Chapter 20

“If your mem’ry serves you well, you’ll remember that you’re the one who called on me to call on them to get your favors done. And after every plan had failed, and there was nothing more to tell. You knew that we would meet again, if your mem’ry served you well. This wheel’s on fire, it’s rolling down the road. Best notify my next of kin. This wheel shall explode.” -Bob Dylan, “This Wheel’s on Fire“

How’s it going? Susan here. I don’t seem to be to most of the people with us right now.

We were finishing lunch at the most expensive restaurant in Seattle, where Contessa Helena de San Finzione paid for hers, mine, Julie’s, Mander’s, the paparazzi, and everyone else in the place’s lunch, as photographers jockeyed around her to find decent shots without me, Julie or Mander in them. Before we’d emerged from the limo, La Contessa had commanded them to ignore us and destroy any footage they got with any of the three of us at all in the shot. Since we were staying close to her, they had to work hard to get decent angles.

I usually only refer to Helen as “Helen,” but didn’t just now, because that wasn’t who had stepped out of the limo. She wasn’t Helen Parker, the woman I’d discussed intimate secrets with over plain old drip coffee with hazelnut creamer earlier this morning. This was the woman I’d seen on television for years before I met Troy and Julie; Contessa Helena de San Finzione.

Occasionally, I hear Helen say something she’d said in an interview in person, and get a little smile about it. But since our conversation during the thing in Uongo, I haven’t really thought of her as “The Lady From the TV,” until I realized that’s who I was seeing mugging for the cameras and acting like she was about to take a freakishly large bite of something, or tossing back another drink with wild abandon. Giving the tabloid photographers exactly what they wanted as a martini olive whoopsied its way into her cleavage and laughing it off with queenly disregard, as she plucked it out and ate it with a front-page-worthy smile.

When we returned to the limo, the rest of us entered before she did. La Contessa stopped and turned to the crowd of reporters. An Ultimado held an umbrella over her head as she told them to go ahead and look over what they’ve got to make sure there aren’t any Nobodies in any of the shots, delete any of those, send off the good stuff, and meet us at the mall next. She made a joke about several of the press corps seriously needing a wardrobe upgrade, suggested she might do something about that when we get there, and got into the limo.

As soon as the door was closed, La Contessa removed the sunglasses, took her cigarette out of the holder, and Helen flopped onto the back seat.

“THAT,” Helen panted, as she took the bottled water that Mander had already seen she needed and gotten from the fridge for her. “Was why I said we’d need a good lunch before we begin.”

Julie was checking the news on her iPad. She thumped it briefly, then got something.

“The tabloid sites wasted no time.” She reported. “The UK ones are the first to jump on it, like you said they’d be.”

“Fucking Almighty Athiesmo save the Queen.” Helen replied with a smile.

“There’s a clip of the olive thing, with the headline ‘Contessa Helena de San Finzione: Shaken Not Stirred.’ Troy’s going to want a shot of that. Oh, one about you buying them all lunch. ‘Contessa Helena de San Finzione to Press: Let You Eat Cake! Buys lunch for reporters and entire restaurant!’”

“Perfect.” Helen said, taking another drink. “My full name, cozying up to the press, AND them patting themselves on the back. Who’s not gonna hate that? Let’s keep that up at the mall; pick out a couple reporters and get them makeovers, buy them clothes, something.” She thought a second. “We should have grabbed one of the big luggage carts with the roll bar on it, back at the hotel. Is there a store that sells those? That should be our first stop.”

Reception in downtown Seattle seemed to be coming and going that day, but I was able to bring up Facebook and see various pro-and-anti Helen pages talking about the first stories coming in.

“One of the conspiracy groups,” I told Helen as I scrolled through mentions of her. “Is talking about how you have Dracula’s Coffin in your secret vault under the castle and that sleeping in it is your secret to eternal youth and beauty.”

Helen laughed pretty hard at that one.

“The nut who tipped me off about Whyte’s video. He was ten years older than me, and I was fucking with him; calling him ‘sonny’ and ‘boy.’ I figured he’d go report it back as ‘proof’ that I’ve got the Holy Grail in ‘the vault,’ but Dracula’s Coffin is even better!”

Facebook also had a little headline about phone and internet difficulties in Seattle, but when I went to check it, my connection dropped.

When we got to a light, Helen got up and sat next to me.

“How’re you doing, Susan?” She asked. “I know this has been a lot already, and it’s only going to get bigger as the day goes on.”

