The Road Narrows As You Go (54 page)

Why'd you go and do something so stupid? she asked.

You haven't been, you know … available lately, he trailed off.

Shit, Doug, I'm sorry. But you screwed us now.

When she brought up the substance of Quiltain's unsettling meeting with Frank, he didn't bat an eye. He said, Good ol' goddamn Quiltain will never stop, not until he's got us.

Super, just super, said Wendy, who didn't mention much about her follow-up with Doug except to say she suspected Quiltain had questioned him, too. Chimney completely lost his cool, she said.

Frank was silent. Silence was bad, she knew. His brain processed so many competing patterns so fast so regularly he scarcely ever needed to pause to consider his answer.

What did
I
do? she moaned.

Me. You did me. The SEC is on my case. You're collateral damage.

The accidental moll. Financial femme fatale.

Stop, you're turning me on. Problem is, once these SEC shitbugs get an idea, there's no way to rid yourself of them. I need to find a way to get to Chimney without Quiltain knowing. He's the kind who finds one bad apple in the cart and suspects a vast conspiracy in the produce aisles, the whole damn grocery store. Cost of doing business. SEC are an expense, like the press and lawyers. Not even a necessary evil, an inevitable one.

Regarding the transfers, he said, It's my job as your money manager
to move your assets in and out of your various accounts as I roll pieces of your portfolio into my investment options with Hexen.

She stared at him long and hard and said, Kiss me.

Nevertheless, she remained on high alert for bugs and other unwanted surveillance, didn't know exactly who to believe, Chris or Frank. She took apart the phones and with Rachael's help looked for microphones.

Frank's attitude that everyone was intellectually beneath him had a way of numbing her fears and reassuring her that every anxiety-provoking problem in life could be plotted as part of a much grander pattern, one he was studying for profit. In fact we were all so hairy bananas busy putting the finishing touches and repairing last-hour disasters on the summer Christmas special that Wendy very soon forgot all about the close call with Quiltain at the bank. A day after Valentine's Day, Gabby Scavalda called Wendy on her Motorola to tell her she got the Reuben nomination. It's not an official list they publicize, said Gabby. But Dik just rang to whisper your name made the shortlist.

I just broke out in a flop sweat, said Wendy and sat down in her kitchen nook.

Five years. Five years of hard doodling. I think this is your year, Wendy, darling. Macy's under your belt. A strip worldwide. Three bestselling treasuries. Toys in every shop window. Cartoon special some smart network is going to debut. Victory. Celebrate. Go drunk yourself stupid. That's
my
plan.

You took the first risk on my dumb clumsy comic, Gabby. This is your doing.

I'm sorry I let the complaints get to me. I love the way you draw.

You're just doing your job. I need to hear honesty if I want to break two thousand papers.

All of her heroes in cartooning had received the Reuben Award. Schulz had won it twice. Even if the statue itself was a mockery of such trifling ambition—a turd-shaped pileup of cartoon characters designed by
Rube Goldberg as a grotesque joke on the winner—it was still the greatest honour in her field.

We pedalled bikes and pushed skateboards downtown to drink pitchers of beer at the White Horse and eat their free hotdogs and popcorn until we felt loaded. And then, slaphappy and boozed up, drifted deeper into downtown to more and more expensive bars, spending and spending. Same drinks more expensive. Celebrating.

You showed up and I put you to work, you never said no, I could trust you with my characters … thank you, Wendy told us sometime that night. She got out a portfolio of original strips. Not hers,
other
cartoonists. A McManus daily, a Bushmiller, a Frazetta. Timeless strips. Dabs of Wite-Out here and there. Blueline pencils showing up under edges of the ink. We handled them with care. But we accepted her gifts. You got me through some dramatic times in my life when I couldn't focus on my comic strip let alone all the other work, she said. And now the cartoon is done, too, and the Reuben news …, Wendy swallowed. I am grateful.

Dear Dr. Pazder
,

I know I haven't written in many months. However, upon receiving my nomination for the annual Reuben Award, I felt it was an opportune time to catch you up … It's an honour few have … Although I know my memory has repressed a bombshell, I'm certain of one thing: My father is a powerful man.

