Tricky Business (12 page)

Muddy Waters was singing,

“So what's the deal with her?” said Johnny, handing the joint back to Wally. “She married?”

“I don't know,” said Wally. He sure didn't want her to be married.

“She's hot, is what she is,” said Jock. Wally didn't like the sound of that, because Jock, even though he had the IQ of a hammer, knew how to make a move on a woman, never seemed to get shot down. If Jock was the competition, you were going to lose, that was Wally's experience.

“What about the roulette woman?” Wally asked Jock. “Tina. I thought you were seeing her.” Tina was a croupier, former stripper, blonde, six feet tall, near-cartoon-quality body. She made
serious
tip money. Guys tipped her who weren't even playing roulette. Jock had locked on to her like a Sidewinder missile.

“Oh yes,” said Jock. “I've been seeing Tina.”

A moment of reverent silence, while all four men thought male thoughts about seeing Tina.

“Are they real?” asked Johnny. “Those things can't be real.”

Jock pondered that.

“They're not one hundred percent real,” he said, “but they're nice.”

“I don't get it, with fake tits.” said Ted. “It's the same as squeezing a bag of plastic, right? What's the thrill?”

“Tell you what,” said Johnny. “You squeeze a bag of plastic, I'll squeeze Tina's tits, we'll see who gets more thrilled.”

“So you're still interested in Tina?” said Wally, handing the joint to Ted.

“Why?” said Jock, turning sideways to look back at Wally. “Are
you
interested in Tina?”

“No, no,” said Wally, who was interested in Fay, and thus wanted Jock to remain interested in Tina. “I'm just wondering.”

“Tell you the truth,” said Jock, taking the joint from Ted, “she's a little weird. She's one of those whaddycallits, they don't eat hardly anything.”

“Vegetarian?” said Ted.

“No, worse than that. Like, she won't even eat eggs.”

“Eggs aren't vegetables,” said Johnny.

“I didn't say they were,” said Jock, handing the joint to Johnny.

“What about fish?” said Ted.

“Fish aren't vegetables, either,” said Johnny.

“What about fish eggs?” said Ted.

“Shit,
I
wouldn't eat fish eggs,” said Jock.

“Sure you would,” said Johnny, passing the joint back to Wally. “You eat tapioca, right? That's fish eggs.”

“It is?” said Jock.

“Like shit it is,” said Ted.

“Well, then, what is it?” said Johnny.

“I don't know,” said Ted, accepting the joint from Wally. “But it's not fish eggs.”

“How can you say that, if you don't know?” said Johnny.

“Because if it was fish eggs, there would be a fish called the tapioca fish,” said Ted, passing the joint to Jock. “You ever see that on a menu? Tapioca fish?”

“I've seen tapioca pudding on a menu,” said Johnny.

“But that's pudding,” said Ted.

“So?” said Johnny. “It could be made from a fish. Like, tuna fish salad, that's made from tuna fish.”

“But there's no such thing as tapioca salad,” said Ted.

The car was quiet for a moment, as Johnny tried to think of a good counterattack. Muddy Waters still had the blues.

“So Jock,” said Wally, “you're saying you're not interested in Tina anymore?”

“What I'm saying,” said Jock, “is she farts.”

“Everybody farts,” said Ted.

“But she farts a
lot,
” said Jock. “I think it's from the food she eats. She eats this weird food. Looks like snot.”

“Loud farts?” said Johnny.

“Nope,” said Jock. “That's the bad part. You don't hear'em. No warning. Things'll be going great, I'm getting down to it, and then,
whoa,
it smells like a sewer blew up. This one's gone.” He popped the roach into his mouth.

“How come you always get the roach?” said Johnny.

“How come he always gets the women?” said Ted.

“When you say you were getting down to it,” said Wally, “do you mean you were, like . . .”

“I mean I was right down there,” said Jock. “I thought my eyeballs were gonna melt.”

The car was silent again as Wally, Ted, and Johnny absorbed this new information about Tina.

“So does that mean you're not interested in her?” said Wally.

“I don't know,” said Jock. “I mean, she
looks
good, but I don't want to wear a gas mask to bed, you know?”

“Shit,” said Johnny, “I'd wear a gas mask if Tina was in the bed.”

“I might take a shot at that waitress with the legs,” said Jock. “What's her name? Jane?”

“Fay,” said Wally, softly.

“Fay,” said Jock, nodding.

“Here we are,” said Johnny, pulling the Voyager into the parking lot of the Chum Bucket bar and restaurant. Beyond the building, the
Extravaganza of the Seas
loomed at the dock, lights blazing through the swirling night rain. The four guys sat for a few seconds, nobody wanting to leave the warm, dry car.

Muddy Waters sang:

“What I wanna know,” said Johnny, “is who the fuck is gonna want to go out and gamble in this?”

“People like us,” said Wally. “Desperate losers.”

EVENING AT THE OLD FARTS SENILE DYING CENTER. In the common area, the after-dinner entertainment was Mrs. Bendocker, the killer show-tune woman, who was shrieking her way through a medley of songs from
South Pacific.
Her audience consisted mainly of the hearing impaired ; she did a rendition of “Bali Hai” that could shatter crystal. Most of the residents, fleeing the din, had shuffled off to their rooms.

Arnie and Phil had been personally escorted back to the residential area by Dexter Harpwell, who ordered the security guard to make sure they stayed in their rooms. Phil was in room 326, at about the midpoint of a long corridor. Arnie was in room 317, on the other side and closer to the guard, who sat at a desk at the end of the corridor.

