E. Godz (15 page)

It was all deeply moving. In fact, it moved those members of the congregation who
had not been chosen this week to renew their charitable zeal and fill the collection
baskets to overflowing.

Afterwards, a fishnet curtain descended from on high, veiling the tank as the
congregation made their exit while the organ played selections from Handel's Water
Music over a tape recording of whale songs. These sounds mingled sweetly with the
squish, squish, squish of improperly dried feet ruining costly Italian leather shoes. As the
great doors of the sanctuary closed behind the departing Seekers, the Reverend
Everything removed his shell tiara and fake beard. He ducked behind the dressing screen
with a happy sigh whose meaning might have signified either satisfaction in a ministry
well fulfilled or Thank God that's over!

Peez had her own convictions as to which one it was.

"That does it," she told the air. "I quit."

"What did you say?" Reverend Everything stuck his head out from behind the screen.
He looked sincerely concerned.

"You heard me," Peez said. "I quit. This is not the right line of work for me. If the
future of E. Godz, Inc. is going to depend on someone who's able to put up with watching
this kind of hijinks with a big old Miss America smile on her face, I'm out. I'm leaving
the field to my brother, Dov. Let him hitch a ride on the hurdy-gurdy, but I'm getting off
now." She stood up and headed for the steps leading down from the tank deck.

The crystal trident drove into the wooden stair tread just an inch ahead of her poised
foot. She jerked her head back to stare at the Reverend Everything, who had thrown the
shining weapon with such extraordinary accuracy. Her expression was one of complete
surprise seasoned with grudging admiration for such speed, panache, and marksmanship.
He shrugged it all away.

"I used to work in the movies," he said.

"Really." This was old news to Peez, who had read up on the Reverend's background
on the flight to L.A. Teddy Tumtum had provided plenty of additional insights for
dealing with the man, all of which now seemed silly since Peez had decided to quit
dealing with him and all of the other E. Godz subsidiaries on her list altogether.

"Yes, really," Reverend Everything said. "I know about quitting. I quit when they
stopped having happy endings." He came forward and took her by the arm. "Come with
me, please." It sounded like a courteous invitation, but the firmness of his grip on her
wrist told her that it was more in the line of a command.

Peez was too weary to put up a fight. Why bother? As soon as she left this temple to
theatricality, she was going back to the airport to catch the next flight to New York City.
When she got back to the office, she'd tell Edwina about her decision to pull out of the
race. Maybe she'd even go up to Poughkeepsie and deliver the news in person, then stay
on to see if there was anything helpful she could do to ease her mother's last days on
earth. Surely whatever she'd find to occupy herself would have to be more helpful than
this ridiculous competition with Dov.

The Reverend Everything took her through a door leading from the tank deck to a
behind-the-scenes hallway. Peez passed one office after another, all of them bustling with
the noises of computers, fax machines, telephones, and cheerful people in the throes of
reaching out to the spiritual Seeker. Or was that "sucker"?

There was a small elevator at the end of the hall which took them up to the topmost
floor of the building. Here was the nerve center of the Reverend Everything's empire, his
private office. Peez took it all in with the practiced eye of a woman who actually adored
good interior decoration but who would sooner die than admit it lest she be tarred with
the counterfeminist brush. Peez was smart and sensible: She knew it was possible to want
equality between the sexes and monogrammed sheets (400 count Egyptian cotton, for
preference) but she also knew that there were precious few people out there willing to
accept that.

Reverend Everything settled into the tawny leather chair behind the burled oak desk
and motioned for Peez to have a seat as well. The only furniture available for the purpose
was a sofa of the same rich upholstery. When sat upon, it offered all the resistance and
support of a toasted marshmallow. Peez found herself sinking deeper and deeper into the
cushions. It was a pleasurable sensation, only marred by the revelation that she would
need a winch to haul herself out of there should the need arise.

