The Devil Delivered and Other Tales (21 page)

Arthur walked over. “Do you require assistance, ma’am?” he asked.

“Mr. Revell!” The nurse’s own face was now flushed, almost the same tone as her chest. “Thank you for asking, but I’m afraid it’s against hospital policy to enlist the aid of patients when restraining other patients. Insurance, you understand.”

Arthur smiled, his head bobbing. “I understand perfectly. Of course, in some circles, the insurance industry has a very poor reputation. I therefore suggest we ignore such concerns for the time being.” He walked over to stand beside the patient’s bed, gently guiding the nurse to one side. “Sir?” he asked the man, who made a point of ignoring Arthur. “Sir, I suggest you calm down immediately. Please end your phone call and comply with the nurse’s instructions.”

The man laid a hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and glared up at Arthur. “Get outa my goddamned face,” he snapped in a high, quavering voice. “I’ll sue the lot of you, I swear. I’m cardiac, you idiots. Not gastrointestinal! Cardiac! What the hell’s wrong with all of you, anyway? Get me outa here!”

Arthur’s smile tightened slightly. “Sir, kindly look at this patient here beside you. Is he raving at the top of his lungs? No, he isn’t. In fact, he’s trying to get some sleep—”

“Of course he’s not screaming his head off,” the balding man yelped. “Someone stuck a spear into his belly! Wouldn’t you be lying low, too?”

“Please, Mr. Revell,” the nurse said, moving close and making an effort to guide him away from the bedside. She smelled of peaches. “I will be calling for assistance—”

“Nonsense,” Arthur said. He leaned over the bed and looked down at the balding man. “I’m about to throw up. Stress induces vomiting, you see, and I’m finding you very stressful, sir. My concern is that I have in my stomach a hundred million Aphidae, voracious little bugs that can only be treated with twelve hundred pills. Now, I wouldn’t want you to contract this terrible affliction, but your constant screaming at that poor beleaguered secretary on the other end of the phone line has my stomach rumbling in a most ominous fashion.”

The balding man cringed. “Get away from me,” he said in a tiny voice.

“I’m afraid it may be too late,” Arthur said, still looming over the man. “Unless you hang up immediately.”

The man switched off his phone and shoved it into the nurse’s hands.

“Ahh,” Arthur said, stifling a burp. “That’s much better.”

“You’re insane,” the man said.

“Possibly I am,” Arthur replied. “I hadn’t considered that. Of course, I have received my diagnosis, thank goodness, and medication to remedy my condition. Additional ills are, of course, possible.” He turned to the nurse. “What do you think, ma’am? Might I also be insane as well as gastrointestinally infected?”

She smiled, taking his arm by the elbow and guiding him away. “Not likely, Mr. Revell. Thank you for helping—you certainly have a presence, don’t you?”

“My robustness hasn’t always served me as well,” Arthur said. “And lately I seem to be gaining weight without accumulating any extra fat—is this possible? Is my flesh becoming denser?”

“I have no idea, Mr. Revell.”

They were standing at the nurse’s station. The nurse’s blue eyes were searching his, as if seeing him for the first time.

“I wonder,” Arthur began tremulously, “uhm, a certain thought has occurred to me—”

“Oh?” Her eyes had widened.

“Well, I wonder if you might not consider it too forward of me to ask you out on a date, as it were. Dinner, perhaps?”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good—”

“Strictly speaking, I’m not your patient, am I?”

“True. Oh, why not? Yes, I’d like that.”

“Uh, may I ask your name, ma’am?”

“Faye.”

“How charming, Faye. Tomorrow night, then?”

“I get off at seven,” she said.

“I’ll be here.”

Down on the main floor, Arthur went into the bathroom and shook out three of the pills. He squinted down at the black-spotted red objects. Each pill seemed to be cut in a half—hemispherical. He shrugged, popped them into his mouth, and swallowed. It was a great relief that his treatment had begun. Smiling, Arthur left the hospital.

2.

“You’re our man, Max!”

Outre Space, the hub of the city’s art establishment, was a beautiful old building designed and constructed in the Chicago style of the early 1900s. It had been gutted and refurbished to become a kind of self-contained focal point, housing arts associations, studios, a cinema, and countless other arts-related … stuff.

