The Devil Always Collects

by John Moore

  Charlotte entered the lounge within a minute of my arrival. We dressed and went to her room. We both ordered pan-roasted Jidori chicken and a bottle of wine.

  “How do you like Vegas so far?” Charlotte asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said in my best sarcastic, pampered-princess voice. “A suite at the Venetian, massage at Canyon Ranch Spa, and a gourmet meal delivered to the room. It’s OK, I guess.”

  We busted out laughing, knowing that this was so much more than either of us expected in our lives. We both came from working class families. Charlotte said I sounded a little like Mandy Morris, and we giggled some more.

  “On a more serious note,” Charlotte said, “let me tell you why you are here. Mr. Morris loved the job you did handling the American and South American press for us during our merger. We are working on a deal to supply one of the largest food processing companies in the world with sugar. Sugar is getting a crappy reputation in the press, and he wants you to attend a meeting of executives of the Sugar Processors Council to work on improving sugar’s image. Mr. Morris wants to be able to demonstrate to the potential new food-processing customer that we are committed to combating sugar’s embattled image. You don’t have to have a complete program ready, just a concept of how we should handle the ‘sugar is bad for you’ stories going around.”

  How could something that tastes so good be bad for you?

  “Charlotte, our parents and their parents ate sugar and lived to...” I paused...”be very happy.” “It’s the artificial shit that the chemical companies make that maims you. Sugar is all natural,” I said, hoping this was true.

  “That’s the kind of stuff I’m talking about, Alexandra. Work on it and be ready to meet with Mr. Morris tomorrow afternoon,” she said.

  “Knock, knock, it’s room service.”

  The food and wine arrived. I was ready for both. Charlotte suggested that I work with her at the exhibition hall tomorrow for part of the day. The show would give me a sense of what questions customers asked. Not to mention allow me to see all the hot guys. We spent the rest of the night talking about The Walking Dead and sipping wine. And one glass of water for Jen, the massage therapist, and then off to bed in my palatial suite.

  Charlotte and I climbed aboard the shuttle for a short ride to the Convention Center the next morning. What an amazing, gigantic place. We made our way through aisles of exhibitors – thousands of them – to the Superior Sugar space. It was brightly decorated in blues and greens. Large LED screens ran video loops of the different industries that used Superior’s sugar. I had no idea that sugar was used in so many products in the food industry. I watched the loop in amazement. I saw the expected products – cakes, muffins, pudding cups, breakfast cereals, canned peaches and pears drowned in syrup. But I had no idea sugar was in most sauces, from pasta to barbecue, and just about every juice or beverage in bottles or packages. Then there were the totally unexpected products that had added sugar like breakfast sausage, fast foods, bread and salad dressing. Those foods don’t even taste sweet.

  The market for sugar was huge, I thought. I wondered whose idea it was to add sugar to just about everything people eat and drink every day. Where did all the sugar come from to supply this industry? I knew corn farmers planted as much corn as they did to supply the demand for high fructose corn syrup, but I didn’t know why processors wanted HFC instead of granulated sugar refined from sugar cane or sugar beets. Who made most of the money in the supply chain? I knew from my own experience growing up on a corn farm that it wasn’t the farmers. I decided this would be a wonderful place to research the angle for my PR campaign for Superior Sugar.

  I walked though the vividly decorated booths with freshly polished, eager salespeople of every size and shape standing in front of every booth, trying to make eye contact. Each huckster sized me up to see if I were a prospect. Of course, some of the guys couldn’t see anything but my boobs. My passion purple badge with my name and the word, “Exhibitor” boldly emblazoned on it offered me a modicum of protection from their ferocious product hawking. The show exuded a county fair aura.

  A little, round, gray haired, cherubic man said, “Alexandra, what a beautiful name. Your parents must have known how you’d turn out.”

  Corny line I thought, but he represented a large company that made just about every processed product possible. Suitable place to do some research.

