The Good Humor Man

by Andrew Fox

  “Then who? Who would want to do this?”

  “If I knew that, I could alert the authorities and we’d be on our merry way, wouldn’t we?” The sarcasm and fear in her voice sting. “I think it’s someone inside, Louis. Inside the company. This isn’t the first time ‘accidents’ have slowed us down.”

  “Have you reported your suspicions to anyone above you?”

  She snorts with a derision that shoots straight through the phone line. “Think about it — I’m breaking every corporate secrecy policy talking with you, on the chance that the company that prints my paychecks could be doing something potentially genocidal. Doesn’t that tell you I might not know who to trust?”

  A horrible thought strikes me. Swaggart’s church. I was struck by the connection between their theology and the silent deadliness of Metaboloft. It seemed a fanciful link then, a game the mind plays to frighten itself. Now, I’m not so sure. “Harri, are any of your co-workers involved with a church called the Church of the Third Resurrection?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Humor me. Their teachings could condone what’s happening with Metaboloft. Is there a branch of the church in Las Vegas? Have you ever heard anyone talking about it?”

  “We’re abunch of scientists. Nobody here talks much about religion. We’re lucky if the managers remember to shut down for Christmas.”

  “Just… keep an ear open for it, okay? It might be a lead, it might be nothing.”

  “Sure, all right… Look. There’s something else I need to tell you. Someone here is looking for you.”

  For the second time in as many minutes, my blood goes cold. “From MannaSantos?”

  “No. A fed. From the Department of Agriculture. Somebody I haven’t worked with before. Last name is Muthukrishnan.”

  Shit.

  “Louis? You still there?”

  “Did you tell him anything?”

  “No. He insisted it was very important he reaches you. He said he’s already spoken with you once. He had an FBI agent with him. Does this have anything to do with your getting kicked out of the Good Humor Men?”

  This is a nightmare. How far do I have to run? “For God’s sake, don’t tell him anything. Tell him you haven’t heard from me in fourteen years.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m spreading my trust very sparingly these days.”

  “How did he know you knew me?”

  “I don’t know, Louis. Guys from the government have a way of finding stuff out. Except the really useful stuff, like how to deactivate the Metaboloft gene. Can you at least give me a hint why the feds are after you?”

  “Muthukrishnan’s not a fed. At least, I don’t think he is. He’s an Asian Indian, and he’s not the only foreign national who’s been after me.”

  “Wait a minute. Why can’t he be Indian and a fed? Plenty of these USDA and National Institute of Science guys I’ve been working with are from India. They’ve got a surplus of trained tech bureaucrats, and we’ve got a shortage. So we give them special work visas —”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just don’t tell him about me, okay?”

  “Louis, this doesn’t sound like you. You’re in worse trouble than you’ve been letting on.”

  “I’m fine. Just don’t say a word. Can you promise me that?”

  “Oh… all right. I promise.”

  “Good.” My breathing begins returning to normal. “Thanks for seeing my father.”

  “De nada.”

  I tell her to watch out for herself, then we hang up.

  Muthukrishnan. Black sedans tailing me from Memphis to Miami. The Ottoman — is he still strapped to my examining table? Or is he riding in one of those black sedans? Sabotage inside MannaSantos…

  Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.

  Stay focused. Grab hold of your anchors. There are two of them now. Margo — finding her, saving her from Trotmann’s butchering. And through her, finding the Elvis. Reclaiming it. Redeeming it.

  I’ve descended from Overtown into the Deco District. Miami Beach has turned traditional cosmology on its head. Above me, Heaven is the low-rent district. But the underworld of the Deco District thrives, dynamic and alive despite the shadows imposed on it. The underworld is where the action is.

  Cars are banished from much of the District, so I park near the boardwalk and unload my rolling sample case from the trunk. Samples of new products from Ms. Denoux’s organization should help get me through the door at Lansky’s. They may also help convince Margo to be cooperative.

