Ring Game

by Pete Hautman

  She returned her attention to the contents of his closet and came up with a pair of his chinos and a UCLA T-shirt. She dressed slowly, starting with the T-shirt, pulling it down over her head, over her breasts—a striptease in reverse. Grabbing her long hair and tugging it up out of the T-shirt. Stepping into each leg of the chinos. Tucking in the shirt, pulling the belt tight, rolling up the cuffs to keep them from dragging. She tried on his Bally slip-ons, but they were too big on her, like clown shoes.

  She was going through the pockets of his jackets when Wayne broke his silence.

  “You won’t find it,” he said.

  The girl stopped and turned slowly to face him.

  Wayne said, “My wallet is on the table here, but you can’t have it.”

  “I wasn’t looking for your wallet.”

  “Oh?” Wayne sat up, letting the sheets slide off his upper body to give her a look at his chest. “What were you looking for?”

  “I was hoping for a set of car keys,” she said.

  “Sorry. I didn’t drive.”

  “Oh, Well, thanks anyway.” The girl backed toward the door, then was gone, with his clothes.

  Wayne smiled. A fair trade. This was what he needed to cut through the boredom of his stay at Youthmark. Something pretty.

  Whatever drug the doctor had given her, Carmen liked it. Instead of being nervous taking that guy’s clothes, she had felt totally calm, even after she’d realized he was Wayne Savage. She’d actually talked to him, and she was wearing his clothes. This was even better than the time she’d served a bean taco to Kevin Bacon. Or anyway a guy who looked like Kevin Bacon. She was pretty sure it had been him. Whatever.

  She exited the building through a side door into a parking lot containing half a dozen vehicles. Beginning with the Mercedes, she began to check for hidden keys. Hyatt had once told her that one out of every four vehicles had an extra key hidden somewhere on or in it. She got lucky on her second try—the Range Rover was unlocked and a set of keys was stashed above the sun visor. In minutes, she was on something called County Road 2. She planned to drive until she reached the next town, then stop and ask for directions, but the drug in her bloodstream began to assert itself anew, and a few miles later she found herself drifting in and out of her lane. Trying to make the vehicle easier to steer, she sped up. Fields of corn and soybeans flashed by, became a blur. The landscape warped, an ocean of cornstalks rose up before her, the vehicle bucked and heaved. A roaring, grinding, and crunching preceded a loud pop. The airbag hit her in the chest and face. All motion stopped. The air was filled with dust from the field and talc from the airbag. Dazed, Carmen took in her surroundings. Cornstalks lay across the hood and pressed against the glass on both sides. Behind her lay a swath of crushed stalks. As far as she could tell, she was unhurt and remarkably calm. These things happen, she thought. She closed her eyes, feeling safe in the arms of the corn. After a few minutes she slipped into a deep sleep.

  48

  Marriage and hanging go by destiny; matches are made in heaven.

  —Robert Burton

  “YOU SURE YOU WANT to do this?”

  “No. What I want is to go home and sleep for about a hundred years.”

  “How about we go home and you get started.”

  “Later.” Crow pulled into the left lane and tromped on the accelerator. The engine roared, the hood seemed to swell, and Debrowski felt her spine sink into the vinyl seat.

  “I never thought I’d say this, Crow, but I kinda miss your Jag.”

  “I just want to check this place out.”

  “I understand that’s what you want. What I don’t get is why you’re the one that has to do it. Call your friend the cop. You got his card.”

  “I’m the one who made it all happen. I’m the one that brought Hyatt and Carmen together. I’m the one who got the Amaranthines all stirred up. I’m the one who arranged for the limousine, and I’m the one who was driving it. The rest of them—Axel, Hyatt, Carmen, and the Amaranthines—they’re all victims of circumstance.”

  “Crow, the universe does not tremble when you scratch your ass. Didn’t they teach you that in AA?”

  “I don’t see it that way. If I put a bear and a tiger in the same cage, I’m the one who has to clean up the mess.”

  “People aren’t animals.”

  “Oh really? You should talk to Axel sometime.”

