by Ian Bull
Ming’s head jerks and Walter presses down harder.
“The styptic is like lemon juice in a paper cut,” I say, then press on the ear again with the cold enswell. I then squeeze out a dollop of medical glue onto my finger and coat the torn edge of the ear, hoping it’ll harden the scab like superglue. It’s not supposed to be used on jagged cuts like this, but it’s working. His elf ear looks like it’s been painted with shiny pink shellac, but there’s no more bleeding.
Ming’s face looks like he took a shower in blood. I drench gauze with saline and wipe his face down, then dry it with a towel. A low rumble shakes the medical tray. “What was that?”
“My stomach,” Walter says. “That ear makes me think of chicken feet.”
“I found you your food, stay calm,” his cousin says at the front of the room.
“You have five minutes,” Major Chu says, looking at his cellphone.
I help Ming to a sitting position. “You still need a bandage,” I whisper.
“I can’t have a bandage,” he says. “People won’t bet for me.”
“Bet on what? Where?” I ask.
“The game is Saturday. I don’t know where, but I must leave Friday to get there.”
Yanking off my gloves, I look at Ming. “It’s ugly, but it’ll work. Just keep it dry.”
“That’s enough, you’re done!” Chu yells, then turns to Detective Sammy. “Hide him in your backseat. I’ll come out in five minutes.”
Sammy and Walter lead me outside while Major Chu tosses all the bloody medical waste into the trash and throws more sheets over the dead body and the passed-out doctor. The five guards outside stiffen as Sammy and Walter pull me out the door and toss me into the backseat. “Stay low,” Walter says as he climbs in the front. The other prison guards surround our car as I hear another vehicle drive up.
“Don’t sit up,” Walter says. “It’s the warden. He’s got dark glasses on and is dressed in a seersucker suit. He looks just like Mr. Miyagi from The Karate Kid. He’s going inside.”
Minutes pass, and I hear the infirmary door open and close, footsteps on gravel, and cars driving away.
“The warden was smiling and carrying Chu’s satchel when he got back in his car,” Walter says. “You can sit up now.”
When I do, only our car is left in the courtyard. Major Chu exits the infirmary and walks up to Walter’s open window.
“That drunken doctor almost ruined everything,” Chu says. “The warden wanted Ming to be chosen. Ming must look great and fight great. That way we can all make money. When he saw Ming’s recovery after what happened, he was very happy, so thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Walter answers, as if he did all the work.
“Picked for what?” I ask from the backseat. “What happens next Saturday?”
Chu stares at me from behind his dark glasses. “That’s all I can say. Now go.”
Sammy starts the BMW and does a circle turn in the narrow courtyard. We pass through one gray wall after another, guards nodding at us as we do. We reach the prison entrance and re-emerge into color. There’s a scent of salt in the air again, and bright red birds squawk at us from the green banyan trees.
“Is that it? I came all this way, and that’s it?”
“You saw plenty,” Sammy says as we reach the turn to the main road. On the corner is a thin Chinese guy in black pants, white shirt, and green apron, holding up a big paper bag.
“There’s our food guy. Roll down your window,” Sammy says.
Walter rolls down his window and the man reads off the delivery order in Cantonese. Walter turns to his cousin. “You did it. Even the bitter melon soup. I’m going to cry, cousin.”
Sammy nods at me to pay. I roll down my window and hand the credit card to the deliveryman, who then hands Walter the big white paper bag through his open window. The car fills with the smell of noodles, beef, and oyster sauce.
The deliveryman then hands me the bill, which is 12,111 Hong Kong dollars. I want to strangle Walter. The bird’s nest soup alone cost probably a third of that. What’s that in American dollars, anyway? When Julia sees this--
--my mind stops. That’s right. Julia is going to see this. I hand the delivery guy the black card. He runs it through a reader attached to his cellphone and hands it back, then hands the phone through the open window to me.