  Walking into the Deco District is like shedding a century. Neon is everywhere — blue and pink neon scripts that spell out the names of elderly hotels: Cardozo, Avalon, Breakwater, Delano. Virtually every other block has been transformed into a film set. Crowds of vid-11 technicians and their equipment make maneuvering my sample case along narrow sidewalks a chore. Actors and models, most in mid-twentieth-century costumes, are making commercials for everything from the newest Hudson runabout to a line of perfumes that double as anti-wrinkling agents.

  A couple more blocks from the ocean, the intensity of street life falls off dramatically. I check the map Ms. Bonnabel drew for me. I’ve just crossed Cleveland Avenue; Lansky’s can’t be too far away.

  Something rustles in the alley between two stuccoed hotels. I instinctively step away into the street. A pair of filthy hands thrusts a battered carton into the light. “Chocolate!” a voice hisses. “Real milk chocolate! Good prices!” I quicken my stride. If he knew what I have in my case, the poor wretch would kill me for it.

  I turn left at Essen Lane, a winding little alleyway of closely bunched storefronts. I see the store I’m looking for up ahead. “Nostalgia Ltd.” An innocuous antiques emporium, albeit one that stays open curiously late. Staring at the modest window display, I see they specialize in late-twentieth-century electronics: Nintendo games, clunky laptop computers, a microwave oven that looks like a hand-built nuclear bomb.

  A drop of water, heavy as a marble, hits me on top of my head. More fall in the lane, clattering on the cobblestones like widely scattered hail. How can it be raining here, with Overtown between us and the clouds? But then I think about caves. It’s night, cool and humid. We’re between an ocean and a bay. The underside of Overtown, a gigantic pane of plastic, must provide its own nightly rain showers, a phenomenon probably unforeseen by its builders.

  I push open the front door. Except for the single employee, playing an old Nintendo next to the cash register, the shop is empty. “Help you with something?” he mumbles, not looking up from the tiny screen of his game unit.

  “Can you recommend a good place to eat?”

  “Depends,” he says, finally looking up at me, then down at my wheeled case. “What’s in the bag?”

  “I’m a salesman. These are samples from New Orleans.”

  “Let’s see.”

  He whistles with appreciation when I unlatch the case. “Okay. Go through the door in back, the one marked ‘Management Only’ Mr. Lezarro’ll want to have a look at your goods.”

  He presses a button beneath the counter, which buzzes me through. Behind door number one is a much more solid-looking door number two. An eye-level panel slides open. I can see two gun-metal gray eyes and a partially flattened nose.

  “Mr. Lezarro?”

  “That would be me. You, I don’t know from nobody. Julio says you’ve got goods for sale. Let’s see what you’ve got, Mr. New Orleans.”

  I open the case again, lifting several of the pastries closer to the panel. I explain that I work for Oretha Denoux. After making a quick phone call, Lezarro lets me through. He ushers me down a steep set of carpeted stairs, assisting me with my case.

  Halfway down the stairs, I’m nearly overwhelmed by a voluptuous odor — the sweet scent of melting butter. The dowdy antiques shop upstairs in no way prepared me for what awaits down below. Crystal chandeliers. Private booths outfitted in red leather. At the center of the intimately lit d
ining room, slowly revolving glass towers showcase Lansky’s supreme attractions: cheesecakes, Black Forest cakes, puddings, and tarts. Cream puffs and éclairs, wedges of fudge as big as my fist; all glistening with hundreds of grams of fat and thousands of sugar calories. All undoubtedly authentic. What an incredible bust this would be for me, if I were still a Good Humor Man.

  I’m in luck. At the far side of the dining room, Margo’s red hair stands out like a neon bomb burst. I check the photograph to make certain it’s her, but it’s not necessary; I’d already memorized her features. She’s in a booth near the back, alone. I gesture to the maitre d’ that I’d like to sit at the booth in front others. He says that Mr. Olmas, the manager, will be over to see me once I’ve had my dinner, compliments of the house.

  I slide onto the red leather seat facing her. It’s hard not to stare. She’s reading her menu, so I examine mine. My eyes widen as I scan the prices of steak tartar, salmon almandine, and eggs Benedict; each entree costs about as much as a night’s stay in a fine hotel. How can Margo afford to eat here regularly?

