E. Godz (12 page)

"Well, someone around here doesn't seem to need a chainsaw to cut to the chase,"
Teddy Tumtum commented. "Do we talk out here or do we go someplace where we don't
have to breathe wood?"

"Hush, Teddy Tumtum," Peez said, picking the little bear up by the scruff of his neck
and sticking him in the crook of her arm. "I can handle this myself." She turned to
Agparak. "What he said." She indicated the bear. "We both want to talk, but I'm not
going to do it out here."

"So where do you want to talk, angel?" Martin said with a lift of his upper lip.

"Gee, I don't know," Peez replied, deadpan. "Think we could find somewhere around
here that serves coffee?"

* * *

Peez lay back among the pillows in Martin's bed and stared at the ceiling. "I blame
the espresso," she announced.

"Espresso?" Teddy Tumtum leaned over the top of the headboard, a mischievous glint
in his eyes. "From where I was standing it looked more like cafe au lai—"

"Shut up!"

"Why? You've got nothing to be ashamed of. You're a grown woman. You ran a
medical history viewspell on him before you jumped into anything. You sounded as if
you were having a good time. And perhaps most important, you never once made any
puns about Agparak's personal totem pole. Good girl! Points to you for self-restraint, and
help yourself to the biscotti. You earned it."

"But I've never done anything like that in my life!" Peez whined. "I'm a virgin, for
Vesta's sake!"

"Um, not to point out the obvious, but not any more, you're not."

"I don't even like him! He's snide and opportunistic and mercenary and—!"

"You called?" Martin Agparak came back into the bedroom carrying a tray. It was
laden with a pair of cappuccino cups large enough to drown kittens. He set the tray down
on the night table, sat on the edge of the bed, and offered Peez a frothy cup. "Was it good
for you, too?" he asked with a roguish look worthy of Teddy Tumtum.

Peez groaned and buried her head under the goosedown comforter.

Martin looked to Teddy Tumtum for aid and comfort. "What's her problem? I didn't
think I was doing anything wrong, not pressuring her into it, not rushing things. You were
there, you saw! It was creepy having you hanging off the back of the bed the whole time,
watching us, but still, you did see what was going on. If she wasn't behaving like a
consenting adult, she was doing a damn fine imitation. I thought she was enjoying it!"

"Trust me, she was," the bear said.

"So what's wrong now?"

"Well, I'm no mind reader, but I've been with her a long time, so I kind of understand
the way she thinks." Teddy Tumtum motioned for Martin to lean closer, then shielded his
mouth with one fluffy paw and whispered in the artist's ear, "I think she's afraid you'll
think she only slept with you to get your support."

"I am not," Peez's muffled voice came from under the covers.

"Good, because it'll take a lot more than that to earn my backing," Martin said. He
drank half his cappuccino in one gulp, then peeled the comforter off Peez. "I've got to
admit, girl, you got my number: I am mercenary. That's what it takes to survive, these
days. So I like to eat on a regular basis, so sue me. Man does not live by coffee alone, not
even in Seattle. The future of E. Godz, Inc. is a part of my future; my economic future.
The new head of the company can make or break that future for me. I'm not about to give
my vote to one candidate over another just because she's good in bed."

"It's not just your future we're talking about here, you selfish— What did you say?"
Peez stopped in mid-scold, letting the comforter drop unheeded.

"He said you were good in bed," Teddy Tumtum repeated in a stage whisper that
might be heard throughout Martin's one-bedroom apartment. Peez grabbed him by one
leg and threw him across the bedroom. He splatted against a poster for the previous year's
Seattle International Film Festival.

"Hey! Why'd you do that?" Martin protested. He retrieved Teddy Tumtum and held
him against his chest. "What'd he do to you?"

"Told her the truth about herself once too often," Teddy Tumtum replied in a
melodramatically weak voice. He gave a few tubercular coughs, for added effect, then
added: "That's a hanging offense with Ms. Peez Godz."

Peez glowered at the pair of them. "You're both unspeakable brutes!" she announced.
Then she burst into tears.

