Trifecta (74 page)

"Shall we look?  My name is Heather.  Can I open some?"

"Ah...sure.  Maybe this one," Michelle said doubtfully
and started opening a box.  "No.  This is clothes."

They both started tearing open boxes.  After about twenty
minutes without success, the boxes being hard to maneuver and open, and kitchen
equipment elusive, Michelle asked Heather if she really had to be somewhere or something. 
After all, it was a Monday morning.

"I was planning to see a couple of movies today, but
this is more fun."

Michelle was wondering about Heather's idea of fun, when
it dawned on her that she had been laughing for the first time in months.  Heather
talked non-stop.  She told droll stories about the modeling business and her travels
in the Orient.  Heather was a native Californian, like Michelle, and she had moved
to Hawaii because she did most of her modeling in Japan.  Living in Hawaii, the
stopover for flights from the mainland United States to Japan, had been beneficial
for her career.  The Japanese loved blond Americans girls in their commercials. 
Heather's choice of living in Hawaii had opened her to more opportunities than she
would have had if she had stayed in California.

"Do you have a job?" Heather asked.

"No.  That's the next project," Michelle said,
pulling a favorite abstract painting, which had been wrapped in newspaper, out of
a box.

"Over the couch.  It's beautiful," Heather said. 
"You could come to my agency.  You're certainly the right size, and they'd 
love your coloring.  That white skin and black hair.  But you'd have to lose about
fifteen pounds."

Michelle had looked at her in astonishment.

"Not that you're fat.  But you have to be thin.  The
camera, you know.  Adds weight.  You really are perfect.  And you don't have to
be skinny.  I mean, the anorexic babe's out.  Now they're into healthy looks, you
know?"

"That's kind of you,"  Michelle said.  "But
I manage commercial property.  I have a few leads."

"Too bad.  I mean, Nine-to-Five.  I could never handle
it," Heather said rolling her eyes and looking perplexed.  She was taking silverware
out of a box.  "I was a child model, but grew up too small.  Then the Japanese
found me.  I make the Japanese businessmen look enormous in commercials when I stand
next to them.  Makes them feel macho."

Michelle was laughing, but Heather continued, "So
just anytime you want to go and see my agent.  Maybe tomorrow?  I know she'd love
you."

Heather was so enthusiastic that Michelle had to tell her
that she had scars on her body.  She could never wear a two piece bathing suit. 
She could never be a model. 

Heather nodded without a word.  She wasn't going to give
any saccharin sympathy.  Heather was angry without saying a word.  She took Michelle
to her own condo for coffee and gigantic ice cream Sundays, with lots of Hershey's
chocolate.

When Michelle arrived at the office she picked
up her messages, fallout from the disasters of the day before; complaints about
the ruination of files and computers in the flood, a counter proposal for the lease
she had filed with the brokers, complaints from tenants about loss of productivity
when the air conditioning went out, outrage over the mess still in the hallway where
lawyer had stripped the wallpaper.  The usual.

She immediately went into the fax room and started preparing
her bi-yearly budget reports to send to Japan.  She had a million things to do,
but the reports were first priority.

"Don't bother sending them.  I can see you're not
dead."

Michelle spun around quickly, an electrical shock pulsing
through her body, zipping down her spine.

A tall man with bright red hair was leaning slouched in
the doorway.  He held out his hands as though he expected her to hand him the reports. 
"I'm Nakamura."

Michelle looked at him for a second.  This guy was the
controller for the whole corporation?  The genius troubleshooter?  He looked young,
mid-twenties, she guessed.  And he was definitely not Japanese with that carrot
colored hair.  The man was dressed in the perfect conservative charcoal suit and
muted tie.  He had a small cold smile on his face.  Michelle decided he could be
obnoxious.  A genius know-it-all with a superior smile.  She would have to be very
careful.

Michelle immediately wondered why she hadn't been told
that the controller was coming from Japan.  Why he had shown up now?  Unless she
was to be fired for all the disasters of yesterday.  No, he would have had to be
traveling when they occurred. 