  A waiter asks if I’ve made my selection. I see an item that’s an old, half-forgotten friend. Sliced corned beef, imported from Argentina, well marbled, on rye bread dressed with mustard. I could buy a week’s worth of supplies for my old clinic with what it takes to buy this sandwich. Good thing it’s on the house.

  Margo’s food arrives. She’s skipped the entree, gone straight for dessert. Her server unloads four large pastries — a towering hunk of chocolate layer cake, a sugar-crusted bear claw, a fudge pyramid, and a slice of cheese cake drizzled with strawberry sauce — plus a cup of coffee. I watch her pour pure cream into the coffee, filling the cup until the glistening liquid nearly overflows. Without stirring it, she leans over and carefully sips off the excess. To my surprise, she eats stoically, without any sign of pleasure.

  How can she eat all this and still remain so slender? My best guess, judging from her age (late twenties) and unusual combination of features, is that her parents custom designed her, probably specifying an elevated basal metabolism. So now she’s eating like a demon to negate that. I may not understand why she’s chosen to be involved with Trotmann and his cult, but I can’t help but admire her sheer pluck, her grim tenacity.

  My sandwich arrives, so overstuffed that I can barely fit my mouth around it. It’s beyond delicious. I’m only able to finish half of it, which makes my respect for Margo’s will power grow even more. My waiter removes the remaining half-sandwich and returns it to me in a pressure-sealed plastic go-box. Soon thereafter, Mr. Olmas joins me at my table. After some amiable small talk, I open my case and arrange my sample pastries on the table, making sure Margo can clearly see them.

  I catch her sneaking glances at my samples, even as she scoops up the last crumbs of her pastries. Olmas and I agree to have starter quantities of the new items dropped to him, using couriers he trusts. I intercept another of Margo’s fleeting glances, nod and smile, but she looks away.

  How do I start a conversation? I could offer her some of my samples. But the thought occurs to me that I’ve brought something even more appealing to her. My cannula. After all, pastries are merely a means to an end — the hollow end of a liposuction instrument.

  I remove my old cracked leather valise from the wheeled cart, unbuckle the frayed straps and lift out the long, slender tube of stainless steel — more slender, even, than Margo, whose eyes grow wide as she begins to recognize what I have in my hands. The cannula is coated with a light film of dust. I unzip an inner compartment and take out a yellowed packet containing a sterile wipe. I glance at her as I wrap the damp cloth around the cannula tube. A flood of emotions plays across her face. Indecision. Reverent desire. Wary uncertainty, slowly beaten down by desire’s heat.

  She rises from her booth. I don’t look up until I feel her standing next to me.

  “Peace… peace be unto you,” she says, her voice cracking slightly. “May your sins be scoured away, removed forever.”

  She thinks I’m part of her cult. Wish I knew how to play along. “That’s very kind,” I say, smiling but allowing my confusion to show. “Do I know you?”

  She instantly blushes. “I’m sorry — I thought —” She stares at my cannula again. I place it back in its case. “It’s just that… I’ve never seen one of those before, outside of where I — outside of one other place. I didn’t think there were any others.”

  “You mean this antique of mine?” I touch the faded red velvet inner lining cradling the cannula. “Not many living people have seen one of these. Years ago, I used to perform a procedure called suction-assisted lipectomy, or liposuction. But nobody’s done one of those in decades. Where on earth would you have seen a cannula like mine?”

  She bites her lip. “My… my pastor has one.”

  “Really?” I say, smiling. “How fascinating. Is he a collector?”

  Her gaze remains riveted on my cannula. “No… not really…” Just to see how she’ll react, I begin to close the valise. “Wait! Please —” I’m surprised by the genuine panic in her voice. “Can’t I take a closer look at it? Please?”

  “Of course.”

  I reopen the valise, then pull the table lamp closer. The light glints off my cannula’s stainless steel tube. Its shape is as familiar to me as the contours of my hand: blunt-ended, eighteen inches long, a third of an inch in diameter, tucked neatly into the space next to its detachable suction unit.

  Her hand reaches for it, then pulls away. “May I —?”

  I nod.

  A tiny sigh escapes her lips as she reaches inside the case to touch the cold, smooth metal of my instrument, the sword of my obsolescent profession.