The bespelled bear and the Inuit sculptor exchanged a look whose meaning
transcended all borders of race, place, time, and even species. It contained the
cornerstone truth of the Universal Male Language, which was, roughly translated into
mere words: I don't know what's the matter with her. Do you know what's the matter with
her? I don't know, but I'm sure as hell not going to ask her. Asking always makes it
worse, and she'll only complain that if we really cared about her, we wouldn't have to
ask, we'd know. Okay, so in that case let's just wait it out. I mean, shoot, she can't cry
forever, can she?

And lo, within five minutes Peez had in fact stopped crying, thus proving that some
truths really are eternal.

Martin gave her a tissue.

Peez wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and handed it back, then sheepishly asked, "Was
I really good in bed, or were you just saying that?"

"Trust me." Martin smiled. "And for a first-timer, too!"

"I've read a lot."

"I wish you'd give the name of that library to some of my other girlfriends." When
she flashed him a wounded look, he raised both hands and said, "Aw, come on. Don't tell
me you think that—"

Peez turned her head away. "This is just the sort of heedless, reckless, careless thing
my brother would do."

"Not with me, he wouldn't," Martin said.

"If it meant getting your backing, he would."

The sculptor grabbed her by both shoulders and made her look at him. "Peez, you're a
smart woman, and no matter what the glossies say, brains really are better than beauty for
getting you what you want, in the long run. So stop acting stupid, okay? I didn't sleep
with you because I wanted preferential treatment with E. Godz, Inc. and you didn't sleep
with me because you were hoping to turn me into one of your corporate allies. What I do
want is someone who can help me get my carvings into the big-name, high-ticket art
galleries back East. I'm not throwing my support behind either you or your brother until
I've seen proposals from both of you showing me you've got the plan and the power to
get me what I want. Clear?"

"Very." For a wonder, Peez found herself smiling and she felt as if the weight of the
world had been lifted from her shoulders. Her head rang with happy thoughts, though she
couldn't tell whether she was getting the most enjoyment out of the one exulting He said I
was good in bed! or the one that proclaimed He said I wasn't like my brother at all!

Peez extended her hand to Martin and shook his firmly. "I'll get that proposal to you
ASAP, Mr. Agparak. I'm sure you'll find that my plans for the future placement of your
artwork will meet all your needs. Thank you for doing business with E. Godz, Inc. We
hope for your repeat business soon."

"How about now?"

* * *

In the taxi on the way to the airport, Teddy Tumtum stuck his head out of Peez's
carry-on bag and remarked, "Well, that little expedition gave a whole new meaning to
Another satisfied customer!"

Peez tied her emergency underpants over his mouth and jammed him head-down into
the bag, then settled back in her seat to think things over.

She wasn't quite sure how she felt about Martin's refusal to make a commitment to
her bid for company leadership, but she knew she didn't feel bad. In fact, she was
surprised by how well she was taking it.

He's a heavy hitter on the financial side, but look where the money comes from! she
thought. Maybe he had some magic once. Now it's all about the bottom line. He's a
sellout, but a very good sellout, and he's also a very, very good—

She smiled, remembering. Then she thought about what Wilma would say and she
smiled even wider. The Great Mother was very big on fertility, but there were some
aspects of her worship where only a virgin would do. Up until a short while ago, Peez
had been the New York office's Emergency Virgin. Now Wilma would have to put out an
APB to get a new one on the payroll. Wilma hated it when she had to do Human
Resources scutwork.

She won't know whether to congratulate me or kill me. It'll be fun to find out.

Fun ... She startled herself with the realization that the word now held a whole new
meaning for her. It was a surprising transformation, one that was almost—

Gee, Peez mused. I guess Martin Agparak has some magic after all.

The people who live in the greater Los Angeles area take umbrage when outlanders
think of them and their sun-kissed life-style solely in terms of media cliches. Dov Godz
had been made aware of this fact on the first of his many non-business-related trips to the
Left Coast, when he had casually remarked to his dining companion about how many
impossibly perfect-looking people he'd seen since his arrival.

"Even more than in South Beach," he said. "I guess there must be something in the
water, huh?"

