Outro: The Serial Novel

Chapter 27

The Quest for Britney

Ruby


Everything on the ship had an artistic theme, and the karaoke took place in the Starry Night Lounge, before an enormous wallpaper re-creation of its title work. As you might have guessed, Harry and I went there every night. He had the chance to sic his well-drilled repertoire on a whole new crowd of swooning females, and I had the chance to explore an impressive selection of standards and showtunes. I developed an immediate following among the seniors, who enjoyed swinging and fox-trotting to my songs.

At the end of our first evening, our Australian hostess Lani asked me if I was going to try out for the Legends concert. For the next four evenings, passengers would come to the Starry Night and sing a song by a legendary performer. If the audience decided you were the best at that song, you would appear as that performer in a Vegas-style show before 1,500 of your fellow passengers.

I actually thought of opting out. The contest was obviously aimed at amateurs, and it wouldn’t be entirely fair for me to participate. That thought lasted about half a second. If my ship was gonna have a show, I was gonna be in it.

One problem: none of the female roles were from jazz or Broadway. I halfway thought of cross-dressing as Sinatra, but I chickened out. So began my journey through the popular music of the late 20th century.

The first night was Aretha, and the song was “Respect.” I assumed it was about the singing, and I thought I pretty much nailed it. But then, out comes this perky young Filipina, and she’s got choreography, for God’s sake. So much choreography, in fact, that she’s dropping notes right and left. No one seems to notice, and I’m out.

The next night is Madonna, “Like A Virgin.” I grew up on that song – hell, I think I lost my virginity to that song. But I’ve learned my lesson, so I throw in a couple of sexy moves when I can. However. The next contestant is this sexy Italian kindergarten teacher from Long Island, and she throws in the kind of moves that no kindergarten teacher should ever know. At one point, she pulls out a classic Madonna maneuver, lying with her back on the stage while she’s singing. So! Am I going to get the part? No way.

My third chance is Gloria Estefan, “The Rhythm is Gonna Get You.” I can totally pull off Gloria – I grew up in Florida, after all – and I prep myself with some salsa and rhumba moves before adjourning to the Starry Night. But then…

The rowdiest pack on the ship is this alumni group from Indiana University. They’re easy to spot, because they all wear red, all the time – massing down the fiesta deck, crowding the blackjack tables, doing the frug in the Warhol Club. In the swimming pools, they wear red bathing suits. Nice people, but loud, and the constant red-ness gives off an unsettling Nazi vibe.

I sing a couple of tropical warmups – “Jamaican Farewell,” “Girl from Ipanema” – but at nine, when the contest begins, there’s a rumbling like someone just lifted the gate at Pamplona. The wide front doors swing open and in rolls the Red Sea, filling every available nook. As you might expect, they’re here for a cause: a 50-year-old with dried-out smoker’s skin and frizzy hair with traces of several different red dye jobs. She actually seems quite nice, and she throws in some decent Cuban dance moves, but her voice is a creaky, smoked-out mess. Doesn’t matter. When the Red Sea explodes, she’s a winner.

I can’t be the good loser this time. I wait till the next singer takes the mic, then give Harry’s hand a squeeze and we make for the back exit. We’re halfway through the Internet café when a door opens, and out pops our KJ.

“Lani! How’d you…?”

“Every ship’s got its secret passageways,” she says. “Look. That sort of shit” – she nods back toward the club – “is a truly unfortunate part of my job. It happens at least once a cruise. But I want you to know, I know exactly how good you are, and I know this stuff is all beneath your talent, but I can’t stand the thought of you not being in that show, and I really want you to come back tomorrow night.”

“I’m… thanks, Lani. But I don’t even know the song.”

She hands me a rectangular object wrapped in wires. It’s an IPod. “You will, if you listen to that. We usually only give these to the winners, so they can practice for the show. But screw the rules! We’re in international waters, right?”

“Oh Lani, I…”

“Oh Lani nothing! Do your homework, young lady. Whoops! Song’s over. Bye.”

She’s back through the door and I’m left floating in flattery. We retreat to the arcade, where Harry and I work out our frustrations on a combination jukebox/electronic drum set (mostly Led Zeppelin) then on to the Matisse Jazz Lounge for martinis. When we get back to our cabin, I find a mysterious package on my bed. It’s a DVD of the Legends concert from a previous cruise. Somebody really wants me to get this part.

Which is Britney Spears – “Hit Me Baby One More Time.” I never liked it much, but the next morning, when I strapped on the IPod and tried it out, I was surprised to find out how well it suited me. Britney has this deep, low pocket that she slides into, and it seemed to wrap around my voice like a form-fitting dress. After it scratched a few grooves into my synapses, I tried out the DVD and studied the moves of the ship’s dancers. (I ignored their Britney, who was Aunt-Zelda-sings-at-your-wedding awful.) If I could work a little of the choreography into my audition, it would give me a nice edge. I pushed our bed to the cabin wall and put myself through some paces. It was pretty sexy stuff; I caught Harry peeking from the bathroom as he shaved.

The costume was a cinch. I picked out a short pleated skirt (intended for some imaginary night of dancing), shiny black shoes that might pass for patent leather, and white knee-high stockings. Then I stole Harry’s white dress shirt and tied it above my bare midriff. Voila! The classic parochial slut, and we were off to the bar.

Little do I know, I have become a cause celebre. The regulars are pretty cheesed off about the Red Sea incident, and impressed that I am now risking four-time loserdom. A group of Japanese tourists has migrated to the front row for the sole purpose of cheering me on. I am the 1980 U.S. hockey team, the 1969 Jets. When I begin with Peggy Lee’s “Fever” (designed to work up my “sexy”), the crowd lets out a practice uproar.

Come audition time, I’m up first, and I guess I’m better than I expected. I have wisely inserted my dance moves into the generous spaces between the vocal lines, so I can concentrate on one task at a time. Rolling into the ending, I strike a pose at each of four beats, raking a hand along my skirt and over my hair as I arch my back. The place goes nuts.

But then, out comes my competition, and I have every right to be nervous. If you didn’t tell me otherwise, I’d say it is Britney, this 19-year-old chicklet with legs up to Canada, an utterly fantastic ass, nice rack, big Hollywood lips and a head of hair that rains down in thick ribbons of blondeness. She’s a fucking shampoo commercial. The music begins, she vamps to the front of the stage and out comes this voice like an LP played with a concrete needle.

