Robert Ferrigno - Scavenger hunt

"How did you get in here?"

Sugar stood in the doorway between the anteroom and her office, hands in the pockets of his blue suit jacket. "Gee, April, that doesn't sound too friendly."

"I was expecting you to call me with an update-you picked a funny time to come by in person." April McCoy picked up the cigarette smoldering in the clamshell ashtray on her white desk and took a short tentative drag, then stubbed it out. The clamshell was filled with broken butts, their filters ringed with red. "Did everything go all right? I haven't heard anything on the radio."

Sugar surveyed the office. "I always wondered what this place looked like. It's nice."

April watched him from behind her desk, eyes narrowed, resting her bulk on her forearms-three hundred pounds if she was an ounce, but well groomed, powdered, and manicured, every frosted hair in place, her dress black and billowy. Nice to see a big girl with her vanity intact, particularly in L.A., where the women thought they had to be built like linguini. "Heather did what she was supposed to?"

"A real trouper," Sugar assured her. "Just like you said."

April relaxed slightly. "Heather's young, but she has a good head on her shoulders, that's what's important. A lot of the young ones…" She dabbed at her lipstick with a fat pinkie. "I don't need to bother you with my troubles."

"Taking care of troubles-that's my job and my pleasure." Sugar ambled inside. He was a hefty boy too, not in April's weight class, but a big and tall shopper, proud of his bulk, pleased with everything about himself, not in some loud and flashy way-he hated that-but he knew who he was. Too many people had to work at liking themselves, overspending, overselling, overmedicating. But Sugar-he had seen it all, and he measured up just fine.

It was almost midnight, the dingy office building deserted except for her office on the eighth floor. Sugar had taken the stairs, feeling his heart pounding as he took the steps two and three at a time, kicking up dust. Most of the lights in the hallway on the eighth floor had burned out. Sugar had moved quietly through the puddles of darkness on the balls of his feet, past the Asian food importer and the prosthetic limb supply company and the immigration attorney who had a lucrative sideline in slip-and-fall cases. The eighth floor smelled of sack lunches left unrefrigerated too long.

April lit up another cigarette, her many rings flashing. She blew smoke at him. "How did you get in here, anyway?"

Sugar shrugged.

Ashes tumbled onto the white surface of the desk, and April backhanded them, left a dirty smear.

Sugar stopped in front of her bookcase. There wasn't a book in it, but plenty of photos: April with that black kid who was the white guy's sidekick on a TV show that got canceled last year, April with that girl singer who was supposed to be the next Britney Spears but wasn't. Lots of photos of April with shiny young men and women who he was probably supposed to recognize but didn't. One of those fancy AM-FM radios was on the top shelf, tuned to a New Age music station, which was a waste of technology if you asked him.

"Were you able to take her home afterward?" asked April. "I know I'm just being an old mother hen-"

"You're not old. Not by a long shot."

April absently touched her hair. "So did you give her a ride home?"

"Not exactly."

"Not exactly? What does that mean?" April's voice croaked when she was nervous, which was not really a good quality for a talent agent or business manager or whatever it was she thought she did for a living. It seemed to Sugar that when you negotiated for your supper, it was important to hold something back.

"Not exactly means there were complications, but I took care of them." Sugar's own voice was warm and buttery, as soothing as prescription cough syrup. Good times and bad, his voice maintained its resonant timbre. A few years back he had broken his right leg in an auto accident on the 405, lacerated his scalp too, a flap of hair hanging over his ear. He didn't remember much about the car crash itself, but he still could see the look on the firefighter's face as he used the jaws of life on the crumpled Ford, the young fellow shaking as he worked to cut him free, disconcerted by Sugar's easy manner, his bad knock-knock jokes and mock apologies for all the blood.

"Heather is a fine little actress." April took another drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out. Judging from the ashtray, she never smoked them down past halfway-she probably thought that it was the last half that would kill her. "Heather-she knows what she wants, and she knows what it takes to get it. Knows how to keep her mouth shut too." April's eyes were hard behind the smoke. "A special girl."

"Fresh off the griddle, that's what I asked for."

April lit another cigarette. "And that's what I gave you. You remember that. One hand washes the other, Sugar."

"Rub-a-dub-dub." Sugar smiled, then walked to one of the large windows overlooking the street and placed his hands under the two handles.

"Don't bother trying. That thing's been stuck since Noah took his boat ride."

Sugar lifted, putting his back into it. The window creaked, then slid all the way up, and he felt the breeze cool against his sweaty forehead, heard the hum of the freeway in the distance.

"Well, that's a first," said April.

Sugar looked out at the night. The surrounding buildings were dark, the street deserted. "It was getting hard to breathe in here."

"Don't you start on me." April tapped out her cigarette after just a couple drags, then bent forward, coughing into her fist. "You remember what I said about one hand washing the other," she warned. "Heather has a lot of talent, but we both know what that's worth without the right connections. A good word whispered in the proper ear…"

"I hear you. If you don't mind me asking, what's your slice? Fifteen percent?"

April had lovely dimples. "Thirty-five."

Sugar whistled.

April nodded toward the file cabinet. "Ironclad too. You'd be surprised at how many try to beat me out of my commission. It's enough to shake my faith in humanity."

"You have to trust people. Otherwise, what's the point of living?" Sugar dimmed the lights, then tuned the radio to an oldies station, caught Aretha Franklin in the middle of "Chain of Fools." He walked to the desk and held his hands out. "May I have this dance?"

April stared at him.

Sugar beckoned. "Come on, beautiful, don't leave me out here all alone."

"Are you serious?" April laughed, embarrassed. "You are."

"Nothing wrong with a little celebration. You and me, we're just little people, but look what we did tonight." Sugar smiled at her and saw her doubts melt. It was a good smile, full of strong, white teeth and humor. "We made it happen, girl. We shook things up good. One way or the other, Heather is going to be famous."

April hesitated.

Sugar folded his hands in prayer.

April got slowly to her feet, moved around from behind the desk. She looked toward the doorway, as though afraid they were going to get caught, then saw him looking and blushed. "It's-it's been a while since I've been asked to dance."

"No accounting for taste, is there?" Sugar put one hand on her hip, the two of them swaying to the music, a little awkward at first, at least until she relaxed and let him lead, Sugar slipping his arm halfway around her waist, dancing closer now.

April giggled as he swept her across the carpet, amazed at his strength and poise, his deft moves. "You make me feel light as a feather."

Sugar held her tight, effortlessly lifting her off her feet as they glided around the room. She was a big girl, but she felt small in his arms, and the sensation was like an electric current traveling between them, warm and intimate as a stolen kiss. "'Chain, chain, chain,'" he crooned, " 'chain of fools.' "