by Andrew Fox
“Open wide, Doctor.”
I open my mouth as wide as it’ll stretch. Ms. Denoux doesn’t shove it all the way in. She waits for me to take a bite, chew, savor the flavors, then swallow; then she inserts the turtle just a little more. “Is this what you wanted to show me?” I ask as soon as the pastry is gone.
“Only part,” she says, stepping back to her own harness post and rearranging her straps. “The rest will come soon, once your friends find us.”
“They aren’t my friends,” I say, frustration rising. Rounding a bend, I count eight lumbering floats behind us. “Selling the Elvis couldn’t have possibly paid for all this. How do you fund your Carnival?”
She smiles sardonically. “When I returned to New Orleans, the city was replete with economic niches lying unfilled. The food industry here was crippled by a lack of traditional ingredients, thanks to the food fascists. I brought it back to life by restoring the flow of those traditional ingredients, now entirely sourced off-shore.
“And all this? This is my way of giving back to the city that sustains and shelters us all year long. Most of the people you see can’t afford our delicacies at market price. But during Carnival, all is given free for them. This season, the crowds are even more voracious than normal. Rumors have spread of a wasting disease that attacks the old. Many people you see are gathering what they believe are life-saving foods for their elders.”
So the Metaboloft effect has reached even here. Our procession turns a corner onto a wider boulevard. The crowds are ten people deep, spreading back to sidewalks broken up by the roots of giant live oak trees. Riders hurl a continual fusillade of small packages. Some fly only a few feet before being snatched from the air, while others soar and spin, food missiles aimed at those poor unfortunates trapped at the back of the crowd.
Our procession slows, then comes to a complete stop. Ms. Denoux speaks rapidly into a radio headset, an angry look on her face. “You know my rules! Stopping is not permitted for any reason! Any reason! I don’t care how thick they’ve built the roadblock! That lead float of yours is built to handle it! Use it — or I’ll shove you out of that driver’s seat so fast you’ll have friction burns. Are we in complete understanding?”
Thirty seconds later, the parade’s music is overwhelmed with sounds of breaking wood as the lead float crashes through some sort of barricade. I look more closely at the front end of this huge vehicle I’m handcuffed to. Its prow comes to a sharp, armored point. As the float ahead of us begins moving forward again, I notice the tremendous girth of its tires, the massive suspension that wouldn’t look out of place on a desert assault vehicle. The parade resumes, but for me, at least, the helium has been let out of the balloon. This is less a bacchanalia than a hurricane party. We’re waiting for the storm to roar in.
It doesn’t take long for the first gusts to arrive. I hear the keening of calliope music, growing steadily closer. In response to Ms. Denoux’s exhortations, the parade splits apart. Our float veers sharply left, its engine emitting an urgent, powerful whine. My right shoulder and head are bashed against the harness post as we climb a weed-strewn median. The float crosses this obstacle with the ease of a supercharged millipede. Five or six other floats behind us follow our lead, towers and turrets dislodging oak branches that shatter on the broken asphalt. Other floats follow the lead vehicle, which accelerates in its original direction.
We turn onto a wider street, taking the corner so fast my stomach lurches. The tossing of pastries from the floats hasn’t stopped, not even for a second. Gas shells erupt amidst the people on the sidewalks. The Good Humor Men are close. My eyes begin tearing as wisps of gas reach the float. The crowds scatter. Children scream as their mothers drag them away.
We pick up speed. The first of the Good Humor trucks darts out from a side street. It races along on the far side of the median, weaving to avoid debris, heading against traffic, which, luckily for them, is nonexistent. It’s no match for us on a straightaway. We quickly begin pulling ahead — but not so quickly that I don’t see the rifles in the hands of my old comrades.
I hear the cracks, then the pings of shots ricocheting away from metal side-skirts. And the thuds of bullets striking home, puncturing tires. We don’t lose any speed — the tires must be run-flats.