As with every time he entered Outre Space, Maxwell Nacht paused in the foyer, his skin prickling, the hairs erect on the back of his neck, and fighting the sudden urge to vacate his bowels. The reaction was triggered by the building itself, rather than the lofty organizations it housed. In truth, he was anticipating the scene to come, knowing he would be taking a massive risk, but confident in his choice of tactics.

Four ceiling-mounted security cameras swiveled in their brackets to focus on him. He’d already stepped through the infrared sensor beam at the doors, and the foyer still echoed from the Door Open chime.

I don’t belong here yet.

Heavy boots echoed, approached with the rustle of cloth and the clink and soft jangle of metal.

I’m an intruder at this moment, shifty, potentially loitering, a shabby beggar in student-budget clothes, my hair misaligned by the endless wind outside and now slowly settling at the front, above my sweat-beaded brow, but rising distinct and erect at the back—charged by the oven-dry air. An intruder. Desperate. Psychotic. An artist.

The security guard arrived. Max read the name tag on the man’s flak vest:
MONK
. With the black, face-shielded helmet, only the name tag distinguished one from the others—and there were at least two more. Max had encountered Stubble yesterday, and Nick the day before. They all wore the helmets, the fatigues, the web belt with gas grenades, and the M16s slung over their shoulders, one gloved hand on the butt of the Service .45 at their hips. They were all big, blockish, silent.

Max smiled. “How’s Stubble and Nick? Doing well, are they?”

Monk stared at him.

“Uh,” Max continued, “I have an appointment with Annie Trollop, CAPSs. Uh, Cultural Assessment Promotional Support services. Fifth floor, room 500. One
P.M
. I know, I’m six minutes early, but—”

Monk gestured him toward the elevator. Its doors opened as soon as they arrived and they didn’t pause in their step until they entered and the doors closed behind them.

A corner-mounted ceiling camera swiveled its eye in his direction. A speaker grille beside the floor button panel buzzed, then a voice said, “The elevator will take you directly to the required floor. Speak clearly in stating your floor.”

“Uh, five,” Max said.

“The elevator will take you directly to floor five. There is no reason to panic.”

Panic?

“I, uh, I need to go to the bathroom.” He checked his watch as the elevator began climbing. “I have four minutes.…”

There was silence, then, “Use of bathrooms is discouraged.”

“Oh.”

“Unless accompanied by security.”

The elevator stopped, presumably at the fifth floor, but the doors remained closed.

“Okay…” Max said slowly.

“Proceed then.”

The doors opened. Max stepped into a hallway. Monk trundled after him, one step behind his left shoulder. The elevator said, “The guard will accompany you.”

“Okay. Got it.”

“Do not deviate from the route.”

“Right.”

Monk gesturing the direction, they began walking. They turned right, then right again, passing unmarked, unnumbered, and closed doors on either side of the hallway, and finally came to a stop outside yet another featureless, steel gray door. As Maxwell stared at it, the doorknob buzzed and clicked open.

Monk followed him into the bathroom and into the stall. Max hesitated, wondering if he could manage to poo with Monk standing beside him. He jumped as the toilet said, “You may now sit. This is stall Alpha Charlie. This is your stall for the duration of your stay. If questioned, you are in Alpha-Charlie-5. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may now sit.”

“Sit?”

“Shit.”

“Thank you.”

*   *   *

brief interlude

*   *   *

The damp from Annie’s limp hand still cooling on Maxwell’s palm, he sat down in the chair indicated and smiled at the pretty-but-too-thin woman on the other side of the desk.

“Boy,” Maxwell said, “the security here in Outre Space is state-of-the-art stuff. I’m, uh, very impressed.”

Annie Trollop smiled without showing her teeth. “Yes, very impressive, I’m sure. Are you new to the city? I see you’ve but recently joined CAPSs, Mr. Nacht.”

“Max, please. Yes. I’m from … out of town. A rural upbringing.” He raised his hands in a slightly-helpless-but-restrained-by-decorum gesture, which he’d worked on all morning in his small apartment, to an audience of cockroaches on the kitchen counter. “I admit to experiencing … culture shock. What most excites me,” he continued, “is this notion—ably described in your information pamphlet—of a true, vibrant, thriving arts community. Does such a community exist?”

A brief frown flickered on Annie’s brow. “Which one?”

“Excuse me?”

“Which information pamphlet?”

“Uhm, uh, I’m not sure—you have more than one?”

