Fat Man and Little Boy (30 page)

“So what if I said you were amazingly beautiful?” says Little Boy. “What if I said you were the most stunning woman I'd ever seen?”

“Thank you again.”

“What if I told you you look like a nurse?”

“I don't know. I'm trying to relax here. How about you go play?”

“Don't you want to kiss him on the cheek?” says one of the handsome men—the one on the left. He pushes his sunglasses down his nose so Little Boy can see how blue his eyes are.

“He's been really nice to you,” says the other handsome man, whose eyes are also very blue.

The Japanese girl sighs. “Okay, kid. C'mere.”

She sits upright. Her wet breast touches to his stomach. Her lips graze his cheek.

Little Boy blushes deeply. “That was nice.”

“Uh oh,” says the handsome man on the right.

Fat Man's hand jerks Little Boy's shoulder. “Where is Maggie? Where is your cousin?”

Little Boy cowers. He scans the beach and begins to weep. “I don't know.”

“You have one job,” says Fat Man. He slaps Little Boy across his cheek. “You have one job. You watch your cousin.”

“We'll find her, I promise. I'm always the hider. She's no good at hiding.”

“She's with your aunt,” says Fat Man. “We already found her. You were lucky.”

The handsome men say, at the same time, in the same voice, “I don't believe we've had the pleasure.”

The Japanese girl in the bathing suit lies down and closes her eyes. Both handsome men extend their hands.

“Able?” says Fat Man. “Baker?”

“Don't leave us hanging,” they say, together.

He shakes their hands in both of his. “I may be your biggest fan.”

“I've been wondering who it would be,” says the one.

“It's so good to finally meet you,” says the other.

 

“You see what I mean?” says Rosie as they ride in a cab to the Hanway brothers' mansion. “This is a happy fluctuation. It's nice. Your favorite actors, and they're having you over for dinner. It almost makes this whole mess worth it.”

Fat Man nods, adjusting the gun he's hidden in his jacket pocket.

The palm trees are ghosts in the street lights, their trunks only partly lit, the weird bushy leaves up top set aglow from beneath, becoming like strange faces. Picture the highways at night, the few cars, their turn signals leaving red ribbon trails of light as they swerve, quiet but for the rush of air around them, the empty exhalation that accompanies the passage of a bridge, a truck, another car speeding—like a low, giant hiss or the sound of the world turning.

“Do I look nice?” says Little Boy. “Do you think the girl in the swimsuit will be there?”

“I wouldn't count on it,” says Fat Man. “They must know a lot of girls.”

But Little Boy is counting on it.

Squares of light from buildings just off the highway, offices working late, planning the future. Old folks' homes where no one sleeps. Department stores just shutting down.

They come to the gate. Someone buzzes them in. They roll through corridors of vegetation, berry bushes nobody has bothered to harvest—rotted blueberries and raspberries somebody ought to pick, blackened and bloated, ready to burst. A sweet smell of rot comes into the car with the air conditioning. Thick underbrush leering down at the cab from above. Tropical flowers, all cast in different shades of blue by night, cooled, therefore, seeming to whisper to each other, to the passengers as they brush the windows with their petals.

One of the brothers—Able or Baker—comes out to meet them, pays for the cab in cash. Class act. He punches in a pass code to unlock the door. “You have to have security these days,” he says, “for the freaks.” He leads them inside. “There are two floors, both with very high, echo-y ceilings. Our rooms are upstairs. There's a pool out back, and our chef's quarters as well. He was just laying out dinner.”

The entryway is lined with trendy art and coatracks, the coatracks hung with other people's hats and jackets. A dog wanders by as they enter the greeting room, a hound, sniffing at the ground as if following some trail.

“What's the doggy's name?” asks Maggie.

“Magnolia's wild for dogs,” says Little Boy.

“That one?” says Able, or Baker. “I'm not sure, sweetie. What do you want to call him?”

“Puppy,” says Maggie. “Wait. Snuffles.”

“Snuffles is good,” says Able or Baker.

“Wait!
Rocket
.”

“Rocket's good too.”