My eyes, still teary, are suddenly flash-blinded by a pair of headlights. Another truck, this one lying in wait alongside a darkened synagogue, darts onto the street. Its windshield is barely five feet from my legs. The road’s hardly wide enough for the float alone. The truck’s body panels scrape against our side-skirts in a shower of sparks. One parked car could mean disaster — they’ll have to stop. Pastries aren’t worth dying for. Are they?
Hands push fire through opened windows. Incendiary bombs? I look backward, craning my neck to see where the weapons land. One bounces off a deck and flares briefly on the street. Another catches against an empty harness post, ignites the straps and nearby boxes. A rider blasts the flames with a burst of chemical spray.
Half a block ahead, a huge sport utility vehicle sits half-on, half-off the sidewalk, squeezing the truck’s path to zero.
“Pull off!” I yell at the Good Humor Man driving. Doesn’t he see? “Pull off! Stop! Stop!”
The truck slows, but not nearly enough. Looking down, for an instant I see a middle-aged white face, a face that could be Brad’s, or Mitch’s. Or mine.
The smashup savages the night. Our float shudders violently to the left as part of the Good Humor truck gets trapped beneath our wheels. I feel the whole mammoth vehicle fishtail. Then we lurch back to the right as the wheels free themselves of wreckage.
And still the pastries continue to soar, their cellophane packages glinting in the light of gasoline fires.
Enough. Let’s turn around. Enough of this Road Warrior Mardi Gras. It isn’t worth this. Not a life.
There’s a barrier up ahead, a jumble of Dumpsters and old cars. Turning off would mean slowing down, maybe leading the parade into a cul-de-sac, a trap.
We don’t slow down.
Twenty yards from the barrier, I see another panel truck lumbering toward us. This one from the left, from the far side of the wide median. The driver — what’s he doing? He’s jumped out of the truck onto the street — he’s launched it at us like a giant clattering cannon-ball. If it’s loaded with explosives or gasoline, it’ll explode against our side and I will helplessly burn…
Our driver takes evasive action. But pinned in by trees and utility poles, he only has a narrow pathway in which to swerve. Here it comes —
Impact! No explosion, thank God. The truck rebounds off us like a billiard ball hitting a bowling ball. We rock violently but right ourselves. The driverless truck careens off our side in a blaze of sparks, bounces off an overturned Dumpster and a pair of utility poles —
…and topples onto a group of children watching us from the far sidewalk.
We hit the barrier. The clamor of screeching metal blots out any screams I might otherwise hear.
“Assassins! Lunatics! Kamikazes!”
We’re back in the den. Ms. Denoux’s fury could melt lead. One rider on my float had his legs crushed when that driverless truck careened into the float’s side. Another man, riding on a different float, was killed by a stray bullet.
And then there were those children on the sidewalk.
“Now do you see why I need your help, Doctor?” Her eyes drill holes through me, as though she considers me partially responsible for the carnage.
“Tell me what you want me to do,” I say quietly. “And I’ll tell you if I’m able to do it.”
“Make. Him. Stop. This Martin Severald — damn his hairless skull! Guns! He dares to introduce guns into our contests! What sort of a lunatic is he? Doesn’t he realize that in a competition of who can buy the deadliest weapons, he will lose? And in the escalation, people will die?”
“What about the local police? You must have them sitting in your pocket. Can’t they pressure Severald to back off?�
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“Our local police,” she hisses with contempt, “are ineffectual. We provide more security in the neighborhoods than they do. The Good Humor Men were ineffectual, too. Until Severald arrived two years ago.”
I decide to risk her wrath. “You want to give back to your community? I saw children crushed out there tonight. Crushed to death because they wanted a pastry. Don’t lure them into danger. Cancel your parades.”
“That is not an option. Do you think I don’t mourn for those children? But I cannot — I will not let that shake me from my course. Carnival is vital to this city. Carnival will never be canceled.”
So much for that suggestion. “But how do you expect me to get Severald to stop? Local squad leaders aren’t appointed; they’re elected by their men. If Severald has solid support from his men — and judging from the almost fanatical dedication I saw out there tonight, he most certainly does — the only way to get rid of him, short of killing him, would be to convince him to voluntarily step down.”