Michelle smiled and shook his hand automatically, noting
that her blouse had ridden up on her wrist.  He was looking at the bruise.  Great,
she thought, heading to the conference room where they could spread out the reports. 

Now he probably thinks I practice kinky sex with manacles. 
The perfect start with the most powerful man in the whole corporation, excluding
only the Chairman himself. 

As Michelle moved she could feel her heart pounding as
though she were running a race.  It was beating so hard she could count each individual
beat, even as she walked with seeming control.  It was the precursor to an anxiety
attack.  Michelle wished she could keep walking forever, maybe forestalling the
attack she knew was coming.  The one she had dreaded all her working life.  The
one which would show her an out of control female in a man's job.  An emotional
wreck whose hormones couldn't be trusted.

Michelle spread the statistical reports on the conference
table and turned quickly, seeking escape.  "I'll get some coffee."

Normally she would have called the receptionist for refreshments,
but she needed to get away from Nakamura.  Get in control.  She could feel her hands
shaking and her heart was still thudding loudly.  She rapidly left the room, noting
that Nakamura was already perusing the reports.

Nakamura ignored the figures on the graphs and
read the summaries that Michelle had typed on the bottom.  He knew the reports would
be excellent, as always, and wanted to see a solid basis for her interpretation
of the figures.  As he did so, he wondered what had caused the Property Manager's
extreme reaction to him.  His red hair and freckles made him appear at least ten
years younger than his actual age, and usually relaxed people immediately, but this
woman, with her very light skin had turned white as a sheet, as though she had seen
a ghost.  Then she had started trembling.  Surely she couldn't be afraid of him,
or afraid for her job, even with his thoughtless crack about her not being dead. 
She did stunning, quality work. 

He heard a crash just outside the door and decided she
must have dropped the coffee tray.  He didn't move.

Michelle started picking up the crockery outside
the conference door.  She felt like crying.  She was in the throws of a serious
panic attack and so upset she had dropped the whole damn tray.  Nakamura must have
heard the crash, and he was probably used to tiny, dainty Japanese women who served
him tea without spilling a single drop.

Susan, the office receptionist, heard the crash and ran
over to help her.

"I'll make more coffee.  You just go inside,"
Susan whispered to her, unnecessarily.  The crash must have awakened the dead. 
And it had, Michelle noted.  Here came her boss, Tom Mitsuto.  He was actually running
down the hallway, his short legs pistoning, to the conference room.  He slowed to
a deliberate controlled stride, stepped over the tray, telling Susan she should
be more careful, and walked arrogantly into the conference room.

"I'll tell him I dropped it," Michelle said. 
They were both smiling at their boss's loss of composure.  He usually strode around
pontificating and frowning with not an idea of what anyone was really doing.

"Don't bother," Susan said, still giggling.

Michelle whispered thanks to Susan.  Susan didn't mind
taking the blame.  She was young and beautiful, hired for that very reason, and
would never be in trouble for breaking some cups.

Michelle helped Susan for another minute and then went
into the conference room after her boss.  She stood behind the two men and hoped
they wouldn't notice her.  Or require her to speak.  She was still trembling dramatically. 

The two men were speaking Japanese.  The sight of a red
haired man spouting the Oriental language was slightly comical and very strange. 
Michelle had been learning the Japanese language for some time, but they were speaking
so quickly she couldn't understand much. 

She could tell that Tom Mitsuto was taking full credit
for the report summaries, which were one of her innovations.  He had never looked
at the reports before, and made a practice of ignoring those she placed on his desk
and then filed away each month.  Now he was pointing to specific figures on the
graphs, frowning with importance, and waving his arms around, blustering in Japanese. 
He was good at it though, and people liked him because he was polite and basically
very nice.  Michelle appreciated him because he did not interfere with her work
and gave her full rein in her job. 

Nakamura turned around and glanced at Michelle, shaking
his head minutely.  She was surprised that Nakamura could know, in just a few moments,
that her boss was putting on a gigantic act for his benefit, trying desperately
to hide his ignorance. 

