About Face

by James Calder

  “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. Connie says skin color is still a big marker in this society. It makes people put you in a different category. I don’t care anymore who finds out who I was, anyway. Let them do whatever they do to me.”

  “Don’t feel bad, Kim,” I said. The words came out before I thought about them. My gut was telling me to trust her, as Erika had trusted me. “I made mistakes, too. I never should have left Rod alone that night. If I’d been doing my job . . .”

  Her head snapped up. The spirit came back into her voice. “Wait, Bill. Let’s not do this. Let’s just get them. We have the whole rest of our lives to feel bad.”

  22

  Getting ready for the Wings of Silicon Charity Ball on Friday afternoon was like stepping into a fairy tale. Wendy took the lead role as Cinderella. She kept Brendon busy retrieving pins and fasteners for her outfit, a lace-up corset number with a layered ruffle skirt. We didn’t know who’d play the role of the prince just yet, but judging by her anticipatory enthusiasm, Wendy planned to find him. When I asked about Mr. Pop-the-Question in Reno, she declared that absence would make his heart grow fonder. Call her butter because she was on a roll: Wendy had Eternaderm and the future was hers.

  Ellen and I had brought the apparatus over that morning. Eternaderm was administered by a grid of superfine pins that delivered the transcription factor subcutaneously. Wendy got so distracted by the pins that she didn’t ask whether the formula was the real thing or a placebo. That was a relief: It was a placebo. Ellen refused to dispense actual Eternaderm under these circumstances. The point became moot when Wendy decided her face could not be used as a pincushion the morning of the ball. Treatment would begin tomorrow instead. Brendon asked to receive it as well. Ellen told him that if he got any creamier, he’d turn into Twinkie filling.

  At four o’clock Brendon ceased being Wendy’s valet and said he and I had to get dressed. He knew the banquet manager at the hotel where the Ball was being held, and had secured waiting jobs for himself and a friend earlier in the week. I was taking the friend’s place. For my uniform, I’d brought the black pants Erika had picked out and three of the many white cotton shirts I owned. Brendon declared the pants suitable but all three of the shirts lacking. He lent me one of his own to wear.

  We had to be at the hotel in San Jose by five o’clock for setup. We left Wendy to her ruffles and drove down in the Scout. On the way, I mentioned to Brendon that I was impressed with his hotel connections.

  He snorted. “Connections. Yeah, we ‘help’ in the Valley know each other. I see them at these functions, and then later on at the clubs. The ones we can afford.”

  “Are you sorry you had to leave behind the good life at SG?”

  Another snort. “The good life. It was all right, I guess. Trisha liked me. But you get sick of it, you know? Being patted on the head. Behaving.” He grinned a private grin. “I did have her drooling for me. Even now, she’s letting me keep the pad until I find a new one.”

  “What about you and Wendy?”

  He blew out a long stream of air. “I can’t explain, dude. She’s got her finger on my control key. Not my style. Once I find Alissa, we’re out of there.”

  “Alissa’s special. I can tell from her picture. What did Trisha say about her?”

  “Hands off, boy. She didn’t care what happened to Alissa, as long as she did her job and I stayed away. Alissa was Rupert’s project. That’s why he killed Rod.”

  “How do you suppose that knife got into Alissa’s apartment?”

  “Rupert, of course. He’s trying to set her up.”

  “And you’re sure it was Rupert?”

  He looked closely at me. “Aren’t you?”

  I gave a shrug: I wanted him to try to convince me. I pulled into the hotel’s back parking lot and we went into the ballroom. The partitions that usually divided it into multiple spaces had been taken down; tonight it would officially qualify as a “grand ballroom.” Bare-branched trees strung with small white lights clustered in strategic spots along the wall. A pair of giant wings, carved from foam and painted gold, hung from the ceiling. A small stage for the musicians was on the right side and the dining room was off to the left. Portable bars and appetizer tables were being erected in the main room.

  We found Cathy, the banquet manager. Brendon introduced me as “Dirk,” the friend he’d promised to bring. She looked pleased to see Brendon. He got a big kiss and I got a quick handshake. We both got black vests and white waiter aprons. Cathy told us to put them on and come into the dining room for the wait staff meeting.