“I do not want him killed,” Ms. Denoux says. “I want him neutered. Martin Severald is a beginner, an amateur. Before Severald, David Brock was our Good Humor Man. Brock knew how to play our game. When he and his men pursued our parades, it was theater. Pastries were confiscated. Some citizens lost their health cards. But no one was ever hurt.”
She places her strong hand on mine. “If you wish to learn the name of the buyer of your Elvis fat, you will convince Martin Severald to step down. And you will return David Brock to authority.”
I can’t recall ever having met Martin Severald. But I’ve been introduced to hundreds of Good Humor Men over the years. At various conventions, I’ve addressed thousands more. My biggest hope of pulling this off is that, even though I don’t remember him, he’ll remember me.
His office is located on the eighth floor of a shabby downtown office building. The elevator rattles ominously as I ascend, making me wish I’d taken the stairs. The decor is about what I expected it to be. Paramilitary. Copies of vintage Good Humor Men recruiting posters are displayed prominently, reeking of macho self-righteousness.
Someone steps into the outer office. He’s wearing jungle camouflage and combat boots. In the middle of downtown, it looks silly. “Yes? Can I help you?”
I hand him my Good Humor badge. “Show this to Martin Severald, please. Tell him I need to speak with him. Privately.”
He glances at the badge, and I see his eyebrows rise as he reads the initial service year. He disappears into the inner office. About two minutes later, another man emerges. He’s an inch or two shorter than me, but much broader, almost as broad as the Ottoman. His grip is strong, aggressively so. “I’m Martin Severald, squad leader, South Louisiana Good Humor Troop One.”
“Doctor Louis Shmalzberg, squad physician, Good Humor Men of Rancho Bernardino.”
“It’s an honor to have you here, sir. I heard you speak in Tucson, at the 2038 national convention. Your speech meant a lot to me. What brings you to my office? We don’t usually get unannounced visitors from National.”
“Let’s talk privately, Mr. Severald.” He leads me into his office and shuts the door behind us.
Once we’re both seated, he pushes my badge across the desk to me. “We’ve been having a rough go of it recently,” he says. “Is National planning to back us up? I was hoping —”
“Where is Mr. Brock?” I say, cutting him off. “This matter concerns him, too.”
“David Brock? He’s not in leadership anymore. After the men voted him down three years ago, he pulled out of the squad.”
“Then you’ll need to contact him and communicate the dictates of this meeting.”
His expression sours in a barely perceptible way. “And just what are the ‘dictates’ of this meeting?”
I force my face to remain blank. “We in National had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, Mr. Severald. Squad autonomy is very important to us. But your activities have crossed the line. Your aggressiveness threatens to unravel an undercover operation more than fifteen years in the making. An operation that could deliver the entire contraband food trafficking network into our hands.”
He squints. “I don’t understand —”
“You’ve become a liability, Mr. Severald. I hate being so blunt. For us to have allowed you to oust Mr. Brock was a mistake. We now intend to rectify that mistake.”
“Mistake?” His hands curl into fists on his desk. “My men elected me. Who the hell are you to be telling me a goddamn thing?”
“You want to know who I am?” I turn the badge around so that it faces him. “I’m member number one-thirty-nine. My squad was one of the founding dozen. I saw Hud Walterson with my own eyes the night he died; I was only half a block from the candied popcorn factory while it burned. I didn’t see it in a documentary — I was there. That’s my authority, Mr. Severald.”
The starch goes out of his bearing. “So what is it you want me to do? Cut back our patrols? Kiss that goddamn bitch Oretha Denoux on the ass?”
“You will have to step down. Mr. Brock will need to be reinstated as squad leader. You will be allowed to stay on as a member, but not in any leadership capacity.”
“You can’t do this,” he says, a vein on his forehead pulsing violently. “My men won’t stand for it —”
“We can disband your chapter. Have the State of Louisiana remove your legal protections. We will then institute a fresh chapter, install Mr. Brock as head, and recruit new members.”
