by Brian Hodge
Her roommates Lacey and Jasmine were of the same bent, he later found out. By the time introductions were made, Napoleon was functionally blind, though still sharp of ear. Jasmine made her living onstage in a drag queen cabaret; Lacey, like Magenta, presumably on the streets, a hustler who fooled drunken tourists and conventioneers, or serviced those whose tastes ran toward the more exotic.
Strange, and very new to him. The sight of men looking like lewd women was in itself no shock. Even when he’d been a boy, in the Haitian countryside, the sight was common enough that it seemed normal: holiday gatherings of celebrants called Rara bands, men in dresses of brilliant colors, who would dance down the roads in sharp contrast to the drab little towns. They were considered subversive and not even allowed into the bigger cities, but in the country they were plentiful, and entertaining enough.
Under Magenta’s roof, though, they were a new kind altogether. They really believed themselves women, even when there was no need for masquerade. Napoleon supposed he was more sensitive to it with his sight trapped behind swollen skin. The sight of them might fool his eyes, though not his ears. But there was spirit, too, to consider, which counted for as much as anything. They carried feminine spirits within; sad women, maybe, rendered incomplete by accident of birth. Women desperate for something they could never truly possess. But women nonetheless. And if this was the way they thought of themselves, then he could too.
It was no stretch of the imagination.
He found an odd peace in their home, much like staying in a convent. Lacey and Jasmine were teases at first — would he be visiting their beds next, they wondered aloud, then laughed uproariously — but quickly treated him as another roommate. There was time to think here. Play his tapes on the ghetto blaster on Magenta’s dresser, lie back on her bed or sit on the living room sofa. It felt ratty and tattered beneath his hand, and so far as he knew, this was where Magenta was sleeping during his stay.
Here he was, lost … blind … and while sight would return shortly, his old life would not. What did he know of the world beyond Andrew Jackson Mullavey? Just enough to get himself robbed, apparently, and that was it.
“Your eyes look better today,” Magenta told him after a quick inspection. “Bet you they open up tomorrow.”
Early Sunday afternoon and he could hear the silken rustle of her robe. He sat at the kitchen table, a glass of orange juice at his fingertips. In the living room, a movie played on the TV, cheap speaker buzzing its dialogue; all the voices sounded like insects. Lacey was complaining, bad taste in her mouth, too many tricks last night, and Jasmine told her to try a stronger breath mint when she was on the streets, and shut up anyway, she just loved Humphrey Bogart.
“I hate to be kicking you out, you know I think you’re cute as dimples on a tight ass, but honey … you know you can’t stay.”
Napoleon nodded. He knew it, was not going to argue.
“So what are we gonna do with you?”
“This is not your decision. So it’s not for you to worry.”
“Well, damn right I’m not gonna worry,” she said, and for the moment he wished he could see Magenta’s face. She wasn’t fooling him. “But, you know, I don’t wanna be hearing how somebody done knocked you on the head again, and this time knocked you harder. Make me feel like I just wasted all my precious time for nothing.”
He smiled, cocked his head in her direction. “It was no waste. I promise you this: You’ll never be hearing about me again once I’m out that door, and that should make you proud.”
“Uh huh.” She was clearly unconvinced. “Knock you on the head and throw you in the river next time.” She then softened. “Don’t you know nobody here? I haven’t asked where you came from after close-to-Jamaica, I figure that’s none of my business. But you got to know somebody.”
“I do, maybe. I thought I knew them. But now, I’m thinking I maybe didn’t know them at all.”
Her voice sharpened. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Some kind,” and then he chuckled. “But I don’t know what.”
“And nobody can help you? Ain’t there nobody you love?” Hanging head, leaning on his elbows. The question was a cruel one, though Magenta had not known.
“There is,” Magenta said, teasing and playful.