A few minutes after Harpwell left, Arnie stuck his head out the door. The guard was studying
Juggs
magazine and working his way through a box of assorted Krispy Kreme doughnuts, saving his favorite, the blueberry-filled, for last. He reluctantly tore his eyes from a photo spread entitled “Dairy Queen” and gave Arnie a look. Arnie waved and retreated into his room. He picked up the phone and called Phil's room. Phil, who'd been sitting on his bed, waiting, grabbed the receiver, dropped it on the floor, picked it up.

“Hello?” he said.

“You ready?” said Arnie.

“I dunno about this, Arnie.”

“This'll work. Trust me.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“I'm older than you. How many people can say that?”

“True.”

“You got your directory?”

“Yup. Right here.”

“OK,” said Arnie. “I'll take rooms 300 to 325. You take 327 to 350. Remember: There's doughnuts and a free gift. Make sure you say that. Free gift.”

“A free gift,” said Phil.

“OK,” said Arnie. “Let's do it.” He disconnected Phil, squinted at the directory in his lap, dialed a number, waited for an answer, and spoke.

“Hello, Mr. Kurtz? This is . . . Hello? Hello? HELLO, IS THIS MR. KURTZ? THIS IS DEXTER HARPWELL. DEXTER HARPWELL. MR. KURTZ, WE'RE HAVING A LITTLE GET-TOGETHER RIGHT NOW AT THE SECURITY DESK, AND WE'RE GIVING EVERYBODY DOUGHNUTS AND A FREE GIFT. YES, FREE. WITH DOUGHNUTS. YES. FREE. OK? HURRY, BECAUSE THERE WON'T BE ANY FREE GIFTS LEFT.”

Arnie hung up, dialed another number.

“Hello Mrs. Paris? This is Dexter Harpwell . . . No, Dexter Harpwell . . . No, Dexter . . . Never mind. I'm calling because we're giving out doughnuts and a free gift at the . . . that's right, free. Free. But you need to go to the security desk right now, because it's first come, first served. Yes, free.”

Over in room 326, Phil was also getting out the word.

“. . . right, a gift. Free. Yes. A free gift, but hurry, because we're running out. And doughnuts. Correct. Tell your friends. Free. Right.”

About two minutes later, the security guard, whose name was Albert Fenton, heard a door on the corridor open. A man, wearing a bathrobe and walking with a cane, emerged from a room on the right. Almost immediately, another door opened, and a woman with a walker emerged on the left. They both started moving slowly, but determinedly, his way. A few seconds later, another door opened, then another, then another. Now five people, three of them in bathrobes, were coming at Fenton.

The man with the cane reached him first.

“Where is it?” he said.

“Where's what?” said Fenton.

“What?” said the man.

“WHERE'S WHAT?” said Albert.

“The free gift,” said the man. “The doughnuts.”

“What are you talking about?” said Fenton.

“What?” said the man.

Behind him, more doors were opening, more bathrobed people coming. And more.

“I SAID WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT,” said Fenton.

“The free gifts,” said the man. “The doughnuts.”

“I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT,” said Fenton.

“Here's the doughnuts right here,” said the man, reaching for one of the Krispy Kremes.

“That's MINE!” said Fenton, snatching up the doughnut with one hand and using the other to swat at the man's hand with
Juggs.

The man, who was first come and was damn sure not about to be cheated out of being first served, whacked Fenton's arm with the cane.

“OW!” said Fenton, dropping the doughnut, which rolled to the edge of the desk, where it was snatched, with surprising quickness, by the woman with the walker, who had just arrived at the scene of the action. The cane man, protecting what was his, swung the cane at her, but missed. She lifted her walker and brought one of the tips down on his right foot. He yelped, dropped the cane, and grabbed the woman's doughnut hand in both of his, the two of them straining against each other, locked in combat. Fenton started to come around the desk to separate them, then saw two new arrivals grabbing his doughnuts. He turned back and reached for the box, but as he did, he stepped on the cane, which slid sideways, causing him to lose his footing and fall, banging his skull hard on the desk on the way down. He lay dazed for a moment. Somebody stepped on his right hand; something sharp poked his leg. He tried to get up but was too dizzy; he rolled and went fetal, his head throbbing. Through squinted eyes, he saw a forest of ghastly pale skinny legs, with more shuffling his way, and still more. For a fleeting moment, Fenton remembered a movie he'd seen once, called
Night of the Living Dead.
Above him he heard grunting, the sounds of struggle. A stapler bounced on the floor in front of him; they were rummaging through the security desk. A page torn from
Juggs
—“Mammary Lane”—drifted down. He snatched at it, then felt something land on his face, something cold and sticky. He took some in his fingers and licked it: blueberry.
Those bastards.
He reached to his belt, unclipped the walkie-talkie, pulled it to his mouth, pushed the TALK button, and shouted a word that had never been heard before over the Beaux Arts radio system: “Mayday.”

Arnie and Phil eased past the mob and walked down the main corridor toward the common area. A guard came trotting their way, heading for the noise behind them.

“What's going on down there?” he said.

“You got me,” said Arnie.

They stopped at the end of the corridor and peered into the common area. Mrs. Bendocker was at the grand piano, still shrieking
South Pacific
to a small audience, most of which was asleep. Straight ahead, through the glass lobby doors, they could see the Beaux Arts van in the driveway. Nestor would be at the wheel, ready to take them to the ship.

“Uh-oh,” said Arnie.

“What?” said Phil.

“The little prick,” said Arnie, pointing to the right. At the far end of the room, his back to them, was Dexter Harpwell, talking to an underling.

“We gotta move,” said Arnie. “Before he turns around.”