From: the desk of [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: communication from Alex
My Dear Mr. Parker,
I am functioning temporarily as an interim substitute for Mr. Rajiv Patel, who, as you know, is co-director of FaceMate.com, Inc. My name is Linda Mackey, and if you need to reach me directly at any time during my short-term employ, please do so at the above email address with the specification that it be directed solely to me. I am uncertain how long I will be employed in this capacity, but for as long as I am so employed, I will do my utmost to be of service both to you and to Mr. Patel. It is imperative that our contacts be limited to those by electronic means, since my telephone skills are such that communication by the latter medium will unfortunately be impossible. I would hope you understand this limitation and will act accordingly.
The present communication has to deal with some new information that has come to the attention of Mr. Alexander Daugherty, information that he wishes you to be apprised of right away. As you may know, the FaceMate site has been harvesting subsidiary data with regard to its subscribers, i.e., data beyond the input of physical facial morphology alone. These subsidiary data include aptitudes, potential skills, and particular talents that correlate with the physical parameters of the submitted photographs, and they also, more recently, have been programmed to include correlates regarding current and future factors of health garnered through family histories provided via recent questionnaires. It is in this regard that Mr. Daugherty requested that I contact you.
It is my understanding, and that of our staff, that you are the contact agent for two of the individuals for whom a health alert has been issued directly by Mr. Daugherty, who, through Mr. Patel, and therefore through me, has asked that the present alert be provided. The individuals concerned are the following:
Benjamin C. Atherton, FaceMate ID 188765932
Thomas J. Mulroy, FaceMate ID 167947802
(Contact reassigned from S. Garber to E. Parker)
At this point in time, the health issue still remains to be fully researched and elucidated, but the facial morphology of the subjects listed above seems to be associated statistically with serious cardiac issues presenting at a relatively early age. Genetic penetrance is, of course, variable, and any individual in whom the family trait is present may or may not be afflicted with the disease. As I have noted above, all these data are preliminary and require no action on your part at this time; however Mr. Daugherty wanted you to be alerted to the situation pending further investigation being done. Accordingly, we will keep you advised.
Sincerely,
Linda Mackey,
interim agent for Mr. Rajiv Patel and Mr. Alexander Daugherty
of FaceMate.com, inc.
Columbus, Ohio, USA
“What the FUCK!’ said Eddie. And he said it so loudly and forcefully, that Charlotte had to admonish him with:
“Eddie! Shush! Are you forgetting that we’ve got company in the house? And watch your language too. Would you want that nice young girl to hear what you just said?”
“Hey, they’re forty feet down the hall, Char; give me a break—And whaddya think the goddam walls are made of anyway, huh? Paper? Hey, it’s a six-million-dollar house, remember? Neither one of them is gonna hear a thing.”
“OK, maybe you’re right, dear. But there’s still no call for that kind of language with a young girl in the house—So what’s there in your email to make you use that word in the first place? Did you put a lot of money on a horse that didn’t win?”
“No, no horses, Char—Come on! Hey, I never even go the track anymore, do I? When was the last time, huh? No, hon, what it is, is this nutsy message I just got from—Jesus! I don’t even know who the fuck it’s from: Somebody new. Somebody in Columbus named Linda Something-or-other who’s working for the FaceMate kids. And the fuckin’ broad writes like an English professor who gave up on the poetry and went to law school, for God’s sake! And this goddamn message in her email—It’s…. Hey, you think Bennie might get sick?”
“Ben?” Charlotte chuckled. “Ben’s as healthy as a horse; as healthy as one of those winning ones you never manage to pick. I wish that you and I had check-ups that were half as good as Ben’s are.”
“Yeah, that’s what I always thought, but that’s not what this goddam email says. It says he may have some weird kind of heart disease—‘cardiac disease’, it says—and that means heart, right?”
“Well what does it say exactly? Read it to me, will you?”