She also realized that this choice of furnishings gave the Reverend Everything a tacit
psychological advantage over all his guests. He could get out of his chair with ease and, if
he so chose, come over to the sofa/quicksand pit and loom over a captive audience. Peez
didn't care for the idea of being helpless—she'd already experienced the reality of it too
many times, in too many different situations, including but not limited to social, financial,
and childhood. She began hauling herself towards the armrest, bent on seizing hold of it
and hauling herself free of the cushiony morass.

Her exertions were not lost on the Reverend Everything. "My dear, aren't you
comfortable?" he asked as if he really cared.

"Actually, I'm a little too comfortable," she said. She flashed him a charming smile. It
packed nowhere near the power and versatility of his own toothy weapon of choice, but it
was pretty good for a beginner. "I'd hate to doze off in the middle of our conversation, but
who could blame me? This is such a lovely couch."

"Comfort is a wonderful thing, isn't it?" Reverend Everything winked at her. "But it
can be a snare, too. That's one principle I learned a long time ago, back when I was just
starting out. People need rituals. They give us a sense of continuity, security, and
dependability in a world that often offers us none of the above. On the other hand, if you
do the same thing in the same way for too long, it's more than likely you'll stop paying
attention to the meaning behind what you're doing and just switch to autopilot. That's
why I keep changing the format of worship services—to say nothing of the decor—for
my followers. Is that what's bothering you? All the, well, showmanship, for want of a
better word?"

"Oh, I can think of a much better word," Peez replied. "How about phoniness? Or
superficiality? That's a good one! I can swallow a certain amount of snake oil, Reverend,
but I think I've finally reached my limit. It was different when I was just doing long-
distance administration work, pushing buttons, crunching numbers, filling out forms.
Ever since I've hit the road and seen some of Mother's clients face to face, I've learned
some hard truths that make it impossible for me to go on without getting disgusted with
myself."

"As well as with us?" The Reverend Everything raised one ashy brow. "But what
have you really seen of us, Ms. Godz? The flash, the spangles, the dolphins, yes, but what
about the truth? Did you try to catch up to any of my congregation, to talk to them, to ask
them about why they come here instead of some other house of worship?"

"That's pretty obvious," Peez said confidently. "You're the only one who gives them a
show."

The Reverend Everything chuckled. "Remind me to take you on a tour of several
churches I could name. No, Ms. Godz: If a show was all they wanted, they could get that
elsewhere. For most of them, their lives are a show, their careers are all lighting tricks
and special effects. What they come for here is something with a little more substance,
something enduring, something that will last longer than their most recent hairstyle, or
lift-and-tuck, or collagen injection, or producer's promise."

"Faith?" Peez still sounded dubious, but there was something about the Reverend
Everything's tone and expression that was convincing. Either he really meant what he
was saying or he was putting on a show so convincing that he'd even persuaded himself
to believe it was true.

"If you like." He laid his hands on the desktop. "We spend our lives in the pursuit of
what we call solid things, practical things: a big house, a fast car, a spouse who matches
the drapes. We don't realize that these are the things we can lose most easily. The truth is,
while some people say that keeping in touch with our spiritual side is frivolous, it's
actually one of the most necessary things in our lives."

He stood up and came around the desk to loom over Peez where she slumped,
engulfed in the sofa. Offering her a helping hand, he pulled her to her feet and said: "I
provide the fulfillment of a human need, Ms. Godz. You might not appreciate the glitzy
package it comes in, but the contents are solid. A bowl of soup, a plate of sushi, a granola
bar, a slab of roast beef, a slice of smoked salmon rolled into the shape of a rose, all of
these can satisfy a person's hunger. What does the outer semblance matter, as long as he
is fed? Will you be the one to tell him that his choice must follow only one approved
form? Would you rather have him go hungry?"

Peez shook her head. "No, of course not, but—"

"My dear, I am the chef, but E. Godz, Inc. is the catering service. Without you, my
work would never be so simple nor so effective. Many Seekers would find themselves
starving, unaware that they dwell in the midst of plenty. Your mother understood this.
She didn't start E. Godz, Inc. just for the money. Mind you, she never complained about
the money, but still ...

