The Miraculous Plot of Leiter & Lott

by Jonathan Lowe

  "And all you want for yourself from this is a limo sent for each of the two men you mentioned to Aazad?" Malcolm summed up, his tone skeptical.

  David nodded. "They'll be our real life Bollywood stars. They just won't know it. They'll think the party is a surprise for each of them."

  "What would be the occasion for that?" the security man asked, awe in process of replacing any last remnant of derision.

  "A book deal, of course."

  "You mean with a million dollar advance offer?"

  "Exactly. For an exposé of their respective industries, where they can also vindicate themselves in print. Of course I'll say as little as possible."

  "You?"

  "I'll be with one of the drivers. Cashman, I think. I'll be a publishing representative making the offer, just in from New York. I'll tell him there's others waiting to meet him, including a film star."

  "What about the other driver?"

  "He'll say the same thing. When they get there, naturally everyone will be waiting for the secret star and his or her entourage, who never arrive. In the meantime, they'll enjoy the party they would have attended at the El Haj anyway, moved there for insurance reasons. Cashman and Innes won't learn the truth until they get inside, and begin talking to people."

  "And you'll be there to watch?"

  "I won't just duck out the back. Maybe I'll interview them too, in a private room."

  "Interesting," said Malcolm. "And I suppose it'll look good to have limos arrive with other celebrities. Give the impression our star's really going to show. As well as, shall we say, providing a couple exciting false starts, just like in the movies?" The security chief held out his hand. "Malcolm Wurley," he said, as though introducing himself for the first time. "From Brisbane."

  David took the hand and shook. "David Leiter," he said, "from Tucson. But, like here, it's a dry heat." He looked down at the place on his wrist where his Timex watch used to be. "Better hurry now, Mr. Wurley," he added, "or I'll be forced to dial nine one-one. So to speak."

  ~ * ~

  After the building's nurse tended to David's injury, calls were made, and several unconnected platinum credit card numbers repeated. Within half an hour caterers were preparing hors d'oeuvres and several open bars, although at four times the going rate due to the late hour. A substantial fee was paid to procure the main room at the Chanticleer Club, next to Seacrest Tower, and yet another fee promised if tight secrecy was maintained. Meanwhile, known El Haj party goers were contacted with word of the move, along with promises of free liquor for the inconvenience. Then the engagement party news was leaked to the press.

  When Etherton finally came down, he and David sat in the lobby, in big white leather chairs facing a six foot pedestal bearing a bronze statue of Gregg Swann, who appeared to leer down at the spire of a building poking up through the clouds at his feet.

  "They just told me the plan," Doug said, in amazement. "They said it was basically your idea. Is that true?"

  "I suppose it is. Not having much of a choice."

  "Well, I knew you had an imagination, but how did you get Swann to agree to it?"

  "I didn't. Apparently he didn't think he had much of a choice, either."

  Etherton shook his head, trying to comprehend it. "So. . .Swann really believes that. . ."

  "Who knows," David said. He closed his eyes and leaned back. "We're all just flying blind, aren't we? I think he's moved past denial and grief directly to the anger phase. If he grieves at all. Either way, he has incentive, just like any hanging judge with a grudge. Thing is, though, how do we know Seacrest doesn't imagine the same thing we did?"

  "What, you mean that Swann is behind this?"

  "Granted, it's even less likely, but what if the UAV that hit Swann's family was supposed to hit another part of the building? What if that's the error here? It would mean Seacrest believes he's next, and that Swann's diversion either failed or succeeded spectacularly, depending on how cynical and paranoid you are."

  "From what I hear," Doug said, "Seacrest is pretty paranoid. And you'd have to be, wouldn't you, to think that Swann and Nasheed. . ." He paused, chuckling. "This whole thing's got nothing to do with either of them, does it?"

  David shrugged. "Look at that statue. Does he really believe in his own immortality? I don't think so. I think it's just propaganda."

  "You saying that's why he has no choice? Because he's vain, or because he knows he's not a god?"