  The ball had sold out: Five hundred guests would begin arriving for cocktails at seven o’clock. Dinner would be served at eight-thirty. The theme of the event had to do with education soaring on the wings of technology. The featured drink was champagne and Chambord, which tonight would be called a Purple Eagle. Brendon and I would be two of the twenty wait-rons floating through the room with exclusively these drinks on a tray.

  “Repeat the name every time you serve one,” Cathy said. “The Purple Eagle. Don’t forget to give them the cocktail napkin with the embossed eagle. And smile.”

  “That’s the hard part,” Brendon said. Cathy responded with a mock pout, as if he was the most charming thing in the world.

  We got to work polishing the dinner flatware and wine glasses. The florists made us hold on until each arrangement was properly fluffed before allowing us to set the table. At six-thirty a giant ice sculpture of a kid with wings sitting at a computer was wheeled through the double doors and positioned in the space between the dining room and ballroom. Purple pin lights were focused on it from the ceiling.

  Brendon tugged on my sleeve to look at the sculpture up close. “These guys are wizards with a chainsaw.”

  “Art that melts,” I said. “Cool.”

  Brendon checked his watch. “We’ve got a few minutes. Let’s go to the kitchen.”

  I didn’t know much about being a waiter, but I knew we weren’t supposed to go any farther into the kitchen than was necessary to pick up trays. The prep crew was busy assembling them. Brendon breezed in, greeting the crew with familiar nods. He steered me away from the main hive to a counter where an eighteen-inch-long filet mignon sat on a butcher block. The ends had been trimmed and tossed back into a stainless steel bowl. Parts of the middle had been cut into paper-thin slices. Blood oozed from it.

  “Ever had carpaccio?” Brendon asked. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching. “Buddy of mine butchers these babies. The cows live it up before they—” He made a throat-slitting motion. “Totally organic.”

  He popped a slice into his mouth, then followed it with a toast round from a nearby platter. The next slice he dipped into a mustard sauce. As he tossed a few capers after it, a hand grabbed his elbow.

  “Hey, asshole!”

  Brendon turned and briefly arm-wrestled with a guy in a bloodstained apron. Then each of them broke into a grin. Brendon introduced me as Dirk or Bill, or whatever.

  The prep cook gave me a nod and returned to his carving. “One more apiece,” he said, dangling a maroon slice in front of me. “Then get the hell out of the kitchen.”

  I took it. It was good beef, all right. But what stayed in my mind was the pool in the bottom of the stainless steel bowl. The whole thing was less appetizing when, instead of being presented on an hors d’oeuvres platter, it was piled in a red heap swimming in its own blood. Even less appetizing was what it told me about who killed Rod.

  » » » » »

  I’m a cinematographer, so colors stick in my mind. When they enter or re-enter the frame I remember them, like a dog remembers a scent or a musician remembers a chord. The runoff from the carpaccio was a color I knew well. But I needed to know more before I decided what to do about it.

  Cathy’s voice rang into the kitchen, calling the troops to order. I went with Brendon to pick up our first tray of Purple Eagles from the bar station. He licked the carpaccio juice from his fingers, self-sati
sfied and oblivious.

  The bartender popped a bottle of champagne and added a dollop of Chambord to each glass, followed by two raspberries. The string ensemble hired for the cocktail hour began to play. The doors opened and the first arrivals trickled in. By some miracle my first tray of long-stemmed glasses did not crash to the floor when I lifted it into position with one hand.

  “Let’s float,” Brendon said. It was the term Cathy had used to mean we’d wander on the floor offering drinks to whoever wanted them. It was a good way to circulate and to see who was there. I was more invisible than a cameraman.

  At first, without many people, it was easy. I got the feel of balancing the tray. Then suddenly the doors gushed with guests. The music was drowned out in a rumble of voices rebounding through the ballroom.

  I worked my way to the middle of the floor, turned to offer a round of drinks, and came face-to-face with Mike Riley. His broad grin shrank like plastic on hot iron.

  “Purple Eagle, sir?” I said. But my own smile disappeared when I saw his date. It was Kim, in a long, slim evening gown. Her hair was done up with flowers and she looked great. She gave me a demure greeting. I motioned her aside.

