"Hang in there, buddy. Hang in there. Help is on the way." He felt powerless. He wanted to hold the guy's hand, or provide some soothing contact, but he could see no part of him that wasn't burned, so John just knelt beside him and murmured comforting things. He had no idea if he was effective. He had no idea if the man even knew he was there.
Two fire trucks careened around the corner.
John leapt to his feet, waving his arms and screaming, "Here! We need help here!" But the vehicles swept past and came to a stop in front of the burning building.
As John stared helplessly after them, a police car pulled up. John lifted his hands in a gesture of desperation. The cop surveyed John through the window, and then climbed out. He was in no particular hurry.
"What happened?" he said to John, glancing at the burned man.
"I was in my room over there"--John lifted a quivering finger at the Buccaneer--"and I heard something that sounded like a bomb and came out to see what the hell was going on and this guy came flying out, just burning up. I chased him until he fell and then I put out the fire with my bedspread, and has anyone even called an ambulance? Why didn't the fire trucks stop?"
From the scorched form came a low, keening moan that progressed to a wail. Once the man started, he did not stop. He pleaded and begged, he swore and cried, he prayed and wept for his mother, although his ruined face barely moved.
Moments later an ambulance pulled up. John stood watching as the ambulance crew removed the charred bedspread and loaded the man onto a gurney. His initial outburst had subsided to piteous moaning.
"I need to know what we're dealing with," said a paramedic, looking into the blackened face. "Do you understand? If you want me to save your eyesight, I need to know if you were cooking meth. Do you understand?"
"They were," John said. "At least, I'm pretty sure." He was hugging himself, shaking violently. It was the smell of burned flesh, the sight of another human being whose life had just changed irreparably, if not ended.
"And why do you think that?" said the cop.
"I thought it was a restaurant. There was a sign. Pizza and bento boxes. I walked in the other day. I was hungry. But there was no pizza. They had guns. And a pit bull. And the place smelled like nail polish remover."
The cop gave John an appraising stare, then went over to the ambulance and spoke to the paramedic, who glanced at John, said something back, and nodded. The cop returned.
"Thanks, buddy. There's a chemical involved in cooking meth that takes two or three days to burn through the cornea, so if the burn victim doesn't fess up right away, well, that's it. I don't know about this guy, though. Can't say his chances look good anyway ..." He pulled a pad out of his pocket. "What's your name?"
"John Thigpen," John said through chattering teeth.
"And you're staying at the Buccaneer?"
"Yes. Room 142."
"Assuming there's anyone alive to prosecute, we'll need to talk to you again. Did you touch this guy or his clothes?"
"No."
"At all?"
"I don't think so. I think I only touched the bedspread."
"Okay. Good. Even so, I want you to go and have a very thorough shower. Thirty minutes at least. You may have corrosive substances on your skin."
John's eyes widened.
"Yeah, that's what you get for being a Good Samaritan these days," said the cop, turning away and shaking his head. "Like my mama always said, no good deed goes unpunished."
----
John trudged back to the Buccaneer, still shivering, arms still wrapped around himself.
Ivanka was in the parking lot, jog-trotting toward him in a skintight white Elvis jumpsuit and jeweled platform boots.
"Don't touch me," he said. "I may have corrosive substances on me. I need to shower."
She shouted up at the balcony. "Katarina! Start shower!" She shooed John toward the stairs. "Go. Go. Shower in your room not work. I close your door so no one takes computer."
As he climbed the stairs, John wondered how Ivanka knew that his shower didn't work. He also wondered how he would get back into his room afterward, until he remembered that she had magical powers with Victor and possibly a master key.
As he was about to step into the shower, Ivanka came into the bathroom and set a fluffy pink towel on the edge of the sink. Then she handed him a bar of fragrant milled soap of the kind Amanda used. John got teary as he took the soap.
"Thank you."
After a thirty-minute shower, he emerged with the towel wrapped around his waist. The women were in their professional outfits, applying makeup with hand-held mirrors, spraying their hair into architectural forms.
