Peez tied her emergency underpants over his mouth and jammed him head-down into the bag, then settled back in her seat to think things over.
She wasn't quite sure how she felt about Martin's refusal to make a commitment to her bid for company leadership, but she knew she didn't feel bad. In fact, she was surprised by how well she was taking it.
He's a heavy hitter on the financial side, but look where the money comes from! she thought. Maybe he had some magic once. Now it's all about the bottom line. He's a sellout, but a very good sellout, and he's also a very, very good—
She smiled, remembering. Then she thought about what Wilma would say and she smiled even wider. The Great Mother was very big on fertility, but there were some aspects of her worship where only a virgin would do. Up until a short while ago, Peez had been the New York office's Emergency Virgin. Now Wilma would have to put out an APB to get a new one on the payroll. Wilma hated it when she had to do Human Resources scutwork.
She won't know whether to congratulate me or kill me. It'll be fun to find out.
Fun ... She startled herself with the realization that the word now held a whole new meaning for her. It was a surprising transformation, one that was almost—
Gee, Peez mused. I guess Martin Agparak has some magic after all.
Chapter Nine
The people who live in the greater Los Angeles area take umbrage when outlanders think of them and their sun-kissed life-style solely in terms of media cliches. Dov Godz had been made aware of this fact on the first of his many non-business-related trips to the Left Coast, when he had casually remarked to his dining companion about how many impossibly perfect-looking people he'd seen since his arrival.
"Even more than in South Beach," he said. "I guess there must be something in the water, huh?"
He meant it as a joke. It was not taken as such. Indeed, he was promptly taught that he had said the Wrong Thing. He would never forget that lesson. He thought about it every time he returned, mostly because the earache he contracted from the ensuing lecture/rant never cleared up completely.
Now, watching the hazy landscape below come closer as his plane made the final approach to L.A. International, the memory came drifting back as it always did. Once more he was seated at one of the best tables at Marozia's, the Pacific-Rim-Italian- Macrobiotic-Thai-Fusion restaurant du moment, listening to his ladyfriend Brytanni calmly explain to him how he had erred.
"Oh wow, I mean, like, what is it with you people from Back East?" she shrilled. (Having a native-born SoCal accent, her pronunciation made Back East sound like Among the Lepers.) She crossed her long, tan, lotion-sleeked legs, revealing a number of fascinating views easily ogled through the glass tabletop. Dov nearly choked on his brioche, but Brytanni was oblivious.
"You're all, so, like, L.A. is all palm trees and smog and movies and Porsches and Rodeo Drive and crap. It's all: You're from L.A., you must be shallow. As if! I mean, my friend Wyndsong is from Marin, if you want to talk about posers, and even she's smart enough to know that we are not all body-image-obsessed media slaves around here." She took another mouthful of imported Finnish mineral water and chewed it carefully, making every calorie count. "If we were that two-dimensional, would I have agreed to meet you now, right when they're announcing the winners of the Shimmies?"
"Uh, what's the Shimmies?" Dov had asked, wiping soggy brioche crumbs from his chin.
"Oh ... mah ... gawd!" Brytanni was so taken aback by his woeful ignorance that she slapped her forehead. Then, realizing the harm she might have inadvertently wrought to her skin's elasticity, she broke open a collagen capsule, slathered it over the assaulted area, used her cell phone to speed-dial her plastic surgeon for reassurance and to make a just-in-case maintenance appointment, and finally replied: "The Shimmies are only the numero uno premier award to recognize the achievements of spokesmodels in the cellulite reduction appliance field! I can't believe you didn't know that. And you call us shallow!"
Dov had apologized most sincerely for his lack of cultural awareness, but the damage was done: Brytanni was so upset that she actually ate a piece of cheese out of his chef's salad before rushing from the restaurant and driving off in a huff to see her guru. (There was no need to phone ahead for an appointment: Baba Yamama was also a registered psychic.)
She did call back later that evening to reassure him that Baba Yamama had said that Dov's ill-advised attitude towards all things Angelino did not stem from deliberate evil on his part, but rather was the product of improperly stored karmic leftovers from previous lives currently festering within the refrigerator of his soul. The guru advised an immediate therapeutic aura-fluffing for the unhappy man, preceded by a combination past-life regression/rebirth ritual.
