I was exhausted and empty as a dead man’s mailbox. The thought of slipping into the warm bed beside my wife was almost as gratifying as the act itself. But as soon as the word “wife” trotted across my mind, the next thing that followed was a picture of Susan Ginnety who, x years in the future, would be Mrs. F. McCabe. Thinking about that deranged union snapped my eyes open.
The cat purred at my feet. Without warning, he raced across the room, leapt in the air, and threw himself full force against a window. There was a squeaky squawk and a bird sprang off the outside windowsill and fluttered away. Two large white feathers drifted lazily down and out of sight. I watched and thought– feathers. So now that feathers were on my mind, up came a picture of the one tattooed on Pauline’s spine and then the one I’d found and buried with Old Vertue and... Like a bomb bursting in my brain, I remembered something from my future. It made me so excited that without thinking I said, “Holes in the rain!” Because I had to return to find another feather I’d seen up there that might be the answer to everything.
I was naked. I was naked and in bed. I was naked and in bed with a woman. Who was naked. And old. And not my wife Magda. And she had her hand on me, clearly trying to bring Old Horny to attention with her busy fingers.
I stood straight up on the bed and covered myself, but not before noticing she had been semisuccessful with her hand jive.
An old Susan Ginnety smiled up at me with a triumphant leer. “I told you I’d get you up, Frannie! Get back down here now. Stop being silly.”
Sixty years earlier, this woman and I had had sex in every position two eager teenage bodies could manage, not to mention using every one of our nooks and crannies to fullest effect. But now, towering above her on wobbly old man’s legs, I felt as modest as a nun in the boys’ locker room.
“Cut it out, Susan! Are you crazy?”
That got her up. She stood on the side of the bed with hands on her bony hips showing me a naked body I did not want to see. “I have been very patient until now, Frannie. But I am a woman. I have needsl”
If I played this wrong, I’d never get any answers out of her.
“Look at me, Susan. You want to make love to this body? I look like a Dead Sea Scroll!”
She was unmoved. “Why did you marry me if you knew this would happen?”
Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “That’s a good question.”
She punched me in the knee. Thank God I stood on a bed because I collapsed sideways and my head bounced like a Ping-Pong ball on the mattress.
“Bastard! You proposed to me! Why did I ever say yes? Why did I ever think it would work?”
World War Knee had my full attention while she ranted. Even when the pain dropped back below the danger zone, I kept rolling around and groaning. As if I’d been kneecapped by the Mafia rather than punched there by an old woman.
Two sharp knocks on the door froze us. We stared at each other like we’d been caught doing something bad. A short pause followed by three more knocks. I pulled the blanket up to my chin. In no hurry, Susan wrapped herself in a green terry cloth robe that had been slung over a chair.
For the first time since I’d “awakened” here, I looked around. It was one of the most beautiful hotel rooms I’d ever seen. It should have been occupied by a head of state, or at least someone with their own Gulfstream jet fueled and waiting at the airport; definitely not a room for the Crane’s View chief of police. My first wife (First? Now I was apparently on my third!) loved the caviar life, so I had spent time in many plush hotel rooms. But those were railroad waiting rooms in Upper Volta compared to this palace. How the hell had I ended up here with a geriatric nymphomaniac? More importantly, who was paying for it?
“Hi, Gus,” she said glumly.
It wasn’t the Gus Gould I’d seen the day before. This gentleman looked like the head of state that belonged in this fancy room. He wore a dark suit so perfectly cut and understated that one glance told you it had to have come from a tailor who required four fittings before his work was done. Snow-white shirt, cuff links, and thin black tie with a narrow gleam off the silk. I raised up on an elbow to look at his shoes. They immediately spoiled the picture. Nice though they were, they were still black snakeskin cowboy boots.
“Why are you kids still lying around in bed? We got a whole day ahead of us and things to do!”
“My husband and I were having a chat.” Susan flicked me a look that would have fried the snakes on Medusa’s head.
“Well, better get up now. You know Floon doesn’t like it when you miss a meal.”