Tom Mitsuto turned and beckoned her to the table, saying,
"Maybe you can explain this figure," very angrily, as though it was her
fault that he could not understand the statistics.  Then he stood looking at her,
frowning.  "Are you all right?"

Michelle started coughing.  "I have a tickle in my
throat."

Both men were looking at her now.

"The reports can wait," Nakamura said.  "I
need a tour of the building.  Right now.  Ms. Montgomery?"

He strode over commandingly, took her arm, and was starting
out of the conference room.  "We'll be back in a half hour or so."

They left Tom Mitsuto with his mouth open, poised to pontificate
and gesticulate some more.

Michelle hurried to keep up with the man.  He was taking
long strides, almost pulling her along.  It was strange, unless he was extremely
perceptive.

"I want to see the building, top to bottom,"
Nakamura said as they practically trotted out the door.

They stopped in front of the elevators and Michelle could
feel him peering at her carefully for a moment from under red-gold eyelashes.  "Lets
take the stairs." 

He started to the end of the long hallway, still quickly
striding and holding her upper arm.  When they reached the stairwell and started
down he said, "Don't fall in those stilettos."

Michelle almost laughed.  Because of her height she never
wore high heels.

It was a long way down to the basement where the sump pump
was thrashing away, in perfect condition.  Nakamura inspected it minutely, ignoring
the odor, nodded approval, and they went on to the electrical room.  Then he inspected
the supply room where all of the janitorial inventory was neatly stashed. 

With all the quick physical movement Michelle was becoming
calmer and calmer.  By the time they ended the inspection tour, on the roof, where
Nakamura walked through the gigantic, windy and noisy mechanical rooms, which contained
the electrical generators for the air conditioning system, Michelle was definitely
back to normal.

"Are all the buildings in shape like this one?"

Michelle nodded.  "I have good maintenance teams. 
I insist on upkeep and go on each of the inspections."

Nakamura nodded.  "Lets go back.  Go over the budget
reports."

If Nakamura had realized that anything was wrong earlier
he was not saying anything, Michelle thought, as they minutely went over the costs
she had projected for the next six months for each of the buildings.  The meeting
lasted two hours.  Nakamura checked on his calculator for the cost of living increments
based on the CPI index.  It was exhausting, but it was also exhilarating for Michelle
to be able to talk to someone truly knowledgeable in her field of specialty. 

This meeting was also crucial to Heroshi Hawaii.  Nakamura
was the man with the knife.  He could force her boss, Tom Mitsuto, to sell properties
if she was unable to show a profit, or potential profit, for the buildings in the
future.

"Lunch," Nakamura said, finally, after brief
meetings with the real estate and construction divisions, which he insisted she
attend.  "You'll have to take me.  I haven't been to Hawaii in years."

"I have a million things to do," Michelle said,
frantic to get away.  She had to return calls, sooth tenants, and had a leasing
meeting with a real estate company in an hour.  "I know Mr. Mitsuto would love
to take you out."

"I've ruined your schedule," Nakamura said. 
"But you have to eat.  And I need to pick your brain.  I'll be here for a week. 
Tom and I will have plenty of time.  He wants to buy two more buildings.  I want
you there with us.  He's been lucky.  Miraculously hasn't picked one with a major
defect.  You should see the ones in New York.  Total disasters.  Everything from
roaches to buildings contaminated with asbestos."

"There are some Japanese restaurants not far from
here," Michelle began, knowing how the Japanese preferred their own cuisine. 
She herself was sick to death of only eating Japanese on the endless company luncheons.

"No.  Please.  Anything but Japanese.  I'm reveling
being in the United States.  McDonald's would be preferable."

Michelle nodded.  Even though he was deadly serious about
his work, Nakamura was heading toward the 'nice guy' category.

O
mar was laboring, although no one would have guessed
it by observing the prone figure lying perfectly still.  Occasionally his eyeballs
would turn up, showing only white, and then he would be comatose again.