Game over, right? Don’t bet on it. Because Britney II has an entourage of fratboys, and it’s almost as if she’s offered a night of carnal pleasures to whoever yells the loudest. On the first vote, in fact, the ovations are too close to call. But this only serves to piss off my fans even more. A short, bespectacled man jumps in front of his Japanese peers to cheerlead, and when Lani’s hand pops open over my head I am blown backward by the loudest, scariest sound I’ve heard since a Navy air show on Whidbey Island. I am deafened, I am adored, and even a pack of horny fratboys cannot match it. Lani brings the mic to her mouth, declares “I think it’s Ruby!” and my fans burst forth in a fugue of coyote yips. My life-long dream of playing Britney Spears has come to pass.

By now you’re probably wondering about my talented boyfriend. Unlike me, Harry was no slut for every passing star. He wanted only to be the King. Even though the part of Elvis was the final male audition, making this an all-or-nothing attempt, he would consider no other. As it turned out, his loyalty was richly rewarded – because nobody else tried out. Harry was summarily crowned, and asked to sing “Hound Dog” as proof of his prowess. He was excellent, of course, but I gave him a whack on the butt nonetheless, for the gross inequity of our respective situations.

We spent the next day kayaking – and perhaps that’s another reason I got so attached to it. We paddled within the glow of victory, and I could barely hear the sounds of frigate birds, motorboats or waves on rocks with “Hit Me Baby One More Time” playing interminably through my head (without, I might add, the assistance of an IPod). That afternoon, I discovered what a small, magnified community is a cruise ship, and how quickly word of my travails had spread. My biggest fans were the seniors, who relished the fact that someone who sang their songs could beat a teenybopper at her own generation’s music. Strangers would shout to me in the corridors – “Hey Britney!” “Karaoke girl!” “Go get ‘em, Ruby!” – and whenever we came upon my Japanese posse, they weren’t happy until I hugged each and every one of them. That night’s dinner was a formal-dress affair, and when I entered the hall in my jade-green sequin gown, they applauded me. It felt like some wacky Fred Astaire musical, and I ate it up like crème brulee.

You might expect Harry to be taken aback by all of this, perhaps even a little jealous – he was Elvis, after all. But Harry was precisely the opposite, confident enough in his own talent to understand that my four-part battle had become something extraordinary. He had a permanent goofy grin plastered to his mug, and he never tired of telling everybody that he was sleeping with Britney Spears. I think he was also proud that everybody else was finding out about his talented girlfriend, and excited that he would finally get to see me in my element. It didn’t hurt when the Japanese contingent would bow down in mock worship and chant “Ellll-vis! Ellllvis!”

The show was actually pretty easy. They had done it cruise after cruise for God knows how long, and had it carefully programmed for shaky amateurs. After donning our costumes (available in three different sizes), we adjourned to the “green room,” which was really just a small landing next to this metallic, Navy-looking stairwell. Harry’s Elvis costume – the white Vegas jumpsuit – seemed to turn him into the class cutup, and he went around punching holes in the tension. He turned to Melanie, in her early-Madonna see-through dress, and said, “I hate to mention this, honey, but we can see your underwear!” I also remember our lead showgirl, Holly – she of the perfect six-foot body – using the stairway rails to stretch in ways that would send the rest of us to the hospital.

Playing the youngest of the icons, I had to wait an interminable amount of time before my escort, a lovely gay dancer named Geoffrey, came to whisk me away. We braced ourselves beside the entrance, elbows coupled, listening for the cue in Britney’s intro (I believe it was the word “vixen”), and then he gives me a tug and leads me to a star at center stage. My job is to sing the song without straying from that star, lest I trip up one of the schoolgirls in my “posse,” but of course I’m after brownie points. Britney II and her fratboys have every right to be suspicious about the way the same moves I used in my audition are matching up with those of the dancers. The audience just knows, instinctively, that something about my performance is “tighter” than the others. I jolt into that same four-pose ending and freeze with my troupe, taking a loofah shower in the sound of 3,000 hands. It is indescribably sweet.

Geoffrey comes to fetch me back, and we stand in the wings as Harry does his stuff. He definitely has the best production values in the show: the classic 2001: Space Odyssey intro, followed by a verse of “Hound Dog,” followed by “Jailhouse Rock” with a half-dozen twirling babes in Ray-bans and Capri pants. He throws in a couple of leg-waggles and sings his usual excellence, eliding one forgotten phrase with what he calls the Elvis Mumble.

Holly Perfectbody comes to lead him off, and then comes a surprisingly touching elegy: a spotlight on an empty stool as we listen to clips of Sinatra talking about his life. Michael, a journalist from Seattle, comes out in a tux and short-brimmed fedora to sing “My Way” in a voice eerily similar to the original. As the orchestra wells up, the rest of the legends return, and our escorts walk us through a simple choreography. We take our final bows (more loofah, pass the shampoo) and run up the aisle to a nearby lounge for photos. I was tugged away by Harry, who continued talking like Elvis as he kissed away a major portion of my makeup.

“Hey Priscilla, wanna celebrate?”

“And what do you call what you just did?”

“That’s just preliminaries, bebe.”

“Well first we’d better return these getups.”

He ran a hand under the hem of my plaid skirt. “Sure they wouldn’t let you keep this just a little longer?”

I had no choice but to squeak like a Mouseketeer. “Mr. Presley! You bad, bad man. I’m gonna tell Colonel Parker on you.”

“I’m pretty sure he’d be on my side. Meet me in the Mattress Lounge?”

“That’s Matisse, you pedophile.”

“Pee-doh… Whassat?”

“Jerry Lee Lewis.”

“Oh! Uh-uh-huh.”

Harry held my shoulders, keeping me still with those blue eyes, and spoke like Harry again.

“Seriously, Ruby. You were incredible up there. I never dreamed you were that good.”

I kissed him thoroughly and sent him off to the men’s dressing room with a slap to the hindquarters. He gave me a pistolshot with his fingers, said, “Thankyou. Thankyouvermuch,” and joined James Brown in a march backstage.

Between chit-chatting with Aretha and Gloria (silently forgiving them for beating me), receiving my compliments from Geoffrey (“I had you picked out as a pro from square one”) and swapping back into my civilian clothes, I was the last one out of the dressing room. When I came back out on stage, the theater was profoundly empty. I have a superstition that goes, Any time you see a mark, hit it, so I ambled up to the star and buried its east and west points under my pumps. A burst of short-term memory washes over me, but it flutters away like a riverbank of of butterflies and I arrive at a wall of sadness, as if my veins have all gone indigo. A surge of gravity yanks me seaward, but I fight it, pressing down on that star and turning my legs into treetrunks, letting the tears do what they may.

