
Pause.
“Right.”
Pause.
“Can you get the rest of the week off?”
Pause.
“Then listen to me. My agency is about to send you a round-trip ticket to Las Vegas. There’ll be a full itinerary, including a room at one of the finer casinos…. No, I don’t know which one, yet. I’m still making arrangements.”
Pause.
“You can do what you want. There’ll be further instructions when you get there.”
Longer pause.
“Because of what I said. If this was bullshit, it would be more convincing bullshit. This is bullshit nobody with half a brain would ever believe in a million years, so it has to be true.”
Pause. “I know. Thank you. I’ll see you in two days.” He closed the phone, severing the connection. “Two down. Three, if I count you. Shall I continue?”
Monica shook her head. “You’re sending an awful lot of people on wild goose chases.”
“I’m not done yet. Any chance of getting put on the phone with George Yorick?”
Monica considered it. “Not directly. He’s the only leverage I have with you, and I lose him the second he knows his current itinerary is bullshit.”
“Ahhhhhhh,” Frank said, addressing his index finger heavenward, “but that’s the thing. This doesn’t get solved until we get all our players in the same place, and we don’t get all our players in the same place until you trust me. The longer you wait, the less leverage you have, because even Yorick’s gonna realize sooner or later that he’s being driven all over the country and never getting anywhere. Can you really risk him saying the hell with it and just taking a bus?”
“He does that,” Monica said, “and he loses what’s left of his winnings, because Felicia’s already confiscated the check.”
Frank froze. It was exactly that dramatic: a life-sized freeze frame, complete with partially open mouth and arrested breathing. Only the presence of unaffiliated background individuals continuing to function in real time established that the cessation of all movement was just a localized phenomenon and not a universal rift in the fabric of the space–time continuum. Monica was about to nudge him, just to see if he’d fall out of his chair and shatter like glass when he hit the terminal floor, when actual words escaped the statue’s mouth. “With your approval, I suppose.”
“After the fact,” Monica said, having decided it prudent to omit the admission that she’d been about to recommend that course of action anyway.
“That’s not good, Monica. That’s grand theft.”
“Until the check is cashed,” Monica said, “it’s not money, just the potential for money.”
“Is that actually a legal principle?”
“No. It’s just what I tell myself.”
“Can you get it back from her?”
“I haven’t tested the limits of my authority as your official spokesperson.”
Frank’s paralysis became a slow nod, not so much agreement with something as a form of palsy brought about by repeated blows from a cruel and unforgiving universe. “What good’s the check without Yorick to endorse it?”
“What, you never heard of forging a signature? And even if she didn’t decide to go that route, what exactly is it about George Yorick that makes you think he couldn’t be talked into endorsing it?”
Now his unhappiness was reaching some kind of event horizon. Another blow and he might actually collapse inward on himself like a star becoming a black hole from which no light could ever escape. “How do you know that hasn’t happened yet?”
“I don’t,” she said. “But Felicia thinks she’s working for a different Frank, the one heading the mob that happens to own her escort agency. As far as she’s concerned, everything she’s done so far has been at his instruction, not yours. I think the check will remain unmolested in her possession for as long as she believes Frank has told her to lay low, and that will only last until she finds a phone and calls in.”
“You don’t do something about that,” Frank said, “it’s going to be hard for both of us to avoid going to prison as accessories.”
“It’s a big stick,” Monica agreed. “So what are we going to do about it?”
He said, “You can start by letting me talk to George.”
She thought about mutual assured destruction and how that never worked. She thought about the crushing weight her marriage had become, and she thought about her last sight of the doofus Yorick, eager to take more pictures of the house of rubber bands. She thought of still setting up his itinerary four weeks from now, of the risk that trusting Frank entailed, and the even greater risk that trusting Felicia entailed. And she dialed a number on her phone, waited for somebody to pick up, and said, “Felicia? Vanessa here. I need you to put Yorick on the phone. No, the other one. Thank you.” She waited. Then she said, “This George with a Y? Hello, George with a Y. This is Vanessa. I have an urgent message from Frank. Hold for him—”
She handed over the phone.
He took it and said, “George?” Pause. “Yes, I’m told you’ve been having a great time.” Pause. “Yes, I’m sure it was very impressive.” Pause. “It took how many years to make?” Pause. “Wow.” Pause. “What a triumph of human ingenuity.” Pause. “Did you get any good pictures?” Pause. “All of you together? Wow, that’s really something.”
Long pause.
“Well, yes, I can see as how that would be very frustrating.” Pause. Pause. “Have you asked?” Pause. “Hold on a sec. I’ll be right back.” He muted the phone and said to Monica, “Would you believe it? The guy’s been traveling with a fully paid-up call girl for days now, under what she believes to be the direct orders of a crime boss, and he still hasn’t gotten himself laid.”
“That takes substantial talent,” Monica agreed.
“Or dumb luck, or clear evidence that he’s faithful to his wife. For what it’s worth, George says she got a killer sunburn the first day and couldn’t stand to be tou
ched. Now she’s peeling and doesn’t want to be seen naked. This is, keeping in mind, a woman who thought she’d been paid for a cross-country sex romp and had no problem with the essential principle. I swear, Monica, were this guy the last man on Earth following a nuclear holocaust, and were there a population of nubile eighteen-year-old females eager to repopulate the planet, our species would be toast. But maybe that’s a good thing. It makes certain other issues easier.” Frank turned off the mute button and returned to Yorick. “Well, that’s the thing, George. It would be different were she an actual escort, but she’s one of my employees. You can’t just assume sexual favors as part of the deal.” Pause. “Well, that’s between Anastasia and the other George.” Pause. “Really. Through the wall and everything.” Pause. “All night long? Really.” Pause. “Love’s a strange thing, George, I really can’t account for it. It still doesn’t mean Felicia’s obligated.” Pause. “What do you mean you haven’t even asked her? Excuse me.” He muted the phone again and rolled his eyes at Monica. “I repeat. The end of the species.”
Unmuted again. “I’m back. Listen, George? Listen, I think I can have this whole thing between you and your wife straightened out.” Pause. “Yes.” Pause. “But I’ll need to justify a little added expense.” Pause. “I don’t know how much, because I haven’t spent it yet.” Pause. “You’d be well within your rights to say no, but ….” Pause. “Really?” Pause. “Yes, I know our contract agrees to that, but this’ll be a little more than I thought. Are you sure—” Pause. “Ummm, I haven’t even said….” Pause. “Really? Okay. Okay. Okay.” Pause. “Wow, my heart really soars to hear you say that. Thank you. Thank you.” Pause. “Really. Thank you.” Pause. “No, you’re headed back to Vegas. Right now. You’ll arrive two days from now. Put Felicia on, and I’ll see to it that she gets the details. I’ll stay in touch.”
He muted the phone and handed it back to Monica, saying, “Whatever I said about that guy I take back. He may be a putz, but he’s a prince of a putz.”
Monica remembered Frank’s passionate defense of George Yorick back at the Excalibur. What phrase had he used exactly? Just a harmless little guy who’s temporarily forgotten who he is and hasn’t found his way back to being himself yet. Maybe it was even true. Certainly a guy who could spend almost three days with a fully paid-up call girl and still keep as much virtue as he’d possessed at the onset might qualify as one of life’s holy fools worth protecting. And it was that, as much as the sense that this had spiraled out of control or her own building attraction to Frank, that finally decided her. She picked up the phone just in time to hear Felicia, now sounding much the worse for wear, say, “Hello?”