"He said for me to tell you that you should come tomorrow at ten-fifteenish," she chirped happily. "That's when he'll have the amniotic hot tub all filled up and good to go. Oh, and also that I should remind you he doesn't take out-of-state checks, but all major credit cards are way cool. So! Want me to pick you up?"
Dov demurred. He told Brytanni that he couldn't possibly have his aura fluffed until he'd gotten his chakras aligned, and doing both in close succession was almost as big a no-no as going swimming less than half an hour after eating. Brytanni was assuaged and he kept his opinions about L.A. to himself for the rest of the trip.
He closed his eyes and wondered whatever had become of Brytanni. He had not sought out her company on subsequent trips to the City of Angels. First she'd sent him a totally unnecessary Dear Dov letter the week after he got back to Miami, informing him that it was all over between them since she'd gotten involved with a Pomo Indian shaman out in Claremont. Next he got an e-mail saying that the supposed shaman was really an Anthro student named Mitch who'd flunked out of Pomona College, but she was mending her broken spirituality under the supervision of Vigbor the Galactic Redeemer ("You'd totally like him. He's an alien from an interstellar civilization far more highly developed and advanced than our own, but not in that creepy sci-fi fanboy kinda way. And when Vigbor's visa from Amsterdam ran out, she faxed Dov to tell him all about her latest soul-guide.
At least that was what he assumed was the message the fax contained. Did she ever contact him for any other reason save to chitter at him about her newest, shiniest, most improved path to enlightenment/salvation? Dov had lost interest. He shredded the fax unread. He knew it was from her without looking: Somewhere in her spiritual blunderings, Brytanni had acquired the unholy power to make her letters, her e-mails, and her faxes all smell like strawberry incense.
The plane made a smooth touchdown and Dov recovered his luggage almost the instant he stepped up to the baggage carousel.
That's a good omen, he thought. Here's hoping it holds true. I don't have any use for another yes/no/maybe meeting like the one with Sam Turkey Feather, Plucker, whatever. Who knows what Peez is up to, or how far she's gone to grab the company?
He dug into his pocket and pulled out the little clutch of healing charms that Sam had given him for Edwina. He felt a faint pang of guilt for not having taken the time to send them on their way to Poughkeepsie before he'd boarded the L.A. flight in Tucson, but he talked himself out of it in short order.
I'll FedEx them from the hotel, and I'll slap a spell of Extreme Expedition on them too, just to make sure. She'll get them yesterday. Man, I hope Sam hasn't called her yet or anything. If she thinks I'm neglecting her, that's another point for Peez. He frowned. No, wait, it wouldn't be. Mom would understand. I'm not neglecting her, I'm paying attention to the business. Hell, that's what she always did. She can't complain. In fact, she'll probably be proud that I'm following in her footsteps! Game, set, and match to me.
Pleased with himself, Dov stuck the charms back in his pocket and headed for the exit.
"Dov! Whooo, Doooviiieeee!"
Dov stood stock-still, clutching his suitcase with fingers that had gone suddenly ice cold. There, just under the sign directing deplaned passengers to all ground transportati
on, was Brytanni. She was holding a sign shaped like an old-fashioned sunburst, wavy yellow rays emanating from a disc painted with the bizarrely benevolent cartoon visage of Ol' Sol himself. The curlicued calligraphy of the words brother dov godz made an outrageous moustache across the anthropomorphic sun's rosy upper lip.
"Wow, is this karma or what?" she squealed, linking her arm through his. "I mean, when the Reverend Everything told me that I had to go pick up a very important visitor at the airport, I was all, like, Euw. Traffic. Exhaust fumes. Smelly people. Not enough moisturizer in the world to save my skin from that little slice of Hades, and boorrriiinng! But then he was all, Thou are the Chosen One, the only one among us who hast achievedeth third degree fengsama, and besides, the church Porsche is in the shop. So of course after that I just had to go. Plus he said if I didn't he was going to send Brooke, and we're both up for the same facetime op to be a seat filler at the Emmys, and if you think I'm giving that fat-assed little bitch the chance to beef up her Elysians doing a good deed like this, then you don't know your li'l Brytanni at all." She gave his arm a python's squeeze and twinkled at him.
