E. Godz (8 page)

"Really? I wouldn't have pegged you for a day over one hundred and five." Two grins
flashed across the darkness and Mr. Bones laughed.

"Petit, we will get along fine, you and I," he said. By this time they had left Bourbon
for one of its many side streets. Mr. Bones stopped outside a building that looked as old
as the city itself, a little worn, a little shabby, but comfortable, like a respectable old
maiden aunt who had enjoyed more than a few exciting indiscretions in her girlhood. A
wooden sign on a wrought iron frame swung back and forth over the battered blue door
proclaiming that this was Aux Roi Gris-Gris: Voodoo Supplies, Tarot Readings, Cold
Drinks and Postcards.

The woman behind the counter was young, plump and beautiful, clad in a low-cut
yellow blouse, a flounced skirt, and a tignon headwrap, the whole ensemble clearly worn
to fulfill tourist expectations, the better to attract tourist dollars. She looked up from a
tarot layout with a practiced saleswoman's smile on her face until she saw who it was had
just come into the shop. At once her smile became heartfelt and, with a happy cry of
recognition, she flew into Mr. Bones' arms, hugging him to her ample bosom so hard that
Dov thought there was a good chance she'd break him in two.

There were worse ways to die.

"Please, Aurore, a little restraint, if you please. We have a guest." Mr. Bones tipped
his hat in Dov's direction.

Dov stepped forward and raised the woman's hand to his lips. When in Rome ... he
thought. But this looks like much more fun than Rome! The lovely Aurore gave him a
devastating smile in payment for his gallantry and Mr. Bones observed everything with a
contented look.

"My dear, Mr. Godz and I will have brandy and coffee in my office," the old man said
as he led the way around the counter into the rooms behind the store. As Dov followed,
he took in the stock of Aux Roi Gris-Gris. As advertised there were plenty of postcards
and a cooler full of cold drinks. There were also piles and piles of mass produced bric-a-
brac for the tourist trade: overpriced feathered masks, plastic krewe doubloons from
Mardi Gras past, rubber crawfish keyrings, suitably primitive-looking voodoo dolls that
came with pins included.

"See anything you like?" Mr. Bones teased, glancing back over one shoulder.

Dov picked up one of the so-called voodoo dolls. Its body was made of sticks
swathed in a couple of scraps of brightly colored cloth and its skull-like head was molded
on white clay with the features daubed on in black ink.

"Now, Barbie, what did I tell you?" Dov addressed the doll. "Anorexia is not a
laughing matter."

"The real ones are not sold here," Mr. Bones said. "They are made to order."

"I expected no less." Dov pulled Ammi out of his shirt and draped the amulet's chain
around the fake voodoo doll's neck. "What do you think would happen if I stuck a pin
into this thing now?" he asked lightly. He reached for one and was about to test his
hypothesis when Mr. Bones' hand fell over his in a surprisingly strong grip.

"You may laugh freely, but laughter and mockery are two different things." There
was a dangerous look in his eyes, a look that conjured up graveyard midnights and forces
that were old when the world was young.

Dov set the doll down carefully and reclaimed his amulet. "I didn't mean any
disrespect. Not to anything but him, that is." He tapped Ammi's silver face.

"Hey! Watch it, you big boob," Ammi protested. "You've got thumbs fatter than a
Bronx butcher's!"

"I believe you," said Mr. Bones. "And belief is everything." He took Dov into a small,
snug room in back of the store, a place decked out with fine antique furnishings, most of
them heavy, ornate pieces reflecting the on-and-off influence of forty-odd years of
Spanish occupation. As Dov settled into the purple velvet seat of a high-backed oak chair,
Aurore came gliding in with a tray bearing a demitasse service, a crystal brandy decanter,
and two big-bellied snifters.

Mr. Bones did the honors, keeping his staff cradled in the crook of one elbow even
while he poured brandy and coffee. Seeing Dov's curious look, he said, "There are many
hands that would be eager to lay hold of my little beauty here." He gave the staff an
awkward jiggle, making the bones click together. "The price of power is high—vigilance,
courage, calculation, insight—but I find the rewards outweigh the inconveniences."

"I couldn't agree with you more." Dov accepted a demitasse and sipped the hot, strong
brew. "That's why I've come here, to speak with you about—"

"I know." Mr. Bones saw no rudeness in interrupting his guest. "It is the dearest wish
of my heart that your mother may yet surprise us all and make a full recovery. However,
if she must instead go off with my good friend the Baron, I think she would do so less
reluctantly if she knew that all her good works were being continued, and that the
transition of power was to be accomplished as smoothly as possible."

