by Susan Slater
“How are we doing in there?” The man sounded like he was standing next to him.
“Okay. Almost ready.” Johnson turned his back on the mirror and struggled out of his clothes. He was glad he had thought to bring the patent loafers.
“Oh my, my. The color is perfect. And the cut of that jacket ...” The man pursed his lips and studied Johnson as he struggled to walk back into the showroom. The pants legs were bunched around his ankles, and he had slipped the jacket on over his t-shirt.
“Have you ever thought of modeling?” Johnson stole a look at the man to see if he was kidding, then took a sideways peek in the mirror. The jacket made his shoulders broad before it narrowed to slim his waist. Not bad. Not bad at all.
“I’ll just pin these up.” The man knelt with a mouth full of straight pins after he asked Johnson to stand on a stool in front of the mirror. “You know, now this is just a suggestion, a band corset would flatten that little tummy and help accentuate those terrifically slim hips.”
Johnson fleetingly heard his wife laughing. Another thing to keep in the Bronco. But it was something to consider.
+ + +
The sprawling adobe was nestled in the hills outside Santa Fe. Each window glowed with light that penetrated the surrounding darkness. Piñon smoke wafted upward from multiple fireplaces and disappeared into the night. Cars were parked on both sides of the road leading up to the Andersons’ house. Johnson parked a half mile away and could hear laughter of people sitting in the sunken gardens. The end of September and the weather was just now turning cool at night.
A butler opened the heavy oak doors and announced his entrance into the tiled hallway. Tin sconces held beeswax candles that illuminated a nicho containing a Santos de San Isidro. Vigas stained a gray-blue were as big around as his waist and filled the twenty-foot-high ceiling of the great room. They were as long as telephone poles. Between the vigas, stripped cedar latillas angled in a chevron pattern and added to the heady wood smells that filled the house.
The fireplace dominated a north wall. The raised hearth of white plaster continued around the opening and formed bancos for sitting along the sides. Cushions in blanket plaids had been expertly fitted to line these attached benches. A framed oil of two huge overlapping red poppies dominated the fireplace’s plastered flue. Must be by someone famous, Johnson thought, as he noticed the suspended pipe lighting that illuminated it.
The grand piano looked small until Johnson stood next to it. The man at the keyboard pounded out oldies. Johnson stopped to listen to “Autumn Leaves.” The white-jacketed server had to ask him twice if he wanted something to drink. Perrier had sounded expensive but tasted like bubbly water.
Douglas Anderson, Sr. waved to him from the other side of the room and then came toward him with the governor and first lady of New Mexico in tow.
“Wonderful of you to come, Governor Yepa. Now, if I don’t get too confused with two governors. Have you met Governor Knight and his lovely wife?” Johnson shook hands. The governor was saying something about how this was an economic move to release his people from poverty. Sounded like he was rehearsing, Johnson thought. The first lady interrupted once or twice to correct his facts. Finally, Douglas dragged them away to “work the room,” as he put it.
Johnson was just trying to decide which corridor might lead to the kitchen when Douglas moved to a microphone beside the piano and asked the crowd of a hundred and fifty or so guests to give him its attention.
“Thank you. Now let me introduce some of our honored guests. The governor of our fair state, the honorable ...”
Johnson tuned out, scanned the room looking for Mollie, and almost missed acknowledging his own introduction. As he moved to the dais and waved to the crowd, he immediately wished he had unbuttoned his jacket when it pulled above the gold cummerbund and caused his pleated shirt to ride up to his bow tie. He resisted tugging it down and stood quietly listening to the governor extol the virtues of gambling for an impoverished people. A tribe ancient in beliefs and customs. What did he know, Johnson wondered.
Next came Bob Crenshaw, owner of the largest TV station in the Southwest, then ten more state biggies spoke and crowded around him. After that, there was picture-taking. Flashbulbs winked from around the room. He posed with the governor and his wife, then Douglas Anderson, Sr. Finally, he was allowed to escape.
The pianist struck up a rendition of “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes,” followed by “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.” The governor and his wife two-stepped smoothly in a large circle on the parquet oak floor.
Johnson was getting hungry and wandered over to a canopied table twenty-five feet in length laden with food, some familiar, some suspect. He knew what caviar looked like and avoided that, as well as the smoked salmon, both nestled in greenery at the base of a five foot fountain spurting blue water over its silver sides. He was just reaching for a small triangle of bread with something orange on it—cheese, he hoped—when the lights dimmed.
From his vantage point, it looked like half the show girls from Vegas were leaning over the balcony upstairs blowing kisses and shaking their feathered and sequined torsos. Headdresses glittered and waved in the undulating spotlights. Bosoms mounded up and jiggled over the edges of stiff satin cups, and net stockings stretched to their waists. Narrow bands of gold leather kept their stiletto heels on their feet. It was a glorious sight. Johnson almost forgot about Mollie.
Then they descended the curving staircase. The spotlights highlighted their every step. And all the way down they threw net packets of foil covered chocolate “money” and tiny play decks of cards and dice to their adoring audience. Johnson was almost overcome by the sheer magnitude of near-nakedness everywhere he looked.