The room complemented Omar's dark appearance theatrically. 
It was decorated entirely in sterile white and black.  The accent pieces were of
chrome, appearing like unpolished hunks of silver.  Large abstract paintings adorned
the walls, with the same motif of black and white with occasional splashes of bright
red and blue.  A sky-light provided bright morning light, which would cast the room
in gloomy shadows when clouds passed overhead.

Omar opened his eyes, concentrating on a particular spot
near the ceiling.  A feminine image appeared.  The conception was so clear it was
almost as if an effigy was projected on the white wall; a tall woman with black
hair and yellow eyes.  Lucifer's eyes.  The devil's eyes.  But the colors surrounding
her were brilliant, unlike anything he had seen in his long life.

When Omar had been a young child, walking the streets of
Osaka with his mother, he used to tell her about the vivid colors he saw.  His mother
was always indulgent.  She would smile and gently reprove, saying the person was
wearing grey, not pink or yellow or any of the shades Omar saw.  He would tug on
her skirt, insisting, and she would smile and say that imagination was a wonderful
thing.  But Omar gradually learned not to mention the colors to anyone else.  His
tiny classmates just said he was lying.

As Omar grew older he found that the colors he perceived
around his friends and relatives changed in intensity with their emotions.  He now
knew they were halos, or auras, these luminous radiations.  Mirrors of the soul. 
Red usually signified anger.  The lighter colors typically went with tranquility;
the dark colors he learned to shy away from.  What little he saw of his father was
always a dark purple/black.

When Omar was almost eight, his mother contracted a terrible
illness so that her color changed from the usual bright pink to a watery and nearly
transparent dirty brown/grey. 

One day she took him with her to an herbalist's shop in
a seedy part of downtown Osaka.  The place was almost hidden in a filthy alley. 
That was the first time Omar saw an emanation that was pure white.  The tiny man
was thin and very old, with eyes like black raisins in skin so blotched white and
wrinkled he looked like an animated, shriveled mushroom.  His hands were so thin
they appeared transparent, his limbs were like sticks.  Omar could see a white light
shining around this ancient personage like the mystical pictures of saints in the
Catholic church he passed on the way to school.

"The war is within you, lady," the herbalist
had said, when he peered at Omar's beautiful mother.  She had nodded.  Omar understood
then that his mother would die.  Besides the colors he saw radiating around people
he could also understand the thoughts and emotions of certain individuals.  This
truth about death was projected from both his mother and the ancient man.

"You can do nothing?" Omar's mother had asked.

The old man sighed and shook his head.

"I don't want to leave him..."

Suddenly, Omar felt the old man's concentrated attention. 
He was so angry that the herbalist would not help his mother, he willed the old
man dead on the spot.  He wished it with all his strength, despising the old man
like he had never hated anyone before.  He hated his father, yes.  He loathed his
classmates because they laughed at his size and Occidental features.  He hated his
teachers because of their barely veiled contempt that he was a half-breed, but he
had never felt so fierce a malignancy as he felt toward this man.

"Ah.  Your son loves you very much."

That made Omar abhor the ancient healer even more and he
said, "You're just a nasty old white man."

"Omar!"  His mother was shocked at his bad manners.

The frail herbalist shrugged.  "He is only angry that
I can't make you well.  Your son has a great gift."

Omar's mother did not understand.  The herbalist explained
that her child could detect the electromagnetic fields that surrounded all living
creatures.  Manipulating these fields was an ancient Oriental method of healing. 
Omar, her son, could be a great healer with his natural gift.

Both Omar and the old man knew this was not true.  Omar
saw it behind the herbalist's eyes.  He was lying to give comfort.  Omar knew the
old man was sensing a bad seed, something dark that projected from him even at this
young age.  Omar didn't know what this meant, only that the old man was repelled.

Omar vowed at that moment that he would never become what
the old man foretold.  He would be the opposite.  He would use this useless gift
that could not heal his mother in another way.  Something dark, to oppose the old
white man with his fusty worthless bottles that cluttered the dusty apothecary. 