He meant it as a joke. It was not taken as such. Indeed, he was promptly taught that
he had said the Wrong Thing. He would never forget that lesson. He thought about it
every time he returned, mostly because the earache he contracted from the ensuing
lecture/rant never cleared up completely.

Now, watching the hazy landscape below come closer as his plane made the final
approach to L.A. International, the memory came drifting back as it always did. Once
more he was seated at one of the best tables at Marozia's, the Pacific-Rim-Italian-
Macrobiotic-Thai-Fusion restaurant du moment, listening to his ladyfriend Brytanni
calmly explain to him how he had erred.

"Oh wow, I mean, like, what is it with you people from Back East?" she shrilled.
(Having a native-born SoCal accent, her pronunciation made Back East sound like
Among the Lepers.) She crossed her long, tan, lotion-sleeked legs, revealing a number of
fascinating views easily ogled through the glass tabletop. Dov nearly choked on his
brioche, but Brytanni was oblivious.

"You're all, so, like, L.A. is all palm trees and smog and movies and Porsches and
Rodeo Drive and crap. It's all: You're from L.A., you must be shallow. As if! I mean, my
friend Wyndsong is from Marin, if you want to talk about posers, and even she's smart
enough to know that we are not all body-image-obsessed media slaves around here." She
took another mouthful of imported Finnish mineral water and chewed it carefully,
making every calorie count. "If we were that two-dimensional, would I have agreed to
meet you now, right when they're announcing the winners of the Shimmies?"

"Uh, what's the Shimmies?" Dov had asked, wiping soggy brioche crumbs from his
chin.

"Oh ... mah ... gawd!" Brytanni was so taken aback by his woeful ignorance that
she slapped her forehead. Then, realizing the harm she might have inadvertently wrought
to her skin's elasticity, she broke open a collagen capsule, slathered it over the assaulted
area, used her cell phone to speed-dial her plastic surgeon for reassurance and to make a
just-in-case maintenance appointment, and finally replied: "The Shimmies are only the
numero uno premier award to recognize the achievements of spokesmodels in the
cellulite reduction appliance field! I can't believe you didn't know that. And you call us
shallow!"

Dov had apologized most sincerely for his lack of cultural awareness, but the damage
was done: Brytanni was so upset that she actually ate a piece of cheese out of his chef's
salad before rushing from the restaurant and driving off in a huff to see her guru. (There
was no need to phone ahead for an appointment: Baba Yamama was also a registered
psychic.)

She did call back later that evening to reassure him that Baba Yamama had said that
Dov's ill-advised attitude towards all things Angelino did not stem from deliberate evil on
his part, but rather was the product of improperly stored karmic leftovers from previous
lives currently festering within the refrigerator of his soul. The guru advised an
immediate therapeutic aura-fluffing for the unhappy man, preceded by a combination
past-life regression/rebirth ritual.

"He said for me to tell you that you should come tomorrow at ten-fifteenish," she
chirped happily. "That's when he'll have the amniotic hot tub all filled up and good to go.
Oh, and also that I should remind you he doesn't take out-of-state checks, but all major
credit cards are way cool. So! Want me to pick you up?"

Dov demurred. He told Brytanni that he couldn't possibly have his aura fluffed until
he'd gotten his chakras aligned, and doing both in close succession was almost as big a
no-no as going swimming less than half an hour after eating. Brytanni was assuaged and
he kept his opinions about L.A. to himself for the rest of the trip.

He closed his eyes and wondered whatever had become of Brytanni. He had not
sought out her company on subsequent trips to the City of Angels. First she'd sent him a
totally unnecessary Dear Dov letter the week after he got back to Miami, informing him
that it was all over between them since she'd gotten involved with a Pomo Indian shaman
out in Claremont. Next he got an e-mail saying that the supposed shaman was really an
Anthro student named Mitch who'd flunked out of Pomona College, but she was mending
her broken spirituality under the supervision of Vigbor the Galactic Redeemer ("You'd
totally like him. He's an alien from an interstellar civilization far more highly developed
and advanced than our own, but not in that creepy sci-fi fanboy kinda way. And
when Vigbor's visa from Amsterdam ran out, she faxed Dov to tell him all about her
latest soul-guide.

