by Smith, Julie
“Really?” Terri was starting to get stage fright.
“You’ll be on for the full hour.” She paused and held up a reassuring hand. “But don’t worry; you won’t have to do anything but describe what happened to you. We’re also going to have an expert on, talking about how banks cheat their depositors— the very people they’re supposed to be serving.”
“Hey, you sound like you could go on yourself.”
“Listen, Terri, the same thing that happened to you happened to me. Only I didn’t go to jail for it. You got a real raw deal.” She gave Terri an impulsive hug. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
When she’d gone, Terri looked around for the first time. The room wasn’t green, despite what they called it. It was a whitish gray— actually more like white with a layer of dirt on it— and the furniture had obviously come from a thrift shop. She remembered that this was a struggling cable station, but it would have been hard to imagine surroundings more drab.
She had a sense of failure, and she hadn’t even been on yet. Worse, she had no means of distraction. She hadn’t realized she was going to have half an hour to cool her heels, or she’d have brought a book.
There was a phone. She could call Isaac. But that seemed ridiculous; she’d call him on her cell phone after the show, when they could rehash it. She tried to remember if she knew anyone in Dallas. Actually, now that she thought of it she had a friend here— Jessie Newman, a girl she went to high school with, who’d married some guy from Dallas. What was his name? Kincaid, that was it; like some Son of the Confederacy. Donaldson Kincaid. Two last names.
She looked it up in the phone book that lay on the rickety, scarred table next to the phone.
Curiously, he wasn’t listed, but a Jessie Kincaid was. Terri thought, Uh-oh. Divorce. She wasn’t sure she should call at all.
But in the end, it beat the hell out of sitting there wanting a cigarette. When a message answered, she was disappointed but reassured actually to hear Jessie’s voice. They’d been good friends; she wondered why they lost touch. At the beep, she said, “Jessie? Here’s a voice from your past. It’s Terri Whittaker. Remember me? I’m just in Dallas for a day, and I thought I’d give you a call.”
There was a click on the line, and Jessie said, “Terri Whittaker! How come you never wrote me?”
“I thought you were the one who never wrote me.”
“Oh, forget it. It’s a treat to hear from you. Boy is this town not New Orleans. How the hell are you?”
“Today, fine. But something pretty bad happened to me. I’m here to be on this television show, Mr. Right. Do you know it?”
“Same old Terri.” Jessie laughed long and loud at that one, which put the fear of God in Terri. She wondered if she’d done something really stupid.
“Jessie, that’s not reassuring. What in hell’s so funny?”
“You can always be trusted, that’s all, to be in on the hot new thing. You’re the first person I know who had acupuncture. You were always first at every new club and restaurant and you were onto a fashion trend six months before it hit Vogue.”
“Hey, I’m kind of flattered by that.” Terri wondered if she’d just learned something about herself. “But Mr. Right’s this low-rent cable show where poor sad people go to cry. It’s not like, uh, crayon-colored hair or something.”
“Terri, you are amazing. You do it without even knowing you’re doing it, don’t you? Mr. Right’s the hottest thing in Texas. It’s a phenomenon. They just went to an evening format and everyone in town’s talking about it. Hey, have you met David Wright? He’s kind of sexy, don’t you think? He met his wife on the show. She was one of his first guests— girl from a prominent family that disowned her when she married a boy they didn’t like. She hit the skids and embarrassed them in front of the whole town by going on the show. It might seem like a grandstanding thing to do, but Terri, she was desperate, just a sweet innocent kid who didn’t know what else to do. It really put the show on the map.”
“I can imagine.”
“So the family had no choice but to welcome her back into the fold— again in front of the whole town— and then she married Mr. Right. Talk about creating a sensation!”
Tracie appeared and mouthed: “Five minutes.”
“Oh, gosh. The producer’s calling me.”
“Okay, I’m tuning you in right now. My husband’s out of town, by the way. You here alone?”
“Oh, good. That’s a relief.”
“What?”