Months in advance of the ceremony, we began to sketch concepts for our outfits the night of—like fashion designers. And then in the bathroom we got together to cut, dye, flatten, crimp, feather, frizz, mince, chop, extend, and highlight our hair in anticipation. This was razors, wax, glue, lotions, moisturizers, tweezers, mousse, spray, gel, clips, pins, barrettes, and bows. Instead of her income going exclusively to the high-fashion boutiques, Wendy shopped low first, then high, for possible clothes from
any brand or brandless, without discretion or prejudice, daring herself to buy outlandish, fearless in the face of trends and gauches. And three belts was no unusual number for her to wrap around her waist. A breakdance T-shirt underneath an oversized submarine vest, gold dookie chain necklace and really, really long strands of pearls wrapped around and around her neck that still draped to her hips. Tight pink cotton pants under an ultramarine skirt.

Have I reached Wendy Ashbubble?

Yes. This is her assistant, Rachael. What can I do for you?

My name is Brian Lynch, I'm Head of Children's Programming at ABC. I think we met … a meeting, the day of the disaster …

I remember. How are you, Mr. Lynch?

Sorry I never got back about the animation. I realized just today. Someone in the office told me they heard I passed. I told them I didn't pass—I flat forgot about it. The disaster …

What a day, said Rachael.

Yes, well, no doubt. Would you and Wendy like to come down again and look at a contract, meet the president, so we can get to work promoting this for our summer schedule?

Of course, certainly indeed we would, said Rachael, as professionally voiced as possible for someone jumping up and down and from room to room stretching out the intestinal rubber of the phone cord as she went.

Terrific. I adored that crazy cartoon. It's like a throwback to Looney Tunes and a leap forward for the art form all at the same time. And heartfelt, a sweet message at the end. Can't wait to foist this on an unsuspecting public. And listen—I heard through my sources about the Reuben nom for the strip and that's great news so make sure to congratulate Wendy for me when you talk to her?

Although we found no reason to suspect Frank managed to finagle her deal with ABC from afar, it is public knowledge that over the past
few years as Hexen's high-yield bond department grew to substantially outperform all the rest of the investment bank's operations combined, the profits came with more high-profile clients. Clients like ABC, who started to use Frank for mortgages and leases and then turned over their debt refinancing to him in eighty-six. By splitting up the payables on ABC's books, Frank managed to turn the outstanding backlist into junk bonds, sell off property and assets at auction, halve the staff, and leave the network with the cash it needed to develop new programming. Frank's influence was unavoidable.

Our own opinion of him at the time was decidedly mixed. Nervous awe set in when we saw him in person, and backstabbing envy took over in his absence. We were suspicious of him and we defended him. Wendy might love him but he didn't deserve her. He must be committing crimes on the bond market but he was also a genius who could get away with it. He had money but money was irrelevant, what counted was heart, and we had a hard time accepting he had Wendy's heart.

36

Then a message arrived special delivery, not regular post or UPS or another known courier. This deadserious fellow wore black and black aviator shades and carried his own 9 mm sidearm. Required Wendy show ID and sign for it in person. Inside a pretty box was an envelope with gilt lettering on the front, and an official U.S. government seal on the back.

 

WENDY ASHUBBLE

AND

FRANK FLEECEN

BY SPECIAL INVITATION FROM

THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

AND HIS WIFE THE FIRST LADY

THE WHITE HOUSE IS PLEASED TO REQUEST

YOUR HONORED ATTENDANCE

AT THE STATE DINING HALL'S LUNCHEON

FOLLOWED BY

CONVERSATION WITH PRESIDENT RONALD REAGAN

IN THE OVAL OFFICE

Frank's shoulders flinched forward at the sight of the invitation he'd worked so hard for. He whistled through his nose and he stared. Holy shit, he said.

Lunch with the president. Isn't this
amay
-zing? Wendy said. She thought her knees would give out on her. Frank had to hold her up. All the colour went out of her skin. Her hair went brittle. She wondered aloud, Can I swallow food in front of the president? This is the best year of my life. I have you. My comic. I have my friends. My cartoon. A Reuben nomination. And now, about to meet the president. I might faint.