  “I wonder how he’s doing. Still trying to figure out what to do with the leftover food.” Debrowski rested a boot on the glove box. “You never know what’s going on in these old guys’ heads.”

  “They’re all mourning their wasted youth. By the way, how did your date with Sam go?”

  “Your dad’s a real character, Crow.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Crow came up behind a slow-moving Ford, rode its tail for a quarter mile, then passed it on the right.

  “You keep driving like this, you’ll be dead anyway.”

  “Look, you don’t have to be here.”

  “Oh yes I do.”

  “Really.” Crow’s mouth went small. Debrowski had seen Crow angry before, but it had always been directed at others. He twisted the wooden shift knob, grinding it into the stick. “You stay in France for three months, and all of a sudden you have to be here?”

  “I’m here now.”

  “Yeah, because things didn’t work out in France.”

  “If things had worked out I’d have been back sooner,” Debrowski said, surprised to hear the defensive note in her voice.

  “Most of the time I didn’t even know how to get hold of you.”

  “That’s my fault? That you never asked me where I was? You know, Crow, I’ve got one hell of a phone bill waiting for me. I called you almost every day. I got a better relationship with your goddamn answering machine than I do with you.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Furthermore, I didn’t much appreciate you leaving me alone in Paris. You could’ve stuck around, you know. It wouldn’t have hurt you to stay another week or two, just to help me get the project rolling. Maybe if you’d been there, maybe things wouldn’t have gone sour. But you never even considered that, did you? You and your goddamn cat. You think he missed you? Your cat? Would you slow down?”

  Crow eased up on the gas, letting the speedometer drop from eighty-five to eighty-three. He was being childish and he knew it, and he didn’t give a damn. If he had to act like a brat to have this conversation, so be it. One way or another, he had to let her know how he felt.

  He said, “If you’d wanted me to stay you could have said so.”

  “You didn’t give me the option. One day we’re eating crepes, and the next thing I know you tell me you’re leaving.”

  “You told me it was a good idea. You said you’d be busy.”

  “What was I supposed to do? Beg you to stay? Jerk.”

  “Jerk?”

  “You don’t like ‘jerk’? Try asshole. Pull over. You want to go get tossed in another dumpster, I want no part of it. Maybe it’s where you belong.”

  “Now just a minute—”

  Debrowski lifted her left boot from the glove box and kicked the shift lever into neutral. The car slowed rapidly.

  “Hey!” Crow put the GTO back in gear.

  “You let me out of this ridiculous car, or I swear to God Crow, I’m gonna kick out your goddamn windshield.”

  “Okay, okay, you mind if I find an exit? We’re on the freeway.” Ridiculous car? Of course it was ridiculous. Didn’t she think he knew that? It was supposed to be ridiculous.

  “Right up here. Johnson Street. You let me off on Johnson Street, wherever the hell that is.”

  “Why should you be mad? I’m the one should be mad.”

  “Look at me, Crow.”

  Crow, who was trying to cross two lanes of traffic to get to the exit ramp, caught a glimpse of glittering blue eyes and flared white nostrils. Debrowski had both boots pressed against the dash, her arms wrapped around her knees
, her hands balled into white-knuckled fists. She didn’t move. The GTO rolled up the exit ramp; Crow pulled over and brought the car to a full stop.

  “You’re doing it again,” she said.

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “No, you’re not.” Debrowski uncurled her fingers. “You’re just sitting here by the side of the road having your own little premature midlife crisis.” She opened the door and got out. “You could’ve at least argued with me.” She slammed the door.

  Crow sat in his car, stunned, watching her walk away. Argued with her? Was she talking about now? What did she think he’d been doing? Or was she talking about before, in Paris? He watched her leather jacket receding. “The hell with you, then,” he muttered. His words lacked conviction. Debrowski was now so far away that she was recognizable only by the angry tempo of her gait. A hollow, panicky feeling came over him, the same feeling he’d had in Paris when the taxi had pulled away and he’d looked though the rear window to see Debrowski standing on the sidewalk lighting a cigarette, getting smaller.