“Everything OK?”

You could forgive me for thinking it’s God – a gruff, booming baritone emanating from stage left. I twist from my star to discover a large man in a double-breasted navy suit. He seems to be in his mid-fifties, balding, with a thick salt-and-pepper beard, but he exudes a virile energy – executive bouncer, high-class Mafioso.

“Stage blues,” he says. “You’ve hit an emotional peak, and now the moment’s gone. It’s all downhill from here – but at least it’s a tall hill.”

I perform a few eye rubs to clean the slate.

“No offense, but who the hell are you?”

He lets out a guffaw on a single note, like the ones produced by opera singers during party scenes. “Haw! I’m Albert Camarelli, and I’m quite a fan. You are a marvelous singer.”

“Thank you, Mr. Camarelli.”

“Please. You can call me Al.”

“Al.” I take a second to scan the empty seats, trying to put a name to my symptoms. “But you’re wrong, Al. I’m familiar with stage blues. I’m a… professional. And I’m wondering why I had to work so fucking hard to get this stupid, shitty little part.”

“There are no small parts, just…”

“Oh save it, Al!” And here I am, crying again. Al comes over and places a hand on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry. Shouldn’t throw cliches at a pro. Would you like to take a walk with me on deck? Just for a few minutes?”

This seems a little forward, but Al’s aura emanates benevolence.

“You should know,” I say, “I’m already taken.”

He smiles. “Everybody knows that. You and Elvis are the golden couple. He’s pretty good, too. Nowhere near as good as you.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Honey, there’s jazz and then there’s the easy stuff. You’re a jazz singer.”

I turn and do a little squeegee job on my face.

“You’ve heard me sing jazz?”

“All week.”

“And I’m a jazz singer?”

“Most definitely.”

“Okay, Al. Let’s go for a walk.”

I take a last, doleful look at my star before following Al up the aisle. The elevator opens on the forward pool area, populated by a few late-night drinkers and a chain-smoking teen in a Ramones T-shirt.

“Britney! You are hot, honey.”

“Thanks,” I say.

We walk a few feet more and Al says, “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

I flash him a secret grin. “A teenage boy just called me ‘hot,’ Al. What do you think?”

“Haw! Mind if I puff a stogie? It’s a Cuban, so it’s now or never.”

“Nah. Go ahead.”

Al turns away from the breeze, cups his hand and lights up. I wander toward the railing, eyeing the low strip of Baja California, a handful of lights popping from the darkness. Al joins me, proffering his prize.

“Care for a puff?”

“Sure.” I twirl the tip in my mouth and take a drag. The smoke carries a rich coffee edge, plus something unexpectedly sweet, like a good port.

“That is lovely,” I say.

“You’ve done this before.”

“I’ve got a friend who smokes Swisher Sweets.”

“Egad! On purpose?” He takes it back, tips the ash into a designated container (installed after balcony passengers found themselves being attacked by flurries of gray snow), then works the end into an orange glow.

“So! Ruby. Would you play some word association with me?”

“Sure, doc.”

“Gershwin.”

“But Not For Me.”

“Straighten Up and Fly Right.”

“Nat King Cole. The trio years.”

“Vocalese.”

“Take a famous instrumental solo and apply lyrics to it. Created by Lambert, Hendricks and the incomparable Ross.”

“Lush Life.”

“Ooh! Billy Eckstine. Smokey stuff.”

Al stops and turns because he thinks he’s got a meaty one.

“Mack the Knife.”

“Merry little tune about a serial killer. Kurt Weill, for The Threepenny Opera with Bertolt Brecht. They told him the show needed a prologue to explain the main character; on the way home, he heard a trolley playing that familiar three-note motif: doo doo doo doo. Famously recorded by Louis, Ella, Frank and of course Bobby D. Weill also wrote Moon of Alabama, recorded by the Doors, and September Song.”

“Um, uh…” Al is running out of steam. “A Small Hotel?”

“Rodgers and Hart. Al? Are we playing Jeopardy?”

He comes to some kind of decision and snaps his fingers. “No. You’re it, Ruby.”

“So we’re playing tag? Yaknow, I’ve really got to meet Elvis in the Matisse…”

“No!” We’ve arrived at the aft swimming pool. He waves me into a chair. “Just two more minutes, I swear.”

I take a seat as Al heads for the bar. He takes out a key and opens a cabinet, then returns with two glasses and a bottle of champagne.

“Al! You’re gonna get in trouble.”

He gives me a wink. “It’s all right. I’ve got connections.” He pops the cork, fills us up and raises a toast. “May you never have to sing Britney Spears ever again.”

“You devil! You have come up with something I cannot refuse to drink to.”

Al sits down and arranges his legs until he’s comfortable, then he leans forward and laces his fingers.

“I’ve been watching you all week, Ruby. It takes a real connoisseur to know how good you are, and I knew it after three seconds. I spent the rest of the week making sure that I wasn’t hallucinating. You have this ability with a song, to mold it, craft it like a fine sculptor – and God forbid, have a little fun with it. What you don’t have is this godawful need to flatten out the tone and sap out all the warmth.”

“Like Diana Krall?” I ask.

He laughs. “As in, makes my skin Krall. No. You have this marvelous old-fashioned sensibility that never, ever should have gone out of style. Actual vibrato, actual phrasing – call it torch singing, or vocal acting. The seniors appreciate it, because they grew up with it, but only two people on this fucking ship understand precisely what makes it work, and they’re both sitting at this table.”

I smile and take another sip of Al’s very good champagne. “You know, Al? As long as you’re not some highly articulate stalker, I could get to like you.”

“Haw! That’s good, because you might be seeing a lot of me.”

“Um… Okay. Why?”

“I’m the vice president of this cruise line, Ruby. I’m also the entertainment director. We get a lot of older passengers on our Alaskan cruises – people who still know and love the great songs. For that and my own purely selfish reasons, I’ve decided to set up an old-fashioned jazz club, just like the ones you would see in one of those old Astaire movies, and fit it out with a small orchestra and a singer. And I want you to be the singer.”


That’s about the time I lose it. I slam the table with both hands and yell “No!” spilling half my coffee and alarming the couple at the next table.

“Yes!” says Ruby. “I start next month.”

