Ring Game

by Pete Hautman

  Flo held the dress up to her naked body and stared fiercely at the mirror, imagining how it would be, all these people around her, men in suits, the bride and groom, Joe Crow. She imagined Bigg on the other side of the mirror.

  The makeup lady was right. The silver-gray color was jarring against her warm olive skin, but maybe that was good. Maybe that was what made the dress so powerful. Add some pale silver lipstick to the mix, and her silver spike-heeled sandals …Flo smiled and did a dance for the mirror, watching the way the light jumped across the silver fabric.

  She would look like a techno-Amazon from the fifth dimension. Was that the look she wanted?

  Absolutely.

  Although he was not an educated man, Charles Thickening had done a good deal of reading during his bid in Stillwater. His reading had begun as a search for sexually explicit materials in the prison library. He’d found few scantily clad starlets in People magazine and, by referencing the most dog-eared back issues of National Geographic, he had found some smudged photographs of topless African women with the longest, skinniest tits he’d ever seen, like nylon stockings with shriveled tangerines in their toes. Other than that, his library search had been largely fruitless.

  The best reading materials were to be found in the prison black market. Some of the inmates could afford to subscribe to magazines such as Sports Illustrated, Prison Life, and the ever popular Vogue. These magazines quickly entered the prison economy, trading for cigarettes and other items of interest. Now and then, a copy of Hustler or Penthouse would somehow make its way into the population. Such a treasure could be purchased or rented for an exorbitant sum, but usually lasted only a week or two before becoming unreadable due to excessive handling.

  Like every other inmate, Chuckles would have loved to spend his cell time looking at photographs of naked, pouting eighteen-year-old women, but since he could not afford the best, he contented himself with publications of lesser interest such as Men’s Health, Muscle and Fitness, and Newsweek. Muscle and Fitness was his favorite. Not only were there lots of pictures, but the women had some real meat on them. Even the articles were interesting. It was in the pages of Muscle and Fitness that Chuckles had first come to understand the importance of the mind-body connection. He had learned that the body is an extension of the mind, and that understanding psychology is the key to success. Every bodybuilding champion, from Charles Atlas to Arnold Schwarzenegger, said the same thing. With the right mental attitude, anything is possible.

  It was during that same period that Chuckles had first heard of the Amaranthine Church of the One. He had come across one of their booklets in the TV room mixed in with a pile of old Watchtower and Christian Life magazines and had started reading it. Almost at once, Chuckles had recognized the truth and the power of the Amaranthine teachings. It became suddenly clear to him that if the mind of Arnold Schwarzenegger could produce the body of Arnold Schwarzenegger, then it must be equally possible for other minds to sustain eternal life.

  The next day, he had written to the church requesting additional information and, when he made parole nine months later, he had attended his first Extraction Event. Shortly thereafter, Charles Thickening became immortal.

  Chuckles had to remind himself of this fact every now and then. Like now, as he followed the limousine down Third Avenue. He had no plan. He was simply gathering information, trying to get a feel for the guy.

  So far, he had followed the limo to a florist shop on Franklin Avenue, where Bigg and a guy in a green apron had loaded three large flower arrangements into the back. There’d been a minute or two there when Chuckles had almost made his move. But the guy in the flower shop had been looking out the window, and there’d been too many people on the street and besides, it hadn’t felt right.

  “You got lots a time,” he said, half to himself and half to Bigg.

  He held on to that concept all the way downtown, right up until the limo slowed and turned into the circular driveway of a familiar-looking high-rise. The Greensward condominiums. Chuckles felt his heart and stomach collide. Bigg and Flowrean? He pulled over to the curb.

  “Now you got no more time,” he muttered.

  40

  Wedlock, indeed, hath oft compared been

  To public feasts, where meet a public rout,—

  Where they that are without would fain go in,

  And they that are within would fain go out.

  —Sir John Davies

  “ONWARD, JAMES. TO THE chapel.”