There’s a line to sign my electronic signature with my finger, but I write a message instead: Wait for me. Got idea for Le Clerq. I hand it back to him, and he climbs on his scooter and zooms off.
Walter opens the white bag, opens a container, sips his soup, and sighs. “Almost heaven, bitter melon…” he sings, channeling an Asian John Denver.
“Where are we going to eat this stuff?” I ask. “I’m starving.”
“Ocean Park. It’s got roller coaster rides and aquariums. Good for tourists like you.”
Walter looks at his watch. “It’s quarter after one. Our flight doesn’t leave until three p.m. After lunch, I’ll show you Hong Kong. You’ll love the statue of Bruce Lee.”
Chapter 25
* * *
Julia Travers
Day 9: Sunday Morning
Malibu, California
The sound of the surf wakes me. My eyes open and adjust to the gray light that ekes through the closed curtains in the guest bedroom. I can’t sleep in the main bedroom anymore; it reminds me too much of Rikki. When my feet touch the cold wooden floor, my body screams that it needs more sleep. Four hours is not enough. Coffee will help.
It’s almost noon. Trishelle is asleep on the couch, buried under four down comforters with only her hair showing. We both have trouble sleeping, so I’m glad she’s still out. She’s funny and tough during the day when other people are around, but at night her panic attacks come. She never ventures outside, even onto the balcony. A walk on the beach would be impossible for her right now.
The kitchen is filled with flat white light. The fog has moved in, and the ocean disappears into the gray just twenty yards from the beach. I’m glad; I get tired of constant sunshine, and the clouds offer privacy from prying eyes.
Staring at the fog while sipping hot coffee clears the fog in my mind. I say a little prayer for Steven. When American Express called last night to alert me that he had used his card, his “signature” excited me the most. He’s coming home and has an idea for Le Clerq? That news excited me enough to give me insomnia, so Trishelle and I paced the house and stared at each other for hours, until we finally passed out.
The doorbell rings and sends my heart racing. It rings twice, then once, then twice again, which is Major Glenn’s secret ring. Trishelle shifts, but doesn’t wake up, thank God. I buzz him through the gate, pull on a robe, and open the front door. Glenn sticks his phone in my face to show me a text: Ragged Point here. Tell TCDW to meet at first date spot 11 am Monday.
“Why did he write ‘Ragged Point?’” I whisper.
“I took his computer from him at Ragged Point. I told him to write that to prove it’s him. What does TCDW mean?”
“Tall Cool Drink of Water. He calls me that sometimes.”
“Okay, that’s weird. Where is the first date spot?” Glenn asks next.
“None of your business. Have you heard from Carl Webb at all recently? It would be nice to have him around, since I’m the one who convinced Steven to come back, even after the crap you pulled with his computer.”
His smirk turns to a frown. “Not yet. But I found the right camera to track Le Clerq.”
“Then go track him. Tonight’s the Oscars. If he’s working, I need those photos,” I say, and point for him to leave.
I get dressed and comb my hair, but I’m still so tired that I fall asleep on the couch next to Trishelle with a coffee cup in my hands. We both wake up at three p.m. and look at each other.
“Hey, the Oscars start soon,” Trishelle says. “Some pre-show must be on by now.”
“Guess what? Your social media idea worked. Steven saw the posting somehow
and texted Glenn. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
Trishelle breaks out in a golden smile that brightens the gray room more than sunshine ever could. She emerges from her comforters and hugs me. “That gives me hope,” she says.
“Let’s just hope I can keep him here.”
“One step at a time, babe. Your soldier’s coming home—focus on that. You want popcorn?” she asks, heading into the kitchen. “I’ll make French toast first.”
Making Le Clerq go away is my next dilemma. But Steven’s message on the food bill was interesting: Wait for me. Got idea for Le Clerq. I call Paul, and he answers on the first ring.
“Any luck on setting up a meeting with Le Clerq and his lawyer at the agency?” I ask.