“That is incredible! That is… Oh! Oh Ruby!” I circle the table to give her a hug, and then I grab a handful of napkins to sop up my coffee. It’s amazing how quickly my thoughts revert to my own selfish needs.

“But… Does this mean you’re leaving?”

“Not at all. The cruises are out of Seattle. A week on/week off kind of thing.”

I feel a little dizzy, awash with joy. It’s true – empathy is a workable drug. But I’ve got one more doubt.

“Is this… Is this enough for you?”

Ruby tents her fingers. “I believe the quote was, I will no longer chase a dream that doesn’t chase me. Well honey, this particular dream stalked me for a week and then toasted me with champagne and Cuban cigars! And I think by now I’ve got a handle on my basic needs. I need to stand in front of people and sing to them. If it’s on a cruise ship instead of somewhere on Times Square, then so be it!”

We both relax into our chairs, chewing our perfect bread. Ruby lets out little aspirations of wonder left over from the Mexican Pacific. Then she snaps to and raps her knuckles on the table.

“Oh, Channy. Me me me! I completely forgot – did you hear anything about Kai?”

Don’t think I’m not tempted. I have huge, carnivorous things crawling inside of me, and if I don’t expose them to the light of day they will eat me alive. But I am not about to rain on such a spectacular parade.

“Nope,” I say. “Haven’t heard a thing.”


Next: Celebration Time

Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1



Image: the author as Frank Sinatra on a 2006 Carnival Cruise.

Outro: The Serial Novel

Twenty-Seven

The Return of Roo-bee

I’m back on the chessboard, but now the black and white squares are grassy fields on a hillside. One field grows white grass, the other grows black. They are neatly separated by a barbed wire fence. I am astride a white horse on the black field, bouncing along like the token cowgirl in a John Wayne movie (I’m picturing Ava Gardner). My steed is a mountain of smooth muscle, beautifully rideable. I spur him to a gallop and steer us toward a hedge, relishing the hiccup of gravity as we clear the crest.

On the far side, we come upon the fence, composed of pure silver. Across from us, at the center of the white field, stands a black horse. At first sight of us he charges, lips flaring. He’s about to hit the fence when a shot rings out. His legs buckle and he falls, sliding to a stop directly in front of us. This frightens the white horse, who bucks wildly, tossing me to the ground. When I gather my bearings, I am lying on my side, face to face with the black horse. As I watch, his red eyes fade away and the rest of him melts, turning the white field to black.

And then somebody barks. And I wake up next to a dead hand. It’s mine. I fell asleep in an odd position, and my left arm has gone completely numb. I use my still-living right hand to nudge it out of my way, then peer across the room to see the numbers 5:54. and a fuzzy pyramid of pooch.

“Java! How the fuck are you doing this?”

I am secretly happy to see him; in the face of such an obvious dream (where were the evil mimes? the radioactive pickles?), I am hungry for mystery. Java trots to my side, slips his snout under my hand, and I give him a thorough scalp massage. He is my favorite plush toy, and he knows it.

Then I notice the trail of muddy footprints he’s left on my white carpeting. At first I’m angry, but then I realize he’s just given up his secret. I creak to my feet and follow his tracks into the kitchen; they end at the sink. The cabinet door is unlatched. When I pull it open, I discover that my pipes now come with a backyard view. Evidently, John installed a hatch providing easier access to the plumbing, but neglected to close it when he fixed my garbage disposal last week. As if to demonstrate, Java ducks under the pipes and bounds into the yard, then turns to give me one of his Lassie-barks.

“Yeah-yeah. Very impressive.”

I reach for the rope tied to the hatch and pull it shut. But now I’m a little sad, because I have once again wiped my life clean of enigmas – I, who used to have so many. I also realize that I am not getting back to sleep, so I head for the shower.


My seven a.m. landscape is cold and foggy – no surprise there – so I grab a big black jacket that I haven’t used for a while. As I slide into my truck, I feel a lump in my breast pocket and reach in to discover a lone Swisher Sweet. This should probably be a disconcerting event, but it’s not. Lately, I’ve had this black-pit feeling of being Harvey’s accomplice – I did, after all, marry the murdering son-of-a-bitch – and the chance to perform an act of penance is quite welcome. And penance it will be – this thing looks like a core sample from the Mojave Desert.

I actually consider the long drive to Port Townsend, but ritual is hard to break, so I follow my ruts to Gig Harbor. I park at the Jerisich Dock, start my cigar with the fleur-de-lis lighter and trudge waterward, puffing like a freight train. The taste is truly awful, and I wonder if this is how great Catholic martyrs are born.

A strip of candy red extends from the end of the pier like a windsock, and some crazyperson is sitting in the middle of it. Faint Morse code blips into my brain: This would be a kayak. Kye-ack. As I draw closer, the crazyperson removes his knit cap to reveal a mop of hair that matches the boat. Some loony kayaking rocker teen with dyed hair. He spots me and calls out in a high voice.

“Christ! Are you smoking that thing on purpose?”

And I’m running, scanning the water for black horses and evil mimes, my sneakers slapping the planks. I’ve been waiting so long to speak these syllables that they come out in sing-song.

“Roo-bee!”

I skid to a halt. Ruby is laughing her head off.

“Well don’t kill yourself!”

I’m helpless. I can’t get to her without sending us both into the drink. All I can do is repeat my recitative.

“RoobeeRoobeeRoobee!”

She claps her hands together. “And your name is Channy!”

I’m all dicombobulated, so I stuff the cigar in my mouth and take a huge drag that sends me into a fit of coughing.

“Heh! What the… hemm! What the hell are you doing in that thing?”

“Why, I’m kayaking, honey. It’s a noun and a verb.”

“But you’re in Mexico!”

“You’re right. I’m in Mexico.” She gives me a wide smile. “Someone’s lost track of her mental calendar.”

“Entirely possible. Would you get your big luscious ass out of there so I can molest you?”

“Best offer I’ve had in six hours. I’ll meet you at that little landing next to the ramp.”

“Gotcha.” I walk the length of the pier as Ruby paddles beside me. She’s much better at this than I would have guessed, pivoting the paddle from one side to the other with nary a hitch. She rolls onto the landing, pulls up the kayak, and then I charge, yanking her to her feet for a huge hug. I can feel the icy water from her wetsuit as it penetrates by blue jeans. I’m also crying.

“Jesus, Channy. Are you all right?”

“I just missed you, you crazy bitch.”