Of course there was. And if they did not love each other, at the very least he thought it possible they could someday, if allowed. Clarisse LaBonté, Orvela’s daughter. In a sense they had grown up together under that roof, both having been there since late childhood. Sometimes, in his room at night, or waiting for Mr. Andrew to head out to the car, that mocha skin and long, wild hair of Clarisse’s were enough to drive him to waking dreams.
But he was one to keep his eyes open around there. Maybe he had failed himself miserably in the French Quarter, but at Twin Oaks he knew what was what. Knew that Clarisse was off-limits to him. You simply did not set your sights on the boss’s mistress.
“There could be,” Napoleon said. “But to her, I’m like a dead man now. I’ll not be seeing her again.”
Magenta touched his ann. “Well, isn’t that just the saddest damn thing.” He knew she meant it, could hear the regret in her voice, but was unable to fully imagine the sufferings brought on by her uniqueness. What dreams did Magenta dream, beneath the copper wig?
“Honey, I’ll tell you one thing: You got no business letting any woman feel like you’re dead, long as you’re still walking around outside that coffin.”
He made himself smile. “I’ll maybe surprise her, someday.”
“So until then, what are we gonna do with you?”
“I can get a job, maybe. Somewhere.”
Magenta chuckled, low and throaty. “I know I said I’d never seen anyone with less sense than you. But I think you’re bright enough that you’d have thought of a job before you got your head knocked. Ain’t no one with a bit of sense gonna hire a beat-up vagrant like you. But … I think it can be done.”
He perked up at this.
“If you had your eyes working, you might see the candles in my room. I always light a candle before I go out nights, right in front of my picture of Saint Anthony. Now I’m not superstitious, you understand, but I believe in covering all the bases, just to try and keep myself safe. The place I buy my candles, it’s on South Rampart. Maybe I could take you there. Mama Charity, I’ve seen her take in strays before, and I’ve seen them looking worse off than you. Maybe she’ll take a liking to you.”
“What kind of place is this?”
“It’s just Mama Charity’s shop. She sells the candles, and powders, incense, lotions, potions … little bit of everything.”
“She’s a mambo?”
“A what?”
“A vodoun woman? Vodoun?”
“Voodoo, that what you talking about?”
Napoleon shrugged with an easy grin. “That’s what you call it, maybe.”
Magenta laughed her throaty chuckle again. “She might just like you, at that.”
And he smiled.
Maybe it would even feel a little like home.
Chapter 16
Legacy
Justin was an hour late for dinner Monday evening. Ever the thoughtful husband, he’d at least called home with the news. He dragged in after dusk with leaden legs and hit the sofa with a thud and a sigh. Sunk in at one end, draping those heavy legs across April’s lap, one arm trailing onto the floor. Ajax breezed along with a slowly twining tail, and he pulled his arm back up to safer ground. Leave his hand at cat level, no telling where his finger might end up.
“Just another day in paradise,” he said. Looked up at April with a lazy grin. He sniffed, caught no aromas. “Did you eat already?”
She ran kneading hands along his lower legs. Heaven; pearly gates were opening for every muscle. “Pita sandwiches, shrimp salad. Yours is in the fridge. Do you want me to bring it to you, or do you think you can crawl to the kitchen?”
What comic fodder his life was, at times. He could look at it in d
etachment and see the absurdity. At the office, doing damage control for bruised images, like some Little Dutch Boy of public relations, plugging fingers and toes into the leaks before the whole dike crumbled on everybody.
April kissed him on the nose. “You need a vacation, my weary love. You’ve got that look in your eyes.”
“What look is that?”
Her cool fingers traced beneath his chin, then ran down along both cheekbones out from the corners of his eyes. “That carefully veiled functional insanity.”
I wouldn’t have it nearly as often if we worked together — he almost said it. Temptation was powerful. So was good sense, just keep his mouth shut. The resurrection of this old notion had met less than an enthusiastic reception from April, and in a way he couldn’t blame her. Figuring himself to be coming at this for all the wrong reasons. That they probably would do good work together was incidental. He was looking at her as an easy out. Maybe April recognized this consciously, maybe intuitively.