“Not yet,” he says, sighing.
“Maybe you can’t reach him because Le Clerq is working tonight.”
“No, he and his lawyer are ready any time. It’s David and Saul who I can’t lock in, and I’m afraid to push them,” Paul says, admitting that my problem may not be a priority to them.
“If enough clients win tonight, it’ll be easy to ask them tomorrow morning.”
Paul laughs into the phone. “Like I said, you’d be a great producer. I’ll let you know.”
At five p.m., the Oscar red carpet arrivals show starts, and Trishelle and I curl up in front of the TV with a bowl of popcorn and glasses of lemonade.
Famous women in their gorgeous gowns help us escape into a parallel universe where time stands still. Emma Watson looks sophisticated in a long blue chiffon dress. Angelina Jolie looks sexy in a black dress with an orange coral pattern and a huge statement necklace with diamonds dripping down her chest.
“Emma Watson was the best so far. Not plunging in front, but low in the back.”
“Did you see her back muscles and her upper arms? That’s how she pulls it off.”
“I love her so much I hate her,” Trishelle says.
“Look at Naomi Watts in that short purple dress. Hello!”
“It’s gorgeous. And those perfect legs are bare, you know.”
“Oops, new nose job on this year’s ingénue.”
“And bad boob job. Check out that side view.”
“Put ’em away, babe. Holster those weapons.”
Then Emma Watson announces the winners of the Technical Academy Awards from last week—the announcement I was supposed to make. They show video of the ceremony at the Hilton with all the winners holding up their Oscars. They edited me out of every photo and video as if I was never there. So much has happened since then, it almost feels like I wasn’t.
The awards are a blur. Then Whoopi Goldberg asks the audience to pause to remember all the Hollywood notables who passed away this year. Sad music plays as the In Memoriam video begins. Their images appear onscreen one last time before dissolving away forever—the famous and not so famous, stars who were once huge but are now forgotten, along with the costumers, the production designers, the makeup artists, the cinematographers, the agents and managers…and Rikki comes on screen. It’s a black and white photo from the 1970s. She’s young and beautiful. She’s got a phone to her ear and she’s pointing with a pencil and laughing. The title says Rikki Lassen, Manager, and the photo stays three seconds. It dissolves to a photo of Jim Tweetle, Animator, who worked at Disney for forty years.
Rikki’s letter is still on the kitchen counter behind me, and I feel the words burning into my back until every muscle trembles. Trishelle touches my back, but says nothing.
Chapter 26
* * *
Robert Snow
Day 9: Sunday Night
Approaching SFO
I turn up the music on my headphones, shake the ice in my glass, and finish my whisky. The cool bite of the alcohol feels good on my throat. Tina and I are living Sunday twice—first in Hong Kong, and now on this plane, rolling back the clock as we cross the International Date Line on our way back to the States. Boss Man is cruising the South China Sea with his three female stewards, so we’re stuck flying commercial back to Los Angeles, with a stop in San Francisco. No private jet for us, but at least we’re in first class.
After all that work, I want to enjoy this. Boss Man kept us busy from the moment we got back on the yacht to when he dropped us off at the airport. He loved the footage of Ming kicking ass and the bloody ear, so Tina started editing Ming’s intro for the broadcast on her laptop while Boss Man and I went over casting suggestions for our final, American contestant.
Kwong found some private prisons in Louisiana, Alabama, and Idaho where the wardens seem malleable. I’d settle for an angry peckerwood from the Aryan Knights, but Boss Man wants him to be an Iraqi war veteran, too. He wants a lot from me in a week. At least he liked Ming’s intro; when Tina showed it to him, he approved it on the spot.
This stress makes me want another fresh chocolate chip cookie, and a neck massage, warm towels, some ice cream, and another whisky. Now my forearm is itchy, too, which makes me even more antsy. The itch means it’s healing, but I just want to attack it with steel wool.