“Yeah, sure, here, listen:” And with no further preface, Eddie stumblingly read the email out, word for polysyllabic word.
“Whew! I see what you mean about the wording. But what the lady’s saying, from what I gather, is that there’s no certainty that Ben may get some rare condition—it’s just a chance, right? So I’m not so sure you need to do anything yet. You think it’s right to worry him now?”
“No, probably not. And what you’re saying makes sense. Ben’s a healthy guy; he’s always been. And the other thing is, according to what the broad says in her email, the condition comes on at an early age—which kinda leaves Ben out, right? He’s past an early age by now—Hey aren’t we all!—But as for the kid—young Mr. Mulroy—he might be in serious trouble if the email pegged things right. So what do you think? I gotta tell him, don’t I? Him I gotta talk to for sure, The only question is whether or not to bring it up with Ben,”
“Well, if you’re asking me, Eddie, I wouldn’t; not yet, not with Ben. I’d wait until they have more information first.”
“But the kid—him I ought to tell, right?”
“Uh-huh, I suppose so. You’re his contact person, according to the email, so if you don’t tell him, how else is he going to know?”
“So—what? You think now? Should I run back to his room and tell him now? You think he’ll still be up?”
“I doubt it, sweetie. Not as tired as those poor kids were when you finally dragged them in. Where did you say you took them? All the way to Asbury and back, wasn’t it?”
“No, just one way. I had Brandon fly to Asbury straight from Arizona, so the kid—the girl, that is—All she wanted to do was see the ocean, so I figured I’d better get her there before it got dark. You should have seen her face, Char—I took her to the beach and for a stroll down the boardwalk, then got them some nice big lobsters at Captain Ray’s; the kid was beaming, I’ll tell you. Then, when she’d had enough to see and eat, I had Luther pick us up in the limo in front of Bally’s, so we only had to drive one way.”
“Well, whatever, it was after midnight by the time you all got in, wasn’t it? So—No, I wouldn’t bother them this late, they’ll be sleeping now. The two of them were beat, so it was a good idea for you to bring them home and have them stay with us instead of some strange room in a hotel where they wouldn’t know a soul. But don’t disturb them now, sweetheart. If you want to talk to the boy about that email, I’m sure it’ll wait till morning.”
“Yeah, that makes sense, Char—So the kid, that Tommie kid: I didn’t have a chance to ask you earlier—What did you think?”
“What did I think! I almost passed out when you brought him in. The boy is Ben—Not like Ben, he is Ben, Ben exactly, just the way I remember him from thirty years ago. It’s incredible; uncanny. I can’t wait to see Carole’s face when she gets a look.”
“Yeah? And what about Ben’s face? That’s gonna be the shocker. He’s seen the picture, but the picture doesn’t prepare you for this. I almost shit my pants when he got out of the limo in Phoenix.”
“Uh-huh, I see why. So—What time is the meeting set for? What time are you going to bring young handsome Tommie in?”
“Around 10:00, I think. I’ve gotta check with Bennie in the morning, but tentatively 10:00 is what we’re shooting for. You’re coming along, I’m assuming, aren’t you?”
“Me? Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this meeting for the world!”
E
ddie printed out the email, so he could keep a hard copy for reference, and, if need be, to show to Ben. And while it was printing, he noticed another item in his inbox, something that had just come in a little earlier today, just a bit before the other email he’d just read. He clicked on it, it opened, and what popped up on the screen was: From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Dear Mr. Edward Parker,
Please excuse if my English not so pretty good, but good friend of mine named Maria, she go back to USA, so I must to write myself without correction. Please excuse mistakings if you will be so kind.
I wish to thank for nice offer you are making, but nothing what I need for me myself. I have good position here in Moskva, and money to buy everything I need. I am very sorry to learn that nice girl who look like me not living anymore. Her family must be very sad.