"The Baron?" Dov asked.

"Baron Samedi." Mr. Bones pointed at a painting that hung on one wall of his
backroom retreat. It was oil on a large slab of cedarwood, and it showed a gentleman who
very much resembled Mr. Bones, except for the fact that his face was painted so that he
looked even closer kin to an animate skeleton. "He is ... a friend of mine, a personage of
great honor who takes a kindly interest in those whose lives have reached their close."

Dov studied the painting and mulled over Mr. Bones' rather evasive words. Probably
one of his deities, he thought. I should know this. Well, I can learn. Yes, and I will learn
everything I must, once I'm head of the company!

"I would like to hope," he said slowly, "that perhaps some day I may count on the
Baron as a friend of mine as well."

Mr. Bones was visibly pleased by Dov's reply. "My friend, you commend yourself to
me more with every word from your mouth. You show us respect, even though you have
not got a baby's comprehension of what it is we do or how we worship. I would be
honored to bring you to the temple where I serve as priest and my dear Aurore as
priestess, but I fear your time with us is short. Is this not so?"

Dov bowed his head. "I'm afraid so, Mr. Bones. I deeply regret—"

"We've got to catch a plane to Arizona tomorrow," Ammi horned in. "We'd've had a
lot more time to visit with you, maybe visit that temple of yours, if only you'd been a
little easier to find in the first place. It's all very spoooky, you drifting through the French
Quarter, no one knows where to find you, come and go like the wind, like a shadow, blah,
blah, blah, but come on, Bones! Is that really any good for business?"

"That does it." Dov pulled the amulet from his neck so sharply that he snapped the
chain. "You're going in the Mississippi. Now. That or down the toilet. Mr. Bones, where's
the bathroom?"

The old man leaned forward and laid one hand on Dov's arm. "Let the creature be.
Only the weak fear those who censure them. Only the truly poor cannot afford to laugh at
themselves. I am neither weak nor poor. This garish shop is not my only source of
income any more than the few pitiful coins I gather by posing for photographs with the
tourists. My true power, in many senses, lies elsewhere."

Dov nodded. "The temple. Your followers. You also run a second shop, a botanica.
Very thoughtful of you to provide your followers with a handy place to shop for all their
voodoo needs. And not just your followers: This city shelters many different practitioners
of the old ways, and you can't buy skulls or images of the gods or those kind of herbs at
Winn-Dixie. I've done my research, Mr. Bones."

"So have I, Mr. Godz." The old man clapped his hands, summoning the beauteous
Aurore. This time she had put off her gaudy tourist-trapping clothes and the tignon,
wearing instead a smartly cut designer ensemble, her hair secured by elegant silver clips
that whispered: Tiffany's, of course. She was carrying a leather portfolio stuffed to the
bursting point with papers.

She smiled when she saw how Dov was staring at her. "You preferred me as I was?"
she asked lightly.

"No, ma'am," he said, recovering himself. "Your other outfit was just fine for
bringing down the pigeons, but I can see you prefer to stalk big game. I suppose those are
the latest financial reports on the corporation?"

She nodded and she laid the portfolio in Mr. Bones' lap. The old man opened it to a
random spot and ran one finger down the outer margin. "Compiled by a reliable and
trustworthy research firm."

"Is that so." Dov bristled inwardly. "Do you think it's quite wise to have outsiders
investigating E. Godz, Inc.? All it takes is one moron on their staff whose idea of a good
time is an old-fashioned book burning and we won't be talking small can of worms; we'll
be up to our eyeballs in nightcrawlers."

"A fate that will be ours soon enough, when our time comes," Mr. Bones replied.
"But I agree: Why rush it? Rest easy, Mr. Godz. This research firm harbors only those
who wish us well, and even though the payment for their services is ... unconventional, I
have the resources to meet it." He closed the folder and Dov caught sight of the image of
Baron Samedi impressed on the cover in gold. "Now, let us discuss the reasons behind
the corporate portfolio's continuing refusal to invest in the futures market."

"Say what?" said Ammi.

"Shut up, wart," Dov muttered. He rested his hands on his knees and leaned forward
eagerly. "I'm glad you asked that question, Mr. Bones. After all, it's your group's future
that's at stake. And I don't mean pork bellies! I've been following Mother's investment
strategies for years, even if she doesn't know it, and the way I see things going is—"

Two hours later a sleek black Bentley pulled up to the blue door of Aux Roi Gris-Gris
and a uniformed driver stood by at attention while Dov got in. He sank back against the
sumptuously soft leather interior and closed his eyes. "Next stop, Arizona," he murmured.

