Skye wakes up underwater. Also, under surveillance. He is
hovered on all sides by eyeballs, mouths, fins. He stretches sideways and
discovers the eyes he likes best: smoky brown, wide-set, marquis cut.
“Good morning, wonderboy.”
Her lips taste like mint. She brushed her teeth just to wake
him up.
“You’re a marvel.”
She cups her breasts. “What makes you say that?”
“You have internal muscles that American girls seem to
lack.”
She rolls her eyes. “American girls think the job is over
once you open your legs. Filipinas are instructed by their mothers in the ways
of pleasing men.”
Skye laughs. “You’re mostly right. I have had the good
fortune to meet some exceptions.”
“No doubt raised by Filipina nannies.”
He falls back on a coven of pillows and looks around: a
dome-shaped bedroom wrapped entirely in fishtank. The contents are decidedly
tropical: a foot-tall angelfish with streaks of mustard warpaint, a leopard
shark, a green boxfish with black spots.
Andorra curls beside him and inspects his penis. She lets it
drop with a disappointed expression.
“Jesus, woman! What do you expect?”
She peers through her bangs. “I was hoping for one more ride
before you leave.”
“Why would I ever leave?”
She pats him on the belly. “Sarge is a very generous man.
For example, he built this room based on a single account of a snorkeling trip
I took as a child. But he also has his rules. You arrived at one o’clock
yesterday, you will leave by one o’clock today.”
Skye finds this thought to be terribly sad. Still, he
wouldn’t dream of pushing his luck. He gives his dick a slap.
“Wake up! Bastard.”
Andorra giggles and kisses him on the forehead. “You’d
better hit the showers. In the bathroom, you will find your clothes from
yesterday, cleaned and pressed. Meanwhile, tell me your fantasy breakfast.”
Skye recalls a creekside restaurant in Ashland, Oregon.
“Marionberry pancakes. Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon. And guava nectar.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Skye works his way to his feet and scans the room.
“Oh,” she says. “Stand on that copper circle and say the
word ‘Down.’”
He finds the circle at the foot of the bed, but pauses to
watch naked Andorra walk toward the angelfish. She says “Open” and the tank
slides to the right, revealing a meadow dotted with crocuses and stalks of
purple lupine. A picnic table stands near a fountain, with a fresh tablecloth
and two settings.
“Down,” says Skye. He sinks into the floor.
Andorra escorts him to the front room – the modest farmhouse
– and leaves him with a quick kiss. He steps outside to a dark sky, and to
Bubba Yoshida, hosing down the Escalade.
“Precisely on time. You would be surprised how difficult it
is to get people to leave this place.”
Skye is still alarmed at the Orson Welles voice coming from
the marionette body. “After the best day of my life,” he replies, “I like to
get the hell out of town.”
“Ah. Before the complications set in.” Bubba opens the
passenger door. “Sarge would have preferred to send you off himself, but he has
a rather important conference call.”
Skye buckles himself in and takes a Zen breath. Bubba
proceeds at an absolutely normal rate of speed. He notes Skye’s expression and
reveals a bright smile. “I thought you might like to enjoy the view this time.”
A good half-hour later, they pull up to Skye’s room at the
motor court. His truck is parked out front, looking amazingly clean.
“Please,” says Bubba. “Come inside. We have one final matter
to discuss.” He enters the room and waves Skye into the armchair. Bubba folds
his hands. “Again, Mister McCollum thanks you for joining him yesterday. He had
a splendid time.”
“My pleasure. Absolutely.”
“Now, the sad realities of modern life. As you may have
guessed, Mister McCollum is strongly protective of his privacy. In
consideration of the entertainments he has provided for you, he asks that you
sign a non-disclosure agreement.” He pulls a fold of papers from his jacket and
hands it to Skye. “Essentially, you agree not to discuss Mister McCollum, the
nature of his residence, or, especially, the location. And especially not to
the press. Should you break the agreement, Mister McCollum’s squadron of soulless
amphibian lawyers will make a considerable degree of trouble for you. One the
plus side, if you do sign it, you will receive a generous cash incentive.”
Skye takes a pen from his writing case, flattens the paper
on his nightstand and signs it. “Mister Yoshida, your employer found me after
one of the most depressing fiascos of my life and threw me the world’s most
glorious lifeline. I should be paying
him.”
Bubba laughs and takes the paper. “I hardly think that
Mister McCollum…”
“I’m sorry. Mister Who?”
Bubba stops, then points a finger at Skye. “You’re good.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“All right, Olivier. Here’s a copy of the agreement for your
reference. Mister Pelter, I regret that I may not ever see you again.”
Skye remains seated as he accepts his handshake. “Thank you,
Bubba.”
“As my father used to say, Sayonara, cowpoke.”
Skye watches the little man stride from the room, and
listens to the crunch of gravel as the Escalade rolls away.
Skye awakens to a Spanish-language novela. A family of
gorgeous, quick-talking women gather at the bed of an ailing uncle, breasts
spilling from their dresses like eager puppies.
It takes Skye a few minutes to understand that the dream
with the granite cliffs and Pete Sampras and the fishtank was not a dream – and
to regret, just a bit, that he has given away the right to talk about it. He
spies the word Traitors in his
writing case and has a Spanish paroxysm: Aye!
Que lastima! He pays a quick visit to the bathroom, grabs the book and paces
into town, where he finds the miracle of a post office with fifteen minutes
till closing. Traitors is the book he
abducted from his father’s nightstand. It’s a World War II aviation tale,
wonderfully sharp and fast-paced. He loaned it to his dad – a retired Navy
pilot – for the Tahoe trip, but now it must go to Cincinnati. Skye earns
generous amounts to screen entries for a novel competition at a writer’s
magazine. Traitors is one his
finalists. He hands his package to the clerk and allows himself to breathe.
Outside, the clouds have dissolved their union, allowing the
orange sunset to play along the aisles like kids at a matinee. He stands in the
middle of the street as they drift in his direction. A headlight snaps him into
motion, and he finds himself at Mae’s Pizza. He enters a room half-filled by
hunters and orders the namesake product with pepperoni and mushrooms. When he
gets the bill, he hits the little barside ATM, wincing at the $3.50 service
fee. A few minutes later, he finishes his beer and spies the young Clint
Eastwood riding across his television. Skye takes out his wallet. Is this Pale Rider? Pulls the ATM receipt from
its spot next to his library card. Nah. Gotta be one of those Italian movies.
Angles it to the light. If I could just hear the soundtrack. His account
appears to contain an extra hundred thousand dollars.
Photo by MJV
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