  “Well, hello, Glen,” I said, reading his name tag. “Aren’t you sweet?” We both chuckled, acknowledging the unintended pun.

  He feigned an embarrassed look to conceal his astonishment that his well-worn pick-up line might have actually worked for the first time since the ‘70s. “Would you like me to answer any questions for you?” he asked.

  “Yes, Glen I would,” I said looking at his eyes, which had drifted chest-ward.

  Glen showed me all the products displayed in his booth. There must have been hundreds. Glen looked my badge and said, “Superior Sugar? We buy from you guys. We are based in Michigan and get trainloads of HFC and other sugar products from you. Best thing we ever discovered in the food industry. If you add sugar to any product, the consumer will buy more. Makes sense cause it tastes better. We learned a lesson from the restaurant business: always make sure you have plenty of the big three in everything you make. That’s sugar, fat and salt. Works every time. Just tastes better.”

  Holy shit, I thought. I knew that restaurant food tasted better than what I made at home, but I never knew that they layered fat, sugar and salt together intentionally. After watching the video loop at Superior Sugar’s booth, I knew they put sugar in a wide variety of products but still wasn’t sure why. I couldn’t really taste the sugar in the sausage in Sarah’s gumbo. Maybe I ate so much sugar that my sweetness taste buds were numbed?

  “Why do you think adding sugar works?” I asked.

  “Lab guys tell us that people’s brains get used to sugar and need it. They say it affects the brain like drugs do. You get hooked like an addict. Over my head. I just know it works. Must just make things taste better,” Glen said.

  I winked, swished my behind and said, “Make sure you come see us at the Superior Sugar booth.”

  He smiled with his brown teeth, appreciating the flirting, yet having the miles on him to know that I was just playing.

  Charlotte was still at the booth when I returned. I helped her place the last arrangements of flowers and candy treats on tables positioned to attract customers.

  Mandy’s uncle, Garrett Morris, walked in the booth and said, “Hello, Charlotte, this must be Alexandra.”

  I spun around to see a tall, graying, rather handsome man with his hand extended. I shook his hand and said, “Mr. Morris, I am Alexandra, so pleased to meet you.”

  Charlotte did not look enthused to see him at all. Actually, she had a “you disgust me look on her face.” I’d seen that look aimed at many guys who annoyed her. I wondered what I didn’t know. Was Garrett Morris a problem?

  “Looks like you two have gotten things shipshape here. Want to grab a drink back at the hotel bar?” he asked.

  Charlotte, without hesitation, blurted, “No, thank you. Alexandra and I already have plans for the rest of the evening.”

  I was caught off guard and wobbled my head up and down in tepid agreement.

  “Maybe some other time,” Garrett said as he sauntered off.

  I looked at Charlotte and asked, “What’s up with that guy?”

  “Let’s go back to the hotel and I’ll tell you on the way,” she said.

  The hotel was about four blocks away so we decided to walk and enjoy the night air. She told me quite a story about Garrett Morris.

  “His family tries not to have anything to do with him. He owns an interest in the company, so they must give him a job and put up with him. They say that he has always been very strange even in his formative years as a child. He devised elaborate
traps to catch dogs, cats and wild animals to do “scientific experiments” on them. Everyone knew he was just torturing them. Talk around Superior is that he did weird things to Mandy when she was young, but she never admitted it and no one could prove it. Now he owns pit bulls that he enters in illegal dog fights around New Orleans and other parts of the South. He’s charming, but it’s all fake. He really gives me the creeps. Stay away from him, Alexandra.”

  Holy shit. This asshole must be who everyone was warning me about. I’ll stay miles away from that no-good bastard. I hope one of his dogs gets loose and gnaws his balls right off.