She lets out a theater laugh – Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing. “You’re getting so codependent. What’ll I do with you?”

I rediscover the cigar in my hand (nice thing about Swishers, they’d stay lit through Hurricane Katrina) and I take a final drag, pulling the spark all the way down to the tip and hurling it into the water. Amen.

“You’ll let me buy you some fresh-baked bread at Susanne’s.”

“Ay, lass. Now you’re talkin’.”

Ruby deposits her wetsuit in the trunk of her car, ties her kayak to the roof rack, and ducks into the bakery restroom to swap her shorts for a dry pair of jeans. I, meanwhile, obtain a loaf of Dutch crunch, warm from the oven, and a serrated knife. Ruby spreads a wad of butter on her first slice and watches with greedy eyes as it melts into the surface.

“This is pure genius,” she says.

I take a bite and adopt a rapturous expression. “I’m a carbohydrate Einstein. So. Mexico? Mexico?”

Ruby grins like a kid in front of a birthday cake.

“I have such a story for you! But first: appetizers. We went kayaking in Mazatlan, at this little island across from the big hotels. When we reached the tip of the island, we hit open ocean, and these long swells came in to lift us and then gently set us back down. As we were paddling back, this Mexican supermodel came strolling along the beach topless, with the most perfect set of gazongas I have ever set eyes on. Poor Harry was having a stroke trying not to look. I told him, ‘Honey, I’m going to stare at her, so go ahead already!’ As you may have guessed, I got totally hooked on the kayaking. We got in pretty late last night, but I was so jacked up I woke up at five, stole Harry’s kayak, and you know the rest.”

“And may I say, you look amazingly at home with that paddle.”

She laughs. “Perhaps in a previous life I was an Aleut.”

“I went to school with an Aleut.”

Ruby takes a huge bite of bread; it takes her a while to chew it down.

“Excuse my piggishness. Apparently I’ve worked up an appetite. So! Puerto Vallarta. We caught a bus to a ranchero, where we embarked on a rather advanced hike over these hills – sort of the beginnings of the Sierra Madre. The humidity was stunning; I felt like a human sponge being wrung out. We ended up at this little riverside park, where they had tile tubs fed by natural springs and an enormous iguana who stared at us from the crotch of a tree like a surly green security guard. We forded the river and discovered thousands of pastel butterflies, solid squares of pink, yellow, blue and white sunning themselves on the far bank. Our guide walked right into them, and they rose in a cloud, like backwards confetti.

“By the time we got to Cabo, we were a little worn out, so we took a boat into the waterfront for some low-impact shopping. We were immediately set upon by peddlers, so we sought refuge in this pirate bar, where this loco waiter brought us our drinks balanced on his head. He was good!”

“How was the food on the ship?”

“Oh!” she says. “Oh! I can’t even start. When I got to the final bite of our final meal, I held it up to Harry and said, ‘From now on, everything I eat will taste like shit.’ Tell you what, though. I saved copies of every single menu. Why don’t I bring them, next time we get together, and I’ll give you a detailed narration of each meal.”

With this, she takes another bite of bread, sips at her coffee and leans back in her chair. Her expression is one of utter contentment, like a woman who has fallen profoundly into love. But she seems in no hurry to explain.

“What?” I demand. “What?”

She closes her eyes, then opens them slowly. “I don’t know what I like best: the event itself, or the chance to tell you about it.”

“Yeah yeah. I’m flattered, I’m touched, yada yada. Now out with it!”

She smiles yet again, and indulges in one last pause before taking the plunge.


Next: In Pursuit of Britney Spears

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Outro: The Serial Novel

Chapter Twenty-Six, Part IV
Sanctuary

The week we moved into Sumner, I found a box of books in the basement with a note from the previous tenant: Sorry! Didn’t have enough room for this in the van – thought you might like something to read.

At the top was a book of Northwest hiking trails. I opened it to the bookmark and found a listing circled with a highlighter: the Nisqually Delta Bird Sanctuary. I had a profound itch to explore our new region, and this certainly fit into the category of Sign from God.

That Saturday, we had a lot of chores to catch up on – we were still hunting up shower curtains and a microwave oven – so by the time we found the sanctuary parking lot the sun was getting low in the west. We walked straight into it, down a wide gravel path bordered by tall wetland grasses the color of dried bamboo.

“Look,” I said. I gestured above us, where the swallows were swirling from one field to the next, a haphazard, aerial tennis match. But Harvey’s gaze was fixed on the long trail. Always the distance with this one. I had to take him by the shoulders and nearly put him into a headlock to get him to look. When he saw the swallows, though, I could feel his muscles relax.

“Absolutely stunning,” he said.

Harvey the human dichotomy. He was a tough climb, but there was something about the challenge of the ascent that made the view that much sweeter when you got to the top. But. This could be the last kind memory I have of him. Because he snapped. Because he killed people. To that dichotomy, there is no bright side.

I am back in that very spot, the swallows of yesteryear weaving circles above me. The tall grasses are now a milky green. The sun is low in the west, but setting much further south.

He stood right here. The hands that massaged my neck at the end of a long day were used to separate five innocent men from their lives. There are no birds in this sanctuary, and the sky is brewing up a football team of icy-looking clouds.

I watch my steps carefully, as if I will be asked to describe them in a deposition. I have begun yet another process – that of deciding if my so-called life partner was inherently evil, or just inherently weak. A violent streak waiting for an invitation, or an average man too harshly squeezed by mortality and frustration? Are we all just one exploded comrade from taking lives? I picture Hamster bisected by an orange burst, and try to channel my reaction.

I am angry at Harvey, I am terribly sorry for him. I will love him forever, I will never ever forgive him. And I am most sorry for myself, who will have to live with these fucking what-ifs for the rest of my life, who will never have a joy that is not cut in half by the sulfuric acid percolating from my memory banks.

Somewhere in there, I should have some anger for Kai. The man killed my husband. Justifiably, yes, nobly, yes – but there ought to be something. Instead I find only sorrow, so deep I can’t get my hands around it. I don’t know if I will ever have the strength to be his lover, to handle these explosive chemicals he carries around in his brain, but I want to hold him and say, You did the right thing. You did what your own humanity demanded of you. The beauty of friendship is its forfeitability, and Harvey gave up Kai’s the instant he pulled that trigger.