  Crow moved the gearshift into first and went after her.

  Drew Chance had worked on a lot of promising news stories that had gone nowhere. He’d followed politicians, chased down anonymous tips, and scrolled miles of surveillance tapes searching for stories that simply weren’t there. Sometimes, when the effort became too expensive to simply write it off, he’d done the story anyway. Like the one on the St. Cloud mayor who, after months of suspicious behavior—caught on tape—turned out to be innocent of philandering, drug abuse, accepting bribes, and fixing parking tickets for relatives. Drew had titled that Hard Camera segment “Innocent!” Rather to his surprise, the mayor had been furious.

  As for the wedding story, that one could go either way. The footage they’d got of the bleeding chauffeur was good, but the story still proved elusive. A bride and groom kidnapped? Such had been Hy the Guy’s promise, but the police were not calling it a kidnapping, and Drew was getting vibes from his police contacts that it might be nothing. Maybe the couple had simply eloped and the chauffeur had fallen down and hit his head. If that was the case, the story would not be Hard Camera material.

  But Hy the Guy had clearly indicated that there would be a real story here, so Drew remained hopeful. For now, he was waiting for the phone to ring which, eventually, it did.

  “Mr. Chance? I’ve got Mr. Hilton on line two.”

  “Thanks, Melissa … Hy? What’s happening, man? How’s that little fiancée of yours?”

  “Did you look at it?”

  “Look at what?”

  “The tape. The tape I sent you. You didn’t get it?”

  “Um. Let me check.” He put Hyatt on hold and buzzed Melissa. A few seconds later he was back on the line. “Yeah, I got it. It came in by courier, but I guess it got mixed in with the mail.”

  “Jesus Christ! You call yourself a news organization? Jesus Christ.”

  “Take it easy, Hy. I’ll look at it. So, what happened? You get kidnapped or what?”

  “Just look at the goddamn tape.”

  “You seen how they do,” Chuckles said. “Just talk. Secret is, you say a few things simple, over and over, and you don’t stop long enough to let nobody think too much. Like preachers do.”

  “My mother did that,” Flo said. She was sitting with Chuckles in the Security Annex at the Amaranthine Church of the One. Chuckles had given her the tour. She’d seen the place before, but last time she’d been running pretty hard and hadn’t noticed much.

  “Mamas do that, too,” Chuckles said, flashing his gold canine. “Sometimes they right.”

  “You really expect to live forever?”

  “Why not?” Chuckles leaned back in his chair and stretched. His brick-colored wrists came out of the sleeves of his white silk jacket and kept right on going, the longest arms Flo thought she’d ever seen. The sight of them sent a shiver up her ribcage; Flo forced herself to look away from him, fixing her eyes on the bank of video screens. Chuckles said, “I know one thing for sure. If I’m gonna die, I don’t want to know nothing about it till after.”

  That made sense to Flo. She liked his perspective on the whole immortality thing. In fact, she liked a lot of things about this Chuckles. He understood her. He knew how to make her comfortable. Even now, sitting in this little room with all the TVs, he made sure there were a few feet between them, made sure he didn’t get between her and the door. He respected her space.

  When he had taken her for that limo ride to Iowa last night, he’d never touched her with his hands, or even threatened to. All he’d done was drive and talk, reaching out to her with his big, soft voice. And when they’d finally stopped at that truck stop he’d given her every opportunity to bolt. She’d stayed on. Chuckles interested her. He wasn’t pushy like Solid Sam, or sneaky like Bigg, or standoffish like Joe Crow. Chuckles was just there. On the ride back to Minneapolis she’d sat up front with him, watching the dashed centerline flash by, listening to the big man talk. She hardly remembered being dropped off at her condo, long after midnight, Chuckles opening the door for her but keeping his hands to himself, not even looking as if he expected her to say goodnight.

  Eight hours later he’d been back at her condo, in a yellow Corvette this time, asking her if she wanted to see where he worked. The Corvette was even smaller inside than her Miata, but with the elbow-high console between them, Flo had felt completely comfortable. Chuckles’s sense of personal space was impeccable. Flo believed that when the time came he would lay his hands upon her, and she would melt like hot wax over a candle.