"You need drink?" said Ivanka, offering a bottle.
He shook his head.
"You good man. Brave man," she said, appraising him. "Married?"
John nodded.
"Of course." Ivanka kissed him on the cheek and then wiped the lipstick residue off with her thumb. She handed him his key.
John went down to his room. Although it was not yet five o'clock, he was so shattered from the whole experience that he simply crawled into bed and turned out the light. On second thought, he turned it back on and called Amanda.
"Hello?" she said.
He burst into tears. She comforted him as best she could as he told her what had happened, but what he needed above all else was bodily contact. He ached to be held.
----
John dreamed of dark and winding caves, of fire monsters, of enormous hairy creatures with fangs and glowing eyes. Beowulfian scenes of warriors and clashing weapons flashed before him, of villages pillaged, of monsters with limbs rent off, of Grendel, and worse--Grendel's mother. Her breath was fearsome and ragged and smelled of leftover canned tuna.
John jerked awake and lay gasping. The dream was so real it took him a moment to realize that it hadn't really happened. Then he remembered what really had happened and felt the bottom dip temporarily out of his world. Then he realized that the ragged and fishy breath continued to snurfle and snuff beside him, and that the mattress sagged down and away from him under the weight of a large mass.
He lunged for the lamp, blindly grasping, searching for the switch. When he finally found it, he whipped his head around just in time to see a pair of red haunches slide from the far side of the bed. John squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light. Was he still dreaming?
A tiny whimpering arose from the far side of the room.
"Booger?" said John.
The whimpering stopped. John climbed out of bed and circled it slowly, as though he were stalking big game. In the corner, in a pathetic, quivering heap, was the red pit bull. The dog looked up at him, ears pressed against his head, blinking miserably. His jowls lay loose, hanging against his snout. They huffed in and out with his breath. His nostrils flared and glistened.
He did not look burned. Had he been out back? Did he have corrosive substances on him? It seemed impossible that he could have made it out of the inferno unharmed.
"It's okay, boy," John said awkwardly. John swept his eyes over the dog, searching for injury. He hesitated, took a step forward, and even extended his hand a couple of times. The dog appeared to be fine--free of soot and any other evidence of fire or physical trauma. John thought he should probably bathe the thing just in case, but for the life of him could not figure out how, so he went back around to the far side of the bed, and climbed in. He turned off the light and lay knees to chest under the sheets.
Within minutes, Booger had slithered back onto the other side of the bed and resumed snoring and farting. John lay wide-eyed in the dark.
30
The next morning, John crept out from beneath the sheets so as not to disturb the great slavering beast, who had rearranged himself to take up a full three quarters of the bed. John shaved and splashed himself under the tap in the bathtub, then snuck past and out, leaving the toilet open so the dog would have access to water. Once outside, he stood staring at the door, wondering what the
housekeeper's reaction would be. Would she just close the door and pretend she hadn't seen, or would she call Animal Control? John didn't think Booger stood much of a chance of being deemed adoptable ... He opened the door a crack, slipped his hand inside, groped until he found the DO NOT DISTURB sign, and hung it on the outside knob.
The door had barely shut when his cell phone rang. He did not recognize the number. He started walking and answered. "Hello?"
There was a crackling noise and no response. John thought the connection had gone dead. "Hello?" he said again.
"Is this John?" said a female voice.
"Yes, this is John," he said, furrowing his brow. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it.
"This is Isabel Duncan."
John froze in his tracks. "Isabel! How are you? I mean ..." He stopped, realizing he was on the verge of babbling. He lowered his voice. "How are you?"
"I've been better," she said. "But I've also been worse."
John thought of the human-shaped fire he'd chased down the street the day before. He took a deep breath. "So you're feeling better?" he said, when what he really wanted to say was, How bad is it? Were you burned? The memory of the man's charred face flashed through John's head--if he survived, he was going to be grievously disfigured.
"When my hair grows back, I'll be good as new," Isabel said. "Better than new, actually. Apparently my new nose is a big improvement."
John blurted out: "But I liked your old nose," then squeezed his eyes shut because he knew he'd just said something inappropriate.