  "Both. It's like we're all locked into this media fantasy we've created. Or we've adopted, consciously or not. I shouldn't be here either. But here I am."

  "Maybe it'll be okay. Maybe nothing will happen."

  "Shit always happens to blind people coasting downhill."

  "Listen to you," Doug said with a grin. "And I was almost gonna say maybe you'll find the woman of your dreams, too."

  David sighed. "You know, I remember reading about this ghetto tour company in Mumbai. They take rich people around the slums for a fee. Show them diseased Indian kids sorting garbage while their mothers work as prostitutes. It got popular right after the movie Slumdog Millionaire won the Oscar. I remember wondering what motivates people to take such a tour. Do they give more to charity afterward, or does it make them feel more alive somehow. . . like they're not just another homeowner from upscale suburbia with a different color Lexus than the one next door. Maybe they want to scare themselves into working harder. Maybe some life insurance sales manager or business book author takes the tour for research. Or maybe if you went on the tour yourself, you'd be seated next to some smarmy little aluminum siding baron planning to take his top producers on the tour to goad them to greater triumphs."

  "What did you decide?"

  "That there's really no difference between those slum kids and the people in the tour vans. We're all obsessed with survival."

  "Is that why you thought about killing yourself?" Etherton countered.

  "Yes, you're right," David said. "To end the fear. To meet the thing head on."

  Doug shook his head. "I just don't get it. I think it's simpler than that." He looked up at the face of Swann's statue, peering down with an almost lascivious élan. "I think these guys fought tooth and nail to get where they are, and now they have to dominate everything and everyone around them or they feel threatened."

  "What control do they really have, though? It's all imaginary. They could die tomorrow of a heart attack."

  Doug laughed. "Especially with all the gourmet cheese cake they eat." He pointed up at the statue. "This guy's a special case, though. See that? Even in stone he's ripped. Unlike Aazad, who has a pot belly. It's like Trump living next to his clone, too. Two superstar ball players facing off on the gridiron. Only their arena is the streets of Dubai, viewed from on high."

  "Why do they think they have no choice but to lock horns, though? Just to keep the illusion alive?"

  "Well, there's another rumor, you know," Doug said.

  "What's that?"

  "Insider trading on Wall Street, back in the day. A tip and trade that proved a lie, and set the other one up to lose millions."

  "Which one?"

  "Only their brokers know for sure. Or maybe not. Anyway, you sure seem to know something yourself that you aren't saying."

  David tilted his forehead backward, looking up at the high tiled ceiling. "You know, this is all kinda like observing those blue white supergiants I overheard you talking about with Aazad, isn't it? Like those in the Eagle nebula? They burn fast and hot, blasting through all the dust lanes, inseminating the clouds with planets. We call it the Eagle nebula, but we could call it the Ego nebula. And the ego killer? That would be Messier 87. A sword beyond the sky, slicing and dicing through a thousand stars like a torch through butter." He looked up at Swann's statue again. "Who are we, anyway? Who are any of these moguls or sheiks? Grains of sand on Mars. Yeah, I know what he's going to do, if he gets a chance. He has no choice because he won't face the truth. Neither of them can afford the truth."

&nb
sp; Finding his words amusing, Etherton smiled before glancing at his watch. Then David was aware of how his words must have sounded. Like casual conversation to pass the time. Not the tip of any inner iceberg reaching deep into his isolation. Again he thought about his own truth, and wondered how he might have stopped his mother from becoming a victim of such men, if only he'd paid more attention to her. Might she might still be alive if only he'd corrected her unsteady steps as she walked downhill in the dark toward their tripping feet, their hands clutching at her purse as she fell?

  "Listen, Doug," David said, leaning forward, "I'd like to ask you a favor."

  21

  Cashman approached the limousine from the entrance of his condo tower like an aging eighties rock star on holiday. His tailored beige suit and open white collar offset a bronzed, weathered face and flaming red hair in the light cast by the overhanging portico. A pair of amber tinted glasses hid his eyes and emphasized his stuporous half smile. He ducked into the back as the Asian driver held the door, and sat opposite David with a self confident air, as though he'd been routinely chauffeured between parties, and now expected to be offered a flute of champagne or a Cuban cigar, if not a line of coke.