  We walk along the boardwalk at the edge of the dunes. The night tide is coming in. The sound of the waves and the warm neon glow of Ocean Drive make me feel almost at peace, like I’m on vacation, hoping for a new romance.

  I’ve told her Trotmann, her “Reductionist,” is an old colleague of mine. I’ve mentioned that he once sought to buy foods in bulk from Oretha Denoux, and that as one of her representatives, I’d be curious to find out if he’s still interested. She senses there’s more to it than that, but I’ll stay vague until I have a better sense of her loyalty to Trotmann. So far, she’s remained equally vague about offering to take me to him.

  I decide to broach the subject of Julia Bonnabel. “I recently met someone you may know.”

  “Who?”

  “Julia Bonnabel. She’s been suffering from medical complications, and I was called in to consult. She was operated on by Dr. Trotmann a few years ago. While she was a member of his church.”

  I watch her face closely. I can’t be certain in this dim light, but I think she blushes. “Poor Julia,” she whispers.

  “So you do know her?”

  “Yes,” she says quietly. “We used to be friends, sort of.”

  “Have you been by to see her recently? A visit from a friend would do her a world of good.”

  “I can’t… it’s, it’s complicated.”

  “What’s so complicated about visiting a friend?”

  “Can’t we just drop this?” She glares at me like I’ve jabbed her with a fork. But then her gaze falls to the ground. “Julia… she was one of the church’s first members. She helped bring me in; I haven’t forgotten that. She received as many sacraments from the Reductionist as anybody did. I… I know she got hurt. The others said it happened because she’d stopped believing. Then we found out she’d gone to the authorities. She shouldn’t have done that — the Reductionist had told her her problems were minor, that he could fix them if she’d, y’know, just have faith again.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  She looks away. Her reply is almost muffled by the surf. “I don’t know… sometimes I don’t know what I believe anymore. Sometimes I’m scared.”

  “Margo. Tell me something.”

  “Yes, Doctor?”

  “Why do you do it? What’s the attraction? You’ve
seen what the consequences of those ‘sacraments’ were for Julia. Why risk the same? Especially when virtually every woman in the country strives to achieve the kind of body you already have.”

  She scowls. “This perfect body?”

  “Maybe ‘perfect’ is too strong a word… but open any magazine, turn on any vid-11 program, and you’ll see yourself reflected in every depiction of feminine beauty.”

  “Just like what my parents wanted,” she mutters. She picks up a broken seashell and tosses it into the water. “My parents designed me from some menu. How tall I’d be, how smart I’d be, how well I’d sing. Point and click. Like they were ordering a suit of clothes from some goddamn online catalog. My mother didn’t even put me in her own body. She didn’t want to get fat. I was made in some industrial park.”

  We approach one of the colossi that supports Overtown on his shoulders — José Martí. “Do you know what a burden ‘perfection’ is?” she asks. “How do you live up to it? It’s fucking impossible. But they still expect you to.” She sits cross-legged on the boardwalk, facing the ocean. “And what good is perfection? It only leads to its own corruption.” Her voice is different now, like she’s reciting from rote memory. “Leave a perfect bowl beneath the sun. It fills with dust, and the rain turns the dust to mud. But the bowl is perfect, you see. It can’t drain. Once corrupted, it stays corrupted forever.”

  “But you aren’t a bowl.”

  She stares up at me, her face seething with frustrated fervor. “Aren’t I? Every day sin settles on me like dust. The food I eat in Lansky’s… it’s real it’s made of real things. Not all that bioengineered crap from MannaSantos. When I eat it, it scours me, scours my insides… it makes all the sin settle in places where I can see it, feel it, pinch it. Then the sacrament siphons it all off. I can watch it all being sucked away, into a prison of glass.”

  I try to imagine what kinds of sins are so weighty they cry out for Trotmann’s bloody cutting cannula. He’s created the perfect retirement package for himself, living on young women’s money while continuing his sadistic “liposculpture” experiments on patients who literally beg him to violate their bodies. And he’s set himself up as a god, or at least a prophet. I almost admire his achievement.