At least that was what he assumed was the message the fax contained. Did she ever
contact him for any other reason save to chitter at him about her newest, shiniest, most
improved path to enlightenment/salvation? Dov had lost interest. He shredded the fax
unread. He knew it was from her without looking: Somewhere in her spiritual
blunderings, Brytanni had acquired the unholy power to make her letters, her e-mails, and
her faxes all smell like strawberry incense.

The plane made a smooth touchdown and Dov recovered his luggage almost the
instant he stepped up to the baggage carousel.

That's a good omen, he thought. Here's hoping it holds true. I don't have any use for
another yes/no/maybe meeting like the one with Sam Turkey Feather, Plucker, whatever.
Who knows what Peez is up to, or how far she's gone to grab the company?

He dug into his pocket and pulled out the little clutch of healing charms that Sam had
given him for Edwina. He felt a faint pang of guilt for not having taken the time to send
them on their way to Poughkeepsie before he'd boarded the L.A. flight in Tucson, but he
talked himself out of it in short order.

I'll FedEx them from the hotel, and I'll slap a spell of Extreme Expedition on them
too, just to make sure. She'll get them yesterday. Man, I hope Sam hasn't called her yet or
anything. If she thinks I'm neglecting her, that's another point for Peez. He frowned. No,
wait, it wouldn't be. Mom would understand. I'm not neglecting her, I'm paying attention
to the business. Hell, that's what she always did. She can't complain. In fact, she'll
probably be proud that I'm following in her footsteps! Game, set, and match to me.

Pleased with himself, Dov stuck the charms back in his pocket and headed for the
exit.

"Dov! Whooo, Doooviiieeee!"

Dov stood stock-still, clutching his suitcase with fingers that had gone suddenly ice
cold. There, just under the sign directing deplaned passengers to all ground
transportation, was Brytanni. She was holding a sign shaped like an old-fashioned
sunburst, wavy yellow rays emanating from a disc painted with the bizarrely benevolent
cartoon visage of Ol' Sol himself. The curlicued calligraphy of the words brother dov
godz made an outrageous moustache across the anthropomorphic sun's rosy upper lip.

"Wow, is this karma or what?" she squealed, linking her arm through his. "I mean,
when the Reverend Everything told me that I had to go pick up a very important visitor at
the airport, I was all, like, Euw. Traffic. Exhaust fumes. Smelly people. Not enough
moisturizer in the world to save my skin from that little slice of Hades, and boorrriiinng!
But then he was all, Thou are the Chosen One, the only one among us who hast
achievedeth third degree fengsama, and besides, the church Porsche is in the shop. So of
course after that I just had to go. Plus he said if I didn't he was going to send Brooke, and
we're both up for the same facetime op to be a seat filler at the Emmys, and if you think
I'm giving that fat-assed little bitch the chance to beef up her Elysians doing a good deed
like this, then you don't know your li'l Brytanni at all." She gave his arm a python's
squeeze and twinkled at him.

"Fengsama? Face-time op? Elysians? Where the blazes are we and why don't the
natives speak English?" Ammi squawked from inside Dov's shirt.

"Baby, why is your pacemaker talking?" Brytanni asked, pooching out her lips in the
way her drama coach had taught her to indicate Sincerest Sympathy.

"That's not a pacemaker, that's—" Dov cudgeled his brains for the right excuse to
explain away the chatty amulet. "That's my portable aura monitor," he said. "It issues me
periodic verbal bulletins about, uh, which cosmic subsections of my spirit need an
emergency fluffing."

"Oooooh! Can I see?" Brytanni didn't wait for permission; she thrust her hand into
Dov's bosom, pulling out Ammi and a pinch of chest hair for good measure. "Eeeee! This
is, like, sooo cute! Where'd you get it? Tibet? Khatmandu? Sharper Image?"

