Insane City (21 page)

LaDawne and Wesley stood behind them. They were ready to go.

Seth could see the bones in her arms and legs. He remembered carrying her out of the ocean, the way

she’d felt like a bag of sticks. He remembered when he thought she’d died, and when, with his breath in

her lungs, she came to life.

Without you, she would not be here.

Laurette turned to Seth and spoke.

Carl said, “She hopes you have a beautiful wedding and a happy life.”

“Thank you,” said Seth.

She touched his arm.
“Mêci.”

She turned and started toward the door.

“Wait,” said Seth.

She stopped.

“Shit,” said Seth.

“That’s it?” said LaDawne. “That’s what you wanted to say?”

“Tell her she can stay tonight,” said Seth.

“You serious?” said LaDawne.

“Are you sure?” said Carl.

“Yes,” said Seth. “Tomorrow morning, maybe I can call somebody. A lawyer or somebody. I don’t

know. But I can try. I haven’t really tried.”

“You’re getting married tomorrow,” said LaDawne.

“In the afternoon. I can try in the morning.”

Carl was explaining the new plan to Laurette, who was weeping and saying,
“Mêci, mêci.”
Wesley,

with Stephane in tow, was already lumbering back to the sofa.

“What about Tina?” Cyndi said.

“You know what?” said Seth. “I really think she’ll understand. The thing is, she cares more about

stuff like this, about issues and helping people, than I do.
Way
more. I just haven’t explained this situation

to her clearly enough, is the problem. Plus she’s been under a lot of stress. I’m going to explain this whole

thing to her better. I’m going to bring her here and have her actually meet Laurette and then I know she’ll

understand why I can’t just kick her out tonight, in her condition. Once Tina sees that, she’ll probably

even want to help, you know?”

“Mm-mm,” said LaDawne.

“I’m sure she will,” said Cyndi. “Listen, I’ve been here forever and I need to get home. Do you still

want me to help you get your suitcase from Primate Encounter?”

“Oh Jesus, that’s right,” said Seth. “Are you still up for doing that?”

“Sure.”

“I really appreciate it. Wesley, I hate to do this, but do you think I could borrow your car again?”

Wesley made a noise that either meant yes or no, or something else.

“You can take the car,” said LaDawne, “seeing as you decided to do the right thing.” She walked

Seth and Cyndi to the door of the suite. “I’ll tell you the truth, when I met you I thought you was just

another one of these rich white boys that hire me for their parties, watch me dance while they get drunk

and act stupid, say things about me with me right in front of them like I was deaf.” She paused. “And,

don’t get me wrong, I still think you probably are one of those white boys. But you got some heart in you.

You could turn out to be a good man when you grow up.”

“Thank you,” said Seth, “I think.”

“Go get your wedding ring,” said LaDawne.

21

The final negotiations for the purchase of Stan’s Pizza of Key Biscayne, represented by

owner Stanley Karpimsky, and Transglobal Financial Capital Funding Group, represented by CEO

Wendell Corliss, with Marty acting as legal counsel, took place on the beach behind the Ritz-Carlton.

The negotiations had begun in the restaurant, but the manager had finally asked the wedding party to

leave, both because he needed the private dining room and also because the chanting was bothering the

other diners. And so the group had flowed out of the restaurant, a giddy, giggling amoeba of mellowness.

The lone points of normalcy were Tina and her father, neither of whom had partaken of Aunt Sarah’s

special California medication, and both of whom were baffled by the wildly euphoric mood of the rest of

the group.

Stanley Karpimsky was also brownie-free, but he was ecstatic because he was in the process of

selling his pizza joint to the famous Wendell Corliss. Stanley had Googled Corliss on his phone and

learned that he was fully qualified to purchase Stan’s Pizza, and, if he felt like it, the rest of Key

Biscayne. Stanley didn’t know why a world-famous financial genius wanted to buy Stan’s Pizza;

apparently it had something to do with earwax. All Stan knew for certain was that Corliss was willing to

pay him a ridiculously good price, a price that would enable Stan to retire in comfort and—more

important—tell his father-in-law, who owned twenty-five percent of Stan’s Pizza and therefore felt

entitled to walk into the kitchen whenever he felt like it and tell Stan there was too much oregano in the

tomato sauce, that he could go fuck himself.

The chanting group had flowed through the hotel lobby, getting stares from other hotel guests, then

out the back and down to the beach. At the moment, Stan was sitting cross-legged in the sand, forming a

triangle with Wendell and Marty. All three were now barefoot.

Mike Clark had been standing with Tina, who seemed to Mike to be the only other sane person there.

But Tina had just left, saying she wanted to get a good night’s sleep before her wedding day. So now

Mike stood alone, a few feet away from where Wendell, Stan and Marty were sitting. Mike felt awkward,

not wanting to be too far from his prized guest Wendell but definitely not part of whatever the hell was

going on. Mike was hating the way Wendell was hitting it off with these two losers.

A few yards down the beach, Banzan Dazu and the chanters—who had been joined, to Mike’s alarm,

by his wife, Marcia—were lying on their backs in the sand, staring at the stars. Also on the beach, but

keeping a discreet distance from the wedding party, were the Clark bodyguards, Castronovo and Brewer.

The Stan’s Pizza deal was done. Wendell had just made a phone call to somebody in New York,

who had made a phone call to somebody in Miami; at that very moment, the money was on its way, to be

delivered by courier to the beach behind the Ritz, in cash, in a briefcase. Stan had wanted it that way

because he’d seen it in the movies so many times, the scene where the guy opens the briefcase and sees all

the cash. In fact the bulk of the negotiations for the sale of Stan’s Pizza had consisted of Stan and Marty

hammering out exactly what kind of briefcase it would be while Wendell stared at his feet.