“Who’s Floon?”
“Don’t be stupid, Frannie.” Susan sashayed into the bathroom, closing the door behind her a lot too hard.
“She’s a fine-looking woman, Frannie. You’re a lucky man.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll trade her to you for a few answers.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.”
Gus walked to one of the large closets and opened the door. He reached for something and pulled out a suit exactly like his– dark, rich, beautiful. A fortune in cloth. “Here, I’ll help you on with it. We gotta get moving. You got the shirt and boots somewhere?”
“We’re wearing the same thing?”
He looked at the suit, briskly brushed the front, and pointed to it. “Frannie, I never imagined a man’s suit could cost ten thousand dollars. That is, until this trip when he gave us this one.” He held up a foot. “And John Wayne wore Lucchese boots like these. If Floon wants me to wear these clothes today, I’ll do it. He paid for them but we get to keep them when the trip’s over.
I got out of bed naked. What else could I do, hold a pillow in front of my package? “Gus, my mind is a little unreliable today, so forgive me if I ask some dumb questions.”
“Will do. Here’s your undies.” He held out a brown box.
Opening it, I pulled beautiful lime-colored tissue paper aside, and stared. “I don’t wear boxer shorts.”
“Today you do, buddy. That’s how Floon works—everything down to the last detail. Those undershorts probably cost more than my first automobile.”
Unhappily, I slid them on. Next came the white shirt, black cashmere socks, and the suit. Luciano Barbera. I’d always wanted to own one of his suits. Yes, I was an old man but could still feel the quality of the material sliding across my skin. ‘This suit really cost ten thousand bucks?”
“Yeah, and Floon bought twelve of them for the men. I don’t want to even guess what he paid for the women’s clothes. Know what he told me? That he paid for them all in ngultrums.”
“What’s that?”
“Bhutan money.” He went back to the closet and took out my cowboy boots. The last pair I’d seen were the orange ones worn by teenage me. At least these were black. Turning one over in my hand, I had to admit that if you had to wear a pair of lizardskin boots these were the ones.
Dressed, I checked myself in a full-length mirror. “We look like rich Texas Rangers.”
“I don’t know what Caz has planned today, but you can bet it’ll be interesting.”
“Caz? Caz Floon? What kind of name is that?”
“Caz de Floon. He’s Dutch. Frannie, if you don’t remember this guy’s name, you are having memory problems. Susan, are you ready in there?”
“In a minute!”
That minute turned into quite a few more, but when she emerged, my third wife looked great. She wore a sleeveless blue summer dress that made her appear years younger and sort of sexy, for an old woman.
“What are you wearing, Susan?” Gus’s voice was not friendly.
“Don’t be a bore, Gus. I don’t like the dress Floon sent. It makes me look like a palm reader at a cheap carnival. Madame ZuZu. I am going to carry the handbag though. It’s very nice.”
His mouth tightened and he took a deep breath before speaking. “Please don’t do this, Susan. You know what’s going to happen.”
They locked eyes. Neither backed off or looked away. You
could almost hear the sound of their wills crashing head-on.
“Forget it. I like this dress. Caz de Floon is on an ugly power trip. He has to control everything. He invites his so-called friends to go on little trips with him, but then dresses them up in clothes he chooses and moves them around like they were Barbie and Ken dolls. I don’t like it. At first I thought it was okay but it’s not. It’s perverse. He’s perverse.”
“Yes, but you know what Floon will do when he sees you’re not wearing what he wants. Why create a fuss? It’s not a big deal.”
“To you it isn’t but it is to me. I’m not a puppet. I’m tired of his whims and fits and furies. Everything always has to be his way. When it isn’t, he sulks like a twelve-year-old. God, you’d think being one of the most powerful men in the world would have matured him a bit. I never would have gone on this trip if I had known how he was going to behave.”
“But Susan, Floon’s paying for everything. He gave you women all the same dress because he doesn’t want anyone being jealous of anyone else. That makes sense, doesn’t it? Plus the fact we’ve been living like gods on this trip.”