  Charlotte and I had a scheduled dinner with Mr. Morris, the good Mr. Morris, to talk about the PR campaign. We met him at Canaletto Restaurant at 7:00 PM. Small talk out of the way, we looked over the menu. I ordered pasta with homemade Italian sausage. Charlotte went for the pork chop and pasta, and Mr. Morris opted for the lobster. The waiter filled our wine glasses, and we admired the view of the gondola-laden canal.

  “Alexandra, have you given any thought to a PR campaign for sugar?” Morris asked.

  “I sure have, Mr. Morris,” I answered. “Sugar is a natural sweetener. The weight gain in America is much more complicated than just regulating sugar. The artificial stuff is much more dangerous. Emphasizing the natural aspect of sugar seems to make the best sense to me. No one wants the government telling them what not to eat. Bloomberg found that out in New York. Most people want to make those choices for themselves. What do you think about this slogan?”

  “Even Mother Nature — and she knows best — added a touch of sugar to all of her fruits and vegetables.”

  His eyes brightened. “I love it,” he said. “The marketing people will have a field day with it. I can see ads with a motherly woman anointing all the fruits and vegetables with a glowing touch of the goodness of sugar. This is Mother Nature’s plan, not ours. I’m no ad guy, but I love it.”

  We enjoyed our meal and retired to our rooms. Tomorrow I’d head back to New Orleans and Mardi Gras.

  Chapter Ten:

  Back in New Orleans

  I arrived in New Orleans with a slew of thoughts rolling through my mind. Normally, on a Sunday morning like this, I might head to Cafe Du Monde for some beignets. Not after seeing all those obese people in the airport in Vegas. Even looking at King Cakes grossed me out now. What about Mandy and her Uncle Weirdo? How could anyone be cruel to defenseless animals? If he did molest her, that might explain her moral-free behavior. Strange!

  I called Sarah to let her know I made it home. “Hi, Alex, I’m cooking chicken and sausage gumbo, want some? And, opening a bottle of wine too,” she added.

  “Hell, yeah,” I said. I needed some Sarah time and I couldn’t help but wonder if she put sugar in the gumbo. I laughed thinking she would if Mr. Morris had anything to say about it.

  Sarah and I lost no time catching up with what had happened in Vegas. I told her what I’d learned about the processed food business. She was shocked to learn the behind- the-scenes nightmares that went along with the convenience of modern living. We looked at the ingredients of the sausage she’d put in the gumbo and there it was HFC (high fructose corn syrup). We giggled at how we were fooled just like the processors wanted us to be. Didn’t stop us from eating it though.

  “Sarah, did you know about Holly Morris’ uncle?” I asked.

  “You mean that perv, Garrett Morris? Sure. I’ve known the family for a long time. He has always been a weirdo. The family tried to get him out of the business, but the courts wouldn’t let them. They keep him away as much as possible, and he has no real interest in the sugar business. He just wants to keep cashing the checks. Really, they pay him to stay away but he shows up at trade shows to name drop and skulk after women. He probably went to Vegas for some serious dog-fighting action, the creep.”

  “Charlotte and I ditched him and never saw him again, “I said.

  Sarah’s expression turned sour as if she’d imagined his gross face and we laughed. After two glasses of wine each and a bowl of gumbo, the conversation turned more serious.

  “Sarah, you look preoccupied. What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Something Detective Baker said when you and I were at the police station has been bothering me. Remember when he separated us?” she asked.

  “How could I forget? We told the entire story to at least five cops and had to tell it all over again to Detective Baker twice. Don’t those guys take notes or remember anything?” I asked.

  “He asked me if Mark had a fascination with paper dolls. I said no because nothing registered at the time. It’s been bugging me ever since. You know that incomplete feeling you get when you know there is something important you’ve forgotten? Then I remembered. When Mark and I first met, he used to call me his little paper doll because I was writing stories and selling them to Jess Johnson at the Times. Did Baker ask you anything about paper dolls?” she asked, the ceiling fan breeze blowing her hair away from her face.

  “No, he just wanted to know what Mark said, the exact words. Nothing about paper dolls,” I said.