When his mother finally wasted away a few months later,
Omar was angry at her, too, for leaving him, for her weakness, and for forsaking
him to a father who despised him.  He renewed the vow that this contemptible gift,
seeing auras, would be used as power over those he hated. 

In the years that followed his only friends were the many
pets his mother had allowed him, and he found he could manipulate animals easily. 
They did his bidding when he projected an image of his desire.  His dog bit his
father.  His cat savagely scratched the despised nanny. 

Now, as Omar lay on his couch, his mind was revisiting
the night before, touching the beautiful woman, Michelle, and perceiving the recoil
and fear with a satisfying sense of domination and power.  Fragility drew him like
a magnet to his prey.  But he had to be careful.  He had weakened her previously. 
Alcohol had also done its devil's work, but she was a naturally powerful woman. 
She was gaining in strength each day.  He had to eat away at her defenses until
she was more susceptible.  Her job.  Her friends.  Everything must be stripped for
his purpose, which he had understood the first time he had seen her in Las Vegas,
and stopped motionless, all his senses alerted. 

When Michelle walked past him through the lobby of the
Luxur Hotel, he had seen a brilliant aura like no other.  He understood immediately
that she was the one, in all the millions of women, that he had been searching for. 
The interesting thing about Michelle was that she seemed totally innocent, with
no understanding of her own powers, which had been so obvious when Omar saw the
amazing, illuminating rays projecting around her.

The wall where Omar's eyes were now fixed did not have
a painting or any object to concentrate on, only the grill for the building's central
heating system, which was seldom used in Hawaii and high up near the ceiling.  He
lay supine and concentrated for about five minutes before anything happened.

Finally a black segmented stalk protruded from the
grate where he was staring.  He watched as several thin appendages wiggled
through the grate, and a large insect made a waveringly awkward exit through
the grill.  Some of the legs were not working and were held high in the air, as
though touching the wall would be painful.  It moved slowly down the wall, hesitantly,
almost like it was tired and sick.

Omar watched the performance expressionlessly as the large
insect finally made it to the floor and laboriously crawled over the bumpy white
carpet to his feet.  The black insect stood there as if in defeat, until it finally
reared up, using it's tail for extra leverage and tried to climb on Omar's slipper,
still holding up two useless legs.

A small kitten bounded into the room and went for the interesting
object, bent on feline destruction, sadistic and thrilling death.  Omar frowned
at the kitten and the small white cat stopped abruptly and lay down very still,
watching the insect with unblinking blue eyes.

Omar finally shook his head and sighed.  Then he reached
down and picked up the insect with his extremely long fingers and examined it minutely. 

Omar walked out onto the balcony which surrounded his entire
apartment.  He went over to a boxlike cage enclosed with mesh screen.  There he
dropped the insect inside with the others.

In the insect world, only the strong survive.

Omar decided to take a trip to the beach.

Heather was both pissed off and apprehensive as
she stood on a promontory of rocks beside blow-hole at Hanauma Bay, a state underwater
park in East Honolulu.  The scene was breathtaking and she tried to concentrate
on the sparkling ocean and be in the correct position the next time a large wave
came.  She could squint her eyes, but had to open wide when the wave came.  She
counted when she heard the crash of the surf and opened wide, feeling as though
her eyeballs were being seared by the sun, which was still low on the horizon.

"Great shot," Franklin shouted as he touched
the automatic button to film faster than he could press.  "Open the coat wider
next time."

The photographer was above her on another ledge of rocks. 
They were waiting for the next water spout, which would come a few seconds after
an enormous wave would crash on the beach.  Then the wave would fill an underground
tunnel in the rocks below with enough pressure to push air and water, forcefully
mixing the two, through the tunnel to a hole in the top of the rocks.  A magnificent
plume of spray would burst forth to a height of twenty to thirty feet in the air. 

This natural waterspout was famous all over the island
of Oahu, and the bay, with a beautiful sandy beach below, was distinguished for
its tame tropical fish.  There were colorful butterflyfish, goatfish parrotfish,
surgeonfish and sea turtles.  Since it was early morning the snorkelers and amateur
sea photographers had not yet arrived to explore the underworld of the shallow inner
reefs.