“I couldn’t find his name in the phone book. I thought you might be divorced.”
She laughed again. “Oh, hell, no. He’s completely wireless these days— only uses his cell phone. Listen, where are you staying? Can you have dinner with me?”
“The Bluebonnet Motor Lodge.”
“Ughhh. Terri, you can’t stay there. I’m shocked that’s where they put you. You’ll have to stay with me. Will you? I’ll get a babysitter, and we’ll go someplace nice for dinner.”
Terri had actually given some thought to where she was going to find a restaurant. The thought of the depressing motel, of a night alone in a slightly scary neighborhood, had been weighing on her. “Jessie, you know what? You’re cheering me right up. I’d love to stay with you.”
“Get them to take you back to the Bluebonnet to get your stuff. I’ll pick you up there.”
The next few minutes were a blur. Someone slapped some powder on Terri’s nose, someone else led her to the set (which was much nicer than the rest of the studio), and she had time, looking out at the expectant audience, to get nervous while someone else clipped a microphone on her. She’d forgotten about the audience.
There was no sign at all of David Wright.
And then he was introduced, and he came out of the wings and made his bow. The audience went crazy. Jessie wasn’t kidding; this thing really was a phenomenon. She was scared to death.
Her nervousness wasn’t even slightly helped by the fact that the onscreen David seemed very different from the offscreen one. He seemed distant now, no doubt focused on doing his job rather than on her. Oddly, he wasn’t nearly so attractive under the lights. His eyes suddenly seemed small and calculating, way too intense for comfort.
It’s charisma, she said to herself. That’s what makes him a star.
The first thing he said was, “Terri, where you from, gal?”
She was a little taken aback by the sudden change of accent— from semi-English to full-out Texas— but the warmth appeared to be back in his eyes. She went with it.
He asked her a bit about school and her art, and then he said, “Well, they sure didn’t invent the phrase ‘starving artist’ for nothing. It’s not a calling that’s even recognized as a real job by most people, is it?”
“No, it isn’t. Most people think—”
“They just think it’s some kind of a self-indulgent hobby, don’t they? And since it’s not particularly valued by society, there aren’t many grants for art students.”
I should have seen this coming, she thought. That intimate little talk was all about stealing my material. I’m going to come off looking like an idiot if I just let him rip me off.
“Hence,” she said quickly, “the concept of the day job.”
“You’re a real hard-working girl, Terri. I hear your day job is running errands for people who have bigger fish to fry, people whose jobs— unlike that of fine artist— are actually respected by society.”
Once again, she dove in before he could spew her whole life out of his own mouth. “Yes, they work really hard too. But I don’t have twelve hours a day for my chosen profession…”
As she finished her speech, she made the mistake of glancing briefly at her host’s eyes. They were not merely focused; she could have sworn they were downright malevolent.
Like Corinne Kay Walker, the woman whose landlord had tangled with Mr. Right, she got to tell her story— Terri against the bank— and then Mr. Right asked, “Can we right this wrong?”
/>
I must have done well, she thought. The whole audience was on its feet. The theme music seemed even more urgent and frenetic than it had when she watched the show at home. The collection baskets were passed and people dug deep into their pockets. That part made her feel a little cheesy, but later, Jessie just shrugged. “It’s show biz.”
After the screaming, yelling, stomping, and pocket-emptying, an older woman came on, a consumer advocate who’d written a book called Banking on Big, and she ended up getting almost more applause than Terri. “Know what they do?” she’d say. “They know you’re on vacation in July and August, and might not see your statements. So that’s when they introduce the new fees.” The audience booed loudly.
“How do they get away with it? They’re banking on big: No one’s going to challenge a corporation named Bank of the Western Hemisphere. Did you ever notice their names? Calculated to intimidate.”
Or, “Do you realize many banks now penalize you for not using the ATM? Fees for teller transactions aren’t uncommon. And have you noticed how large the fees are these days compared to what they used to be?”