  Crow felt his neck go rigid. He turned around and looked at the couple sitting in the back of the limo. Carmen, looking even sleepier than usual, in her outlandish dress, conical breast cups jutting from above a fluffy, translucent skirt. Hyatt looked as awkward as a prom date in his maroon tuxedo, a goofy smile on his face, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. The moment they’d climbed into the limo, Carmen had popped open a bottle of Champagne.

  Crow said, “Don’t push it, Hy. You could end up walking.”

  Hyatt shrugged, whispered something to Carmen, who giggled.

  Crow pressed a button on the dash and a privacy panel emerged from the seat back, separating him from his passengers. He put the limo in drive and pulled away from the curb. The best thing to do, he decided, would be to take whatever shit Hy dealt him and just get the whole stinking afternoon behind him. Ten minutes to the American Legion Post. He turned on Lake Street, heading east. He could hear occasional bursts of laughter interrupting muted conversation. They were about eight blocks from their destination when Crow heard a knocking behind his head. He lowered the privacy panel.

  “Could you make a stop for us, Joe?” Hyatt asked.

  “What for?” Crow asked.

  “There’s a Clark station up here. Carmen needs some cigarettes.”

  Crow tried to think of a good reason to refuse, but could come up with nothing. He pulled into the gas station. Hyatt perched a five-dollar bill on his shoulder.

  “Would you mind getting them, Joe? She smokes Marlboros. The box.”

  Once again, Crow could think of no good reason to refuse. He took the five and went into the small building. Maybe he should buy a gas station, or a little convenience store. Sell cigarettes and Pepsi for a living. The Hispanic kid behind the counter was absorbed in an examination of his fingernails.

  Crow said, “Pack of Marlboros, please.”

  The kid looked up. His eyes found Crow’s face, then shifted to something behind him. His mouth fell open. Crow turned and saw a pair of nostrils coming at him. He had less than a quarter of a second to put a face around the nostrils. He never saw the thing that crashed into the base of his skull.

  Drew Chance imagined himself telling his wife, Franny, about Hyatt Hilton’s wedding.

  “It was a really goy deal,” he would say. “Red punch in plastic glasses, beer in cans, and a cash bar f’Chrissake.”

  It was, in short, exactly the sort of affair Franny would hate. She should be happy not to be here.

  “Pink paper tablecloths and printed paper napkins,” he would say. “They got married in a freaking American Legion! There were stuffed fish on the walls.”

  If he’d brought her along she’d never have let him forget it. At the same time, the fact that he hadn’t shown her the invitation, giving her no opportunity to decline, that was turning into a problem. His explanation that the wedding was strictly business had done little to calm her. All she understood was that he was going to a party without her.

  “The parents of the bride live in a trailer park,” he’d told her. “I just have to show my face, shake a few hands, then get out of there. I’m going with a cameraman. It’s work, Franny!”

  His protests hadn’t helped. And his last minute offer to bring her along had only made matters worse since, as he should’ve known, there was no way she was gonna coldcock the thing without a new dress and an afternoon having her hair and nails done. No, what Franny would do, she would hold this one over his head. She’d parlay this perceived slight i
nto another fur coat. Or a week at some Palm Desert spa. Drew shuddered at the imagined expense.

  He looked around at the people filling the hall: a preponderance of elderly couples, many of whom looked as though they could not remember why they were there. One of the standouts was a big old guy in a tuxedo who was making hostlike overtures to anyone who passed within range of his considerable reach. Drew overheard him introduce himself as “Axel.” That was perfect. No doubt Lars, Sven, and Gunter would likewise be in attendance.

  The bride and groom had not yet arrived. Drew hoped they wouldn’t be long. He wanted to get through the ceremony, then offer his congratulations, grab Deano, the camera guy, and get the hell out before they started square dancing or whatever the hell it was they did at these things. Where had that Deano gone to, anyway? There, over by the buffet table, drinking a beer, the camera slung over one shoulder. Another half hour and Deano would be shit-faced, but Drew didn’t much care. He could be passed out in his van—if there was nothing to shoot, it wouldn’t make a rat’s ass worth of difference.