“I’ll fight this —”
“You don’t want to do that. Not unless you crave public humiliation and the end of any standing within this organization.”
It begins to sink in that he’s not going to win. “Why are you doing this? None of this is in the charter, the bylaws…”
I smile as sympathetically as I can. “There are charters above the charter you know. I respect you, Mr. Severald. I respect your dedication, your devotion. It’s tragic that things have come to this. Because I respect you, I’m going to tell you something you aren’t supposed to know. Repeat this to any other officer from National, and it will be vehemently denied. Even my meeting with you here today will never be acknowledged. Insist that it occurred, and you’ll be ostracized.
“That bitch Oretha Denoux? She’s one of ours. She has been from the beginning. And she’s worth more to us than a hundred of you.”
Five days after my visit to Mr. Severald, Ms. Denoux invites me to join her in her parlor. The glowing smile on her face tells me she is pleased.
“You appear to be a man of your word, Doctor. Last night’s parade occurred without incident. No shooting, no pursuit. No Good Humor Men at all. My sources tell me that David Brock has been convinced to return to his old post. A cash gift from my corporation helped him make that decision. You’ve done much. What are your plans after you regain this Elvis fat? My organization has a place for a man of your knowledge and talents.”
“I’m taking things one day, one place at a time. So tell me, where am I heading for next?”
She hands me an envelope. “Miami Beach. That is where my buyer was living at the time of the sale. But there is something else you should know. Something that could impact your transaction, perhaps in a dangerous way.” She didn’t mask the concern in her voice.
“What are you telling me?”
“This buyer told me much about himself. He was a plastic surgeon, too, like you and your father. He knew your father professionally. This is why he wanted the Elvis fat.”
I search my memory for a possible match but come up empty. “Why is this a problem?”
“Because his hatred for your father burned like a flambeau’s blue flame.”
CHAPTER 10
I’m sitting in my car, windows down, sipping a papaya-grapefruit juice near Biscayne Bay, not far from the Miami Beach Convention Center, where Elvis performed in 1970. According to Oretha Denoux, Dr. Eric Trotmann has the Elvis.
Trotmann. My father’s worst enemy. The disgraced colleague
my father tried to send to jail, but only succeeded in getting temporarily disbarred from the practice of reconstructive surgery.
There’s no chance he hasn’t held onto it. Having it in his possession, knowing that my father was denied it, would be worth more to him than any conceivable sum of money. I sense it’s here — the Elvis is somewhere within a two-mile radius of where I’m parked, hidden in this tangle of century-old hotels, megalomanic architecture, and pumped-in sand. Ms. Denoux and Trotmann exchanged business correspondence not more than nine months ago. He’s here. I feel it.
GD2 provided him some cover by deranging the nation’s medical network. The economy’s thousand-car smashup opened innumerable cracks in the sidewalk where scurrying cockroaches like Trotmann could live and flourish.
Now I just need to shine a bright flashlight beam into the right crack.
Checking the local phone book is easy enough. But also useless. The copy of his recent correspondence that Ms. Denoux provided me isn’t helpful; the return address is a post office box, closed six months ago. In a library branch near City Hall, I rummage through old phone books going back two decades. I find a few Eric Trotmanns listed in the earlier volumes, but all without a “Dr.” attached to the name. Knowing Trotmann’s ego, none of these could’ve been him.
I have better luck at the main Miami-Dade County office of NHMS, the National Health Maintenance System. NHMS doesn’t pay for any cosmetic surgery beyond reconstructive procedures deemed medically necessary, so I figure Trotmann would’ve been providing most of his services outside their purview. But he might’ve at least signed on to the NHMS physician rolls, in order to lap up any legitimate work that might be thrown his way. He’s four or five years younger than my father, which puts him in his midnineties. He could still be plugging along.
Thanks to the Freedom of Medical Information Act and my status as a physician, NHMS’s bureaucrats allow me relatively unhindered access to their files. Trotmann is in their database, but his record was marked “Inactive” five years ago. No contact information is available.