Oh, God. The world is too gray, too empty of wings and song. I crave a bald eagle, a blue heron, some shocking stroke of color to empty my thoughts for the smallest second, but all I have are workaday seagulls rioting over the marsh. I am grateful for my job, which even on the dreariest of days carries the possibility of beauty: a bent note from a blues guitar, a cascade of horns, the apple-ish bite of a hi-hat at the end of a phrase.

I turn and look back at the parking lot. I have covered, at most, a city block. I can still read the numbers on my license plate. It’s time to go to that job.


The evening is utterly rote. I’m not even certain who’s here but I sense that it’s a healthy crowd. I sit next to the pond as a familiar face rises to the surface, sings a song and then sinks back down. I do a lot of smiling and nodding.

But the songs stay with me. “Name,” “You Make Me Feel Brand New,” “The Sweater Song,” “It’s All Right With Me,” “Beyond the Sea,” “Smooth,” “Chasing Cars,” “Tender When I Want to Be,” “What Is This Thing Called Love?” The words drift in and out like a dream before dawn. I try to piece them together, looking for some clue on how a life is supposed to be lived. It’s not simply that nothing makes sense to me, it’s that I am now beyond sense.

There is a word in karaoke that I’ve never seen anywhere else: “Outro.” It’s basically a made-up antonym of “intro.” It comes up on the lyric screen to let you know that the singing’s over, but the music’s going to go on a little longer. You’re free to stay at the mic and wait it out, but you’re also free to leave. Either way, the music goes on without you.

“Channy?”

Big blonde hair, like Joan Osborne in that “One of Us” video. I think this is Shari.

“Hi.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong track, honey. It’s track twelve.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Smile, nod – nudge the track to twelve. An acoustic guitar comes in like a rowboat in gentle water. It’s called “Fade Into You” by a group called Mazzy Star. This must be one of Shari’s CDs, because the song is sad and otherworldly, and if I had ever heard it I would remember it. Shari’s whiskey voice could squeeze tears from “The Hokey-Pokey,” and now she’s throwing in this drowsy Patsy Cline lift that grabs at the fraying ends of my heartstrings. I am able to hit the escape valve just in time, and I turn to face my little squad of business card holders. Busywork. Busywork. Ah, that’s better – a wide gravel path full of trivia.


The end of the night comes quickly, and before I’m even aware that I’ve begun, I am piling my last CD case into the truck. It could be that I can sneak away quietly and continue ceasing to exist.

But then there’s my paycheck, and the rent that’s coming due, so I trudge back in. Hamster is leaning against the bar in a rascally fashion as he nurses an Irish coffee. He’s a sipper; that’s how he keeps from becoming a drunk in a trade that breeds them by the millions. He lends me a rakish smile, a little bit higher on the right, the one he uses on his bevy of barfly Mrs. Robinsons.

“Hey dollface. Good night tonight.”

“Yes.” I smile and nod, but I can hear how flat my voice is. “Can I get my check?”

“Sure.” He reaches into the cash register and pulls out a brown envelope. “Here ya go.”

“Thanks.” I start for the door, feeling suddenly panicky.

“Channy? Are you okay? You seem a little…”

Oh God. That tone of courtly concern, it’s much too fatherly, avuncular, the vice principal, the elder psychologist, the softball coach, and it’s precisely this quality that snips the frayed ends of my heartstrings – the ones that held up the marionette. I sink to my knees and it all comes pouring out of me, a sobbing so deep that it sounds like some large, gray animal at the zoo. I’m melting into the freshly mopped ammonia-smelling floor, and then I’m aloft on a cloud of musky, old-fashioned cologne, Hamster’s day-old beard scratching my cheek. I land on the cold vinyl of a bar booth, where my strange new song just keeps spilling and spilling out.


In the great Northwest, gray is our color of choice, the raincloud our team mascot. Precipitation is such a dominant presence that we have invented a term for its temporary cessation: sunbreak. This morning is my sunbreak, ten minutes of slick beauty during which I have forgotten whatever it was that was plaguing me.

I follow the sunbreak across the room, where it lands on three fuzzy balls making their way along tubes of yellow, red and green. I quickly designate the lightswitch as their finish line and place my money on red. The second I do so, my steed is off, as if someone has turned a faucet and shot him forward on a rush of water. He reaches the switch and disappears around the corner, leaving his rivals to choke on his primary-colored dust.

Victory! Followed quickly by consciousness. I’m at Hamster’s. I’m at Hamster’s because…

Damn.

Sunbreak over. But it’s followed by a slowly spreading smile that smells like coffee. I take a steaming mug that says, It Must Be Love (either that or this coffee is really strong!).

“Thanks, boss.”

“I forget how you like it,” he says.

The first sip goes right to my head, sweeping aside the autumn leaves, prodding me into untoward flirtation.

“I like my coffee like I like my employers,” I say. “Hot and black.”

That sends us both into titters, and I notice that Hamster is fully groomed and dressed: jeans, tennis shoes, golf shirt. Apparently, I have slept in. He leans an elbow against the doorjamb and gives me an appraising look.

“You know, you’ve really got to cut this out. You’re ruining both sides of my reputation.”

I’ve got to latch onto something, and this seems like a solid opening.

“Well now right there! See? Yet another of your enigmatic pronouncements. What the hell do you mean, ‘both sides’? And what the hell is your last name?”

“Don’t you read your paychecks?”

“Have you seen your signature lately? It’s a freakin’ Jackson Pollock.”

Hamster cups a hand around his chin, considering how much of himself to divulge.

“Jenner. Hamilton Beauregard Jenner.”

“You have got to be kidding me!” I am pounding the top of my sleeping bag in disbelief.

“As for the other bit of information, that is a great big fat secret that can only be traded for a secret of similar proportions. Such as, perhaps, whatever it was that liquified you all over my floor last night.”

I take an overlong sip that scalds my tongue. I rub a finger along the hot-spot.

“Well. It’s a whopper. But seeing how that bitch Ruby has absconded to Mexico, I guess I gotta tell someone.”

He beckons me down the hall. “Join me in my breakfast nook.”

I smile. “Said the spider to the fly.”

Hamster’s nook is a key lime pie of white tiles and yellow trim, with a small blondewood table, white chairs and a bay window that looks across the harbor to Karz. I picture him here each morning, nibbling a piece of toast, hamster-like, as he ponders his greatest possession. I sit down and launch into my work, spitting out the whole miniseries, chunk by grisly chunk. My conclusion turns Hamilton Beauregard Jenner into a Catholic.