You make offer maybe you can help me with something, but nothing that I need for me, so maybe I can ask that you do little favor for friend of mine. His name Kenneth Vincent, and this man was very kind to me during time when close friend of his very rude. I do not know address or any way to contact this Mr. Kenneth, but only that he student at college of New York—I think he say college of city New York, but this I do not know for certain. His friend who was very rude have lot of money but not Mr. Kenneth, so if anything you can do to help him out, this would be same as helping me. Also good friend to me Maria who has familial name as Fenton. I think she gets good position in America, but if you knowing place where ballet dancer can get good work in case of she having problem, I hope also you can give help to her. Thank you very much for this.
Please, also, if you come to Moskva, it will be great honor for me to show you interesting places to go and also good restaurants, not very expensive if you do not have so much of ruble to spend. Also I can get for you good ticket to ballet for free. I get extra ticket for friend and family no charge and I give to you if you like.
Your very good friend in Moskva,
Liliana Alexandrovna Glinskaya
No swearing this time. This time Eddie laughed. Save him money, would she? The gorgeous doll in that picture she sent in—she should only know! If he were twenty years younger and didn’t have a wife, and didn’t have a closest friend who’d lost a girl just like this Glinskaya kid—well, hell, he would have been right up front first row on the very first plane out.
If he could only show Bennie that picture of the girl just like the one he’d loved and lost—But now—damn it all to hell!— thanks to the goddam email this Shakespeare-writing broad had just sent out, he had to worry about Bennie having some fuckin’ weirdo kind of heart disease on top of all the other shit he had to deal with!
Great, huh?—Wasn’t all this bullshit just fucking great!
30
Tommie was mightily impressed. Last night, late as they’d stumbled in, exhausted as he and Rachel had been, all he’d had the energy to do was climb into bed and nod off no sooner than the pillow hit his head.
But now—Man-oh-man!—looking around him at the room he’d spent the night in, sliding his feet from under the bedclothes onto the floor, moving his eyes along the walls, across the draperies, among the fixtures around him, behind him, beneath him—this place the Parkers lived in was incredible!—furnishings out of a palace; furniture owned by a king!
This was a whole different world, alright. Nobody he knew—not his friends or family for sure—but not even the rich folks he worked for, like Mr. Dworkin or Mr. Crane—not even they could have had the resources to live in environs as magnificent as this. Another class entirely: Not that anyone should envy them, or begrudge them the expensive things they had, but the Parkers’ residence sure was something fabulous to see!
The bed, for instance—just consider the bed: Wow! It had to be the strangest bed he’d ever slept in. Huge—big enough for a family of four—and with a satiny comforter and cushiony pillows that, as Rachel might have phrased it, were bedclothes you could die for!—Totally!
And the headboard and footboard and frame: Mahogany, it looked like—not cheap veneer, nothing chintzy in this amazing room, no way, but the genuine article through and through—all carved and lacquered like some antique artwork out of the Louvre. Totally amazing!
And the walls all covered in fabric—velvet of some kind, or mohair like the stuff he’d used to pleat the seats on that nineteen-twenty-something Buick—’23 or ’24, he thought—which ran eighty bucks a yard at wholesale, not a penny less!—Holy cow!—And the twelve-foot ceilings too, and cove moldings with ornate scallops at the corners, just like the décor in those Newport palaces he’d seen last year at Lainie’s house in a coffee table book: What had it cost to build this place? Princes maybe slept in rich surroundings like this—multi-millionaires. But Mr. Parker was a multi-millionaire, or seemed to be anyway, so given that, the fabulous house he lived in made pretty decent sense.
Tommy stood up lazily and yawned, thinking: Yep, no doubt about it, wealthy as a Midas, sharp as a tack and a really decent guy to boot, the kind of guy who deserved his multi-million dollars, however many he had made: Call him Eddie, Mr. Parker had insisted, but addressing an important man like Eddie Parker by his given name wasn’t all that easy to do. Dad had always taught him to be respectful toward his elders, and he’d always done his best to listen to his dad. Dad had really taught him everything—everything a guy would need to know about mechanical things, of course; and most everything an ethical person had to know about life itself as well—Maybe that was even more important than the rest.