The smell of fish fills the home. There are big, soft chairs, and cigar butts in the ashtrays on the end tables, and lamps shaped like parts of women's bodies. Table lamps like hourglass torsos, tall lamps like long, graceful arms bent to gentle angles, standing on their fingers. Not pornographic—more classical in their impression, refined. Though one alone might be otherwise, collectively they are lovely.

Their guide leads them in following the fish smell down a long hallway with mirror walls and hanging lights overhead. They follow the smell through what seems to be a living room, where there are six full-sized wax statues of the Hanway brothers in various lifelike poses. One pair sitting on a couch together, one of them telling a joke, the other slapping his knee, eyes squeezed shut and mouth opened wide to let out laughter. One pair standing, eyeing each other suspiciously across several feet of empty floor. They are all dressed in fashionable clothes. One of these is dressed like a gangster, the other like a businessman—the difference being largely one of posture and expression, the gangster having also perhaps a certain oily sheen to his skin. They stroke their chins. One pair is dressed like police officers, holding hands.

They seem to study Fat Man, who feels a shiver in his spine, who feels the coldness of the gun tucked in his belt.

“We didn't commission those,” says their guide, “but we did accept them. How do you say no to yourself? It wouldn't be healthy, we figured. Bad for the old self-esteem.”

“They look very real,” says Rosie.

“Well,” says their guide, “so do we. Come on—there's someone here tonight that you've just got to meet.”

He leads them to the dining room, really more of a hall. At its center a long table draped in white with maybe two dozen chairs around it. There are full place settings at the chairs with silverware and glasses and red cloth napkins and little crystalline dessert bowls, but no plates. Beyond that table there's another, smaller round one that seats eight. It has no tablecloth but does have plates, silverware, long-stemmed wine glasses, water glasses, and three bottles of red wine, two still corked, and two bottles of cola for the children. The plates hold fish filets drowned in an orange cream sauce and surrounded by wedges of lemon and lime.

Masumi's seated at the table, dressed as in the billboard—jewelry and little turban. So are the other Hanway brother and Keiko, the young Japanese girl who Little Boy said looked like a nurse. Keiko is systematically squeezing the juice from every citrus wedge onto her fish, where it pools, a yellow-green watery swirl in the orange sauce. Masumi glances up and if she recognizes tonight's guests she doesn't show it. Maybe her eyes dilate a little. Maybe not. Fat Man looks to Rosie, who shrugs, and to Little Boy, who finds nothing amiss. They sit at the table. Little Boy beside Keiko, Maggie beside Little Boy, Rosie beside Maggie, Fat Man by Rosie, by Able or Baker, by Baker or Able, by Masumi. One of the brothers pours the adults wine, though not for Masumi, who covers her wineglass with her hand when it comes her turn, smiling coyly. Keiko immediately sips hers without allowing her eyes to stray one moment from her work with the wedges of lemon and lime. Little Boy asks her will she open his bottle of Coke.

“You're an adult,” says Rosie, who's pouring Maggie's bottle. “You can open your own Coke.”

“Actually you can have wine if you want it,” says Fat Man.

“He has a condition,” explains Rosie.

“Right,” says Little Boy, still holding out the Coke for Keiko. “My condition. Can you open it?”

Keiko lays a pulped lime down on a heap of the same on the rim of her plate and takes the Coke from Little Boy. With some effort she opens the bottle, hands it back. He pours it in the glass for himself. A big head foams up to the rim.

“You should tilt the glass,” says Baker or Able, helpfully reaching across the table to demonstrate.

“Fish is very good for you,” says Able or Baker.

Fat Man says, to Keiko and maybe Masumi, “It's good to meet you. My name's John.”

“Keiko,” says Keiko.

“Masumi,” says Masumi. “We've met.”

“Have we?” says Rosie.

“Madame Wakahisa Masumi, consultant to the stars. I'm a changed woman. Sober five years.” She indicates the emptiness of the wineglass. Her slightest movement sets off a series of jingles, jangles, and rattles from her jewelry.

“She's a miracle-worker,” says Able or Baker. “Beautiful, too.”

“She does readings for most of Hollywood,” says Baker or Able. “Palmistry, tarot, coffee grounds, astrology, you name it.”

