Good to Be God (13 page)

The Reinholds have tried all the parental ruses, shouting, begging, bribery.

They’re in a difficult position. If Alexa were younger they could get legal. If they were better off they’d have a chance of buying her off with a three-month tour of Europe or India.

They’re also battling the most powerful force in the universe: pleasure, the old white eye. Chatting with your friends, listening to music, going shopping, all these pastimes (never mind education or volunteering to wash up) fade away when you discover intersecting loins.

I’m eager to help the Reinholds, although I doubt I can do much. Parleying with the daughter is a non-starter. If they can’t slow down her pleasure I have no chance. But her idol… they give me the telephone number for Cosmo, the injectioneer in question. I promise to have a heart-to-heart talk with him.

My first attempt to make contact with Cosmo fails. He’s “too busy” to see me. I knew I wouldn’t like Cosmo, but now, dislike seriously takes root. I can only have respect for those who tell the truth or who lie elaborately. I would have rated Cosmo more highly if he had told me to drop dead. The Reinholds have informed me that apart from feeding their daughter thrusts, Cosmo has no job and spends his time drifting from couch to couch, subsisting on others’ fridges.

Much to my surprise, a few days later, when I call again he agrees to meet me.

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“Don’t bore me,” he says. “And bring a bottle of Barbancourt Rum.” I suppose he has agreed because he’s flattered by the attention, that a spiritual advisor has been called in to wrangle his phallus. And because he doesn’t have much else to do. And could use a bottle of rum.

I drive to the address he gives me, (getting lost several times in the traditional Miami manner), but it doesn’t make sense.

It’s a brand-new money-shrieking block up on North Beach.

They say Miami is the hottest property market in the world and you can believe it as these colonies of giant jack-in-the-boxes spring up everywhere. I check my note twice, but it’s the place. Cosmo is either tending someone’s guppies or visiting a friend, because he couldn’t afford to live here. As I approach the building, an attractive realtor walks out.

When I buzz in, I have no idea what to say.

A half-dressed Cosmo admits me into a vast unfurnished condo. I immediately guess he is doing the realtor too and is taking advantage of unsold space. One of the few benefits of being a salesman is that you do get a knack for sizing people up quickly. I hope Cosmo will show some weakness or opening I can exploit, but he doesn’t. I see a shiny leather jacket on the floor, which cost (the Reinholds told me) a thousand dollars.

“Where’s the bottle?” Cosmo asks.

“I’m sorry,” I reply. “I’m not allowed any money.” I enjoy saying that because it sounds so pure and it’s so untrue. There’s no comeback.

“Don’t bore me, Your Holiness,” he says sauntering out onto the balcony. There’s another deadbeat perched on the balcony rail. On closer inspection, I perceive that his trousers have been lowered to his ankles. “Did he bring the rum?” he asks.

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Cosmo now drops his trousers, and manoeuvres his rear over the balcony rail, hanging on in a quite precarious way, considering that we are on the twelfth floor. He and his friend are shitting on two sports cars below, tough targets at this distance.

“Why are you wasting my time?” he demands, fine-tuning his position. For no good reason I respond with a subtle threat.

“You’re causing a lot of upset.”

“Not my problem. Couldn’t you get me a drink?” His face grimaces as he struggles to squeeze one out.

“Distress has a way of working around; if you cause distress, eventually the distress comes to you,” I say with my most mantic voice.

Cosmo grunts and voids one. “Big miss,” his spotter announces.

“Do the cars belong to anyone you know?”

“You’re boring me. You’ll have to go.”

Cosmo isn’t hard. He’s seen some rough things, he’s an accomplished delinquent, but in a city like this, where executions are gleefully carried out for a few hundred dollars, he’s froth. In Liberty City, they’d spread him on toast. He’s a skinny creature and I’d even fancy my chances in a fist fight, since I must have fifty pounds on him. That morning, when I had smacked the punchbag, I was again surprised by how enjoyable, how familiar… how righteous it was. I consider sucker-punching Cosmo.

“Do you love Alexa?’

“Woah, I’m not a one-woman man.” Of course not, his vasa deferentia must be on call round-the-clock. His sideshitter shakes his head, agog at my crass remark.