Or maybe she simply wanted to retain that bit of herself for herself. He would not press the issue. Any further mention would have to come from April.
She continued, circled his eyelids. “See? It’s mostly right here. Your eyes are open just a teeny bit wider than usual. And they stay that way.”
“Ah.” Catching her hand, drawing it to his lips. “You don’t sound frightened about it.”
“It has its good points.” A quick wink from behind lowered bangs. “You’re tireless in bed. I always plan on sleeping later the next morning when you have that look.”
Stroking that ego, and he happily fell for it. Women were so amazingly perceptive. Associating everything, cause and effect. All these endless connections they found, mapped out. Sometimes he thought his own gender couldn’t even grasp the connection between detergent and clean clothes.
They kissed for a minute, then molded into each other, holding tight. Eyes closed as he nestled chin and cheek into her hair, that shiny black. The institution of marriage got dumped on enough, mostly by the cynics of the world, and a lot of the time he marched in their company, but not about wedlock. He was made for it, needed that connection, that well from which to draw reserves now and then.
They broke, and he moved for the kitchen. Looked at the table, the stack of mail, his own and whatever she’d already opened that concerned them both. Something on top this time, though. An envelope, merely his name, hand-lettered. He held it up, and even then thought he knew what was inside. It felt like a computer disk.
“What’s this?”
“Oh yeah,” April said. “Helen Greenwald came by today with that.”
He already had the envelope torn open. No note, just the floppy, a square of beige plastic in his hand.
“Helen said she was in their safety deposit box today. To get Leonard’s will, I guess? I wasn’t going to ask. She said that was in there.”
“Wonder why she didn’t bring it to the office.”
April shrugged. “Well, think about it, Justin. That place defined Leonard. Maybe she didn’t want to face that this soon.”
A distinct possibility. Len lived for Segal/Goldberg far more than Justin ever would. And he couldn’t shake the mounting sense that in his hand, perhaps, was something that Leonard had never gotten to say the other night.
He didn’t hold out much hope, but ran the disk back to April’s office. She used an IBM for her own business, and Justin tinkered with it too, on the occasional evening. At work, though, they were tied to Apples.
He woke her machine from sleep, slid the disk into the drive, and found it wouldn’t take. Figured. Frustration snapped another bite after a long, carnivorous day, and he ejected the disk.
Curiosity nibbled, a part of him tempted to head back out the door and return to the office. See what had converted Leonard into a chain-smoking wreck a few nights ago.
But he held back. These obsessions weren’t healthy, trying to satisfy curiosities about things over which he had no control.
Everybody had questions. He would not obsess. Steam the worst of the day down the shower drain, eat his dinner, talk with April and make a concerted effort not to think about work. Catch some tube time as husband and wife, play with the cat, maybe they could dig up a mutually agreeable movie on cable.
And then maybe he could run back to the office around ten or eleven.
The lobby was Monday-night quiet when he got there, lit up behind glass and nothing moving, an aquarium of commerce at rest. He rapped upon the locked door until Angel appeared and opened it from the chain of keys fastened to his belt.
“You advertising people,” he said, and shook his head. “Shit, man, you gotta come in this late, you better be looking for some other line of work, just not worth it.”
Justin slowed his pace to the elevators, let Angel keep up without strain. Shorter legs, and the man had already pulled down one coronary a few years ago, he’d heard.
“Look how late you’re here.” Justin grinned.
Angel grinned right back. “Look how late I get to sleep the next day.” The call bell chimed, the elevator doors slid open. “So anyway, give my sympathy to Todd Whitley, up there, too.”
Justin paused in the doorway, held the door wedged back into the wall, could feel it kick once. “Todd’s here?”
Angel nodded. “Yeah, Todd? Wormy guy, always looking like he got a turd stuck in sideways?” Angel lowered a few inches into a squatty stance, grimaced while straining his butt back and forth with profound discomfort. Then straightened. “Isn’t that him?”