“Little gods.” She adjusted a shoulder on her dress. “Floon’s little gods who he bosses around as if he were Zeus. Going on this trip was like selling our souls to the devil. Sure you see everything and eat well, but you also have to do exactly what he wants or Floon gets mad. I can’t believe his ‘friends’ go along with this craziness. Screw his power trip—I don’t want to play anymore. Frannie was right—we never should have come. I made him, but now I know it was wrong.”
What I remembered from my last time in the future was Susan scolding me over the phone to stop griping about the trip. Today she wished she hadn’t come. Tomorrow she’d tell me to stop complaining. What happened between today and tomorrow to change her mind? More importantly, what happened today– period?
Who was Caz de Floon, besides one of the most powerful men in the world? How did he fit into my equation? And where was that feather I knew so well? I knew I had seen it up here. I was certain of that.
Downstairs in the lobby Floon’s merrymakers had assembled. The world is full of people standing around. We all do it and we’re used to seeing it. But now and then you see someone standing around looking so damned odd that your brain slams on its brakes and leans on the horn as hard as it can.
Downstairs in the lobby, Floon’s merrymakers were not only dressed identically, but because they came in various shapes and sizes, my first sight of them standing together was a picture that will stay with me until that motorcycle takes off my head.
Of course there was a midget. Or maybe he was a dwarf.
Definitely, a little person, or whatever they are calling themselves these days. His suit fit him perfectly but the cowboy boots made his already-odd walk odder. When he saw me coming out of the elevator he gave a big wave like we were best buddies.
The fortune teller dress Susan had complained about was all over the lobby. The majority of women who wore it were old. This dress might have worked on a twenty-year-old girl with perfect skin, body, and bedroom eyes that melted your underpants. But on these fat and thin white-haired birds, it looked tasteless at best, a cruel joke at worst. I later said to Susan these women looked like the chorus from an old age home’s production of Carmen, God forbid.
“How are you this morning, Frannie?”
I slid my eyes from the fossil gypsies to another man standing a couple of feet away wearing the suit of the day. “Are you Floon?”
He liked that. He opened his mouth and laughed—I guess. It looked like a laugh but he didn’t make a sound. “No, I’m Jerry Jutts. Remember we talked last night. Jutts Desserts? Caz is over there yakking with that big blond.”
The woman he pointed to looked like a sumo wrestler. Easily two hundred round pounds, not including a Grand Ole Opry hairdo that rose up off her head in a frozen yellow cyclone.
I whistled long and low. “Man, you’d need a wrecking ball to knock her down! Is that Floon’s bodyguard? She looks like a female Odd Job.”
“She’s my wife,” Jerry Jutts declared in a huff, and marched away.
I wanted to check out Floon before going over. But Astopel said I had no control over when I would be returned to my own time. Which meant I couldn’t waste a minute staking this guy out, knowing I might be flashed back home before even having had a conversation with him.
He looked normal enough. About sixty, he was middle everything—height, weight, a face you thought you might have seen before but couldn’t be sure. My first impression of Caz de Floon was businessman, well groomed, hands that he used constantly while speaking. They rose, circled, and swooped; the fingers pinched together and dropped like an Italian explaining anything.
Jerry had joined his gigantic wife. The two of them listened, rapt, to whatever Floon said. The incident that tipped me off to him was small and would have been easy to miss if I hadn’t been watching them so closely. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Jutts opened their mouths while Floon spoke. His hands moved continually, his face was very animated. He smiled often—a nice one, open and showing lots of teeth. However, it left as quickly as it came. Nothing that looked like it actually meant real warmth. His audience leaned forward to catch every word.
When he finally finished, his shoulders relaxed and he slumped a bit. Some seconds passed but none of them said anything. Then Mrs. Jutts spoke; her face bright with the kind of anticipation you see on a person before they say something they think is very smart or witty. Both men listened with full attention. She couldn’t have said more than three sentences—it took no more than a few seconds. When she finished it was plain she thought she’d said it just right. Jerry’s smile said the same thing. He was proud of the missus.