“Jesus Mary Joseph and Richard Nixon,” he says. “Channy! You should be in a mental ward by now. Certainly not doling out pop music in Gig Harbor. Are you seeing someone?”

“Well I just… broke up to-…”

“Seeing a therapist, sweetheart. It’s fine telling a friend, but eventually you need a professional. This is some grade-A shit.”

I keep forcing my genteel boss to swear, which only adds to my feelings of guilt.

“You got someone in mind?”

He takes a bite from his scone – his first bite, such was his fascination with my story – and smiles.

“How about mine?”

I roll out a finger like I’m laying a tiny carpet. “Which you’re seeing for…?”

He proffers a pinkie. I recognize this from childhood. It’s a pledge of secrecy. I hook my pink pinkie around his mocha pinkie and we pull them away like we’re unplug
ging a bathtub.

“Just for clarity,” he says, “absolute confidentiality.”

“Absolutely.”

“Your boss prefers men. And he got most of those stock tips during late-night rendezvouz on Amtrak.”

“Scandalous! So… why the closet?”

“Different times, honey. I didn’t need both races on my ass. So to speak. My youngers speak to me of rainbows, and Pride movements, but it’s just not my bag. Besides, I take great pleasure in the cash of all those Gig Harbor housewives who come to my bar to indulge their Harry Belafonte fantasies.”

I laugh out loud, which feels strange and lovely. “I was thinking Nat King Cole.”

Hamster lets out a sandpapery Belafonte laugh (I’ll be damned) and says “Nat King Cole! I’ll be damned.”

I stand from my chair, so touched by this long-delayed confidence that I must have an embrace.

“Mr. Jenner – Harry, Nat – give me a big, gay hug.”

“I will,” he says, and does. Wrapped in Hammie’s muscular limbs, I feel that perhaps the world will stop beating on me, at least for the duration of a sunbreak. A trio of cormorants slides by the window.


Next: The Return of Ruby

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Outro: The Serial Novel

Chapter 26, Part III

What Really Happened

Conrad

Harvey was out on patrol with Bucksy – I’m sure Harvey mentioned him. Man’s man, soldier’s soldier. Gave his orders straight out, undiluted, but you never felt like you were being jacked around, because he’d always paint the whole picture: reasons, danger, overall strategy. I mean, it’s the Army – when it comes down to it, you just do what you’re told. But Bucksy figured if he took the time to explain things, he could get ten percent more out of each of his men – and in combat, ten percent is life minus death.

Physically, he had your attention anyway. Six-five, 250, built like a freakin’ linebacker. And you know what he did as a civilian? Hairstylist. Fuckin’ hairstylist. I always had a hard time mashing that together as a concept. I imagine he didn’t get too many complaints about his work.

I used to call him “Captain Glue,” because I’ll tell you, it is an absolute pile of shit over there, and all the flies buzzing around that pile of shit have explosives strapped to their chests. You’re trying to save those people from their own damn selves, and they’d just as soon blow you to pieces as make you coffee. We had a lot of soldiers who were in danger of just plain losin’ it, but Bucksy had that magic way of knowing who needed a kick in the ass, who needed a dirty joke, who needed a good old-fashioned verbal takedown and who needed to be left alone. Bullseye, every time.


Conrad turns from the railing and looks at me, as if he wants me to get this next part, not as some colorful abstraction but as a physical object, something you can hold and feel.


Bucksy’s dead. Worse than dead. He was blown into two discrete pieces. Made me think of the Black Dahlia. I go to horror movies now and I laugh. They have no fucking idea.

It was your husband who drove that Humvee over that explosive. It was also your husband who escaped with a couple of scratches on his right elbow. Goddamnedest thing I’ve ever seen. Not that I actually saw it. I only saw the remains.

We were destroyed, useless. We spent the day either crying like babies or punching holes in the walls. All except Harvey. Harvey spent the day sitting straight-backed on his bunk, staring into space. He had this huge bottle of water, and every few minutes he would take a swig, and then go back to staring. It seemed like some kind of internal strategy session, like he was working something out. I cannot conceive of the visual information that must have registered on his brain that day, or what happens when something like that starts tunneling around in your head. I’m thinking there also had to be guilt. Nothing rational – there wasn’t a damn thing he could have done about it. But maybe the irrational kind is harder, because you have to keep wrestling with it. Especially when you’re the one who got away scot-free.

We didn’t have much time for grieving. We were desperately short on personnel, the new division wasn’t due for two weeks, and the insurgents in the village were getting bolder. There were rumors about an attack on the local mosque. So there we were, two days later, walking around like zombies, a squadron that had literally had its head cut off. The command came down to me, but frankly Harvey would have been better suited. I was off my nut. I envisioned an IED under my every step, and you just can’t operate that way.

We had a lead through one of our translators that a house in the northern sector might be serving as a hideout for insurgents. I was still setting up my men around the perimeter when Harvey bolted past me and busted through the front door. Really threw me – for all I knew he had just barged in on a room full of armed terrorists. He could be gunned down any second. But then I heard him inside, yelling things in Arabic. Stay down. Hands behind your head. That sort of thing. Then I heard a shot, so I told Kai to cover me as I went in after Harvey. From the entryway, I had only a narrow slice of vision into the main room. There were men, maybe thirty of them, all ages, kneeling on prayer mats. This made sense – they were avoiding the mosque, because of the rumors. But what the hell was Harvey doing?

Then I saw their faces. They were terrified, breathing hard. There was another shot, and the sound of a body falling to the floor. A man who was kneeling near the opening tried to stand and run. Another shot. He fell into the hallway in front of me, a hole in his throat. It was then that I realized what was happening.

“Lebeque!” I shouted. “It’s Conrad! Listen to me! It’s the wrong house! These are not insurgents!”

Harvey’s response was belligerent but strangely calm. “The hell they’re not! If ya hadn’t noticed, Dixon, these people are not too particular about who they kill. Well, neither am I! What about you, pal? Kill any Americans today? Did ya kill my friend? Huh?”

Another shot. Another body.

“Sergeant! You must cease firing! That’s an order!”

I leaned into the opening to see him raising the muzzle of his rifle to the head of an old man. He looked at me and said, “I only take orders from Bucksy, and Bucksy’s gone. This ain’t no fucking Zero Squadron. Zero Squadron has rules. No rules in this fucking country. Alice in fucking Wonderland out here.”

He fired. The old man slumped forward.

