“Whistle blow-me!” said Maurie, and Laxmi giggled.
The remark was indecorous, not the usual thing she laughed at, which made Chess fleetingly paranoid. Maybe that was what Hippie Slut dug, that was the hook. Maybe her dad was like that — a captivating Jew with a dirty mouth. Lord Ganesha, guardian of the anus.
“The feds wound up giving him a hundred and 26,000,000!”
“Jesus.”
“He goes on Oprah like some kinda hero then retires to a gated community. A few years later, they find out everything he told em was just some kind of half-truth. But it’s too late. They dig a little further. The so-called kickbacks and price hikes he ratted about never fucking happened. So a federal jury convenes and declares the defendants—”
“Whistle blow-me!”
“—not guilty. The employees all get off. But the whistleblower doesn’t have to return the fed’s thank-you money!”
“You mean the fed’s fuck-you money,” said Maurie, with a leer. “Everybody should get off.”
“The moral of the story is, the government can be hustled. I mean, it’s like those sex harassment suits where companies used to have to pay people just to go away.”
“Don’t go away horny…just go away. That’s what Laxmi’s been saying.”
“It’s the modern-day version. And it doesn’t even have to be a bigass company. Let’s say some poor shrink—”
“You mean there is such a thing?” interjected Maurie, looking quizzically toward Laxmi, who giggled and choked, the drink fizzing through her nose.
“—overcharges someone a hundred bucks. For a hundred-dollar overcharge, the feds can ask for a fine of like 60,000,000. Restitution under the False Claims Act.”
“You’ve got way too much time on your hands, Desperado.” Maurie shook his head and threw Laxmi a what-the-fuck’s-he-talking-about look. Then: “You’re like a fuckin expert. You’re like Lewis Black, without the humor.” He belched, chirped, and cooed (while Laxmi laughed, convulsively), then theatrically scrunched his face to look at Chester sideways — like some tweaky owl out of Harry Potter. “You sound like a…what do they call those people? Magpies? No — agitators? Agent provocateurs! Nah, that ain’t it either. Gadflies! That’s what you are! You’re a fuckin gadfly!” He screwed up an eye, and whispered conspiratorially. “Now: you don’t suddenly know so much cause you’ve been busy researching Herlihy v Friday Night Frights—is that why you know so much? Look out, world! Mr False Claims Restitution is about to wreak havoc! Godzilla? Meet Fraudzilla!” (Her laughter diminished.) “Bionic ethics! You want to be on Oprah too, don’t you! That’s what this is about. You want to be in a million little pieces! You want to make a million little dollars! Or maybe have your own show like Dr Phil! Dr Chester! Dr Chester the Restituted Molester!”
Laxmi put a hand on Chess’ leg, though not in any overtly sexual way — closer to the knee. She probably just felt bad she’d laughed so hard, at his expense. Her way of letting him know it was nothing personal and that mostly she was just stoned. Maurie grunted, stood, and went to the head. Chess paid the bar tab.
When he returned, they strolled past the noise of the slots to the Sage.
A sullen silence overtook the 2 men. Laxmi walked between them as a buffer. She stared straight ahead, pretending all was well, now and then glancing at one or the other peripherally. Maurie’s appointment was half an hour before the others’. He was getting Deep Tissue and Chess was having Sacred Stone. Laxmi had signed up for the Desert Volcanic Fango Body Mask/Sage Body Polish.
He hung back while his friends went to shower, and confirmed the arrangement made earlier. Because Maurie requested a woman, Chess had been stuck with a male therapist, a sweet-faced black masseur he bumped into that 2nd time at the spa — while the happy couple were upstairs doing their rinse-off. That’s when he got his brainstorm. He slipped the girl a hundie to ensure a “mix-up,” telling her it was his friend’s 40th and they’d been playing practical jokes on each other all week long. Luckily, she was game.
The only thing that would ruin the prank was if Maurie had a tantrum, and walked out.
But Chess didn’t think that likely.
LVI.Marjorie
THEY went shopping at Saks and Neiman’s.
At 1st, she felt abashed — Marjorie couldn’t remember the last time she bought clothes for herself, and was still in a period of mourning Hamilton. But her new friend did much to raise her spirits. They tried on everything from frocks to 35,000 dollar gowns. Bonita said this would be the party of their lives, and they should just say the hell with it. Marj wound up with an aristocratically festive suit by YSL, but her Sister was more daring: a Céline cherry bouclé jacket, and a, well, interesting ensemble by an unpronounceable Japanese designer.
At the last minute, Bonita said she’d foolishly left her pocketbook at home. Marj offered to put the 85-hundred dollar charge on her Visa — Bonita would have nothing of it. When the old woman finally said she wasn’t going to leave the store without the dresses, the Sister almost tearfully relented. She said she would bring a check to Spago tonight. As they left the Fifth Avenue Club, they sang “High Hopes,” arm in arm, followed by a darling young man who carried their things. It was like out of a movie or a dream.
MARJ was so excited she didn’t know what to do with herself. It was only 3 o’clock and the dinner was at 8. She bounced around the house, singing, “Oops, there goes another rubber tree plant,” and whispering under her breath, “Dinner at 8! Dinner at 8!” She decided to burn off energy and stroll over to Riki’s for a lottery ticket.
Home again, she languorously picked through a bookshelf in the den while running a bath. She hadn’t seen this one in what seemed like a century: a moss-green copy of The Jungle Book with a faded Piranesi-style arch ex Libris: RAYMOND RAUSCH pasted inside. She loved Kipling, as had her father (the writer was born in Bombay, so Marj felt an immediate kinship. She always imagined he looked like Sean Connery, who played one of his characters in that glorious movie The Man Who Would Be King). She was almost certain Rudyard had stayed at the Taj Mahal Palace — maybe she’d ask Joanie to look it up on her computer.
Marj flipped through the pages as she soaked in the tub, careful to keep elbows above water. She remembered her ex husband reading to Chester at bedtime — especially “Toomai of the Elephants.” Oh, Chess loved that one! It was the story of a little boy who was told about something no man or mahout had ever seen: clearings deep in the forest called elephants’ ballrooms where the ancient creatures went to dance. Could anything be more delightful? She reread it, and the sound of Ray’s voice rushed back to her, as if seizing the words: one stormy night, a noble bull called Kala Nag (“black snake”) broke free of his ropes and galloped with Little Toomai on his back for miles and miles, to the legendary, mysterious bacchanal. There, the elephants partook of doum and marula, mgongo and palmyra, fermented fruits that made them drunk. And dance, they did! When the terrified, delirious boy returned at dawn to tell his tale, the hunters were skeptical until they finally went and found the place he’d described, in the heart of the jungle — a vast “ballroom” of trampled wood, with trails leading to and from and every which way. That night, in a very human celebration, Little Toomai was rechristened Toomai of the Elephants, and the magnificent brawny beasts raised their trunks, trumpeting in joy for the new King of Mahouts.