The air was thick and cool, like shaving foam. A familiar feeling of disorientation came over me, only this time it wasn’t a deja-vu. It occurred to me that I was not home at all. It seemed I was looking at a set, expertly prepared for the dramatization of the events that had taken place at the luxury downtown condo of a famous actor and show host Luke Whales. Filming for “America’s Most Wanted.” The fake Lloyd must have just shot his fake partner and now crouched behind the table in the fake kitchen, waiting for… Or maybe this was still the old, more marketable version, in which it’s Luke Whales who kills the marshal and takes the fake Lloyd hostage. Then I would be some guy they hired to play Whales.
I realized I hadn’t moved from the door. I wondered what the hell was wrong with me and whether or not it was going to go away.
The door monitor flashed on, Jeffrey’s wide-eyed triangle of a face on it. Or was he and extra? Good casting, even for minor roles. He looked pretty damn close to the real deal. I rubbed my eyes. I was tired.
“Mr. Whales!”
“I’m back, Jeffrey.”
“We heard the news, sir. Congratulations! Isn’t it great how things have turned out?”
“They could be worse, sure.” I turned away from him and began to move forward, removing the jacket on the way. His hurried words caught up to me as I neared the alcove leading into the kitchen.
“Oh, Mr. Whales, I’m terribly sorry. With the police tape on the door…”
A smear of brown, as though someone had started painting the cabinet, determined the color unfit for the general atmosphere of the kitchen and changed his mind, was left on the gray counter and cabinet door. At the bottom of it, what had once been a small puddle, became maroon moss covering a tile and a half of snow-white marble floor.
“…we couldn’t send anyone up to clean. If it’s a good time for you…”
“It’s a perfect time, Jeff,” I raised my voice over a jagged swallow, moving away sideways and stumbling down a set of steps into the living room. The TV flashed on.
“…had passed the bill in a tremendous show of support…”
“Mute,” I said through my teeth.
“I understand. Someone is on their way.” He signed off with another apology as I walked fast through the living room to make the TV turn off. I stopped in the hallway on the other side, not knowing what to do. It was too early to sleep; I didn’t feel like eating. Showering while that spot was still in the kitchen seemed pointless.
I walked around my domain, finally settling on the balcony, the same spot where a bottle of pills had started it all five days earlier. I sat down there and zoned off for a bit, reflecting vaguely on recent events. It wasn’t the most comforting or calming endeavor, as evidenced by the fact that I almost had a heart attack when something began to hum under the chair. I cried out and jumped up, knocking the chair over. It was, of course, only the Auto-Vac.
A minute later, over the tam-tams of my heart I heard the front door open. They could be lightning-fast, these people, after someone else had removed that one puzzling obstacle. There was a woman’s gasp and unintelligible murmur, probably a quick prayer. I stepped out into the hallway, as much out of desire to change the scenery as out of politeness, and faced the maid across the living room. The cursed sucking contraption followed me like a basset, sniffing at my heels.
The woman jumped when she saw me, dropping the handle of her tall, industrial-strength floor cleaner. Something popped open and a cylinder-shaped clip clattered to the floor, rolling through the alcove into the kitchen. Not young. Not pretty. Her eyes, full of embarrassment and horror as though she walked in on me in the shower, shot to my feet and rose up my body in an instinctive, almost too quick to be noticed motion.
“I’m sorry, sir. They didn’t tell me nothing. They just said I need to clean up.”
I gave her an apologetic smile, turning involuntary desire to cover myself up into a gesture of encouragement and consent. With an understanding nod, she gathered the handle and pushed the machine forward. The Auto-Vac, having spotted a relation, gave chase, but could advance no farther than my boot, against which it bumped its mushroom head a couple of times, before I bent down and deactivated the damn thing. As the brief moment of unhumming ended, I went to the study and turned on the computer.
I had 232 messages. It said so on the screen. Normally, a voice would tell me the number of new items in the mail box, but evidently there was no script for two hundred and thirty two.
The overwhelming majority of e-mails were dated today: Monday, October 30th. The overwhelming majority of those had “Congratulations” typed in different holiday fonts in the subject line. I hadn’t gotten that many since I’d won that People’s Choice Award a couple of years back. “Congratulation, Mr. Whales, on account of not killing anyone.” Or maybe, “Congratulations! We are glad the police couldn’t prove…” “Luke, buddy. I just knew it in my heart you weren’t a murderer.”
I scrolled down, deleting them in chunks.
Soon I stumbled on an e-mail with no subject. It was from Jennifer Carlson.
“You know, I kept thinking over the weekend: I was this close to being killed by a psycho ex-husband. Why did he let me live? And today it’s all over the news that you are innocent. So now I am thinking: he did punch Bruce… How can they be suddenly so sure it was not him? Stay away from my house.”
I wondered if she was drunk when she wrote that. She never used to drink. But then, neither did I.
A few dozen deletions down. Subject: Don’t Do It. From: Unknown Sender. I opened it.
“Whales. Don’t try to save them. Even if you could (and you can’t), it would be a waste of time. D.”
I read it and shrugged. Wrong number? Who wasn’t I supposed to save? The whales? My wits? I read it again, pointer hovering above the “Delete” button. Whatever. You got it, friend D. Not saving anyone.
Further down there was a message from Paul Haugen. It read:
“Heard the news. Does this mean you won’t be calling me for another five years? Hehe, hey, no pressure, man. I was glad to hear from you anyway. Glad to hear you’re all right, too. Oh, wait, I didn’t hear if you were all right yet. Are you? Paul.”
Paul! I minimized the mailbox and opened the organizer.
“Call Paul. Today. Important,” I said. Satisfied, I deleted some more messages. There was one from Morgan Chase, titled “I could have made you a star.” Garbage.
Soon there were only two left. The first one was from the FBI.
An imposing, double-headed eagle with a seal appeared on the screen instead of a face.
“Mr. Luke Fredegar Whales,” the eagle said in a well-trained, melodic voice. “This is a call from the Federal Bureau of Investigations, Chicago Branch. The United States Government summons you for a formal witness statement regarding a case of extreme importance. Please appear at our headquarters at your earliest convenience. No appointment is necessary.” He proceeded to give me the address and the phone number. I gestured rudely.
Jimbo’s message was almost as interesting. Only it had his face. Red, cheerful, fake. After he’d gotten through the congratulatory part, he told me the network was willing to consider any vacation requests. That I could show up any time I wanted, but it was no rush.
I was drawn out of the study by noise in the hallway. The maid was pale, but she was done. I rushed towards her, ignoring the TV, and thrust a fifty-dollar bill in her grasp. The kitchen was clean. Sighing and shaking her head she stuffed the money under the apron as I ushered her out the door. Closing it, I leaned my forehead against its cool wood. The apartment was empty, peaceful, normal.