My good luck being
president
that when I invite my favourite Americans for lunch they all show up, Ronald Reagan said by way of an introduction before anyone sat down. That each of you has made a positive impact in this country is one reason I wanted to meet you, but you are also here because I have been touched personally by your endeavours. And some of you, by your talents—, tipping his paternal cheek to her and eyeing Wendy directly, —enrich my life
every day
. Welcome to the White House. Let's have lunch, shall we?

The twenty-five guests standing at their assigned places at the table in the State Dining Room applauded.

Don't worry, I'm old but I can sit down without help. Please.

All sat. At the table with her that noon hour on the solstice were the twenty-four others the president had invited. An astronaut. A former surgeon general. A car manufacturer. A microchip developer. A former Secret Service agent who took the bullet for Reagan. A television host. A war hero. An architect. A magician. A dinosaur expert. A children's show host. A televangelist. A bestselling author. A quarterback. An actor turned activist. A multiplatinum-selling singer turned humanitarian. An
ex-mayor. A physiologist. A movie producer. Co-owners of an ice cream company. A plastics factory owner. A media empire mogul. A junk bond king. A comic strip creator.

What she wanted to ask Reagan would have to wait until after lunch. For the time being Wendy vibrated in a light-headed trance of anticipation as she rammed her crab salad into her mouth.

Frank had campaigned hard for these seats. She teased him that he was at the White House as
her
date, but his agenda was clear: he had to sell the president on the securities he trafficked in, high-yield bonds, and the urgent need to unshackle free enterprise from excessive government oversight and out-of-step regulatory agencies.

I know a vichyssoise when I see one, she said to the soup put in front of her by a butler.

All he needed was
five minutes
, Frank told Wendy, to convince this president why the press had him backwards. The facts backed Frank up: high-yield bonds were here to save America. In accordance with his principles, Frank ate each bite of his lunch deliberately.

Reagan's smile. How he ate his meal in feigned morsels, it charmed her. Reagan's apple-red cheeks. His bootblack pompadour. Years of camera makeup embedded in the skin gave the president's face the rubbery shine of a Halloween mask version of himself. Better jokes than half the comedians on
The Tonight Show
. Cold War hero. Leader of the Free World. The look but not the looks of Dean Martin. Nancy sat by her husband's side, stiff and scheming-faced.

It was Wendy's greatest desire in life. Without Dr. Pazder's therapeutic help she had made it here, to confront Ronald Reagan. And here she was in the room with him. Regardless of his imprecations, he had invited her after all, and he didn't show a trace of discomfort at seeing his illegitimate daughter in the dining room with him and the American luminaries.

Frank asked for a tall glass of Coke with no ice, and at an opportune moment, slipped his veal-stuffed chicken into the cola.

After a ninety-minute lunch spread out across six courses if you counted coffee-tea, the president met with each guest one-on-one in the Oval Office. This took the rest of the afternoon.

At one thirty, after the inventor of polyvinyl chloride was let out, an aide notified Frank it was his turn to see the president. He kissed Wendy and stroked her Rolex for good luck, and then strode into the Oval Office and greeted the president in an anxiously booming officious-sounding voice.

Then it was strange, because a different man came out of the Oval Office. His suit was two sizes too big. He kept shaking his head like there was water in his ears and hacking like an old man with a smoker's cough. Other guests tried not to appear as though they were staring. This Frank was frail and nerdy. His neck stuck out of his collar turtle-like and the hair on his head was comically fake.

What did he
say
to you? Wendy whispered to this cousin. She embraced him and then held his hands in hers, for she could feel him trembling.

Reagan said,
Time's up
.

Time's up? What does
that
mean?

He said,
You're a genius
. He said, I wanted to help, but I just got word the picture's changed. This business with the Contras, he said. Time to move on. Quit while you're ahead.

The president said that to
you
? Gee! That is terrible. Oh no. Wendy thought of her own meeting any moment now.

Frank looked dazed. He said, Reagan put a hand on my shoulder and said to remember this is not his first term. He said, This is my second term. And then he said,
God bless you
.