“I don’t want one of those soft-side things,” Stan had said.

“You mean like a messenger bag?” Marty had said.

“Right. Not that. There’s no lid on those.”

“Exactly. There’s just a flap.”

“Right. I don’t want a flap.”

“Right. You don’t want to
unflap
the money, with the briefcase vertical. You want the briefcase to

be horizontal. You lay it down, unlatch it, and you lift the lid, and there’s your money, all lined up.”

“
Exactly.
Horizontal. With latches.”

“And it needs to be a hard lid.”

“Right. The whole briefcase has to be hard.”

Marty, having reached what he felt was a critical point in the negotiations, turned to his client and

said, “Is that good with you, Wendell? A hard briefcase?”

Wendell was staring at his bare toes, half buried in the sand.

“What?” he said.

“Stan wants it to be a hard briefcase, with latches. No flap.”

“No flap?” said Wendell.

“Correct.”

Wendell, a man who had once personally caused the Dow-Jones industrial average to drop 247

points, stared at his toes a few seconds more and said, “Rocks are really hard.”

Marty and Stan nodded.

“But when you think about it,” said Wendell, “what is sand?”

Marty and Stan thought about it, but had no answer.

“Sand is tiny rocks,” said Wendell.

“Jesus Christ,” said Marty. “That’s true.”

“And sand is really soft,” said Wendell.

“He’s right,” said Marty.

Stan, not about to screw up his retirement, nodded in agreement.

“So, Wendell,” said Marty, getting back to the issue at hand. “About the briefcase.”

Wendell looked at him.

“Is hard good with you?” said Marty. “Instead of soft?”

Wendell stared at him for several seconds. “That’s exactly my point,” he said. “Hard and soft are the

same thing.”

Marty chose to interpret this as a yes. He stuck his hand out to Stan and said, “Do we have a deal?”

“Hell yes,” said Stan.

At that point Wendell—who, despite being high as a weather satellite, still possessed an innate

ability to get things done when a deal was on the line—had made the call to New York. Now they were

just waiting for the cash. At least Stan was. Wendell Corliss, legendary financial visionary, was moving

on.

“I like the name,” he was saying. “Stan’s Pizza.”

“Legally,” said Stan, “it’s Stan’s Pizza of Key Biscayne.”

Wendell nodded. “What would you think of this,” he said. “Stan’s
Transglobal
Pizza of Key

Biscayne.”

“Transglobal?” said Stan.

“Transglobal,” said Wendell.

“The thing is,” said Stan, “it’s pretty much a Key Biscayne operation. Every now and then,

somebody picks up a pie, takes it back over to Miami. Maybe even once or twice Broward. But I don’t

think we get farther than Fort Lauderdale.”

“Yeah,” said Marty. “You don’t usually think of pizza as being global, let alone
trans
global.”

Wendell looked at Marty. “Maybe that’s the problem,” he said.

“Whoa,” said Marty.

Mike Clark, standing nearby, listening in, was going crazy. What the hell was Corliss up to? It has to

be something. Corliss was one of the financial world’s most brilliant strategists. He did not do things for

no reason. He was seeing something here that Mike was not seeing.
What was it?

Mike edged closer to the trio in the sand, cleared his throat.

“Wendell,” he said.

Wendell looked up. “Yes?”

“Um, you remember, back in the restaurant, you mentioned the possibility of my participating in

this?”

“Yes,” said Wendell.

Several seconds passed awkwardly.

“You mentioned twenty-five percent,” said Mike.

“Yes.”

More awkward seconds.

“I was just wondering,” said Mike, “if that option is still open.”

Wendell looked at Stan, then Marty, then back up at Mike.

“I don’t think so, Mike,” he said. “I think we’re good.”

Mike couldn’t believe it. He, Mike Clark, whose name regularly appeared in
Fortune
magazine,

who had been to the White House four times and once golfed with the president, was being turned down

for
a twenty-five percent interest in a pizza joint
.

What the hell was happening?

Furious and frustrated, Mike spun and stalked away from the trio. He walked over to Marcia, who

was still with the chanters, lying on her back in the sand between Greta Corliss and Banzan Dazu, all of

them gazing upward, watching as a large cloud, which had been directly overhead, drifted away,

revealing a night sky dense with stars.

“Shining star, come into view,” said Dazu. “Shine its watchful light on you.”

“Oh my God,” said Marcia. “That’s beautiful.”

“Thank you,” said Dazu modestly. He had good reason to be modest, as the lines he was taking credit

for were lyrics from Earth, Wind & Fire’s funktastic 1975 hit “Shining Star,” which Dazu had promoted

in the Philadelphia market back when his name was Norman Cochran.

Mike leaned over Marcia and said, “I’m going back to the room.”

“OK,” said Marcia.

“So let’s go.”

“I’m staying here.”

“You’re not coming?”

“Could you move?” said Marcia. “You’re blocking the stars.”

“You’re a shining star,” said Dazu. “No matter who you are.”

“Oh my God,” said Marcia.

“I don’t believe this,” said Mike, straightening up. He turned and started trudging up the beach

toward the hotel, Castronovo and Brewer following. Behind him, Mike could hear Wendell and his two

new friends laughing.

Mike reached the wooden walkway leading up to the hotel lawn. Three men were coming down. The

ones in front and back were large, the one in the middle was carrying an attaché case—hard-sided, with

latches.

Mike watched the men pass, then started up the walkway. A minute later, as he was crossing the back

lawn, he heard a joyous whoop from the beach, the sound of a man who had just opened a lid and found a

glorious, father-in-law-free future.