Heather had gone inside the blow-hole several times and
ridden the ocean up and down in the natural small pool in the rocks, a dangerous
and exciting pastime.  It was perfectly safe when the surf was tame, which was about
ninety percent of the time.  But Franklin was insisting she to go into the pool
today and it was just too unpredictable.  The same surf which made the fantastic
displays from the blow-hole was the kind that made riding inside it dangerous. 
Heather had never seen the geyser spout as high as today.  There had been storms
in Australia, which was making the surf in Hawaii pound.

The force of the water could either suck her down into
the rocks below, she was a very small person, or it could yank the bathing suit
right off her if it got really rough in there.  Another possibility was that she
could be thrown by the water's force out of the blow-hole and land on the uneven
and sharp rocks.  It was against the beach rules at Hanauma Bay to jump into the
blow-hole and ride the surf, but the regulation was ignored by tourists and natives
alike.

"Just a bit more shoulder, darling," Franklin,
the photographer, was saying.

Sure, a little more shoulder and you'll get a good shot
of my right boob, Heather thought, as she adjusted the fur coat she was sweltering
in.  She could feel her hair sticking to perspiration on her cheeks and dampening
her forehead.  She flicked her hair back.  Fur in the islands.  Fashion photography
was ludicrous.  And they were insisting on two for the price of one.  Shots of her
in a white, full length ermine coat in front of the blow hole, and then a sequence
of her jumping inside the hole clad in a bikini. 

Heather heard a loud crash on the beach, and opened the
coat, twisting back and forth.  She was wearing a natural colored body stocking
under the coat, which conveyed high-fashion nakedness.  The body stocking was cut
low on top, scarcely concealing her chest and high on the legs, barely see-through. 
She wished Franklin would hurry up and finish so she could put on some clothes.

"Wow.  Perfect.  That one was beautiful," Franklin
enthused.  "Just one more time to make sure."

It took five more shots.  Five more waves.  Then Heather
went into the silver truck standing by to change into a bikini.  She used body glue
in strategic areas to keep the suit on, knowing that the water would erode the glue
quickly and probably leave abraded spots on her skin.

When they went over an arm of rocks which surrounded one
side of the natural bay, and looked down inside the depression of the blow-hole,
Heather decided her fear had been groundless.  The water was filling the hole and
then receding, but it didn't look nearly as dangerous as she had anticipated.  Maybe
the surf was quieting down a bit.  She sat on the edge of the pool with Franklin
taking pictures.  Then she stood up and jumped in, feeling bubbles whirl around
her, her hair swirling like seaweed, the sudden cool salt water making her feel
alive and invigorated.

Heather moved to the side and caught hold of the rock rim
to hear Franklin's instructions.  He knelt in front of her, his back toward the
bay.  "Great wet look, with the hair slicked down, ...push it back from your
forehead...Yes!  Now just paddle around and look natural..."

While Franklin was speaking Heather was suddenly transfixed
by the sound of a gigantic crash.  Behind him she saw an enormous wave hit the beach. 
The biggest she had ever seen on this side of the island.  She had only seconds
before it would crash through the tunnel and hurtle her in the air.

Heather scissored her legs, pushed with her arms, and leaped
out of the pool, practically on top of Franklin, who, prissy himself of getting
wet, backed up hurriedly.

Never at a moments loss for a great picture, Franklin ran
quickly around the pool and stood ready for the display.  He got more than he had
bargained for.  Heather turned around on the other side of the pool.  When the water
came flying out of the blow hole he took shots of Heather jumping up.  Her arms
were spread high over her head, her legs apart.  She looked like a sprite orchestrating
the translucent plume of water, which showed her clearly on the other side of the
hole from him, with the beautiful bay behind her.  Her face, full of glee, reminded
him of the sequence in Fantasia when Mickey Mouse starts using the Sorcerer's magic,
which quickly gets out of hand.