And Dad had done it splendidly, no doubt: For here he was, top of his class through undergrad and grad school too, headed for a PhD summa cum laude, and with connections that would get him in the doors of the movers and shakers of the auto industry nationwide. In a couple of years—who knew? Ten more months to graduate, then another year on the job at Ford or GM to show his worth, and maybe he could have the wherewithal to move his mom and Rachel into a nice new house of their own—not as fabulous a place as guys like Mr. Parker lived in, no; but big enough, nice enough, with a little pool and a great big kitchen where Mom could bake her legendary pies at home, not in that stuffy diner laboring from morn to night for minimal salary and variable tips. Oh, and Rachel too: There’d be money for her tuition at ASU in whatever field of study she happened to be into at the time. Things were on the upswing, definitely—Yep, Tommie Mulroy’s life, at this stage of it, was pretty doggone good!
So up and in the shower (Had he ever seen marble like that? granite like that? fancy fixtures so elaborate, even in a magazine?) and got himself scrubbed and combed and dressed. Today would be a fascinating day, to say the least—Just imagine! A man who’d looked just like him when he was close to Tommie’s age—What are the odds?
And the two of them had looked alike; the picture that Sandy showed him proved it in no uncertain terms. How fascinating it would be for him to meet the man!—the world-renowned celebrity, as Mr. Atherton had turned out to be. Yes, fascinating for him, for sure—But imagine what it would be like for the famous man himself—Just try and imagine it!—looking at the spitting image of yourself back in your youth—Mind-boggling! Hard to even conceive! Just think of the memories that would evoke—some of them really awful memories, according to the story that Eddie had related on the plane. But some of the early memories would have to be good ones too. Nobody’s youth passes by completely without a fair amount of happiness stirred into the mix. So there would be at least a little benefit in his agreeing to fly out to meet this famous big-shot Ben. Which was good, really; which made coming out here way more tolerable. He wouldn’t want to bear the burden of causing another person’s pain.
OK, checking in the mirror, smoothing his hair back at the sides, the tie looked right, the jacket on straight, no bulges, no pocket flaps awry. So out the door and across the hall to the room Mrs. Parker had assigned to Rachel. A tap, a pretty long delay, and then a familiar voice that asked him: “Tommie? Is that you?” And
in swung the door to show a Rachel in total disarray—as usual in the morning when she didn’t have to be at work or school.
“I’m getting set to leave, then, Rach. You need anything before I go?”
She yawned and shook her head.
“OK, so I won’t be here to make sure you’re dressed and ready. Remember, the limo driver is coming for you at 10:45. You think you’ll be up and set to go by then?”
“Uh-huh,” she drowsily assured him, and yawned again. Which was OK. Mr. Parker promised that one of the maids would get her up on time if she was still in bed at 10:15.
“You going back to Asbury Park? Mr. Parker said they’d take you anyplace you wanted. He said they’ve got a nice mall here too if you want to go there instead. And that money that he gave me—some of it’s for you too if you want to buy anything—OK? It’s in the envelope in my room. So anyway, we should be back by dinnertime at the latest, so, if you don’t need anything else, I’ll see you then, OK?”
“Uh-huh, that’s fine..”
“OK, and remember, they’ve got a whole house full of people here to help you out if you want breakfast or anything. Mrs. Parker’s probably gone by now—she’s coming to our meeting, I think—and Mr. Parker’s riding over with me, but if you think of anything else you need, you can reach me on my cell.”
Mr. Parker was waiting downstairs. He must have known they were up, what with the showering and all; and no sooner did Tommie reach the upper story stairway than he heard his name called up the steps from down below:
“Hey, Thomas Mulroy—You ready yet, kid? You need any breakfast? If you do, shake a leg, we haven’t got a lot of time.”
FaceMate Page 24