"It would be easy for me to let you go, to allow you to back out of the competition for
control of the company. But I see great things in you, great possibilities. If you don't
believe in my way of bringing spiritual sustenance to my followers, that's fine, but the
only valid reason for you to quit is if you don't believe in yourself." He clasped one of
Peez's hands between both of his and pressed it to his heart. "Is that it, Ms. Godz? Is that
going to be your ... final answer?"

* * *

In the airport, waiting for the flight to Arizona, Teddy Tumtum said, "I know you
don't think of the Reverend Everything as a big fake any more, but that doesn't make up
for describing him as a"—the bear shuddered involuntarily—"game show host. Just
because he chose to express himself that way doesn't mean—"

"It wasn't what he said," Peez replied. "It was the way he insisted that I accept some
lovely parting gifts." She held up a large cardboard box, shook it gently, and asked, "So
how do you use a Flashmatic Abscercizer anyway?"

"I don't know," said the bear, studying the fine print on the side of the box. "But it
says that the hamster's not included."

It was raining in Seattle when Dov arrived. Luckily he was able to find a place selling
hot coffee to take the chill off before he made his way to Martin Agparak's studio.

"Give me a small coffee, light and sweet," he told the girl staffing the tiny kiosk on
the corner of Martin's block.

"What kind?"

"Regular. I could use the caffeine." He shifted his umbrella slightly and gave her one
of his pocket-pack-tissue smiles: clean, cheap, disposable, and plenty more where that
came from.

"Single, double, or triple?"

"What?"

"Caffeine. Or you want that espresso?" To his surprise, she did not pronounce it "ex-
presso."

"Um, okay, sure, espresso, why not? Single," he clarified.

"What kind?" she asked again.

"I told you, a single espresso, light and— Oh, wait, if it's espresso I don't want it light,
but I still want it—"

"Beans. What kind of beans do you want? This is just a little stand so we don't have
the selection you'd find in one of our shops. If it turns out that we don't stock your
favorite, I'm sorry. Anyway, we do have Sumatran, Brazilian, Columbian, Nicaraguan,
Costa Rican, Ecuadorean, Madagascar, Jamaican ..."

Dov felt as if he were trapped on an endless voyage through the now-defunct Small
World ride at DisneyWorld, only with all of the happy, prancing international puppets
high on caffeine and armed to the eyebrows with coffee grinders. The girl was still
rattling off the options when he cut in and said, "What would you recommend?"

"Oh, the Jamaican, definitely."

"Fine. I'll have that."

"What kind?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"From what part of the island? I mean, obviously you want the highlands, but do you
prefer the northern, southern, eastern, or western face of the mountains?"

"Eep," said Dov. "Uh ... you have anything from the middle? I don't like to play
favorites."

Clearly this was not the choice of those in the know. The girl gave him a look as if
he'd farted in church, but then remembered that she was a businesswoman, not an
educator of woefully untrained taste buds. "What roasting process?" she asked.

"I don't care. Whatever they used on Joan of Arc. Look, all I wanted was a lousy cup
of coffee, light and sweet, not the Spanish Inquisition!"

"Spanish roast process?" The girl frowned, then ducked down behind the counter. She
popped up an instant later, like a gopher on springs, with a plastic scoop full of coffee
beans. "Okay, but it kills the secondary bouquet. You sure? I mean, the customer is
always right, but I don't want you to come back complaining to me when your soft palate
doesn't get the full effect."

"Why don't we leave my soft palate to follow its own damn bliss and just give me the
freaking coffee?!"

A strong hand fell on Dov's shoulder and spun him around, putting him face to
smiling face with the very man he'd come to Seattle to see.

"Dov Godz?" Martin Agparak inquired casually. Dov could only nod. "Thought so. I
got your message on my answering machine. I've been expecting you. Come into my
studio and I'll give you that ... freaking coffee."