By the time she had finished, she’d whipped the audience into a meringue. But Mr. Right wasn’t yet done. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a surprise guest today— a gentleman who phoned us when he found out about Ms. Whittaker’s plight and asked if she needed a lawyer. Would you welcome, please, Mr. George Pastorek.”
Terri’s jaw dropped. George Pastorek was going to be her lawyer? She knew only two names in the world of consumer advocacy, and the other one was Ralph Nader.
“What happened to Ms. Whittaker is an outrage,” Pastorek began, but he couldn’t get another word out before the audience was on its feet, cheering. “It’s the kind of thing that can only happen to someone who’s too poor to get out of the hole these so-called guardians of your money can put you in.”
They loved that one too. But Mr. Right wasn’t one not to have the last word. He signed off with a final rabble-rousing speech: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are not going to let some corporate leviathan get away with this! With outlandish and outrageous fees! With backing a young woman— a poor student, a struggling artist— into a corner like a dog! With never even giving her a chance to make it right! But we will make it right! The day when a solid citizen, a young woman who has done nothing wrong except to fall into the jaws of a greedy monster, can be wrongfully imprisoned and harassed is a black day indeed for America! But a new and brighter one dawns for Terri Whittaker tomorrow.”
Again, the audience stood and cheered. Some threw coins at the set; others threw hats into the air. Still others fisted their hands and chanted: “Terri! Terri!”
Terri left the studio feeling dazed and strangely upbeat. I should be, she thought. I’ve got a suitcase full of money.
She’d barely gotten back to the hotel when Jessie called from the lobby. “Get your Louisiana butt down here.”
That made her laugh. She nearly ran from the dismal little room, riding an adrenaline high.
* * *
Isaac tried calling Terri before she went on the air, just to say, “break a leg,” but he wasn’t all that surprised when she didn’t answer; she was forever letting the battery run down. But he really wished he knew where she was staying; he wanted to make sure he had a message waiting for her when she got back from the studio. Well, no problem, he called the station and talked to the producer, who said Terri was at that moment being interviewed by the host but she was staying at the Bluebonnet Motor Lodge.
He made himself a big bowl of popcorn, got himself an unaccustomed beer, and sat down to watch his girlfriend wow ’em. At first he had eyes only for her. To him, she was beautiful, even with the brown hair. At first he’d disapproved of her wearing the gold cross, thinking it too calculated, but it sure looked good glinting in the lights.
The host gave him the creeps from the get-go. Everything about him looked and sounded phony, from his carefully styled hair to his weirdly familiar voice, with the ersatz English accent. The way he moved gave Isaac the creeps.
When Terri started to talk, the camera came to rest on Mr. Right, showing the compassion in his face. Isaac had a weird, creepy sense of déjà vu. Something wasn’t right with this guy, and he’d seen it before.
But where?
He lost all interest in the content of the show. He put his entire focus on observing Mr. Right, listening to him, watching his eyes.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mr. Right’s first thought was that everything was fine, it was just a coincidence. No one, absolutely no one could penetrate his disguise. He was going all the way, and he’d thought of everything. He was Mr. Right; he was no longer Errol Jacomine. Even his own son wouldn’t know him.
His second thought was that it was a setup. He felt sweat popping out under his fine mane of white hair. It had happened before. Even at his finest moments in his other lives, he had felt the clammy grip of fear, had felt himself zigzagging wildly between his trademark sublime confidence and a crazy, paralyzing tenor. This was just one of the zigzags, the first of many he’d suffer before he achieved his final goal. It was nothing, just one of those moments of panic the great have to live with, the kind of thing a president must feel before pushing the button.
He tried to calm himself, to let in the suggestion that he’d been wrong about this, that somehow he’d overlooked something. This was his own son’s girlfriend, or somebody who claimed to be, and she was about to be on his show.
Oh, hell, no! No, it wasn’t that. The truth hit him like an anvil. This was someone sent by the Devil-Spawn to make him blow his own cover.
Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. He could see it. Nobody knew who he was, except Rosemarie, and she had everything to gain by keeping him where he was. But somebody who knew him might have seen the show, picked up some little thing— hell, maybe the way he moved or something— and dropped a dime to Devil-Cop. His confidence came back for a moment: Was that conceivable?
He had to be calm here. After all, he had a contingency plan; he never did anything without a contingency plan. But was it good enough? He had to think. His instinct was to do nothing. Act normal, he told himself. No one can touch you. No one can do a thing unless you give them a reason.
But his panic told him to get away from the woman as fast as he could. Hell, she could be a cop herself. He didn’t have spies anymore. Without his following, he was like a quadriplegic. He had no idea whether his son Isaac was alive or dead, much less whether he was in art school and had a girlfriend named Terri Whittaker.
Okay, even if Whittaker was a cop, she couldn’t observe him if he didn’t let her.
He called Tracie to get Terri put on ice. When the girl finally came in a good five minutes later, she looked as if the sky was falling. “David? What’s wrong? You said you wanted another full half hour to talk to her. This is our biggest show ever…”
“Who is that woman?” he shouted, not bothering to keep his voice normal, to try to seem unruffled, as if nothing had happened. Not even caring.
Tracie, pink and fast getting red, cringed, taking baby steps away from him. “Who is she? She’s Terri Whittaker, the woman the bank sent to jail. Who did she say she is? Is she… I mean, did she say something crazy or something?
“Is she a nut case? Listen, I checked everything out: called the school where she goes; called the bank, of course; saw the police records.”
“You saw the police records? What police records?”
“She sent us copies of them.”
“She sent the copies.”
“Well, yes. She did. David, what’s going on? What’s happening?”
“I don’t want her on the show.” He had seated himself sometime during the interchange. Tracie’s quaking was calming him. He now sat in his executive swivel chair, steepling his fingers, regaining his calm, and he spoke idly.
“Don’t want her…?” Tracie was turning pale, going through a different kind of panic. “But this is our biggest show ever. We don�
�t even have a backup. We’ve flown in an expert and a lawyer for her. We’ve got a full house out there, not to mention that this is only our second show in the nighttime format, and, quite frankly, Mr. Right, the eyes of Texas are upon us.”
It was that phrase that got him. He’d been about to demand they send Terri home and simply go with the bank expert, when the producer’s words brought him up short. He’d already talked to the damn girl; if she really was his son’s girlfriend and had somehow blundered onto the show, canceling was the worst thing he could do. It would draw the wrong kind of attention to him, make Tracie suspicious, if nothing else.
He dropped his head into his cupped hands. “Oh, hell, girl. I’m sorry. I’ve got an absolutely splitting headache. I guess… the… pain… got to me.” He drew out the words like he could barely speak.
“Omigod, I’ll get you some Vicodin.” Tracie flashed out of his office and came back with a plastic vial. “I keep a supply for occasions like this.” She poured one out in his hand and gave it to him. “Here. Take this. You’ve just got nerves, that’s all, because it’s such an important show. I’ve seen it a million times.”
She seemed back in control now, no longer red, no longer white. Somehow or other— he really had no idea how it happened— Mr. Right actually had in his employ a person he couldn’t control, a person who hadn’t gotten the message that nothing he said was to be questioned. Ever.
Somehow, he didn’t think there was any getting through to her. He’d just have to fire her and start over.
“I’ve got things to do,” she said. “The expert’s plane was late. You lie down, okay? And let that stuff kick in.” She left without asking permission.
He threw out the Vicodin— above all, he needed a clear head— and tried to think. Okay, okay, okay. His first instinct was right. The best thing he could do was act normal. Pretend nothing had happened. After all, if David Wright was who he said he was, he’d never have heard of an outsider artist named The White Monk; the name “Isaac” would mean nothing at all to him. Therefore, he would have to behave as if that were the case. He’d do it, and he’d do a spectacular job. No one would ever be the wiser.