"Without your underwear?" Ammi demanded. "This is not the way to the hotel!"

"No, it's the way to the airport. Mr. Bones took care of getting my things packed and
loaded into the trunk. He's got his ways."

"He's also got a killer instinct for finance."

"Yes, well, so do I. I'm glad he saw that. I think it's what clinched the deal. One of the
most influential members of the E. Godz, Inc. corporate family and I've got his support in
my pocket. Yesss!" He punched the air in triumph before settling back down into the seat
again and drifting off into wonderful dreams. They all featured himself tossing his sister
Peez out into the cold, cruel world and a script consisting entirely of the words Neener,
neener, neener.

Teddy Tumtum would have appreciated it.

"Who are we looking for?" asked Teddy Tumtum from deep within Peez's carry-on
bag. They had just arrived at Chicago's O'Hare airport following a flight out of Boston
that had been severely delayed by bad weather. Peez was convinced that the springtime
storm that had kept her from her second appointment was all her sneaky baby brother's
doing. It would be just like him to phone up one of his minions and order a tempest or
two, just to thwart her. "How are you going to recognize the guy they sent to meet you?"

"Simple. He'll be holding up a placard with my name on it," Peez replied. Like her
brother, she had slapped a portable A.R.S. over herself and Teddy Tumtum so that she
could converse with the insidious toy in public and in peace for the duration of her
travels. Even in the crowded airport, no one seemed to be at all puzzled by a grown
woman talking to her carry-on bag, and when she'd taken Teddy Tumtum out on the
plane to distract herself from the worst of the turbulence (Peez was not a good flyer) no
one on board had so much as batted an eye. Sometimes Peez wondered what it was they
thought they were seeing.

"Well, that's mighty obliging of them," Teddy Tumtum remarked. "They must think
highly of you."

"Oh, please." Peez tossed her head. "They're only kissing up to Mother through me. I
don't matter as much as a squashed cockroach to these people. Probably less. I think they
worship cockroaches."

"Dung beetles," Teddy Tumtum corrected her. "Among other things. I offered to brief
you on the flight here, but someone I could mention thought she had better things to do."

"Yes, making sure I threw up into the barf bag was my top priority," Peez replied
mordantly. "What was I thinking? Silly me."

"Ha, ha," the bear said, deadpan. "You were thankful enough that I prepped you for
the meeting with Fiorella."

"For all the good it did me," Peez said.

"Awwww, izzums Peezie-pie upset 'cause nasty ol' witchy-lady didn't fall right into
um's arms? She's a businesswoman! One tough honey, and believe me, I know from
honey. Your victory will be all the sweeter once she's had a chance to think things
through."

"You sound sure that I'm going to win her over. Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Like what?"

"Like my baby brother. I'm not naive. I know that Dov's probably doing the exact
same thing that I am, right now, zipping around the country, drumming up grassroots
support for his takeover as head of the corporation. That little moop can charm the pants
off anyone. Why not Fiorella?"

"Why assume she thinks with her pants?" Teddy Tumtum countered. "I told you, she's
a businesswoman. Emphasis on the business part."

"Yes, but—"

"But nothing! You are naive if you believe that the really successful movers and
shakers get led around by the hormones. Your problem is you've been ruined by so-called
'entertainment' TV. According to them, it's all about sex when it isn't all about staying
young. Sure, you'll hear tell of some high-placed corporate honcho or honchita
horndogging after a bit of crumpet, but you can bet your T-bills that they lock up their
assets first."

"Then what about that old dead billionaire whatzisname, the one who married that
boob-job bimbo and left her everything in his will? His kids are still duking it out with
Suzie Skank in court!"

The carry-on bag chuckled. "Ever think that maybe the old guy didn't leave
everything to the bimbo because he was stupid in love? Ever wonder if maybe he knew
exactly what he was doing, and he was doing it precisely because he wanted to aggravate
his kids from beyond the grave? Never underestimate a parent, Peezie-pie. They could
give sneaky weasel lessons to Machiavelli."