Embarrassed, Dov let himself be led away like a little lamb. Behind him he heard the
coffee kiosk girl calling, "If he still wants the Spanish-process Jamaican, Marty, make
sure you use distilled water, not spring. It's the only thing that can save him!"

* * *

Rain pattered down on the tarps covering the workspace where Martin Agaparak
created his customized totem poles. Dov sat on a stump that had been sculpted into the
shape of Regis Philbin's head and sipped his coffee. Martin had very kindly given him a
towel to blot up all the rainwater that his umbrella had failed to deflect, and now Dov
wore it slung around his neck like a chubby ascot.

"I'll be with you just as soon as I put the finishing touches on this," the sculptor said,
suiting up for work. On went the goggles and the earphones, up came the chainsaw. Its
full-throated, hungry roar was louder than Dov had expected. He shifted his seat to the
head of Alex Trebek, over in the corner nearest the door back inside.

Agparak noticed the move. He turned off the chainsaw, took off the earphones and
goggles, and said, "Sorry. I kind of forget how rough this can be on someone who's not
used to it. I'll tell you what: How about we talk first, then I'll get back to work after
you've gone, okay?"

Dov became suspicious. "You make it sound like you're going to give me the Uh-Huh
treatment."

"What's that?"

"You know, pretend you'll listen to what I've got to say, nod your head, go 'Uh-huh,
uh-huh, uh-huh' the whole time I'm talking so that if I'm dumb enough, I just might
believe you're really paying attention, then get rid of me as soon you can do it without
looking like a rude jerk."

"Uh-huh." Agparak nodded. Then he grinned. "Speaking of rude jerks, am I speaking
with the president of the club right now? You ever listen to yourself, Godz? So far I've
rescued you from that coffee girl before you had a total meltdown in front of her kiosk
and she called the cops, I've given you a cup of coffee without the Caffeine Catechism,
I've handed you a towel, and I've offered to put my work on hold so I could hear what
you've come all this way to say to me. Gosh, how much ruder could I be?"

Dov hung his head. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I shouldn't've acted like that. That was
jerky of me. I've been under a lot of pressure lately—not that that excuses my behavior or
anything."

"Sure, I understand." The sculptor patted Dov on the back. "It can't be easy, worrying
about your mother's health and all."

"Well, it's not as if there's anything I can do for her besides try to keep the company
working at peak efficiency." Absentmindedly, Dov reached down and twiddled with
Trebek's nostrils. "That's why I'm here, to see if you've got any requests or suggestions
for change, any complaints about how we're handling your particular needs."

"You're from the government and you're here to help me?" Agparak had the talent to
make a skeptical smirk look charming. "Like I told your sister, what I'm after is getting a
foot in the door at the big Eastern art galleries, having my work seen by the people who
matter. Well, seen and purchased. Anyone can be a starving artist; I'd rather be the artist
who says, 'I'm starving; let's go grab a bite at La Cote Basque.' "

"You've become one of our top clients, Mr. Agparak," Dov said. "I think I've got the
connections to get you just the sort of exposure you want for your art. Would you be kind
enough to give me a little preview?"

"Of what?"

"Of the pieces you'll be exhibiting when I set up your New York City gallery debut."

"Oh." Martin Agparak nodded, then said: "You're sitting on one of them."

Dov looked down at the head of Alex Trebek and withheld comment.

"That's just the one I did for practice," the sculptor went on. "The finished work will
be a totem pole combining Trebek, Barker, Philbin, with—whatzisname, the guy from
that old 1950s quiz show, the one where everyone got busted for cheating—anyway, with
him for the base and Vanna White for the top figure. It's the last one I need to do for my
ideal installation. I've already completed the totem poles of the NFL mascots, the fast
food icons, and the sci-fi TV show heroes. That's another thing where I could use the
company's help: Maybe you can get a hold of Shatner so he'll sign the release, because I
sure as hell can't swing it."

