“Yes… we have to literally chase away the artists who want to paint the landscape from here. This is like Mecca for them,” he offered. Her grin never wavered. Humor never extended beyond the greeting. They were like those postcards, with one stupid phrase printed and the rest blank for handwriting. Switching to business, he asked, “Change of plans?”
“Change of plans.” The woman walked around him slowly, failing to notice a sudden gust of freezing wind that almost tore the tiny dress off her body. Following her with his eyes as she turned her back to him and stood, staring thoughtfully at the check point below, Fillmore glimpsed a pair of red lace panties. The image of the dress, convulsing like a junkie as it plummeted down into the courtyard appeared in his mind but only for a split second. He didn’t even reach the image of her, standing there in red panties and probably a matching red bra, something he would find very appealing under more human circumstances. He knew the dress couldn’t be torn off her body, because it was her body, or its body.
Immediately, another shiver shook his limbs. No one ever touched a Sobak. In fact, thinking about touching one was also dangerous. Especially after what happened recently. Word got out pretty fast among humans. Most of the medium-level brass had already heard the hushed whisper about the Dog that got blown away in Chicago the other night. Really killed dead. God only knew what that could mean. God! Right…
Now they send a Sobak dressed like a hot thing to tell him they changed their minds again about Whales. And she’s all deliberate about it. She looks almost sad. It’s a trap, he told himself. Better not slip up. Don’t go running your stupid mouth.
“We were going to act upon a guilty and dead subject.” The woman turned around finally, just when Fillmore, cautiously silent, began to shuffle his schedule in his mind to find a spot for a doctor’s appointment on account of frostbite of his left ear. Slowly, hips swaying, she began to walk towards him. He held his ground, trying to prevent his teeth from chattering. “Now he’s innocent and alive. Therefore, change of plans.”
She was real close now, her thin, delicate nose almost touching his chin. Fillmore labored to keep the balls of steam coming out of his mouth steady and even.
“Are you cold?” she asked in a whisper.
“I await instructions,” he managed to say.
“I trust the structure is in place?”
He nodded quickly, eagerly. “Of course. We’ve been ready for months.”
“Good. Your people will have their first solved case. And it will be a big one.”
Fillmore was beginning to understand.
“I see,” he said. And then, stupidly, added. “Has the replacement been found for Whales?”
She looked up and raised her hand. No steam came out from between those flaming red lips.
“No one is irreplaceable,” she said and touched his cheek. Fillmore felt panic rising from somewhere below the back of his neck, rising and melting his facial muscles. The touch was soft and cold, like a jellyfish, but dry like an insect. It took all of his being to fight the desire to simply run away screaming. “But as you can see, even when you are replaced,” the woman continued, retracting her hand. “We may still find use for you.”
Finally, she took a step back. Fillmore stared, without realizing it, straight down at her breasts. Small. No matching bra. Her nipples poked through satin. Then he heard the sound of her shoes on the roof, evoked, seemingly, for his benefit. With a start, he followed the visitor through the door into the elevator.
Chapter Twenty-Two
When I woke up, I was certain my dream had been unpleasant. I didn’t really know what it was about, but somehow I felt really good that it was over. Still, when I, squinting from a horizontal sunbeam my blinds had neglected to quarantine, looked down over the orange steppe of my blanket, I spotted a characteristic, newly erected mound on the horizon. Since a Scythian tribe passing through my bedroom seemed like a farfetched idea even for my last couple of days, I had to conclude that I had a hard-on.
I got out of bed and called Iris.
Not because of the erection. I don’t know about you, but in my experience morning erections, especially when you wake up alone, rarely constitute the feeling of sexual arousal. First thing registering in my emphatic mind is usually a concern regarding the time my penis has had to strain against the binds of underwear standing in the way of its desire to recline on my stomach. After that I get up and walk to the bathroom, trying to figure out a way to urinate without getting into yoga position. Unsuccessfully. It was on my way to the john that I decided to call Iris. Not because of the hard-on. I just thought, “Whatta hell.”
Dialing the number I noted the time: 9.23 AM. It was only then that I realized it was the morning of the next day. My nap lasted about twenty hours.
“Hello?” a sleepy male voice said. My monitor slipped into a sunset-over-ocean wallpaper.
“Hi… Is Iris there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could you please check and call her to the phone if she is?”
“Yeah, why not. Iris! Are you home? Phone!”
I waited a few minutes. There was a noise like bones cracking, then her voice.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” I said. “It’s Luke. You want to have breakfast? With me?” There was the tiniest of pauses. Probably long enough for her to think, “Whatta hell.”
“Sure. I’m hungry. Where do you want to eat?”
“Well… With all the attention I’ve been getting lately, I thought to stay in.”
“Do you have food?”
“No. No, I don’t. And I can’t really cook. But I can order.”
“Chinese?”
“If that’s what you prefer.”
“Hunan shrimp.”
“Done. When should I pick you up?”
“Just give me the address.”
I did.
“See you in a few,” she said. “Oh, and get a side order of pot-stickers.”
“Anything to drink?”
“Water.”
“Got it.”
She disconnected. I took a shower, put on a new pair of boxers and went to the study. “Important! Call Paul!” was flashing on the monitor.
“That was important yesterday,” I said. “Today Iris is coming for breakfast. Call Paul Haugen.”
The telephone would not. Paul’s number was not in the memory. I knew I had dialed it manually only a few days earlier, remembering it somehow after all those years, but today I hadn’t a clue. Thankfully, I located Paul’s resume, of all things, in the old files somewhere in the dusty basement of my computer. I input the information into the phonebook, saved it and said again, “Call Paul.”
Several seconds later Paul’s cheeky face under a mess of blond hair appeared on the screen. Contact lenses: one black, one green. (His favorite book had always been “Master and Margarita.” He’d even claimed he could understand the humor.) Hadn’t changed a pimple. But Paul wasn’t home. The face was a recorded message.
“Hello, you. I am either not home or it’s my fuck-the-phone day. Leave a message and maybe I’ll call you back.”
I left him a message and hung up. Fuck the phone day, I thought. That reminded me that I didn’t have a cell phone. Immediately, I dialed Jimbo. Christie picked up.
“Luke! We’re so glad you’re all right!” She positively beamed with fakeness. She hated my guts and she knew that I knew it. But I could tell she was getting better at it. I offered her my most charming smile.
“Hi, baby. I missed you the most, you know. You look ravishing as always. Is Jim around?”