"Fengsama? Face-time op? Elysians? Where the blazes are we and why don't the natives speak English?" Ammi squawked from inside Dov's shirt.
"Baby, why is your pacemaker talking?" Brytanni asked, pooching out her lips in the way her drama coach had taught her to indicate Sincerest Sympathy.
"That's not a pacemaker, that's—" Dov cudgeled his brains for the right excuse to explain away the chatty amulet. "That's my portable aura monitor," he said. "It issues me periodic verbal bulletins about, uh, which cosmic subsections of my spirit need an emergency fluffing."
"Oooooh! Can I see?" Brytanni didn't wait for permission; she thrust her hand into Dov's bosom, pulling out Ammi and a pinch of chest hair for good measure. "Eeeee! This is, like, sooo cute! Where'd you get it? Tibet? Khatmandu? Sharper Image?"
"I could tell you, but that would mean I'd have to spend an additional fifty thousand life-cycles in the Seventh Hell of the Demon Pimlico," Dov replied gravely, disengaging Brytanni's greedy fingers from the amulet. (He let her keep the wisp of chest hair, though.) "Of course I'd be happy to tell you anyway, with no thought for my own spiritual health whatsoever, but then the Powers of Ultimate Judgment might hold you accountable as an accessory to my downfall. No telling what penalty you'd have to pay for that in the afterlife. But if you do insist on an answer—"
Brytanni made haste to aver that she cared too much about Dov's soul to pursue the matter. Dov's cavalier mention of the chance for a less-than-blissful afterlife had a radically sobering effect on her, and she withdrew into an unbreakable silence that a Trappist monk might admire. Not a word did she speak as she conducted him to her Masserati and drove away from the airport. Dov did his eager best to keep up the social amenities, though his only topic of conversation was his abiding fear of the Ever- Vengeful-and-Vigilant Demon Pimlico and his hellish consort the Demon Queen Belgravia.
He was elaborating on the keystone doctrine of his supposed faith ("Damned if you do, damned if you don't") when she pulled into the parking lot of a towering multi-spired building bright with chrome, glass, and neon lotus flowers. A two-story-high sign out front proclaimed it to be the Serene Temple of Unfailing Lifescores. She hit the brakes, leaped out of the car, and dashed into the building without a backward glance. Dov thought he heard her utter a strangled sob.
"DING!" Ammi announced. "Fifteen minute aura-fluffing penalty for unprovoked chain-yanking. Why did you have to make that poor kid believe you worship demons? Couldn't you have just told her you were a Republican? It'd sound like the same thing, to her."
"I never said I worshipped demons; I just told her I was scared witless of them," Dov said. "If you'd been paying attention instead of just hanging around, you might have noticed that I never told her what I did worship."
"Besides yourself?" Ammi said with a lift of one silver eyebrow.
"You make it sound like it's a bad thing." Dov straightened his shoulders. "There's nothing wrong with being the number one parishioner in the First Church of Me."
"I'm not going to fault you for having a healthy self-image—" Ammi began.
"Gah! Watch your mouth. Talking about how healthy my self-image is, is like the gateway drug to pure psychobabble. It can only lead to gratuitous aura-fluffing."
"Fine." The amulet was miffed. "I was trying to be nice, but forget about it. You're a conceited, smug, self-centered twit and if you don't wrench your shoulder from constantly patting yourself on the back, you'll snap your spine from trying to kiss your own a—"
"Brother Dov!" A warm, rich, resonant voice poured down the steps of the Serene Temple and crashed over Dov like a deluge of heated oil. "We've been waiting for you. Approach and be welcome, if that is your life goal of the moment."
Dov looked up a flight of cyclopean white marble stairs that had apparently been lifted wholesale from the set of Intolerance. At the top of the steps, wearing a blue silk tunic, a wreath of fresh gardenias, and a cape of hummingbird feathers, stood the Reverend Everything. He was a hale and hearty man in his fifties, with the honest face of an infomercial spokesperson and a body that spoke of intense, regular workouts with the best personal trainers money could buy. His black hair, artfully kissed with gray just at the temples, had the look that only came from being cut and tinted by one of L.A.'s premier stylists, for a sum (without tip) that could feed a family of four for a week as long as they didn't go to Spago's.