“Maybe you should have a reading with her, John,” says Able or Baker, elbowing him gently in his side, just missing the gun tucked in his belt, beneath his shirt and jacket. “She'll do you a world of good, I'll tell you what.”

“Did you all know each other in a past life?” says Baker or Able.

“I used to live at their hotel,” explains Masumi.

“How is your husband?” ventures Rosie.

“He left me,” says Masumi.

“Do you still practice your languages?”

“No. Everyone in Hollywood speaks English, more or less.”

Fat Man concentrates on his fish.

He imagines for a moment there is a mold growing on the cream sauce, as in the old days. But there is no mold. The fish is very good. He finishes his while the other diners are only getting started. He eats what sauce remains from his plate with a spoon. He eats the citrus fruit as well, right up to their skins. He drinks his wine and pours himself another glass. He drinks this too.

“Whoa there big fella,” says Able or Baker. “We can get you more fish.” He rings a silver bell. The chef brings more. Fat Man begins to sweat, devouring the food as soon as it's in front of him. Rosie touches his arm. He doesn't look up from the plate.

“Good to see that John still has his healthy appetite,” says Masumi, without apparent judgment. “Do you mind if I use your phone?”

“Not at all,” says Able or Baker.

“Go right ahead,” says Baker, or Able.

She leaves the table, brushing the back of Fat Man's neck with her hip as she goes. It feels like an accident.

“Gone to call a client no doubt,” says Able or Baker.

Fat Man thinks otherwise: she's calling the police. He asks Maggie not to pick at her food. Every time she does it makes a scraping sound that he can't bear.

“It's good you like the fish,” says Baker or Able, “but save room for dessert.”

“It's pie,” says Able or Baker. “Chocolate, I think.”

Rosie asks what Keiko does for a living. Keiko says at the moment she's a mooch. The Hanway brothers explain they met her in a Japanese restaurant and they're trying to get her discovered. For now they bring her to every meal they have with anybody else and wait for someone to ask if she's an actor, at which point they'll say yes and she'll be discovered. Little Boy asks her is she really Japanese. She says her parents were. He tells her he thinks Japanese women are the most beautiful women in the world.

“What am I supposed to say to that?”

“You don't have to say anything.”

Rosie tells him that's rude. The Hanway twins are laughing.

When Masumi comes back to the table she won't meet Fat Man's eyes, which he takes as confirmation that she's called the cops. It would have to take more time than that for tarot, astrology, coffee grounds, or whatever. The United States has extradition with France. He knows because he's checked.

He eats three slices of the chocolate pie though everybody else has only one. Rosie wipes it off his nose, his cheek. She asks him does he feel all right. He says everything will be fine. She asks him does he want to go home. He says it would be rude.

 

Afterward Able or Baker asks the women if the men might be excused for a brief conversation. Keiko says she wants to go to bed. Masumi says she's got another consultation very shortly.

“Don't worry about us,” says Rosie, taking Maggie in her lap. “We can entertain ourselves.”

The Hanway brothers lead them back to the room with the wax figurines. They sit down on the couch beside the sitting, laughing wax. Fat Man watches the wax police out the corner of his eye, fidgeting with the gun through his suit jacket's pocket. Little Boy sits cross-legged on the floor.

“So,” says Able or Baker.

“Can we ask you something?” says Baker or Able. “Both of you.”

“We were wondering, where do your names come from?”

“Matthew?” says Little Boy. “The Bible.”

“Mine's the same, I assume,” says Fat Man.

“They mean the same thing, more or less,” says Little Boy. “Gift of God. Something like that.”

Fat Man nods.

“Ours came from bombs,” says one of the twins. “I was named after Test Able.”

“And me, Test Baker.”

“Those were demonstration bombs dropped in the ocean to show reporters what an atom bomb looks like when it explodes,” says Able.

“They were us,” says Baker.

“I read about you,” says Fat Man. “I saw the pictures. I never thought that there could be others like us.”

“You're Fat Man,” says Able.

“You're Little Boy,” says Baker. “We knew the moment we saw you. We felt it.”

“Did you feel it?” says Able.