"Whatever." Peez was still feeling cranky and peaked after her bout of airsickness.
She was in no mood for another of Teddy Tumtum's lectures. All she wanted was to
make contact with the Chicago group, secure their backing, and then go to her hotel and
the chaste embrace of a hot, scented bubble bath. "Where the hell is that driver?" she
muttered, her eyes sweeping the crowd. "I can't stand here forever. I've got to retrieve my
luggage. If he doesn't show up—"

That was when she saw him. It was a miracle that she did, considering how thick the
crowd around him stood. The little cardboard sign with peez godz scrawled on it in
conventional Roman lettering wigwagged desperately over the heads of the gawking mob
surrounding the short, dumpy little man whose only clothing was a pleated linen kilt, red
leather sandals, and a heavy black Cleopatra wig. Peez fought her way through the pack
just as the little man flipped the sign over to display the cartouche lovingly drawn on the
other side.

It's either my name or the word HELP done in hieroglyphics, Peez thought. "I'm
here," she announced, laying one hand on her escort's naked shoulder. "Shall we go get
my bags?"

"Oh yes, please," he replied. His moist, doggy eyes brimmed with gratitude. "I'm
Gary. It's an honor to meet you."

"Gary ..." Peez repeated thoughtfully, trying to merge the commonplace name with
the bizarrely dressed little man before her.

Somewhere between their initial meeting point and the baggage carousels Gary
excused himself, stepped into the men's room, and emerged wearing jeans, work shoes, a

Bears T-shirt and a battered denim jacket. He was carrying a small blue gym bag from
which protruded a few stray braids of the discarded wig. In answer to Peez's inquiring
look he said, "Ray Rah tapped the power just enough to let me greet you in costu—in
suitable regalia but with enough shielding to keep airport Security happy."

"An A.R.S.?" Peez asked. Then, noting how badly bewildered he was, she explained:
"Automatic Rationalization Spell. Very popular."

"I guess that must be what he used, then. But your flight was delayed; the spell began
to wear off. That's why I was surrounded by all those people. I'm glad you showed up
when you did."

"Me, too. You'd have hated to have to explain yourself to Security."

"Tell me about it." He shuddered.

He retrieved Peez's bag from the carousel, then escorted her to his car, a late-model
Volvo convertible. The faience image of a hippopotamus dangled from the rearview
mirror and the dashboard was a forest of figurines depicting some of the many gods of
Ancient Egypt. As soon as they had their seat belts fastened, he pointed to one of the
miniature statues and said, "She's my favorite—I mean, the object of my primary
veneration: Sekhmet, the lion-headed goddess of war and sickness."

Peez gave the little man a searching look. He appeared to be about as bloodthirsty as
a penguin. "Interesting choice," she remarked. "You a lawyer?"

"I sell insurance."

"Oh."

They drove from the airport in silence. Gary took it upon himself to offer Peez a brief
guided tour of downtown Chicago. The weather was not cooperating; the city did not
show its best face under dingy gray overcast skies. Still, the drive along the lakeshore
was inspirational, and the skyline spoke to Peez with its own strange, steel-and-glass
poetry.

As they drove, Peez discovered that Gary was about as scintillating and outgoing a
conversationalist as she was herself. He only spoke when he had no other choice, on pain
of death, and after he had pointed out this or that landmark his store of chitchat was
drained dry. There was nothing wrong with silence—Peez rather liked being alone with
her thoughts—but the Volvo was filled to bursting with that hideous beast, the nervous
silence, the kind that sprang to ugly life when both tongue-tied parties felt the pressing
obligation to say something to fill the soundless depths because—because—

Because I don't really know who the hell this edgy little man is within the Chicago
hierarchy, Peez thought. He's not the head of the organization—that's Ray Rah—but what
if he's second-in-command, or even third? If this visit ends like the last one, without a
firm commitment of support, they're going to talk about me after I'm gone. I'd need all the
allies I can muster. Might as well start with Gary. No harm in taking a leaf from Dov's
slimy little book and trying to chat him up.

She glanced around for a prop to use in order to break the ice and her eye happened
upon the placard with her name cartouche that Gary had dropped onto the passenger-side
floor. She picked it up and studied the column of images within the red ovoid frame for a
time, then said:

"Well, that's disappointing."

Gary almost jumped over the steering wheel at the sound of her voice. "What is?" he
squeaked.

"How my name looks in hieroglyphics. I'd hoped it would require some of the more,
well, interesting elements to render Peez Godz. You know: snakes, owls, lions, people. I
can't even tell what some of these symbols are supposed to be. This one here looks like a
spittoon."

She was trying to be funny. She lacked the practice, and it showed.