"Thanks. So did I."
Relief, followed by more anxiety, as he listened to shuffling at the other end of the phone.
"So I was wondering if you wanted to talk," she finally said. "I've been kind of avoiding reporters--well, completely avoiding them, actually--but now I'd like to talk to someone, and I remembered how good you were with the bonobos. I'd already decided to talk to you when I saw you at breakfast yesterday, and then Francesca mentioned she'd met you at Ape House. It seemed like kismet. In fact, she gave me your number. I gather you're no longer with The Philadelphia Inquirer?"
She'd seen him at breakfast? He had been in the room with her and hadn't even noticed? Then he realized the real implications of her statement. He brought the heel of his hand to his forehead. He had been so close, and now his lie--his pride and his shame, his stupidity--was going to destroy it all. "No, I'm not with the Inquirer anymore," he said as evenly as he could.
"Good. Because that picture was unforgivable. Do you mind meeting me in my room at the Mohegan Moon? Cat Douglas recognized me the other day and now I'm kind of stuck here."
"Sure. No problem."
"I'm spending most of today with Francesca and Eleanor. Can you come by tomorrow morning? At nine or ten?"
"Absolutely."
----
John spent the day unsuccessfully hunting the elusive Ken Faulks, who, when he wasn't plugging his show in front of Ape House, appeared to fall off the face of the earth. He was clearly staying locally, yet no one seemed to know where. John had quizzed workmen, the forklift driver who made the deliveries, the security team--anyone who was working in a professional capacity around the building--and they either knew nothing or were afraid to tell. Having worked for Faulks himself, John could relate. Faulks had once decimated his staff at the Gazette--actually firing a tenth of his workers--because he had been informed that a full 40 percent of their sick days were being taken on Mondays and Fridays. If his intent was to frighten those who remained into countless hours of overtime and coming to work with the flu, he was successful.
Despite not finding Faulks, John was ecstatic over his upcoming exclusive with Isabel Duncan. She was as good a catch as Faulks. Even Topher would recognize that, which reminded John about his other dilemma. He tried not to think about how she would react when she found out he was writing for a tabloid.
As John approached the Buccaneer, he caught sight of the blackened shell across the street, and suddenly remembered his delayed decision. What in God's name was he going to do about Booger?
John heard the television and smelled the cigarettes even before he got his door open. Ivanka was lying on his bed in a typhoon of perfume and smoke, holding an open bottle of vodka, puffing away. Booger was sprawled beside her, his blockish head pressed up against her thigh. He had left dark, wet nose prints on her satin dressing gown, which was the color of dried blood.
"Hi," said John, emptying his pockets and tossing everything onto the bedside table. The ashtray was nearly full. "What's up?"
"Your dog is opera singer," she said, setting her current cigarette on the lip of the ashtray so she could caress Booger's ears. "He wakes me up--Awooo! Awooo! So I take him on walk. And feed him lunch. Where is dog food?"
"I don't have any."
"He is from over there?" she asked, inclining her head in the general direction of Jimmy's.
John nodded.
"Poor thing." She leaned over and planted a kiss on the dog's broad forehead. Booger turned his head to return the favor, but she was already out of tongue's reach. "Thank goodness not hurt."
"You want him?" John said hopefully.
"Ha!" she snorted. "What do I want with dog? No, God sent to you. You keep. But get dog food. I give Philly cheese steak and now, the gas! Pee-whew!" She scrunched up her face and waved a hand in front of her nose.
John sighed and sat on the bed, which sagged under his weight. Ivanka took a swig of vodka, straight from the bottle, and rolled over to stub out her cigarette.
"You want a glass?" he said.
Ivanka shook her head.
John leaned in closer, examining her. Her eyes were pink-tinged, her nose raw. "Are you crying?"
"Oh, maybe a little," she sniffed.
"What's the matter?" said John.
She made a frog face and waved dismissively. "Bah," she said. "It doesn't matter."
