Jack O'Connell - The Skin Palace

“You know Candice, of course,” Perry says, “and this is District Attorney Meade. Reverend Boetell you heard speak the other night. You remember Brother Fernando. And this is Paige Beatty of the Women’s American Resistance,” his head bobs and he says, “This is Sylvia.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she says, wondering why the hell they’re not doing this thing at one of their big walnut conference rooms downtown.

“I’m sorry you’re feeling ill, Mrs. Leroux,” the Reverend says. “Perhaps we should relocate—”

“Krafft,” she says.

“‘Scuse me, ma’am.”

She can feel Perry stiffen next to her.

“My last name is Krafft,” she says. “Perry and I aren’t married.”

“Pardon my confusion,” Boetell says, though no one here thinks for a minute he was confused. “Perry, let us clear out of here and we can reschedule for tomorrow.”

Sylvia puts her hand on Perry’s arm and says, “No need for that. I’ll just be in the next room. It was nice seeing everyone.”

“Excuse us for just a second,” Perry says and follows her into the bedroom. He closes the door and Sylvia sits down on the bed and looks up at him.

“You okay?” he says in a modified whisper.

“My head,” she says. “It’s just killing me. I’m just going to take some aspirin and lie down for a while.”

He nods.

“Sorry about this,” he says, edgy, looking at her face as if he was trying to figure something out.

“It’s all right,” she says. “I just want to lie down for a while.”

“It’s just,” he starts, then restarts, “Ratzinger thought it would be better if the group gets together outside of the office. He sort of volunteered my place.”

“The group,” she says.

He jerks his thumb in the direction of the living room.

“Technically,” he says, “Eddie Meade isn’t supposed to be here. It’s weird.”

“Look,” she says, “go back out there. You can tell me all about it later.”

“Can I bring you anything?”

“I’m all set. I’m just going to sleep for a while. I’ll be fine later on.”

He gives her a nervous shake of his head and says, “Just give a yell if there’s anything I can do.

She nods back. He comes forward and plants a kiss on her forehead, then goes back to the group.

She takes off her shoes and massages her feet a little. She gets undressed, grabs a T-shirt out of the drawer and pulls it on. Then she climbs under the covers and curls up, all fetal and cold. She wants the room pitch-dark. She climbs out of bed and turns off the wall switch. She squats down next to the door and puts an ear to the crack. She hears a woman’s voice, probably Candice’s saying, “We can go over to my place if you’d like. It’s not far from here.”

There’s some mumbling that she can’t make out, then Perry says, “It’s fine, really, It’s not a problem. Let’s just continue.”

She sits down on the floor, pulls the door open just a bit more. Someone gets up and walks past, out into the kitchen. She hears the faucet run for a second, then footsteps returning to the living room.

“My people and I,” Boetell says, “are still very uneasy about the nature of Miss Beatty’s march. I think we need to hear more about this stunt. I think we need to be allowed to review these films she plans on showing.”

“The march has nothing to do with you,” Paige Beatty responds. “It’s our statement and we’ll take the consequences. I’ll make that completely clear to the press, Mr. Boetell. You don’t have to be worried about being soiled by associating with us.”

“I think we’re getting way ahead of ourselves,” Perry says. “We’ve got a lot of work in front of us tonight and we need to be methodical here—”

“If this is going to run into the evening,” Boetell’s twang interrupts, “perhaps we should order a little supper. Does anyone else enjoy Chinese?”

“Can’t do it,” Meade says, “I’m meeting Welby back at the office at four.”

“Candice,” Perry says, “why don’t you run down the notes we compiled at lunch.”

Sylvia hears papers shifting and Candice says, “Can I have that green folder,” a pause and then, “Basically, this is the prep-work that Perry and I assembled over the past month. We’ve put together a summary and analysis of all the Herzog initiatives going back ten years. We looked at licensing hearings, zoning board debates, letters and editorials written in the Spy, council speeches. Every two to three years cleaning up the sex trade becomes a hot issue for less than a season, then gets forgotten. The usual pattern is for a candidate or church group or community organization to make some up-front noise. The paper throws out some perfunctory headlines and op-ed fire. The council chambers fill with two sessions’ worth of yelling and podium bashing. And then the dust settles and Schick and his compatriots quietly continue to go about their business.”

“It’s going to be different this time,” Boetell promises.

“I’ve taken an informal survey,” Perry says, “through very informal channels—”

“You bought lunch down at Valhalla,” Meade interrupts and Perry gives him a forced laugh.

“The problem is basically twofold. You need the newspaper to keep the fire up, which they won’t do. And you need to kill debate, get some real legislation out of committee and voted on. A single local ordinance could change the face of Watson Street in a year. Six months if the real estate started to look good to anyone.”

“What we want to avoid,” Candice says, “is a First Amendment circus. The last thing we want is a free speech debate. That could lead to outside funding and even ACLU targeting. You don’t want to get inside a courtroom where anything can happen. Our recommendation is that the best course of action would be to cement the appropriate support, then move quickly from all sides.”

“We need to determine exactly who’s doing business with Schick and company,” Perry says. “We need to follow the money and see whose pockets it’s flowing into. Then we need to make that information public. Put some photos on page one.”

“Basically,” Candice says, “we need an icon. We need a face to stand for filth. We need a big bad guy. And Schick is perfect for the part.”

“He’s a naturalized citizen,” Perry says. “So we can tap into the whole xenophobic current. We can have this city hating him in a month. We can build up a real passion in two, depending on our budget for media.”

“Schick’s theatre is the biggest,” Candice says. “The grandest. It’s enormous. It’s excessive. It’s over-the-top. It’s perfect for our purposes. We make it the epitome of the evil pornograhic empire. We allude to other connections.”

“That would be my department,” Boetell says. “I’ve got a whole suitcase of stump speeches I can tailor to the Kraut—”

“He’s Austrian,” Beatty says.

“We hammer home child abuse, drug dealing, satanic activity,” Boetell says. “The satanic stuff plays real well. My boys back home have done the stats. Satan’s good for a ten to fifteen percent upswing in any given night’s gate.”

“Thanks, Reverend,” Perry says without a trace of humor in his voice. “We’ll definitely keep that in mind.”

“Every chance you get, you want to pull Lucifer into the stew,” Boetell says. “That’s what I tell my protégés, ‘hit ’em with the beast till they howl for mercy.’ Right, Fernando?”

“If there’s any way at all,” Candice says, “that we can capitalize on a satanic connection, rest assured we will. I’ll make a note for a Spy leak at some later date.”

Perry begins, “We’ll also want to—” but he’s cut off by Boetell who says, “There must be something amusing that I’m not privy to.”