  "Mr. Cashman," David said formally, holding out his hand reluctantly, his heart thumping audibly in his left ear. "Pleased to make your acquaintance," he lied.

  Cashman seemed startled to find him sitting there in the dark inner recesses of the limo, sitting opposite the main seat. Ignoring the offered hand, he said, casually, "Who the hell are you?"

  "My name is Quinn," David replied, letting his hand fall limply away. "I'm a representative for Alliance Books."

  "Never heard of them."

  "You will. We're a new imprint of Random House."

  Cashman perked up a bit, taking off his shades to reveal an inquisitive squint. "Really," he said, his tone not quite neutral.

  "Yes," David insisted, "and like you were informed on the phone, we're here, or rather I'm here, to discuss a ghost writer for you. To work with you in developing a book to be written in the first person. For which we are prepared to offer an advance of one million dollars. If you sign tonight, that is."

  "Oh yeah?" Cashman said with a gutsy laugh. "And you're so sure I'll sign onto this plan there's a party waiting for me?"

  "That's right. Call it a signing bonus. With a surprise guest, who would like to meet you. Someone. . .famous."

  "Really," the ex-TV preacher said, the word now more prominently weighted. "And would I know this person?"

  "If you go to the movies."

  Cashman stared out the side window as if they were passing a night carnival. David imagined throwing a surprise punch when he turned back, projecting the nasal cartilage of his big nose up into the gray matter that passed as his brain. But the anger for it was oddly missing. There was pity instead.

  "Why me?" Cashman said, looking back with faint suspicion. "Why not Benny Hinn?"

  "He's still working. You're retired. You're more likely to be honest and open about what went on."

  "What exactly do you think went on?"

  "You'll tell us. Or rather the ghost writer we assign you. You can spill the beans on the whole industry, say whatever you like. Vindicate yourself in the process."

  "Now why would I want to do that?"

  David looked out his own side window at the imaginary circus. "We figure the potential of an exposé on televangelists, coming from you, would net millions. You'd have a bestseller. If you like, you could do talk shows, go on a world book tour. . . You'd be on Letterman, the Today Show. And you'd be richer and much more famous than you are now."

  "You have a writer that can. . . make this happen?" Cashman sounded skeptical.

  David looked back at him---back at this man who'd already bilked millions out of the public, and who now, offered a chance to bilk more by turning the game around the other way, was secretly eager for it. Eager, just as David knew Jeffrey Innes would be eager to take more money from the naive and ignorant dupes who'd believed all their press releases and emotional appeals. "We have access to the best," he replied at last, with tutored sincerity, recalling Cashman's TV persona. "An author who has taken less dramatic stories and turned them into gold." He gestured one open hand toward Cashman's widening paunch. "You must have a million anecdotes to share, any one of which would make fascinating reading. Mind you, though, we're looking for a confessional, not just an autobiography. We need controversy to sell. The more outrageous the better. The more--"

  "Wait," Cashman interrupted, lifting a hand. "Let me get this straight. You want me to sit in a confessional booth with your guy? Air my dirty laundry, hang myself out to dry?"

  "Exactly. That's the only way it would work, Mr. Cashman. You can only point your finger at others after you've pointed it at yourself."

  "But wouldn't I be opening myself to lawsuits?"

  "Only if you've committed murder." He paused. "Have you?"

  Cashman laughed. "Not directly, no."

  "Besides, we have a great legal department, and there are things we can do with wording any confessions to make them seem incriminating and sensational while really not revealing any damning evidence. Our purpose is to provide a good read, that's all. Entertainment. Which was your stock and trade too, in a way. Correct?"

  Cashman grinned. "You got it, buddy."

  Yeah, David thought, I got it.

  "Just one thing," Cashman said, his bleary eyes now acquiring a motivational speaker's passionate vision of self-actualization.