I cannot lip-read but I read Floon’s when he said to her, “That’s very stupid.” He mouthed the words slowly, dragging out “very” so that it became “verrrrrrry.” Mrs. Jutts’ face collapsed like a tent when the center pole is pulled away. Her husband looked quickly away. Floon said nothing more and neither did his expression. He drove the final nail into the coffin of her self-esteem by patting her shoulder and walking away. Looking stricken, the couple watched him cross the lobby—as if his leaving had been their fault.
“What a dick.”
I was about to follow him when a man in my suit came up and held out a folder. “Here are the plans for today.”
I took it, flashed a quick “thanks” smile, ignored the folder, and searched again for Floon. Perfect—he was standing alone by a leafy potted plant looking at the crowd. For a moment I thought of Jay Gatsby standing at the top of the stairs of his Long Island mansion watching his party guests. But those people wore what they wanted to Gatsby’s and behind his carefully created facade he was a nice man. Having seen what Caz de Floon just did to Mrs. Jutts, I knew instinctively that he was not a nice man, no matter what people said about him.
He appeared content to stand alone and watch. Once in a while he smiled at someone or raised a hand to wave, but the aura around him said stay away. No one made any attempt to approach. I started looking around the room to see how his guests responded to him from a distance. It was easy to distinguish us from the other people in the lobby because we all wore the same clothes. The silliness of the idea of the outfits became dark and perverse when I thought of how he had humiliated the fat woman. Most of the people kept sneaking glances at him. Some seemed eager, others simply curious to know where he was. When he greeted someone, their face lit up like they’d been blessed. If his eyes passed over someone and they saw, it was a blow, a moment’s small defeat. They wanted him to know they were there. His small waves gave them stature, when they received one they lit up like torches.
It was only a matter of time before our eyes met. When that happened, I felt my heart clench like a cramp in my chest. I didn’t know the man but his gaze still jolted me. I pushed on a smile and raised the folder in my hand in greeting. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the fro
nt page. Cramp number two hit. Embossed on a shiny white background were two things—the name FLOON in large black letters. Below it was a painting of that feather.
My mind snapped its fingers and all at once I remembered where I had seen this image before in this time: while walking to the cafe with Gus to meet Susan, I had seen a large poster on a wall amidst a bunch of others. On it was printed FLOON and below it the feather. That’s all—no tag line like “Where do you want to go today?” or “It’s the real thing!” Just that strange last name and the rainbow colored feather on an otherwise empty white poster. Seeing it hadn’t registered on me then because I was simply too thunderstruck by everything else happening at the moment.
“Terrytoon Circus.” That was the first thing Caz de Floon said to me when the flashbulb burn of recognition faded from my head and I realized the man was now standing next to me.
“Excuse me?”
“Terrytoon Circus. Who was the emcee?” Now his smile was authentic. I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Sorry, Caz, but you’re going to have to create a context for me on this.”
The smile evaporated and his mouth set in a thin grim. “Play fair, Frannie. I admit you won last night with Cocoa Marsh and Mighty Manfred the Wonder Dog but give credit where it’s due. I think Terrytoon Circus is a great one. So tell me who was the emcee.” He spoke with the faint accent of a European who’s lived in America a long time. “Terrytoon” came out sounding like Terror Ton.
“Are we talking old television shows here, Caz?”
“TV shows, advertisements, anything from the fifties and sixties. You know it’s my passion so answer the question.”
He was messing with the wrong guy. As a kid I must have watched four hundred years of television combined. My TV career started back in the days when there was no color and no remote control. A rabbit-ears antenna sat on top of a set. When the picture was bad you fooled with those ears or smacked the side of the box with your hand. There were only seven channels, all in black-and-white. Every day programming began with a U.S. Army propaganda show called The Big Picture and ended with a religious one called Lamp unto My Feet. I know. I was there.
The Wooden Sea Page 10