“Oh, yes, a series, each one target-specific. We’ve spent thousands researching and producing our pamphlets. Let’s see, the arts community … vibrant, thriving, you said? Well, that would be Series 16-B—you got the pamphlet for potential donors. You should have received Series 11-D, for new members.” She shook her head and sighed. Picking up a pen and making a note she said, “Well, that does it. She’s fired. I simply cannot deal with this level of incompetence. Series 11-D is for new members—she should know that.”

“So, I’m curious, how’s it different?”

“Well, in Series 11-D, the arts community is ‘welcoming, appreciating, open, and receptive.’”

“Oh. Seems a small mistake—”

“Hardly, Mr. Nacht. Now, where were we?”

He hesitated, then said, “I was enthusing about there being an arts community and displaying appropriate eagerness, intending to convey to you my eager willingness to do anything it takes to become part of that community.”

“Ah, excellent, Maxwell. I must say, I’m impressed. Do you have any opinions?”

“No, none at all, and I don’t make them.”

“Superb. Do you consider yourself an ethical person? Do you have standards?”

“No, I’m completely amoral. All art produced by notable members of the community is either ‘good’ or ‘interesting.’”

“Are you cynical?”

“To the black core of my rotten heart.”

Annie Trollop leaned back, looking thoughtful. “The timing is … propitious. We need a new wunderkind. Someone we can milk and glom and flutter and sigh over—for a year, maybe two. Then we’ll get tired and move on.” She looked at Max. “A year, maybe two, Maxwell.”

“Sounds perfect,” he replied. “I won’t fail you, and I won’t hang on after it’s over.”

“Well, I should think not, Mr. Nacht. Because then you’ll join that elite, powerful group—you’ll become a—”

“A peer.”

“Exactly.”

He smiled.

She smiled back. “We’ve found our boy. Now, let’s go. Introductions of the proper sort need to be made.”

“Wonderful.”

“Have you visited Anything but Craft?”

“Your retail outlet? No, it never seems to be open—”

“Well, of course not. Heaven forbid we actually sell something. Because then someone would be unfairly favored over others, and that’s not allowed. But come, I’m certain Penny is in.”

Max stood. “Penny? Penny Foote-Safeword? Brandon Safeword’s wife?”

“Exactly. We’ll explain everything, and she’ll get to work. You’re about to enter the revolving door, Maxwell—no, not Maxwell. Maximillian. Maximillian Percival Nacht, I think.”

They headed out.

“Revolving door?”

“Oh yes, our, shall we say, euphemism. The track, the pathway. Grants, awards, a lifetime of funding. Round and round and round … Once you’re in the loop, you never have to come out, you see. And of course there’s no official way to get into the loop in the first place. It’s the way of modern life, Maximillian, it’s—”

“Revolvo.”

“Precisely. Very apt. How clever. Follow me.…”

They left Annie’s office, walked past the luckless underling who was destined for firing, headed out into the hallway—where Monk was nowhere in sight—then descended five flights of stairs, proceeded along another hallway, and came at last to a featureless steel door. “This is the back way into the studio area of the shop,” Annie explained. “It’s necessary that you memorize the floor plans of the building, since it is deliberately intended to confuse and, indeed, lose the uninitiated. We’ve had three would-be artists disappear in Outre Space over the past five years. Stubble swears he’s seen one of them, but somehow, the cameras never detect him, or her, or them.” She turned to the door and knocked. After a moment she produced a key and opened the door. “Penny!” she called. “Darling! We have a guest!”

They edged inside.

Penny was lying on a kind of divan at the opposite end of the studio. Paint-spattered cloth had been draped and tacked to the wall behind and to either side of her. Bits of tinfoil hung from threads attached to the ceiling and slowly turned in the warm, incense-sweet air. A video camera mounted on a tripod was off to one side, a red light blinking on it.

Max had never seen Penny before, and in fact knew almost nothing about her, except for the fact that she was Brandon Safeword’s wife. As he and Annie approached, he saw that the woman, in her early forties, was dressed in a see-through, tie-dyed kind of slip that outlined her body without providing any support. Her breasts were large and hadn’t known a bra in years. Bits of bark and leaves were profligate in her long black hair. Her red-painted lips were huge although the rest of the face was narrow, modestly featured, and her eyes, lined in catlike kohl, stayed mostly hidden under the painted lids.