If it weren’t for his sideshitter, this would be the perfect solution to the Reinholds’ problem. Effortlessly, I could 99

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just upend Cosmo completely and over he’d go. I’m glad his companion’s there though, because I probably would have chickened out otherwise, and I’m glad I don’t have to worry about the probability of chickening out.

“You’d better not insult me by offering anything less than twenty grand to stop seeing her. She’s into expensive presents, and her pussy is pencil-sharpener-tight, yeah? I told them, twenty grand and I never take one of her calls again.”

I doubt the Reinholds have twenty grand to spare. Even if they danegelded Cosmo he would be unlikely to keep his side of the bargain.

“Why should they pay twenty thou, when a motorbike accident only costs one? A young man like you, you’d make a wonderful organ donor.” This is the first time I’ve ever threatened to kill anyone, and it’s fun. This is not what Cosmo’s expecting. He’s unnerved by the turn of the conversation.

“Alexa’s old man wouldn’t have the cojones to park illegally, let alone kill anyone.”

“You’re right. He wouldn’t. Others would.”

I can tell what Cosmo is thinking. He can’t believe this ancient old turd has just threatened to kill him. I may represent a strange church, but I appear to be a man of the cloth, a promoter of holy writ and instead of a dreary homily on fornication or a hug-in, he’s hearing about murder.

He’s furious, and I have to concede that I might not win a fist fight with him. But he’s not sure either. This is jungle stuff.

Okay, you have this ancient turd calling you out, the ancient turd probably can’t back it up, the ancient turd looks lame, but what, but what if he can? You guess wrong and you’re some teeth short.

A little belatedly it passes through my mind that Cosmo and his chum could do a good job of throwing me over the balcony. They 100

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wouldn’t do it deliberately – they’re too frothy for that – but they might want to scare me and mess it up. On the other hand, they’d have no ideological objections to giving me a thorough kicking.

I bet right however. Cosmo waves his hands and compresses ten minutes’ worth of abuse and obscenity into my leaving, cursing me as best he can with his limited vocabulary. But he keeps his distance. As he rages, I take stock of my new fondness for high-risk gambling. It’s not a good new hobby.

“Hey, I have friends. I have friends.” Cosmo keeps on shouting.

“No. You don’t,” I counter. This is always a good line to throw in, because even the biggest egos have a hairline crack on this one.

Outside, I switch on my phone. I acknowledge again what my mistake has been: too reasonable. The cat and Cosmo will have to be dealt with. But they’re no problem. When you’re God you can do anything.

G

I call DJs Gamay and Muscat. I had almost thrown their card away, because I couldn’t conceive of ever needing to talk to imbeciles of their magnitude again. Real water bottles. Walking water the pair of them. But that’s one lesson I learnt as a salesman: contacts are everything, and just because you don’t need an imbecile now doesn’t mean you won’t need one later.

Most importantly, they’re big, beefy imbeciles, much bigger and beefier than Cosmo, and you don’t tender your services to a major multinational criminal organization unless you’re prepared to get rough. And if they want to work for a major multinational criminal organization, that’s what I’ll let them believe.

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“That’s a great suit, Tyndale, you look so cool,” says Gamay as he and Muscat enter. As flattery, it’s feeble, but I acknowledge the effort. I give the DJs a pad of paper and tell them to write a one-thousand word autobiography, and to give me the names and addresses of at least twenty friends or relatives.

Apprehensive as they arrived, they now look freaked.

“Why?” Gamay spokespersons.

“Here’s the deal. The deal is non-negotiable. You don’t ask anything. You never ask anything. Ideally, you never say anything. You do. You do or you leave. Do or leave.”

“Okay. Totalism,” nods Muscat.

They settle down with the paper. This will be difficult. Are they appropriate vessels? I doubt if Gamay or Muscat have written anything longer than a cheque. Next, counting up to one thousand will be a challenge, and as they can’t be more than twenty-one, they can’t have too much life to recount. All application forms are designed to humiliate and subordinate the applicant, and I have added a touch of genius by giving Gamay and Muscat the additional burden of having to invent the questions.