"I could tell you, but that would mean I'd have to spend an additional fifty thousand
life-cycles in the Seventh Hell of the Demon Pimlico," Dov replied gravely, disengaging
Brytanni's greedy fingers from the amulet. (He let her keep the wisp of chest hair,
though.) "Of course I'd be happy to tell you anyway, with no thought for my own
spiritual health whatsoever, but then the Powers of Ultimate Judgment might hold you
accountable as an accessory to my downfall. No telling what penalty you'd have to pay
for that in the afterlife. But if you do insist on an answer—"

Brytanni made haste to aver that she cared too much about Dov's soul to pursue the
matter. Dov's cavalier mention of the chance for a less-than-blissful afterlife had a
radically sobering effect on her, and she withdrew into an unbreakable silence that a
Trappist monk might admire. Not a word did she speak as she conducted him to her
Masserati and drove away from the airport. Dov did his eager best to keep up the social
amenities, though his only topic of conversation was his abiding fear of the Ever-
Vengeful-and-Vigilant Demon Pimlico and his hellish consort the Demon Queen
Belgravia.

He was elaborating on the keystone doctrine of his supposed faith ("Damned if you
do, damned if you don't") when she pulled into the parking lot of a towering multi-spired
building bright with chrome, glass, and neon lotus flowers. A two-story-high sign out
front proclaimed it to be the Serene Temple of Unfailing Lifescores. She hit the brakes,
leaped out of the car, and dashed into the building without a backward glance. Dov
thought he heard her utter a strangled sob.

"DING!" Ammi announced. "Fifteen minute aura-fluffing penalty for unprovoked
chain-yanking. Why did you have to make that poor kid believe you worship demons?
Couldn't you have just told her you were a Republican? It'd sound like the same thing, to
her."

"I never said I worshipped demons; I just told her I was scared witless of them," Dov
said. "If you'd been paying attention instead of just hanging around, you might have
noticed that I never told her what I did worship."

"Besides yourself?" Ammi said with a lift of one silver eyebrow.

"You make it sound like it's a bad thing." Dov straightened his shoulders. "There's
nothing wrong with being the number one parishioner in the First Church of Me."

"I'm not going to fault you for having a healthy self-image—" Ammi began.

"Gah! Watch your mouth. Talking about how healthy my self-image is, is like the
gateway drug to pure psychobabble. It can only lead to gratuitous aura-fluffing."

"Fine." The amulet was miffed. "I was trying to be nice, but forget about it. You're a
conceited, smug, self-centered twit and if you don't wrench your shoulder from
constantly patting yourself on the back, you'll snap your spine from trying to kiss your
own a—"

"Brother Dov!" A warm, rich, resonant voice poured down the steps of the Serene
Temple and crashed over Dov like a deluge of heated oil. "We've been waiting for you.
Approach and be welcome, if that is your life goal of the moment."

Dov looked up a flight of cyclopean white marble stairs that had apparently been
lifted wholesale from the set of Intolerance. At the top of the steps, wearing a blue silk
tunic, a wreath of fresh gardenias, and a cape of hummingbird feathers, stood the
Reverend Everything. He was a hale and hearty man in his fifties, with the honest face of
an infomercial spokesperson and a body that spoke of intense, regular workouts with the
best personal trainers money could buy. His black hair, artfully kissed with gray just at
the temples, had the look that only came from being cut and tinted by one of L.A.'s
premier stylists, for a sum (without tip) that could feed a family of four for a week as
long as they didn't go to Spago's.

"Reverend Everything, it's good to be here," Dov said, putting on Smile #496, a
superstrength experimental prototype he'd been holding in reserve for an occasion like
this. The Reverend Everything had been in business at the same location, under the same
management, for years longer than E. Godz, Inc. had been in business. The electronic
records that Dov had studied en route from Arizona told him that it would take something
more than his normal line of business-speak and charisma to make a man like this throw
his congregation's considerable support behind Edwina's baby boy.

Watch your step, Dov, he told himself as he ascended the snow-white steps to shake
Reverend Everything's beautifully manicured hand. This guy's got the smarts to recognize
a line of bullshit from ten miles away, in the dark. No pretty promises, no claims you
can't substantiate on the spot, no IOUs, financial or spiritual. He'll see you and call you
on them in a flash. When you're dealing with the truly successful phonies, the only way
to win is to keep it real.