Joan Hess - Maggody In Manhattan

"This is not the time for excuses. Poor Durmond was shot and then subjected to…further indignities. If you cannot arrange for proper security, I'll do it myself!"

Kyle flushed. "Do you want me to rent a uniform and go stand by the door?"

"At least you'd be doing something useful, for a change." Geri sat down on the edge of the bed and began to sort through papers in her briefcase.

Durmond and I watched all this in silence. We even exchanged significant looks, although I had no idea what they signified. Kyle clearly had several retorts in mind, but after a moment of twitching his lips mutely, he leaned against the door and folded his arms.

"So the contest will continue?" I asked Geri.

"Yes. It's totally absurd, but the show will go on. My secretary"-she glanced at Kyle-"managed to touch base with my boss. He was displeased to hear what happened, but he was quite firm about our continuing here in the Bates Hotel."

Durmond put his hand on my shoulder, which sent off all kinds of adolescent fireworks-invisible, I hoped. "You'll need to find a room for Arly. I'm sure she's thrilled at the opportunity to watch the Krazy KoKo-Nut cookoff in all its flaky splendor."

"Flaky is right," Geri said grimly. She slammed closed the briefcase and consulted her watch. "I'll go downstairs in a minute and speak to Rick. I'm quite sure Krazy KoKo-Nut will be delighted to provide the salary for a temporary doorman, should Rick resist, as well as a room for you, Arly. And please forgive me-I'm not at all like this usually. But less than a week ago the account was literally thrown onto my desk, and then I was assigned to work with someone who has no experience in promo, and my boss is being as beastly as Scotty Johanson, and Mother's livid because I-" She broke off as tears began to wobble down her cheeks. Seconds later, she was sobbing and the rest of us were patting her on the back and murmuring inanities. Even the broody Buddha relented and sat beside her, cradling her hand and sounding quite as ineffectual as Durmond and I.

It fit perfectly into the lunatic scenario. I wouldn't have been surprised if Mrs. Jim Bob, Brother Verber, and Mr. and Mrs. Kevin Buchanon marched into the room and announced they were planning a ménage à quatre in the next room. Oh, to be in lazy, hazy Maggody, where nothing ever happened.

Brother Verber stumbled along the side of the road, singing "Onward, Christian Soldiers" as best he could, considering he couldn't rightly recall the words. He couldn't rightly recall why he was doing it, for that matter, but he was having a splendid time, The night was balmy, the stars glittery, the world bathed in a most lovely glow of goodwill to all men.

And to all women, he corrected himself with a hiccup. Goodwill to all women, including Sister Barbara Ann Buchanon Buchanon Buchanon, or something like that. Why, if she should pop out from behind a tree, he'd just throw his arms around her and tell her what a perfect saint she was, from her halo straight down to her trim ankles.

He lurched to a stop at the edge of the highway. After several minutes of making real sure there was no car or truck bearing down, he started across the road, then paused on the yellow stripe to think whereall he was going.

It came to him like a bolt of lightning from the Almighty Hisself. There was no doubtin' this kind of divine inspiration. No doubtin' and no disobeyin'. The Almighty thought he should go right over to Sister Barbara's house and tell her what a saint she was and beg her to join him on her knees in a prayer of thanksgiving for the miracle of creation.

Brother Verber gazed toward the heavens above, real grateful for the suggestion. He then took a jar from his pocket, unscrewed the lid and took a deep swig, took another for good measure, and set off down the yellow line, doing his best to walk on it but having a darn tough time of it. It didn't make much sense for it to be weaving like a snake, but it was.

He resumed booming out his battle hymn and doing his best to keep time. "Marching as well wore, with the crease of Jesus, leaning on the floor!"

Marvel hitched a ride with an old guy in a delivery truck and listened to a lengthy story about a fishing tournament. In that he was a guest, he didn't point out you could buy fish at the market without having to sit in a boat all day. When they reached the highway, the driver let him off and told him to have himself a nice evening.

Marvel peered both ways, not especially caring which way he went. Problem was, he was getting hungry and there wasn't so much as a house in sight. He had a couple bucks in his pocket, but that wasn't going to buy him anything in no-dude's land. He'd already learned it could get damn dark without any city lights, and spookier than the hallways of the housing project where he lived with his mother and sister. His mother, who was going to kill him, that is, and his sister, who probably needed help with her arithmetic homework.

He was scratching his head and trying to guess which way to walk when a car came over the hill. For some reason, there were two bare feet poked out the backseat window. Marvel was wondering about that as the car stopped.

"Is this the road to Cleveland?" the driver asked. His voice broke like he was a kid, but Marvel looked harder and decided the honky was old enough to drive. "Why you be going to Cleveland?" he countered, still uneasy about the feet resting on the sill.

"Who are you talking to?" demanded the other end of the feet. They were mystifying, but the voice was belligerence personified-and then some.

The driver turned his head to mumble something, then looked back with a smile that hinted of terror. "We're on our honeymoon."

"You're going to Cleveland for your honeymoon?" Marvel said with an incredulous snort. "Shit, nobody goes to Cleveland for a honeymoon. Why you be doin' something crazy like that, man?"

"We're sorta off the track, but we're aiming at Niagara Falls, and we can get there if we can get to Cleveland. My bride's so dadburned itchy-I mean, feeling poorly and she seems to think this ain't the road to Cleveland. I've been telling her I'm pretty sure it is, but she wants me to ask somebody."

"Somebody with more brains than a mess of collard greens," said the other end of the feet.

Marvel scooped up his backpack and went around the car. As he got in the front seat, he took a quick look at what all was in the back. It was too dark to see much, but the aura of malevolence was enough to make him shiver.

"I've got to tell you, man," he said as he closed the car door, "getting to Cleveland's real tough. You take this road, and that road, and then another road, and if you aren't careful, you splash down in Lake Michigan. I'll just ride along with you so you won't get lost. No, you don't have to thank me; I'm happy to oblige. Lemme think…" He paused, watching the driver to see if he was going to buy it. The sissy white boy looked more like he was about to faint. "Yes, I thought about it, and to get to Cleveland, we go straight down this road. You just do the drivin', and your main man Marvel'll tell you where to go and when to turn."

I slept poorly and woke with a headache. Having become accustomed to nothing rowdier than dogs barking and owls hooting up on the ridge, the perpetual roar of traffic had kept me awake half the night. Trying to sort through Ruby Bee's tale had taken care of the other half. I'd gone back to her room after I finished the drink in Durmond's, but the light was out and a DO NOT DISTURB sign hung from the doorknob.

Geri arranged for me to stay in 204, which adjoined 202, which I did not fail to note. Neither did I fail to note I was entertaining ideas (okay, fantasies) that were unseemly and unacceptable. Glumly reminding myself of the reason I was there, I pulled on some clothes and took the elevator to the lobby to look for coffee.