  “Maybe I should call Detective Baker and tell him,” she said. “No big deal, I guess. Mark quit calling me his paper doll long before we married. So, have you talked to Tom since you’ve gotten back in New Orleans?”

  “No, but he’s asked me to go with him to the Aquarium of The Americas since we aren’t working tomorrow or Wednesday. Is New Orleans the only city in the U.S. that shuts down for Mardi Gras?”

  “I think Lafayette does too. All New Orleans isn’t shut down, just the downtown Central Business District because of the parade routes and all of the people in the French Quarter. Don’t panic the bars and restaurants will be open in the Quarter. No way any business gets done anyway. Traffic is snarled and everybody wants to party. Believe it or not, a great deal of New Orleanians go to Disney World, skiing, or somewhere else Mardi Gras week,” she said. “Alex, I know we haven’t talked about this, but I need to tell you that I’m not going to the Rex Ball. Before you say anything, I know you want me to go to be your support, but you’ll be fine. You will have an exciting time.”

  I rolled my eyes and wrinkled my nose. “S A R A H... Why aren’t you going?”

  “I have my reasons, Alex. You know I am a private person, so please don’t ask me to explain,” she said.

  “Holy shit, Sarah, I barely know those people.”

  “Don’t worry about it. They’ll all be shit-faced anyway. You and Tom can dance, eat, and party however you like. If you get bored, you can always go to Broussard’s condo on Bourbon Street and hang out on the balcony. Broussard’s condo is really a three-bedroom, three-bath home with a private garage and an elevator. All you have to do is show your Rex Ball ticket and give security your name, and they’ll let you in. The condo will be stocked with a feast of food and any kind of beverage you could imagine. Broussard even provides tons of fantastic beads for you to throw to the crowds on Bourbon Street. You and Tom will have a fairy tale evening.”

  “OK, if you say so, but I’ll miss you,” I said.

  “You can tell me all about Tom and the fun you two had tomorrow, when you roll out of bed,” she said.

  There was that little smile again. She knew that I wanted Tom. Wanted him in the carnal sense. She had not seen me affected by a guy like this in all the years she’d known me. I wanted him. I just hoped he felt the same.

  On my way home, I just couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the night air felt against my skin. No clouds and so many stars. Petite chill bumps rolled up my arms to my neck. I wondered were these chill bumps from the night air or thoughts of Tom? Lower your expectations, I said to myself. The man hasn’t even noticed your boobs. The weather forecasters promised increasing cloudiness but no rain through Mardi Gras night. Perfect for a newly minted Cinderella and her prince.

  In the morning, I met Tom at the Aquarium at 9:00. H
e wore jeans again and looked amazing in them with Under Armour t-shirt, and a black North Face softshell jacket added. Where the hell had he been all my life? The sign on the Aquarium entrance said it didn’t open to the public till 10:00. But Tom had friends, employees of the Aquarium, who let us in. They asked if we wanted to help feed the animals.

  “Hell, yeah,” we said at the same time.

  Feeding the animals was a riot. Tom put on diving gear and got in the Aquarium and fed some of the fish. I watched him through the spotless glass and thought how sexy he looked with the wetsuit hugging his lean body. I fed fish to the penguins. They were picky. Some wanted the fish eye up and some tail first. Did I mention Tom had a great body? Nothing sexier than a man at work. That is, when he’s doing what he’s good at, especially if it’s what he’s meant to do. After he fed the fish, Tom taught me all about the fish and other animals at the aquarium. He knew it all. What an amazing way to experience the Aquarium. I had lived in New Orleans for years and never visited and now I was glad I waited.

  We left at 10:00 when the crowds were allowed to enter and headed to a small coffee shop/bistro in the Quarter to hang out for a while. Tom and I had a chance to look each other face to face and talk. OMG, did we have chemistry, our eyes fastened on each other, finishing each other’s sentences.