“Let me check.” She put me on a brief hold. That sunset filled the screen again. If the picture was made in the U. S., it has to be Pacific, I thought idly as I waited. Unless, of course, it was shot from the west coast of Florida. Or Cuba, which, for all intends and purposes counted as U.S., even if they still had their own government there. Christie returned. “Mr. Cornwell is ready for you, Luke. It was nice seeing you again.”
“I am going to come visit you in person soon, don’t you worry.”
“We can’t wait.” She patched me through, lipstick smile lingering on the display surface like Cheshire Cat’s.
Jimbo tried to be professionalism incarnate in his blue suit and red tie and platinum watch and cufflinks, but it’s kind of hard to do when it seems like you don’t have enough skin on your face. He began to recite a network memo he’d memorized for the occasion, but I cut him off.
“Jim,” I said. “I need a cell. I lost mine somewhere.”
“Of course, of course. I’ll have it delivered to you.” He typed something with one finger.
“So who’s been covering for me?”
“No one, really. The network brings a new random star for a guest appearance every day.”
“No shit. Anyone people would recognize?”
“You would be surprised how many half-faded has-beens are trying to cash in on the attention our show has been getting these last few days. The network is saving a bunch on paychecks. Some of these guys are willing to pay us just to host the show.”
“That’s why the network is ‘prepared to consider any vacation requests,’ huh? But what about the ratings?”
“Like I said, with your search going national, the ratings are off the scale no matter who’s in the armchair. They are so high the execs aren’t certain we could do any better even if you came back.”
“Hey, wait a minute. Is my job in question here? You know this buzz is going to die down in a week.”
“Oh, no, old sport. I agree. Now that you’re… you know…”
“What? Innocent?”
“No, but yes, to them. You know what I mean. They will definitely want you now, but…”
“But?”
“Speaking of cells, the execs want to first make sure your… medication trouble resolves.”
“Medication trouble? What the hell kind of business of theirs is it? And what cells have to do with it, anyway?”
“You do know about the new law enforcement agency, right? So the mention of cells was sort of a joke.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“The ‘Rexes.’ They already got a nickname for them. The Rx-cops. Have your kidnapper tortured you with TV cold turkey? They just gave it a go, but these folks are already working like they’ve been doing it for years. Like they’ve been lying in wait.”
“I think I am more confused now that you explained it to me.”
“It’s like the police that are going to be investigating all crimes committed or allegedly committed… how should I put it… under the lack of influence of drugs?” He chuckled amiably and his third chin trembled. “Rx-cops.”
I just stared. My brain was working double time, but this was turning out to be a tougher nut to crack than some of old Dr. Young’s musings. The prescription police?
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. How did they manage to get it through the Parliament?” Jimbo would have puckered his face if he could; I heard it in his voice.
“Get it through the Parliament?” he echoed absently. “How should I know? What’s the normal way? I guess they got the majority of the votes, or something.” Which, of course, was the repetition or my question rephrased, but he didn’t see it, and I was pretty sure he had no better answer for me, so I let it go.
“Right,” I said. “But what does it have to do with me? The news said I was innocent, right? So it must be true. I didn’t commit anything under the lack of influence.”
He lowered his voice and brought his face closer. “Luke, old sport, you dodged the draft.”
Oh yeah, there was that. To be honest, I had completely forgotten about my unpatriotic ways. I nodded and he leaned back in his chair, satisfied.
“Allegedly dodged the draft,” I corrected him feebly. He raised both hands in the sign of victorious surrender.
“And by the way,” I added. “I thought you were taking care of that mistaken draft notice.”
“We could have done something before… But now that—”
“I see.” I knew what he meant. The execs didn’t want to mess with the new law enforcement agency. Nor they wanted to mess with me until the case of “avoiding the draft under the lack of influence of antidepressant medication” got resolved. I needed a real lawyer. I needed Larry.
I hung up on Jimbo, promising much to his chagrin to stop by and say hi to everybody.
I spent some time in thought there at the desk in my boxers. Larry could wait. In light of recent events that Rex-cop business sounded positively silly. Iris was coming, and I still hadn’t ordered the food. So I called Jeffrey and took care of that. I also described Iris to him.
Food arrived in twenty minutes. A Chinese (I presumed) lady, who looked like she was in her late thirties, which meant she must have been over fifty, delivered a plastic bag full of white paper buckets and packages of condiments to my door. The containers reminded me of my college days. Back then we ate Chinese takeout from a closet-size place on Church around five times a week. In over a decade that had passed since, the containers and packages of soy sauce and sweet and sour sauce remained exactly the same. It must have been the last thing untouched by progress.
I paid cash and took the food to the living room, despite the TV. I was going to switch to the cartoons, but remembering what Jimbo had told me, kept the news on. Sure enough, in less than a minute the shapely, pouty Vitalina confirmed Jimbo’s report. I, meanwhile, tore the plastic bag and arranged the containers in tallest-to-shortest order on the magazine table. Then I placed the red, yellow and brown packages in a circle around them and a set of plastic silverware on a napkin on either side. Pleased, I sat back in the sofa and gave myself over to Vitalina and a certain Frank Polokakis, “our political analyst from the Capitol Hill.”
Iris showed up some fifteen minutes later. The fervent Polokakis was just about to analyze me into a spitting episode. I had to wipe the saliva from the corner of my mouth, before Iris thought I was drooling. And I could have been drooling just as well.
She wore the same black cashmere jacket, but under it were a tight-fitting red wool v-neck sweater and a short loose red skirt. Calf-high black leather boots finished the ensemble.
“Hi, Luke,” she said as I, with my mouth open, turned sideways, motioning for her to proceed to the living room. She handed me the jacket.
“You look…” I started — she turned to me, face mischievously expectant — and failed to finish.
“Thanks.” She smiled and went to the living room. I stared first at her back then after her, until I heard “Are we going to eat or play Trivial Pursuit?”
Hurriedly, I stuffed the coat in the closet.
“That’s not a game,” I replied when I caught up. “That’s a table for two. You want wine, or really just water?”
“Wine is fine, if it’s red.”
“It’s red.” I went to the rack and slid out a bottle of Pinot and two glasses.
“I see you’re watching the…”
“Have you heard about it?”
“Yeah, last night. You realize, of course, that in five years at the most, not taking a pill as prescribed will itself be a crime.”
“Probably sooner, seeing how quickly they started.”
She nodded. I poured the wine. She picked up her glass and turned towards me. I raised my own glass.