I look at the flight progress on my monitor. We’ll arrive at SFO in an hour, and then fly on to Los Angeles. I stare out the window into the blackness of the Pacific Ocean below. Soon, I’ll see the lights of the West Coast. I want off this plane, but I also never want off this plane. Once the wheels hit the tarmac, I’ll have insane eighteen-hour work days for six days until the game starts. I twist in my seat and look for the stewardess. Where are those cookies?
Tina taps my arm until I have no choice but to take off my Bose headphones and listen.
“We just have to get paper in front of him,” Tina says. “Right now he’s all wishes and dreams, but if we show him five photos with five short bios, he’ll pick one.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“You’ve been jittery for the last four hours. I figured that’s the reason.”
She’s spot-on as usual, but I’m too mad at her to admit it. “I don’t have time to visit four prisons and launch a show, all in six days.”
“We’ve cast contestants in less time. You hired me for a reason, let me help you,” she says, touching my arm. She’s trying to cozy up now that I’m alone with her again.
“Let’s spend the night in San Francisco,” I say to test how willing she is to please me. “We’ll spend twelve hours in a five-star hotel. We can roll work calls. Then I can face the next six days in Arizona.” I feel like I’m in high school, begging my prom date for my first blowjob.
“I have to get back to my son,” she says, running a distracted hand through her curly hair. “I’ve been away since Thursday, and I’m about to leave him again.”
“What’s wrong with your son?”
“Why does me wanting to see him mean there’s something wrong with him?”
“On the Clairvoyance, Boss Man said he had some information that could help your son. Then he gave you a private tour of the yacht while I got my forearm sliced open by a baby tiger shark.” I hold up my itchy forearm, showing her my railroad scar.
“Now is not the time,” Tina hisses, then crosses her arms and stares at the monitor.
I almost ask her if she fucked him on the yacht or on the jet, but I don’t. It bugs me that Boss Man knows more about Tina’s life than I do.
A soothing electronic chime precedes the pilot coming over the loudspeaker. “We’ve begun our descent into San Francisco, which will put us at the gate at seven p.m. Those with connecting flights must go through customs in San Francisco. I also wanted to let people know that Naomi Watts won the Academy Award for best supporting actress, and Jude Law for best supporting actor, but that’s all the news we have for you right now.”
“I’m going to use the bathroom before we land,” Tina says. She unbuckles from her seat and heads back toward the lavatories between first class and the riffraff in coach.
Our schedule runs through my head—land at seven p.m., through customs by eight, fly to LAX at nine. I bought a used SUV with cash, and i
t’s in long-term parking near LAX for this arrival. We go off-grid and use aliases from now on. Tomorrow, I roll calls all day while washing clothes to repack for the trip. Then it’s a nine-hour drive to Tucson. That sucks.
Tina returns and buckles into her seat.
“I can’t drive to Arizona tomorrow. It’ll kill me,” I say.
“Say again?” she asks. She seems distracted.
“What’s bugging you?” I ask, looking back at the lavatories where she just was.
“You’re right. We need a little rest before real production begins,” she says.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
“Pick me up tomorrow morning, and I’ll take you someplace special. It’s outdoors, and we can walk and talk without anyone hearing us. You can ask me anything,” she says, and holds my hand. “We need to be on the same page again before production.”
This is a sudden shift, but it feels good. She’s right—we can’t have any weirdness between us, not with the production on the line. “I like that. We’ll get our groove back,” I say.
She smiles and kisses me on the lips—the first time she’s ever kissed me first. Tina touches her inflight monitor and searches the Internet. “I want more Oscar news,” she says.
She finds a BuzzFeed article about Julia Travers and clicks on it, and her mugshot comes full screen. She was arrested for assault for karate kicking a photographer. “She’s having a bad week,” Tina says. “She’s doing Taoist meditation and found the man behind the curtain.”
“She’s lost it,” I say.
“Can you blame her? Two people close to her were killed.”