  “Oh no you don’t,” Mike said, interposing himself. “Not again.”

  I handed him the tray. He took it by reflex. I slipped past him and took Kim’s arm.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

  “He invited me.” Her voice was sweet and smoky. “I want to help you, Bill.”

  “Rupert’s here. Your mother’s here. You’re going to blow it.”

  The smile stayed on her face, but the sweetness left. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  I didn’t have time to argue. “It’s your choice.”

  “I’m listening to what Mike and Sylvain talk about. I’m going to tell you everything. It’s funny, it’s like being back in my job with SG.”

  Mike was barking my name and prodding me in the small of the back with the tray. I turned to take it from him. He was about to bust a button. Before he got any more words out, Connie and Ronald Plush moved in. Mike took Kim’s arm and squired her away.

  “Thank you, waiter,” Connie said to me in a dry, mock-haughty tone.

  Ronald was confused. “Wait a minute. Aren’t you—?”

  I shrugged. “Got to pay the bills.”

  Connie cut in front of Ronald, who didn’t seem to mind, and leaned close to my ear to speak. “I did everything I could to keep her away. She insisted. She says she’s going to find out what happened to Rod. Help me keep an eye on her.”

  “I’ll do my best. I’ve got to continue the waiter act a little while longer.”

  She took the last glass of violet champagne and lifted it in a silent toast. I filled the tray with empty glasses and headed back to the station. The crowd was so thick I had to hoist the tray over my head to get through. Previous jobs had required heavy lifting, but not like this. Somebody squeezed my ass as I went by. I twisted my head over my shoulder. It could have been any one of ten men or women.

  When I brought out a new tray, I found Wendy, surrounded by three men, in her corset number and strappy Manolo Blahnik heels. She snatched a glass without so much as a wink at me. I supposed it wouldn’t do to pal around with the help. She wore pearl wristlets and her new favorite lipstick, the bruised-claret color. The men appeared fixated on her mouth.

  I moved on. Rupert, wearing a three-piece suit, hailed me. “Bill! I see you’ve found a new profession.”

  “Yes,” I said, offering the tray. “I’ve got a potion that makes people tell me their secrets. You’d be amazed at how much I’ve learned since I last saw you.”

  He took a glass. “Share a little of that with me.”

  My shoulder was tapped and I had to turn to let some guests grab drinks. I didn’t smile and I didn’t call them Purple Eagles. One glass was left when I turned back to Rupert. I took it, lowered the tray to my side, and said, “I know who killed Rod.”

  “Bravo!” He clinked my glass. “Who was it?”

  “An employee of yours.”

  Rupert pretended to be taken aback. He gestured toward an hors d’oeuvres table from which Gary was feeding. “I know where Gary and Trisha and I were that night.”

  Gary glanced over as if he heard us talking about him. He looked uncomfortable in his tux. He wasn’t any more at home in this crowd than I was. Rupert motioned for him to stay put, then said, “In fact, I know where almost all our employees were that night. Which one gave us the slip?”

  “I might tell you, but I need some reciprocation. You’re going to have to explain why you and Trisha are using Sylvain Partners to carve up Algoplex.”

  He laughed and threw up a dismissive hand, smooth as ever. “Ah well! I guess I’ll have to wait and read about the case in the papers.”

  A sharp voice made me glance to my right. “Security! Manager!” Trisha shouted.

  Brendon stood slouched in front of her, a champagne flute in his hand and a smirk on his face. A new boy, even younger than Brendon, was on Trisha’s arm. The new one’s ears were shaved close and a shrub of dyed blond hair sat on top of his head. He wore a look of disgust, as if Brendon had just revealed something of a personal nature about Trisha. Brendon’s posture almost invited him to attack. But the boy appeared as likely to bolt from Trisha as to defend her honor.

  “No one can hear you, Trisha,” I said.

  She lowered her eyes on me. “Are you in this with him? I’ll have you both thrown out.”

  “Let me tell you something first, then. I’ve been talking to Rod’s lawyer. The key-man clause is invalid.”