Gary didn't laugh. Instead he flashed her a look of such violent alarm that Peez
realized she might have overestimated her ability to charm and had instead insulted a
potential ally right to the marrow of his soul. She could feel any chance of winning him
over slipping away, leaving the Chicago field wide open for an easy conquest by her baby
brother.

Her oh-so-poised and charming baby brother. Except sometimes he didn't land on his
feet, either. In all the years of their growing up, she could remember more than a score of
incidents where Dov had put his foot in it up to the thigh.

But he saved himself. Every single time. How did he do it? Think, Peez, think! What
did he always do to pull his worthless butt out of the meat grinder?

And she remembered. It was such a straightforward ploy, so basic, and yet proven so
very effective almost every time Dov had applied it.

Peez gazed at Gary, gave him a smile, and said, "Oh my, did I say that? I don't know
what I was thinking. I certainly didn't mean any disrespect for the ancient ways, it's just
that— Gosh, this is so embarrassing, but you see, I always get sooo nervous when I have
to talk to handsome men."

"Whuh—?" said Gary, and nearly ran the Volvo up the tailpipe of the car ahead of it.

By the time they reached Ray Rah's self-styled Temple of Seshat-by-the-Shore, Peez
was amazed yet gratified to find that her brother's simple stratagem had earned her the
utter devotion of Gary, the bloodthirsty penguin.

So Dov has his uses after all, she thought as her newly smitten escort raced ahead of
her, carrying her suitcase, to hold the temple door open and await her pleasure.

The Temple of Seshat-by-the-Shore was housed in an old mansion with absolutely no
view of Lake Michigan whatsoever. It was by-the-Shore the way Minneapolis was by-
the-Sea, yet the house and its master were both so undeniably rich that no one was going
to argue semantics as long as the bills got paid. Ray Rah had a bank account fat enough
for him to call his self-created house of worship the Temple of Seshat-on-the-Moon if he
felt like it.

As soon as Peez stepped over the threshold, she knew that she was in the presence of
old money and lots of it. Behind that turn-of-the-previous-century facade was the
Egyptian temple of Cecil B. DeMille's dreams, or perhaps his nightmares. The entire first
floor and most of the second had been gutted to accommodate a row of lotus-crowned
pillars, painted red and gold, blue and green. These led from the former vestibule into
what had once been the parlor, only now it was transformed into the sanctuary of the
gods. Peez walked between two rows of twelve different images as Gary led her deeper
into the temple. Ibis-headed Thoth stared down jackal-headed Anubis. Set the kin-slayer
snarled his eternal defiance at Horus the avenger. Ptah and Amon, Osiris and Isis, the
cobra goddess Renenutet and the cow-horned goddess Hathor, all these and more besides
watched over Peez's passage.

Ray Rah was waiting for her at the end of the alleyway of images, standing before a
gauzy painted curtain depicting Osiris in the Underworld, sitting in judgment of the dead.
The head of the Chicago group was wearing the same sort of pleated linen kilt that Gary
had sported at the airport, only his was fringed with scarlet and gold. If he wore a wig, it
was not visible beneath his striped Pharaonic headdress surmounted by the cobra-and-
vulture uraeus. The bejeweled gold pectoral covering his shoulders and chest was so
heavy that Peez wondered how much longer Ray Rah was going to be able to stay
standing. He had the look of a failed high school basketball star, all stringy sinews and
long bones but not a heck of a lot of useful muscle.

"Hail, Peez, whose coming is most beautiful," he intoned from atop the low flight of
shallow marble steps before the curtain. He stretched out the blue and silver flail he
carried in his right hand, his left being occupied by a glittering ankh rather than the
pharaoh's traditional shepherd's crook. He kept shifting his grip on it, as if uncertain of
exactly how he could display it to best advantage. "Behold thy coming is welcome to us.
When we do rise up and when we do lie down, we bid thee—"

At that point, the knobbly fake beard attached to his chin fell off, hit the floor,
bounced down the steps, and rolled almost to Peez's feet before one of the temple's
ubiquitous cats pounced on it with happy murfing sounds. When Gary tried to recapture
the errant beard, the cat clawed his hand and he gave up.

Ray Rah said a word that was more Anglo-Saxon than Ancient Egyptian. Then he
looked at Peez and blushed.

"Sorry," he said. "That always happens. I don't usually wear the beard, you know—
spirit gum and false eyelash adhesive are way too weak to hold it, and anything stronger
is too darn strong for my skin—but seeing as how this was going to be our first visit from
a corporate representative, I thought it might be nice to do something special. Won't you
come into the inner chamber? The rest of the congregation are expecting you."