  Drew sidled toward the entrance, where the wedding gifts were piled on a folding table. An unimpressive haul—a mere three dozen or so gift-wrapped boxes, the largest of which might have contained a bread machine, or a popcorn popper. Drew permitted himself a superior, pitying smile. He’d done better at his Bar Mitzvah, thirty years ago.

  He edged close to the gifts and pulled an envelope from his coat pocket. He looked over the stacked gifts until he found a medium-sized one with a nice, reasonably expensive-looking wrapping and a card attached to the outside. A toaster? Maybe one of those pricey European models. He took a quick look around to make sure nobody was watching, then switched cards.

  Shopping for the perfect wedding gift had never been easier.

  The scene reminded Axel of the state fair, only more intense. People coming in, not quite sure what to do, gathering in clusters looking over at the buffet table. Axel bounced from one group to another, introducing himself to those he didn’t recognize, exchanging happy greetings with those he did. Bob the taffy guy was there with his wife and daughter, and so was Pete Carlson the Kiddy Train driver. Axel met some of Sophie’s old friends for the first time, and a lot of friends of Hyatt’s. None of Hyatt’s relatives, though—he said he didn’t have any. Weird. Axel still had his doubts about this whole affair, but it was too late now. Nothing to do but try to make sure people had a good time.

  A thin young man with a camcorder was moving among the people, shining lights at them and asking questions. Axel didn’t know who the guy was, but he liked the idea that the evening was being captured on videotape. Probably one of Sophie’s ideas. He’d have to ask her about that.

  Axel’s natural inclination was to lead everyone he talked to over to the buffet table, but Sophie grabbed him early on and put a stop to that. She said no eating until after the ceremony. He supposed she was right—it wouldn’t do to have folks chowing down during the “I do’s.” The problem for Axel was that feeding people was what he did, and the Swedish meatballs were the best he’d ever had. After Sophie put the kabosh on the prenuptial snacking, Axel had to content himself with just telling people about the food. He opened every new conversation with, “I hope you didn’t eat before you came!”

  Sam O’Gara and his date, Laura Debrowski, showed up a few minutes before six o’clock. Axel thought it incestuous and altogether peculiar that Sam should be dating his own son’s girlfriend. He was fairly certain that Laura Debrowski was not thinking of Sam romantically, but what Sam was thinking—that was anybody’s guess.

  Axel shook Sam’s hand and said, “Hope you didn’t eat before you came!”

  Sam tipped his head back, gave Axel a bleary look of semirecognition, and said, “You better take that back, mister.” He raised a fist. “That’s my woman you’re talkin’ ’bout!”

  Axel looked at Debrowski, who rolled her eyes and tightened her grip on Sam’s arm.

  “Sam’s having a good time,” she said, “Aren’t ya, big guy?”

  “Firs’ date in twenny years!”

  “He’s snookered,” Axel said, his voice filled with wonder.

  “I’m not snoogered.” Sam pulled a pint bottle of Jim Beam from his suitcoat pocket. He tugged his other arm from Debrowski’s grip and uncapped the bottle. “I’m shit-faced,” he said proudly, taking a hit of whisky.

  “Jeez, Sam, they aren’t even married yet.”

  Debrowski reclaimed her date’s arm. “What do you say we find a place to sit, big guy?” She winked at Axel and pulled Sam toward the back of the hall.

  A bright light flashed in Axel’s eyes.

  “Hello there, sir! Are you the father of the bride?”

  “Uh …” Axel did not know what to say. The light was blinding him.

  “We are here with the father of the bride, waiting for the bride and groom to appear. Spirits are running high here at American Legion Post 684.” The camera swung toward the retreating Sam O’Gara, then back to Axel. “I understand that the groom is a man of some importance in the community. A water distributor?”

  Axel held up a hand, blocking the bright light. “Listen, do you mind turning that thing off?”

  “Just doing my job, sir. Do you have anything to say to the Hard Camera viewers?”