“They’re pretty, but they’re going to get cold.” The soft voice at his elbow sounded familiar.
“Mollie.” Johnson turned to the small plump Indian woman beside him. Her black and white uniform included a doily-sized hat pinned to her freshly permed hair.
“Anglo ‘doings’,” she said. Johnson gathered that she didn’t much approve of it all.
“Do you get a break?” He let his hand stray to her rounded backside.
She wiggled away, but laughed.
“Maybe. Why would you be interested?” Johnson always liked the way she teased him.
“Guess that’s for you to find out.” He pinched her bottom this time.
“In fifteen minutes, meet me at the carriage house.”
“Carriage house?”
“It’s what they call the garage. Around in back, behind the gardens.”
She slipped away just as the lights came up, and the Vegas girls clustered around the piano. Must be going to do a number or two, he thought. He checked the freeform wood burl clock on the wall, twelve more minutes. Maybe he should just leave now so he’d have time to find the place.
The wide driveway in front of the house curved around to the right and disappeared into darkness. Two uniformed valets leaned against a Lincoln and traded jokes. They barely nodded as he walked past. The crunch of the crushed rock echoed and bounced back at him from the walls of the house. He paused to listen to the night sounds. Laughter streamed from the party as a ribald show tune ended. He was alone in the crisp night air filled with the smell of piñon smoke.
The carriage house was really a four door flat roofed adobe building with what looked to be a workroom on one end. The front doors were locked so Johnson moved around to the side. The workroom door was open. He stepped across the threshold and could just make out the shapes of garden tools and a bench along a side wall. Somewhere from the garage beyond, he heard a car door open and saw the interior light blink on in the third car over.
“Here.” Mollie’s stage whisper carried over the cars.
The first thing he noticed was her uniform carefully folded on the front seat of the Cadillac. Mollie, in a pink shiny slip with toenails to match, lounged in the back seat. He hoped she wasn’t wearing underpants.
“Should w
e close the door?” he asked.
“Nobody will come back here.”
He noticed, though, that she was still whispering. He threw his tux jacket on top of her uniform, climbed in beside her and pulled her feet into his lap. He caressed first one foot and then the other before putting a big toe in his mouth to suck noisily. Now here was a woman who knew where to wear perfume, as a cloud of scent circled his head every time she wiggled her toes.
Mollie kneaded his crotch with the toes of her other foot. He watched the bright pink spots push and tickle until Montana was fairly bursting to get out of his confines. Then she sat up and began to unbutton his shirt, struggling with the tiny pearlized buttons in the starched placket.
“Help me with this cummerbund.” Johnson’s voice was throaty with longing. He first tugged on the band then inched it around his waist so that the hooks and eyes were in front. Now the trousers. But the suspenders, something the man at the shop said would assure him of a perfect fit, were difficult to unfasten. The tiny buttons on the waistband were next. He saw her hesitate when she saw the corset. “Having a little back trouble,” he mumbled as the sound of separating Velcro sliced through the silence.
With trousers around his knees, he squirmed out of his shirt after hesitating to unsnap one edge of the bow tie. By now Mollie had encircled Montana with her hand and was busy pumping up and down. He was halfway out of his undershirt when he realized he should have been thinking about baseball. How many times did he have a batter on the way to the plate only to find the batboy had stepped up to hit one out of the park? Too late. Another solo homer.
“You’re the only woman who can get me this excited,” he said and wished his shorts had been pushed a little lower; their dampness was going to be uncomfortable.
“I better be getting back.” Mollie kissed him on the cheek then reached over the seat for her clothes and began to dress. She patted the doily hat in place, kissed him again and disappeared around the back of the car. He heard the workroom door open and close.
He wished she’d stuck around to help him with the cummerbund. He was having second thoughts about dressing this way every night to sit in the casino.
+ + +
“I thought maybe you’d gone home.” The elder Anderson was standing in the front door as Johnson walked up the driveway.
“Just getting some air.” He fought an urge to pull the cummerbund down. He’d hoped to get to a bathroom before meeting anyone.
“Did you lose your tie?”
Johnson’s hand flew to his neck before he thought of saying he’d just taken it off. Oh, well. Hopefully, it was somewhere outside and not in the back seat of the Cadillac.
“This has been a wonderful evening. This launches an enterprise I’ve dreamed about all my life.” The elder Anderson linked arms with Johnson.
Where did this show of friendliness come from? A little too much champagne? Johnson had never seen him this mellow. It seemed all was forgiven or, at least, forgotten.
“Will your people appreciate what we’ve done for them?”
Johnson was being propelled into a room off the entry that looked like an office.
“Some will.” That was the truth. Not everyone but, hopefully, a majority. And maybe the others when the money started coming in.
Douglas Anderson had slipped behind a massive desk and now sat, feet propped on a bottom drawer, leaning back against a maroon leather high-backed chair. “You smoke?” He indicated a humidor on the corner of the desk.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Johnson pulled the lid to one side and extracted a dark expertly rolled cigar. He admired the tight configuration of its roundness and deep woodsy, yet musky scent. He ran it back and forth under his nose, like he’d seen someone in the movies do.