  Chuckles said, “You notice how all them folks at the aging clinic were about the same age?”

  “All old.”

  “Not so old. Most of ’em about forty, fifty, right in there, most of ’em women. You know how come that is?”

  “They see wrinkles.”

  “Huh-uh. What it is, they got husbands that just figured out they gonna die. You know?”

  Flo shook her head.

  “Husband got the middle-age blues, what he gonna do? He gonna be thinking the best part of his life is over, and he gonna regret he wasn’t payin’ attention all them years when his dick was standin’ out like a steel pipe and all his head was cover with hair. He gonna be figurin’ he got maybe twenty years left before he have to start wearin’ diapers again, and twenty years ago the other way when he was, say, twenty-five, that seem just like yesterday to him. So what he does, he start lookin’ at sweet young things like you. So then the wife, she start lookin’ round for something, too. Maybe she figure she like to live forever. Maybe she bring her man to the meetings, maybe she don’t. Maybe she like to spend his money, give it to Rupe and Polly before the husband give it to some little gal name of Bambi.”

  Flo was trying hard to understand what he was telling her. She said, “So the idea of the church is to help women get through their husband’s middle-age crisis?”

  “You got it, only it gets more complicated, on account of you got to throw in menopause and empty nest, too. Point is, you got to have your base of Faithful to make the seventh step, which is what Rupe and Polly done. You want to live forever, you got to have people working for you, making it happen. That what Rupe and Polly got going for them, they on top. You know what I’m saying? The way it is, I maybe live a long time, but I be working for them.”

  Flo thought about her job at Solid Sam’s. “Everybody got to work,” she said. Damn, she was talking that way again.

  “I rather be working for me.”

  Flo looked away from the TVs and back at Chuckles. “You going to start your own church?”

  Chuckles grinned. “I knew was something about you I like.”

  Flo looked back at the TVs. One of the screens caught her eye—a man entering the building. “Somebody’s here,” she said.

  “People here all the time,” Chuckles said. “They can talk to Benjy.”

  “I don’t know,” Flo said. “I think this one might be here to see you.�
��

  Benjy Hiss, an unsettled person by nature, was not enjoying his stint at the Amaranthine Church’s headquarters. For the better part of a year he had been working on Stonecrop, where his focus had been on building, dealing with contractors and suppliers, and working with Rupe on transforming the vision into stone and mortar. It was hard work, but it was real. Each passing day had provided new signs of progress, and Benjy had never lost sight of what he was doing there.

  Running ACO World Headquarters, that was anything but focused. The phone calls alone were enough to drive him batty. He’d gotten a number of calls from various police agencies, all demanding to speak with Rupe and Polly. Benjy had tried to explain to the first caller, a man named Larson, that the Elders would not be available for another four weeks. Larson had not been satisfied with that, so Benjy simply routed his call, and all subsequent calls, to Rupe’s voice mail. So far, none of them had shown up in person, but it was still a hassle. And to make things worse, the two guys he’d been counting on to help him run things were turning out to be totally unreliable. He hadn’t seen Chip since yesterday, and Chuckles had just waltzed in three hours late with a little chiquita by his side, giving her the tour, not even bothering to apologize for being late for work, treating him like a servant. Benjy had never much cared for Chuckles and his attitude.

  On top of everything else, Sissy Walmurt had called in sick, leaving Benjy stuck behind the receptionist’s desk all day. He was brooding on these developments when a man wearing red, white, and blue warm-ups and a large bandage on his head entered the foyer and approached him.

  Benjy said, “One God.”

  The man stared at him blankly.

  “Can I help you?” Benjy asked. He rather hoped that he could not. The man had a dangerous look to him—big, brutal, and angry. Spots of blood had soaked through the white bandage, which covered most of his forehead. His left eye was swollen shut, his right was shot with red veins. One nostril appeared to be stuffed with cotton. A second bandage ran along the line of his jaw. The man rested his thick, stubby fingers on the edge of the desk.