  “Uh … I’m on TV?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Uh …Just having a good time here. You see this buffet? We got a lot of food here!”

  Axel felt a breeze, heard the rustle of taffeta and Sophie’s flinty voice in his ear.

  “Where are they?”

  “Who?”

  “Carmen and Hyatt! Where are they? They were supposed to be here five minutes ago!”

  “We seem to have a situation here, folks,” said the cameraman. “The mother of the bride senses disaster. Could this be the beginning of something greater? Something newsworthy?”

  Sophie snapped her head toward the cameraman, her mascaraed eyelashes trembling like spastic caterpillars. Taffeta swishing, blindingly blue in the glaring light, she advanced on him. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded, making a swipe at the camera.

  The man pulled the camera up out of her reach and backed up a few steps.

  “Turn that light off before I bust it over your goddamn head, you little twerp.”

  The light went out.

  Sophie returned her attention to Axel. “That Joe Crow was supposed to pick them up. What if he didn’t pick them up? All these people here. What am I going to do?”

  Axel clasped her shoulders. “Take it easy, Soph. They probably ran into traffic. They’ll be here.”

  Sophie shook herself loose. “If that girl doesn’t show up soon I swear I’m gonna kill her. I need a cigarette.” She scanned the room, head swiveling like a high-speed radar dish. Axel wasn’t sure whether she was looking for the wedding couple or a plume of cigarette smoke. His question was answered when Sophie zeroed in on Sam O’Gara and Laura Debrowski, who were sitting in the back sending up twin smoke signals. She headed directly for them, cutting through the crowd like a blue taffeta bullet.

  Axel looked around, disoriented by Sophie’s sudden departure. He spotted the flash of oversize spectacles and the ashen form of Frank Knox, his attorney, standing uncomfortably in the far corner. Axel grinned and started toward him. Frank Knox rarely appeared in public these days. For the most part, he hid out in his cluttered home, avoiding bacteria. Axel felt honored that Frank was exposing himself to this room full of germs and evil vapors. He had almost reached Knox’s corner when a babble of excited voices caught his attention. Axel veered toward the noise. Near the doors, several people clustered around something on the floor. He heard someone say, “Should we call 911? Should somebody be calling 911?” Had someone fainted? Axel pushed into the gathering, curious and alarmed.

  The Reverend Buck was standing just inside the doors, shaking hands and waiting for the lucky couple when a man staggered into the hall, blood running down his neck, his
shirt collar wet and red. The Reverend’s first thought was that the guy had been in a fight. He stepped in front of the man and caught him, tried to turn him around, get him out of there before he created a disruption, but the instant his hands touched the man’s shoulders, the man collapsed into his arms.

  “Are you all right?” Buck asked, even though it was obvious that the man was all wrong.

  “They’re gone …” The man spoke slowly, as if drugged. “They got took.” His eyes closed and he slumped to the side. Buck heard others gathering behind him, excited mutters of “Oh my god,” and “Who is he?”

  Buck knelt beside the man, keeping him upright. He thought he remembered something about people with head wounds—you were supposed to keep them awake. “What happened to you?” he asked.

  The man groaned.

  Buck heard a woman calling 911 on her cell phone.

  Someone said, “Oh my god—is that Joe Crow?”

  The injured man roused himself at the mention of his name. “A man … took them both … Hyatt and Carmen … in the limousine.”

  “Who?” Buck asked. “The bride and groom?”

  “All gone,” Joe Crow muttered. He sagged to the floor.

  Flowrean Peeche gazed in admiration and amazement at the titanium-wrapped Amazon in the mirrored walls of the elevator. Over the past few years she had spent a substantial portion of her earnings on such apparel. Most of her purchases were never worn in public. Workout sweats and her waitress uniform pretty much took care of her day-today fashion needs. This wedding thing, this was her chance to do it right, and she had. That Bigg, she’d be hurting him big time. Make him see what she could do with herself. He liked to look? Well, he could look, but he could never, ever touch. Serve him right. Flo touched her belly, felt the texture of the fabric, softer and warmer than it looked.