  "What's that?"

  "Do you think. . . I can get on The Today Show?"

  ~ * ~

  The Chanticleer Club was dwarfed by the looming structure of the Seacrest Tower next to it. At ground level, with the underground parking garage behind it not revealing how many guests might be present, it resembled an art deco jazz club, with a wide central column of pink concrete overlaid with five vertical ribbons of blue piping.

  They pulled directly in front, and stopped. Half a dozen men with cameras readied themselves as the driver rushed around to open Cashman's door.

  "This way, sir," he said.

  Cashman stepped out like a celebrity into the limelight. He buttoned his coat, adjusted the tinted shades over his oily eyes. David followed from behind like a bodyguard or a servant, yet he felt a giddy elation at the prospect of the unveiling to come. Everyone inside the main ballroom, he realized, had no idea who Ted was.

  Cameras flashed as they approached. The door which the limo driver then opened for them was tall and oddly Arabic in shape, made of smoky glass framed with blue neon. They moved past several burly bouncers or security types, who waved them inside without asking for identification. Smiling.

  There was a pause as everyone stared at them, entering.

  "Make yourself at home," David said, wondering how many, among the hundred or so people mingling inside, might be on Swann's staff. "I'll see if our ghost writer is here."

  He motioned toward the open bar, pretended to look down at his missing watch, then left Cashman standing there, stranded in a large parlor amid a small crowd of babbling cocktail party attendees.

  He went into the back. The door was locked behind him. He found Doug standing next to Wurley and Swann's second Russian guardian, who he now knew was named simply Peter. He was about to comment on how the party resembled an art gallery showing when he noticed the machine pistol that lay on a table behind the Russian's blocking stance.

  "What's happening?" he asked Etherton.

  "We haven't heard from anyone but Nasheed. He's going to have his artwork removed from his condo. Then he'll come here."

  As he'd surmised, it appeared Swann's retinue intended to infiltrate Seacrest Tower, if need be, while maintaining surveillance of the room where they'd seen a telescope trained on Nasheed's condo. With Etherton's assistance they'd installed a telescoping video camera of their own, and mounted it on the club's roof, where it could be operated by remote control in order to document any mov
ement, and where some of the party had already begun to congregate, next to a second open bar at the opposite end.

  Within ten minutes of Cashman's arrival at the club, former banking CEO Jeffrey Innes arrived by limousine, and was ushered inside after being photographed by the gathering paparazzi. Already looking confused and distressed, Cashman gulped a whiskey at the bar as David watched from the club's discreet one-way security window.

  "What do we do with your boys?" Malcolm asked him. "Bounce them as you suggested, or maybe you want to drag them back here and put the fear of God in 'em first?" He winked.

  David motioned Etherton over to the security window. "Are you ready for this, Doug?"

  Doug stared beyond him at the scene "Birds of a feather, eh?"

  "Vultures. Carrion birds."'

  "Lovely. Okay, let's do it." He turned to Malcolm. "Now that they've served your purpose with the press, is there a room we can use until the fireworks begin?"

  "Don't you mean if the fireworks begin?" Wurley corrected.

  "Whatever."

  The room reserved for private parties was twenty by twenty, lit by a gaudy chandelier that seemed made out of upside down rocks glasses tiered in haphazard lengths and lit from inside by fiber optic light. The table was round opaque white glass, with cushioned plastic chairs spaced around it which looked like they'd come from the set of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. In place of windows, Andy Warhol prints hung in glass and chrome frames.

  When Cashman and Innes were ushered in, it was obvious they'd talked by the way both men crossed their arms simultaneously and stared between David and Doug with chagrin.

  "What's going on here?" Innes demanded, his flush and chubby face a reservoir for the rancor to which the tone of his voice had yet to commit.

  "Gentlemen," David said, and motioned toward Etherton. "This is Doug Fairchild, the ghost writer we've engaged to pen one of your stories. Will you have a seat?"

  "One of our stories," Cashman repeated, as if expecting a punch line to follow.