  This was complete fiction, but I wanted to see her response. She jabbed the toe of a lethal suede pump in my direction. “That’s preposterous, Bill—”

  Her mouth snapped shut with a look from Rupert. Brendon— feeling naughty, I guess—said, “No, it’s true, Trisha. I heard that, too. The whole thing’s off.”

  “You little punk, you don’t even know what we’re talking about.”

  Brendon, for all his insolence, shrank back from her. But he’d hit the right note. I said, “Your company’s in trouble, Trisha. Both of them.”

  Rupert had given a wave to Gary. He shouldered Brendon and me aside, flexing his fingers as if he’d like an excuse to put them around our throats. Brendon smirked at Trisha one last time and said, “Later, babe.”

  He headed back toward the bar. Trisha gave me a wary scowl and turned the other way. Rupert touched me on the elbow. We weren’t done yet.

  While Gary kept an eye on Brendon, Rupert murmured casually to me, “It’s a shame what Alissa’s done to herself.”

  “I think you mean what you did to her. You used SG associates to spy on your takeover targets. Add that to the murder investigation and things are going to be rough for you.”

  He rubbed his lips together. “We’re not involved in any murder. You know that. It’s Alissa’s safety you should be worrying about. I know I am.”

  “That’s easy to say when you’ve got no idea where she is.”

  He leaned in confidentially. “Oh, I know where she is.”

  I followed his eyes. They fell on a pink rose in a nest of blond hair about eight yards away. Mike’s laugh could be heard even at this distance. Kim happened to look around and met my eyes. She gave a quick wink of a smile. She was perfect: She seemed not to notice Rupert at all. Nonetheless, he made a little bow. He knew.

  I stood stunned for a moment. I saw what I had to do now, but there was one more thing I wanted from Rupert. A waiter passing by slapped at my sleeve and pointed at my empty tray. “We could use some help, pal.”

  “Just a minute,” I said, handing him the tray. He glared, grabbed it, and left.

  Rupert’s voice remained casual. “As I said, it’s a shame what’s happened to her face. But you know, it’s only skin deep. The smile, the dance in her eyes: They’re still there. I’d recognize Cindy anywhere.”

  “Cindy?”

 
“Cindy Bresloff. Her given name. I felt badly for her—that mother, you know. I wanted to help, to give her a chance to get free of Wendy. Alissa didn’t have much in the way of a skill set. When the bottom dropped out of the tech economy, she was desperate. She wasn’t cut out for our kind of work, but she insisted we give her a chance.”

  “You tricked her into it.”

  “Take a minute to listen to me, Bill. We’re on the same side.” Rupert spoke indulgently, like an uncle on a stroll in the park. “She had that something special. I’d have done anything for her, but Trisha allows only one kind of contract at entry level. I laid it out for Alissa. She still wanted to do it. So I took it upon myself to make it as easy as possible. Well, Alissa just drips with charm: She could have been a knockout on dates, melting men left and right. But it was hard on her. Her mother is a consummate phony, and Alissa was afraid she’d go down that road herself. I tried to bump her over to the business side. Trisha wouldn’t have it. But I also saw that Alissa’s business ethics weren’t up to the job. They weren’t quite—how should I put it?—micro enough.”

  The party roared around us, but I barely heard it. I was ensconced in a small cocoon of knowledge shared only by myself, Rupert, and Connie. My fear was what would happen when we left that cocoon. He could use threats to Kim to shut me up about the takeover of Algoplex. To keep him talking, I said, “She could have gone a long way.”

  “She could have had the world in her hands. Alas it was not to be. Bill, I tell you this from the bottom of my heart. I wanted the best for her. Trisha did require certain contractual obligations to be fulfilled, but I refused to push Alissa. She didn’t have to damage her face like that. I would have let her go if she’d spoken openly to me.”

  “But what about Rod? What if she wanted to leave you for him?”

  Rupert sighed. He stared at the bubbles in his glass, considering the idea. “Maybe she did belong with Rod. Stranger couples have happened. I couldn’t get a read on his feelings. I knew the lust was strong, but was there more? And then it seemed all too likely he was responsible for her disappearance. Engineers, you see—the socially withdrawn types like him—don’t know women. Obsession can make a decent man do bad things.”