Justin said that it was, and laughed at the impressionistic portrait most of the way up to their floor. He unlocked the glass doors to the office. Half a hallway later, Justin found that Creative was dark as a tomb.
And that didn’t seem right. Not with Todd supposed to be here.
So where was he, anyway? Most normal people, if they stepped out to the bathroom for a few minutes, wouldn’t they leave the light on behind them? Sure.
Justin flipped on the light but bypassed the department, kept going. Straining for silent footfalls even before he realized it.
All contact with Todd Whitley had been minimal and cordially brittle ever since the morning Justin had taken over the Magnolia Blossom account from him. A triumph he felt he’d been paying for ever since, in small ways, a pesky account nickel-and-diming slivers of his soul. Go ahead, Todd, take it back, I don’t want it anymore … he could have said it easily enough, and meant it, had it not been for stubborn pride.
Account Exec Row. One office burning the midnight oil. Justin stood in the doorway a moment before Todd saw him, and looked up from behind the desk, startled.
“What are you doing in Leonard’s office?” Justin asked.
Todd was sitting behind a scatter of Len’s disks, papers, files. Some of the mess had come from other hands, daylight hours, Leonard not yet replaced and other account execs filling in as needed, as able. But Todd?
“I’m looking for some client information,” Todd said. Voice tight and level, as if he didn’t even want to breathe the air in the room as long as Justin had exhaled here. “A vacation number. Someone gave it to Leonard less than a week ago. He didn’t pass it on to me yet. I need it by tomorrow morning at the latest. Now is that all right with you?”
Justin worked the tip of his tongue in his cheek. Nodded. Turned and walked back to Creative.
Its fluorescent glare was more unnatural by night, harsh and astringent. He sat at his desk, his partitioned cubicle. The veal-fattening pens, someone had coined them. He clicked on his Macintosh and let it come to life while slipping the disk from his pocket, then fed it into the drive. Accepted, cause for celebration, and a moment later Todd was in the room.
“Find the number?” Justin said.
“Yes.” From his own pen, four distant. The two of them peered at each other over the makeshift walls, five feet high. Like two kids eyeing each other from behind snow forts, mine’s better than yours.
They turtled
their heads out of view, and Justin listened to Todd settle in. He became defined wholly by sound: the tick of a pen against an empty coffee mug, a tight sigh, a fierce riff through papers. Time-wasters, all. Justin decided not to dwell on it for the moment, and opened the data files on Leonard’s disk.
About three-quarters of the disk space had been used. In a brief scan it looked as if most or all pertained to Mullavey Foods business, and there came a slow squeeze of his heart.
Text files and spreadsheets, mostly. He grouped them according to file type, make it easier to sort among them categorically.
Sitting there, staring at the screen, files in folders within folders, moving through it all with a dull resolution. It was an informational labyrinth, and made for dry scanning: media allocations and schedules, cost breakdowns, marketplace analyses, demographic and target market profiles … sure cure for insomnia.
He was thirty-five minutes in when time ground apart. He’d gone five layers deep, diving in from one of the root folders, titled Market Research. Going through level after level of increasingly specific files, until he came across one folder titled only by date, no name. August 6. This he opened, to find two files. One titled Main, the other Excerpt.
He opened Main, and scrolled through it for perhaps ten seconds before he realized he was looking at stolen information.
Production schedules for Caribe Coffee Bags. His hands no longer felt his own as he closed that file, opened Excerpt. This one was considerably smaller, not even a full page’s equivalent.
It was devoted solely to Caribe’s almond variety.
He shut his eyes, let it pour over him, beat down on his shoulders in torrents. Head in hands, and he felt unclean.
What a fucking mess.
He began moving on automatic. Routing his station onto the office network, then leaving his cubicle for the laser printer along the far wall. Turning it on, then returning to issue a print command for Excerpt, get a hard copy made of this before anything calamitous happened to wipe out the disk. Not glancing once in Todd’s direction, he didn’t need Todd’s blend of unctuous bullshit, he would deal with that later.