Truthfully, I’m also inspired by one of my former neighbours, an Iraqi exile, who had been imprisoned, tortured, mock-executed and whose entire family, apart from his daughter, had been executed. He used to give me advice about torture which I never imagined I could put to good use. “Before they start the beatings, they make you write. They make you write about yourself and no matter how clever you are, you always give something away.” In the end he strangled his daughter, since he felt she wasn’t dressing demurely.

As I go out to the pool to do some laps, Patti and Trixi come in from their swim to resume their clothing. Gamay and Muscat’s 102

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limited compositional skills expire. They undergo a formidable stupefaction in the presence of The Dream… the big house, the nymphs gambolling around naked. Their imaginations weren’t lying. I make a point of not introducing them to the girls.

After my half-hour in the pool, I return to find little progress.

Even holding the pens stretches Gamay and Muscat.

“Tyndale, where should I expect to see myself in five years?”

asks Gamay.

“What did I say about asking?”

“I’m not asking. I’m only curioso. When do we get some major disfrooting?”

It’s recognized that part of the ageing process is viewing the young as useless, listening to terrible music and drivelling away in some outlandish cant, but no one will disconvince me that Gamay and Muscat are anything but useless strange drivellers and perpetrators of terrible music. I reinstruct them to do their bios and go out for a walk.

It’s at least two hours before I get back. Gamay and Muscat are as uncomfortable as two manatees in a sandpit. But that’s okay: to make people happy, it’s beneficial to make them unhappy first. Their autobiographies are woefully brief and Muscat has drawn a smiley face on his paper, presumably in an attempt to placate my wrath.

Can I trust them with solving even Mrs Garcia’s cat problem, never mind Cosmo? But they’re all I have. It’s easy to succeed with proper help. Buddha? Mohammed? Jesus Christ? Did they have to work with dumbos? You bet. Anyone can work with the talented. Can you do it with dumbos? It’s what sorts out the illuminators from the droners.

To impress upon Gamay and Muscat the gravity of their signing-up, I get them to put a fingerprint on their bios, then I 103

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take a shot of them with Sixto’s camera, then a real close-up, for purposes of iris recognition I explain. I warn them that they’ll probably end up dead or in jail, and they look unconcerned.

Stupid or tough? Stupid. I consider teaching them a secret handshake, but that would only get them into trouble.

“You have a long way to go before you’re in,” I say. “Remember, I’m the hopmaster: when I say hop, hop.” I make them hop up and down on one leg for three minutes. They’re bulky, and not in condition. By the end they’re gasping piteously.

I outline their tasks, simply and slowly, and emphasize how complete discretion and reliability is required.

“We won’t kennedy you,” says Gamay.

“We won’t kennedy you,” seconds Muscat. I think I understand what they mean. They sit there watching me watching them watching me.

“Okay. Off you go then.”

They look at each other. “You know that stuff you want us to do?” says Gamay. “Would you write it down for us? And is that stuff about the woman and the cat… like some sort of code?”

G

Two days pass. I have given them all the information on Cosmo and the cat, and then I’ve been busy with holy work and thinking about some miracles. They’re relatively easy to fake, but hard to fake well.

I ask myself when Gamay and Muscat are going to check in.

I can’t chase after them – that would look undignified – but I have to say I’m annoyed at their failure to ring in and apologize for their failure. I doubt real criminal organizations would be tolerant of such slackness.

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But finally, out of curiosity, I phone Gamay.

“So?”

“Things are great, totally cool,” he says.

“You had a chat with Cosmo?’

“Not as such.”

“And the cat?”

“It’s right there on the list.”

“What have you been doing for two days?”

“Well, yesterday I was out of it. Someone must have spiked my drink, cos I was feeling bad all day. All day. Today I had to go and see my stylist, Roxanne, cos she’s going on vacation and she wanted to pass me over to Nourina, who’s great and all, while she’s away, but I said to Roxanne, only you can take care of my hair, I just can’t trust anyone else but you, great as Nourina is—”

“Can you hear me okay, Gamay?”

“Perfectomento.”

“You and your fellow DJ have twenty-four hours to deliver.”

“Hey this is the Big M.I.A., we can do it any-ee way.”

I’m so angry I have to lie down. True, they’re not really being auditioned by a major multinational criminal organization, but they don’t know that. When I look back on how much crawling I had to do to get a job interview, let alone a job, their waywardness cripples me with rage.