She kept her eyes trained on the television: a woman with a platinum-blond bob sat on a stage between a man and a woman. The woman wept, going down a laundry list of the man's sexual transgressions. The audience, made up entirely of enraged women, shouted and poked their fists in the air. The helmet-headed hostess clucked platitudes, slid to the edge of her seat to put her hand on the woman's knee, and cast the man a withering glance. The camera swung around to him. Guards grabbed him by the arms and hauled him bodily off the stage into the sea of women, who leapt from their seats and into the aisle, beating him with purses. He didn't even struggle, just scowled and halfheartedly protected his head. When he disappeared into a vomitorium, the show cut to a commercial.
"No, really. I'd like to know," said John.
Ivanka looked back at him, pursed her lips, and rolled her eyes. "Is job. And Faulks."
"Ken Faulks?"
"Yes." She turned her head and pretended to spit twice in quick succession. "Puh! Puh!" Booger flinched both times but stayed put.
"How do you know Ken Faulks?"
Ivanka sighed. John noticed that a droplet had formed at the end of her nose and got her a tissue from the bathroom.
She took it and dabbed her eyes and nose. "Thank you. Anyway, he come to Fat Man Bob's. He wants lap dance, private lap dance, you understand. I no used to, but now business is not so good. The suits, they used to tuck fives and tens in G-string. Now they tuck singles. They think we don't notice? We can't count?" Her eyes blazed with righteous indignation for a few seconds, then lost their flare. Her right hand remained on Booger's head. Her continuous caress had lulled him into sleep, or something resembling it. "So Faulks, he sees me, he asks for me. I think it's because he recognizes me, because I was one of the original Jiggly Gigglies, and I'm tired of this, I want to go back to film, make some money, retire. Maybe get married. Maybe have children. Who knows? He has series now, Crazy Cougars, you know?"
John nodded.
"So I ask him. And he says no!" She sat forward. "No! He doesn't remember me and I'm too old for cougar! And then he
wants lap dance anyway!" She picked up the tissue and used it again. She shrugged, and tossed the sodden wad onto the bedside table. Her eyes brimmed with resignation and tears. "So I do. I just do. You know?" She stared into the distance for a while and then turned suddenly to face him. "Do you think I'm too old for cougar?"
John shook his head. She burst into a fresh round of tears anyway. John moved closer and put his arms around her. She pressed the bottle of vodka against his back and sobbed onto his shoulder.
"Ivanka?" he said when the gulping noises had slowed to hiccups. "Can you do me a favor?"
She pulled back and nodded. She reached again for the tissue, and then, on second thought, wiped her eyes on her sleeves.
"Can you please call me if Faulks shows up at the club again?"
She straightened her spine, mustering composure. "Sure," she said with feigned nonchalance. "Why not?"
John grabbed a pen and began rummaging desperately for a piece of paper upon which to write his number. Ivanka handed him a rhinestone-encrusted red cell phone, and said, "Here. Add to contacts."
----
Minutes after Ivanka left, there was a knock at the door. He opened it a crack and found Amanda.
For a second, he thought he was hallucinating. When he realized he wasn't, he swung the door back and came at her with arms wide open. She let her bags fall to the floor and flung her arms around him. Before he knew it, he was weeping into her neck.
"Hush, it's okay," she said, stroking his hair. For a minute they just held each other.
"What are you doing here?" he finally said, ushering her into the room.
"After last night, how could I not come? I saw what's left of the building across the street. I can't even imagine. It must have been horrifying."
"It was the most awful thing I've ever seen in my entire life. The smell, the way he cried, his face--I wish I could unsee it, unhear it."
"But you saved his life."
"No, probably not." John shook his head quickly, sniffing. "I don't know what happened to him. I should call. I should call, shouldn't I?"
Amanda stroked his cheek. "We'll call tomorrow. Unless you need to know now?"
"No. It wouldn't make any difference anyway, and I don't think I want to know tonight. Especially now that you're here."
She embraced him again, and then stiffened. She pulled away, and John watched her gaze move from the unmade bed to the ashtray full of lipsticked butts. "What's this?"