My teachers had told me how a military mind operates in extreme situations, but this was the first time I really felt it. My thoughts were dividing, half of them scattered and shocked, the other half remarkably calm and rational. The calm half noticed that Harvey was being methodical. He was working his way down the line, front row first. The next was a young boy, maybe nine, ten years old, and this meant that I was about to come to a crisis point. I wasn’t going to let him kill that kid.

It was then that Kai stepped into the back of the room.

“Harvey,” he said. “You can’t do this.”

“I can do this all day long,” said Harvey. “Motherfuckers blew my friend in half. In half! This is a pleasure.”

“Fuck them!” said Kai. “It’s not about them. I’m with you. But if you can stop right now, we can get you out of here, cover our tracks and everything’s fine, okay? You get a couple kills, get your payback, couple more weeks you go back to the States, back to Channy, everything’s fine. But you gotta stop right now, Harve. It won’t work unless you stop right now.”

Harvey stood there for a second, staring at the back of that little boy’s head, and he seemed to calm down. Thank God, I thought. He’s talked him out of it.

“No,” he said, and raised his rifle to the boy’s head. Another shot, and Harvey fell to the floor.

When I looked back toward Kai, I had this fanciful idea that he had just turned himself into a statue, his rifle still on his shoulder, his eyes getting bigger and bigger. I walked slowly toward him and spoke in my calmest military voice.

“Soldier, hand me your weapon.”

I took it from him and continued giving orders. I didn’t want him to think about what had just happened. I was afraid of what he might do to himself. I put a hand on his shoulder and shook him a little to get his attention. His face was just wide open with fear.

“Soldier! Go outside right now. Get O’Reilly and Benson.” Then I lowered my voice. “Kai, you are not to say a word about this. Let me handle it.”

I guess if I had to justify what I did next, I would say that your husband did commit suicide. He gave Kai no choice, and I’m sorry, but every time Kai has a week like this one, I wish Harvey had killed himself. We carried the body back to the base and reported that Harvey had gotten separated from the squad, that we found him in that eucalyptus grove. The story made sense; it was an American bullet, Harvey’s weapon had been fired – his feelings about Bucksy were well-known. Any cursory forensics investigation would have proved us all a bunch of liars, but we were counting on chaos, and we won – no one had the luxury of looking into it any further. And, thank God, those Iraquis were evidently too scared to report the killings.

I got a call yesterday from CID, and I agreed to tell them the whole story. Politically speaking, they’ll probably have to release this to the press. And… well, especially with you and Kai being… a couple, I figured I better tell you. I’m very sorry about all of this. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone over that day in my head and tried to figure out something I could have done to prevent it. But reliving it, it’s all pretty fucking useless.


I’m feeling grateful for the way the human body operates, the way everything numbs up, because otherwise this would kill me. I stare at the masts, bobbing in the wind like a leafless forest. Then I feel Conrad’s hand around my shoulder.

“What can I do for you, Channy? Are you gonna be okay – I mean, right now? You want to call someone? Could I drive you home? It’s no problem – I’m the boss.”

I’m surprised at the clarity of my own voice. “No. That’s okay. I’ve got a place to go. A thinking place.”

He nudges my face toward his and gives me a teacherly scrutiny.

“Nothing foolish?”

“Nothing foolish,” I say. “I don’t operate that way. Besides, I’ve got a job tonight.”

“You sure you’re up to it?”

I realize I never knew his last name before, and I feel the need to speak it. “This is what you do, Sergeant Dixon. You keep going.”

“Good girl.”

“And you – you keep a watch on Kai.”

“Always,” he says. “That’s my job.”

Next: Sanctuary


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Outro: The Serial Novel

Chapter 26, Part II

The Ship Sails at Midnight

“Okay, this might seem a little odd, but please don’t turn around. I need you to play a little game with me. I’m going to leave the coffeehouse and take a right down the sidewalk. I’d like you to count to twenty and follow me, but I want you to stay a block behind me until we get to the Harbor Walk.”

The voice is coming over my left shoulder. At first, I suspect ventriloquism. But I am a dedicated follower of instructions, so I face forward until I see the back of a tall man with a blond buzz-cut, headed for the door. Everyone is so eager to leave me. Rousting the molecules in my brain, I realize that this is Conrad, captain of our ski squad, manager of the Olympia branch of Jenalyn Sports.

Spy games. Why not? I have absolutely nothing better to do. I head outside and look around to find him on the far corner, looking casual, waiting to confirm that I’m “tailing” him. I’m fully invested now, so I make no signal before starting down the sidewalk, working up a backstory as I go. Recently divorced mom with a free hour, looking for the downtown spa with the great handmade soaps. Keeping an occasional eye on Conrad turns out to be pretty easy, because he’s taking a straight shot down Fourth, crossing a bridge in front of the loopy capital-city fountain then heading for a grocery store next to the marina. He takes a sudden right and stops two blocks later on a wide path constructed of clean, baked-out timbers. This must be the Harbor Walk; I know this because I am a brilliant detective, and also because I can read the words on the large, gray municipal sign that says Harbor Walk.

I join Conrad at a railing overlooking the water. Our near horizon is a field of ship’s masts that reminds me, for the most transparent of reasons, of a signpost forest. Even now, when I am ready to change my mailing address to End of Her Rope, WA, I cannot resist an attempt at humor.

“The ship sails at midnight.”

“The albatross is a mighty bird,” he recites back. Conrad is a helpful playmate. He gives me a chuckle. “Didn’t mean to go all James Bond on your ass, but Kai’s pretty fragile right now, and it’s a real bitch these days finding replacement Sherpas.”

“What? He’ll think we’re having an affair? As of about a half hour ago, it doesn’t really fucking matter.” The f-word feels good on my teeth, and my heart is frosty with abandon. Hell, I would take Conrad right now; it would be a nice, vengeful screw. But Conrad is shaking his head.

“Oh, man. I was hoping he would hold off on that. But that’s Kai – he’s got this overwhelming affection for a clean slate.”

Conrad is still talking in code, but I guess I knew from the espionage that this would take a while.

“We got the word yesterday: they’ve started the investigation. We’re all pretty jumpy. Kai thought that this might all pass over, that life would go on. Tough warrior, that one. Not me. I always knew the shit would come down, and here it is, every gory fucking chapter, ready to fall. I think he also thought that we were doing this to protect you, but it’s better you hear it from me than some anchorman. Oh Jesus, now I’m just freaking you out. Why don’t I just shut up and tell you the fucking story?”

Next: The Truth

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