The even snorts and gurgles coming from the chair behind the desk didn’t surprise him. The elder Anderson was asleep. He’d dozed off, unlit cigar clenched between fingers, cavernous mouth gaping wide to show the too-pink gums of false teeth. Johnson let his eyes search the desk top for a light.
When he didn’t find one, he tucked the cigar in his pocket. It had been a good evening—no, a great evening—he amended as he thought of Mollie. Somehow in the quiet of the study with moonlight flooding through a skylight, everything, at last, was all right. He sighed and tiptoed from the room.
PART III
NINE
Tony Chang adjusted the visor with infrared lens, settled the helmet more comfortably on his head, then leaned over the small cage on the work bench. Working in the dark no longer bothered him; he had done it for so long. Carefully, he raised the sliding door on the solid wooden box attached at the back of the wire mesh container. Then he picked up his stop watch and waited.
At first, two antennae waved from the opening. “C’mon. Take a step. That’s it.” Tony often talked to himself, silently encouraging his wards to cross the white line that divided safety and sure death. Next he saw the shiny black head and a tentative front leg. Another member of the family, Blattidae, this time Blatella Orientalis to be exact, would test a new insecticide.
The black oriental and brown German roach made up most of his collection in the lab. These were the ones common to Albuquerque. And the ones who developed resistance—the steady advancement of tolerance that would keep him in business for a long time. Tony pressed the button on the stopwatch as the cockroach crossed the line. Now the fun began. Sometimes he’d place a little wager with himself as to how fast the poison might work. Under fifteen. He felt today it would be less than a quarter of an hour.
After darting around the cage for a full minute, the roach stopped to clean itself pulling each hind leg through its mouth. At precisely four minutes and seventeen seconds into the experiment, the roach gave a spasmodic twitch but continued to explore its surroundings. At twelve minutes two seconds, it did a shoulder roll onto its side and didn’t right itself. Instead, its row of strong legs propelled it in a small, tight circle for another three minutes sixteen seconds.
Then nothing. The roach, still on its side, simply stopped pushing and stiffened. Tony pressed the button on the stop watch. Eighteen seconds. He lost by eighteen seconds. He’d do better next time. Now he needed to tend the incubators containing the thousands of egg capsules—generations of future victims. Or, as Tony liked to call them, “volunteers.”
He switched on the lights, hung the helmet on the wall and walked back into the large main room and sat in front of a computer. Lab equipment—test tubes, Bunsen burners, glass containers of syringes—neatly displayed down the center of a long metal table reflected the morning sun that streamed in a dozen narrow windows along the top of the east wall.
Another room, connected with the large thirty-five by twenty foot main laboratory, held a few mice and rats, some rare to the United States like the bandicoot. Chemicals, stored in barrels, were in a smaller room completely sealed off from the work area. Some were locked within layers of protective covering, steel drums surrounding a dram of killer. He often wondered what people would think if they knew the contents of his laboratory—in the middle of Albuquerque. He chuckled. The public could be so trusting, so stupid. They were up in arms about storing nuclear waste two hundred miles south or disbanding the arsenal in the Manzano mountains and never thought that there could be things far more dangerous right next door.
He supposed he should tidy up. Douglas Anderson had called, insisting on a meeting. Tony didn’t like to be ordered around. Who was Douglas Anderson to demand that he drop everything and make himself available for a meeting in half an hour? At his lab, no less. Tony usually made the lab off limits, even to his workers.
But he knew what Douglas wanted—reassurance, now that the virus had somehow reverted to its original state. The newspaper headlines were inciting panic. They had linked it to mice and were doing an all-out blitz to warn people what to watch out for. Tony had given it a lot of thought. Actually, nothing better could have happened. This would definitely throw the CDC off track when it came t
o pinning it on human intervention.
He pushed back from the computer. The monitor and keyboard seen at a side table gave no hint of the hard drive kept in a humidified room protected by alarms and secret codes. A ten by ten room below the floor of the lab. He was careful. He was a scientist. One wall held licenses, permits and plaques of recognition for his work in pest control from countries around the world.
But America was his home. Where else could you become rich overnight? He had been born in San Francisco but moved to Albuquerque when his parents decided to go back to China. Back to China for the retirement that became their graves before the year was out. An unknown virus. His father had shown signs of flu, then broke out with skin hemorrhages. He died from shock. His mother’s kidneys stopped working and the waste collected in her bloodstream. Both gone within a month.
Tony became obsessed with their killer. The same hemorrhagic fever had killed one hundred and ninety Americans during the Korean War in the early fifties, the nausea and thirst coupled with small skin hemorrhages that finally led to kidney failure. He had worked to harness the power of that killer to use or to sell as he wanted—worked for years to isolate and change the virus, pored over the volumes written about it by the military labs, tested it on human beings in third world countries where another death was never suspect in the squalor and poverty of everyday life. The search had consumed his life. But the result, the virus that he sold for one million dollars to the investment group, would never be recognized as the one that killed his parents. Virologists would expect the kidneys to collapse first. That was more common. This lung thing would keep them guessing for a while.