Dov mulled over this information for a while, then finally laughed and said, "Oh, I
get it. You do funny art! Like comic strips, only wood. Very smart, Agparak, very cutting
edge, Rothko meets Ethan Allen."

He would have gone on to praise the sculptor's business savvy in greater detail,
except he caught sight of the venomous stare Agparak was giving him.

"There is nothing 'funny' about a totem pole," Martin said. "Not unless you find
yourself in the habit of going into St. Patrick's cathedral for laughs."

"Hey, I know all about totem poles," Dov protested, holding up both hands to ward
off any accusations of religious insensitivity. "I have only the deepest respect for what the
real ones signify, but if someone slapped a giant propeller beanie on top of St. Patrick's,
you know you'd be right there beside me, laughing your ass off."

"The 'real' ones?" Agparak repeated. "What makes my totem poles less real than the
ones you claim to respect? Because instead of carving Bear and Fox and Raven, I've used
team mascots? Bear is an animal of great power who holds healing in his paws, but more
people worship him when he holds a football. If I make a totem pole with the old images,
they'll look at it and smile politely and say how quaint it is, how charming. It won't matter
if I made it the week before: They'll still see it as a relic, a leftover, an artifact. But if I
transform it, if I create it so that it shows them the things that they still worship, they'll be
more likely to realize that it's not just a decorative religious fossil; it's a living, vital icon
of spiritual significance."

Dov's brow creased in thought as he took in everything Agparak was saying. At last
he asked, "You expect people to go into a gallery, see your work, and come away from it
ready to worship Regis Philbin?"

It was Agaparak's turn to laugh. "I expect them to come away from my work thinking
about their own spirituality. I've seen too many people who call themselves religious
when they're really just the slaves of habit. They go through the same rituals their parents
and grandparents did, but they never think about what the words or the actions of the rites
mean; they never feel the spirit within them. Faith should be a part of life, something you
actively care about, like catching your favorite game show every weeknight or rooting
for your favorite team. Think of what so many people have lost, Mr. Godz, without
anyone taking it away from them. Then think of what they could have, and how much it
would enrich their lives if only they'd open their eyes and see."

Dov stood up and shook the sculptor's calloused hand solemnly. "You can count on
my support, Mr. Agparak," he said. "Can I count on yours?"

Agparak didn't answer right away. "I did mention that your sister's already been
here?" he asked.

There was something in the way he said it that set off a little alarm bell in Dov's
mind. Oh wow. This is the guy Peez slept with? Did she do it to cinch his support for her
taking over the company? That skanky little—! Naaahhh. That's not her style. Still, I'll
bet it didn't hurt her chances of winning him over to her side. And it sure as hell didn't do
her any harm either.

Dov applied a liberal coating of Smile #98.2 and said, "Mr. Agparak, I fully
understand. You want to consider all your options before making a commitment. I can
respect that. But more than that, after what you've told me about your art and its purpose,
I really respect you. And I'm not just saying that to kiss up, either. I mean it. Whichever
way you throw your influence, it's been an honor to meet you." He released his grip on
the sculptor's hand and concluded: "So, would you mind calling me a taxi back to the
airport?"

"Sure, no problem." Agparak looked genuinely pleased and flattered by what Dov had
had to say. He whipped out a cell phone the size of a pack of bubble gum and put in the
call, then said, "It's on the way. Want another cup of coffee while you wait?"

"Sure, thanks. Light and sweet."

"What kind?"

"You're kidding, right? I saw you just have the one can of Maxwell House in your
cupboard, you populist rebel, you."

"Right, but I'm talking about the 'light and sweet' part. I'm a lousy host for not asking
you before: cream, half-and-half, whole milk, one percent, two, skim, cow's milk, goat's,
white sugar, brown, Demerara, granulated, lump, cube, saccharine, aspartame—?"

Dov's scream split Alex Trebek's head wide open.