"Reverend Everything, it's good to be here," Dov said, putting on Smile #496, a superstrength experimental prototype he'd been holding in reserve for an occasion like this. The Reverend Everything had been in business at the same location, under the same management, for years longer than E. Godz, Inc. had been in business. The electronic records that Dov had studied en route from Arizona told him that it would take something more than his normal line of business-speak and charisma to make a man like this throw his congregation's considerable support behind Edwina's baby boy.
Watch your step, Dov, he told himself as he ascended the snow-white steps to shake Reverend Everything's beautifully manicured hand. This guy's got the smarts to recognize a line of bullshit from ten miles away, in the dark. No pretty promises, no claims you can't substantiate on the spot, no IOUs, financial or spiritual. He'll see you and call you on them in a flash. When you're dealing with the truly successful phonies, the only way to win is to keep it real.
"Ah, Brother Dov, so good of you to visit us," Reverend Everything said, shepherding Dov through the towering doors of the sanctuary. "What a pity that it has to be under these grievous circumstances. I still recall the day that your dear mother approached me about affiliating the United Mithraic Order with E. Godz, Inc. Why, it seems as if it were only yester—"
"Uh, excuse me?" Dov paused beneath a tapestry depicting the Reverend Everything, dressed as an Aztec emperor, slaying a hydra whose wings were clearly labeled disunion and negativity. "The United what?"
"The United Mithraic Order," the Reverend Everything repeated affably enough. "That was what we called our congregation in those days. Ah, simple, humble beginnings! Not quite so simple once your dear mother provided us with the methods for channeling our collective zeal into tangible power, not to mention her invaluable advice in matters concerning what we need and need not pay the government."
He walked on, Dov by his side, until they reached another pair of doors, these adorned with quilted panels made from pieces of gold lame, burgundy-hued crushed velvet, bronze-shot turquoise brocade, sea-green silk, kingfisher-blue moire, and silver point-lace.
"Holy Seventh Avenue!" Ammi exclaimed. "I knew that Liberace was dead, but I never knew they skinned him for his hide!"
"And what might this be, Brother Dov?" Reverend Everything asked suavely, bending low to peer at the little amulet. "My, my. I had one just like this on the fax machine for the Blessed Keepers of the Holy Actualization—that was the name of our divine mission abou
t two years ago. It was a gift from Edwina. Why do you carry it around with you?"
"Oh, he—it's a later model with more technological capabilities than simple fax interfacing," Dov said a little too quickly, a little too glibly.
"I see." Reverend Everything smiled and patted Dov on the shoulder. "There, there, son. We all get lonely at the top." He opened the doors with a dramatic flourish just as he added: "But we all find our ways to make do."
The full glory of the inmost sanctuary of the Serene Temple of Unfailing Lifescores burst upon them with the impact of a Fourth of July fireworks extravaganza. Row after row of plexiglass pews filled the chamber, sparkling beneath the battery of complexion- flattering pink lights on high. A raised platform stood at the end of the white-carpeted aisle that looked about as long as a football field. Twin choirs of fresh-faced young men and women with flowered sarongs wrapped around their lissome bodies stood ranging all up and down the length of a pair of airy spiral staircases, the banisters draped with luxuriant vines. They burst into song as soon as their leader noted the Reverend's entrance. Exotic blossoms were everywhere, and Dov could have sworn he heard the soft calls of tropical birds and monkeys echoing through the sanctuary. Somewhere a steel drum band was playing a Shaker hymn.
Dov was surprised, but not by the splashy display itself. The last he'd heard, the Reverend Everything's church had been decorated to resemble the grand saloon of the Titanic, with authentic early-twentieth-century costumes available for rental by the congregation upon receipt of an "offering." What sort of costume you were issued certainly did not depend on the amount of your donation, but it was an amazing coincidence how readily the Reverend's friendly Mistresses of the Sanctified Wardrobe could discover that, if you were a parsimonious giver, the only costumes left in your size were suitable for steerage passengers. On the other hand, more open-handed donors inevitably took their seats dressed in period evening gowns and tuxedos, fully accessorized.
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