“I know it’s going to be weird at the mall.” I told her. “I know you won’t bat an eye at whatever I get. It’s only been since I moved in with Troy & Julie that I’ve really had ‘stuff,’ you know? The occasional nice thing I got for myself would vanish to the pawn shop whenever Chad was low on beer.”

“To be honest, it’s a little much for me sometimes, too. I still think of myself as the girl who, despite what Wade said when he was drunk, had to shoplift her school clothes or get hand-me-downs from Julie; which I was always grateful for, but they were her size, of course. If he ever remembered my birthday or Christmas, he’d steal me a Barbie. No Ken, no accessories, no car; just a Barbie he could stuff in his coat if the house he’d just robbed had any girls with dolls. I had eight Barbies, and nothing for them to play with but each other unless I took ‘em over to Julie’s. I think it explains a lot about my sexuality.

“And Troy used to invest for me, too, but I tended to blow through it. Hey, I could always get more out of the next Eurotrash asshole. I’ve always thought of the money and everything that I have now as Vincenzo’s, rather than mine, so I don’t do a lot of these ‘shopping benders.’ And still, when I see something I really want, try to figure out how I can walk out of there with it before remembering that I can afford the entire store and The Thing takes all the sport out of it, anyway.”

I nodded.

“Maybe Whyte’s whole ‘Miss Helen Parker’ bit got to you a bit more than you want to admit.” I told her. “Not the way he’d hoped, but the dredging up your past could have taken a little nibble from your confidence back there.” I took her hand, and saw Julie smiling out of the corner of my eye. “He wanted you thinking about who you used to be, rather than who you are. Because he might’ve been a match for Helen Parker; but he knows he doesn’t stand a fucking chance against Contessa Helena de San Finzione.”

Helen hugged me.

“I really do think that supporting others might be your thing, Susan. Like how Troy can do miracles with money and if you put any artist’s tool in Julie’s hands, you’ll get back a masterpiece. When you’re helping someone, it seems you can do anything, too.”

I smiled at that. So did Julie. Mander was in Bodyguard Mode now, so his lips only curled a little.

“So, when we’re in there,” Helen told me. “And you see something you want, don’t hesitate. I know you probably feel weird taking my money, Susan; but remember, you’ll be helping me. Helping all of us. Whyte’s next step after outing me can only be making sure the world learns Troy & Julie’s names, and then we’ll have those reporters on your doorstep that none of us want. Unless we can make the public so tired of hearing about me by then, that they change the channel at the mention of my name.”

“Well,” I said with a smile. “I can think of some stuff I know Troy would like.”

Helen smiled, and we continued to the mall.

Troy Equals was alone in his kitchen, making himself a sandwich while Luc and Carlito discussed things on Skype, when his business line rang.

Troy had been investing for himself and others from an early age. While he was working on his doctorate in Economics, he’d come up with a side-business; helping people get out of debt and finding investment or savings plans that they could afford and stick to. Troy found workable plans, and Doing What They Do insured the customers would stick to them.

“Troy Equals Financial Planning.” He said, answering the phone. An unintended consequence of the last name that he and Julie had chosen was that it made for a good business name. Julie’s business was called “Julie Equals Graphic Design,” and both their customers often found it clever that “Equals” was the owner’s last name. It also gave them a natural excuse to help each other’s business by being able to work into the conversation that “my husband’s/wife’s business is called...” quite organically.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Equals.” The voice of Leonard Whyte CBE, said on the other end. “I hope it’s not bad form to call you on this line. I mean, you have it listed.”

“I suppose I can’t have a problem with that.” Troy replied, finishing making his sandwich. “If you’re looking for La Contessa, she’s out shopping right now. It’s quite literally ‘all over the news,’ and you can tell Helen and Rita apart, so I feel safe telling you.”

“That’s all right. I can see her on the TV just fine. No, I wanted to have a little chat with you. ‘Man-to-Man,’ as we used to say before everything became required by law to have a double-meaning.”

“So, this isn’t a formal business call, and I don’t have to address you as Commander Whyte or Mr. Whyte CBE?”

“I’ll let it slide this once.” Whyte replied.

Troy sat down on the couch and grabbed the remote to see if he could find Helen on TV.

“Are you calling to make me an offer, Mr. Whyte?” Troy asked. “Am I Helen’s Tom Hagen? Or is this my ‘I could use a man like you in my organization, Mr. Bond’ moment?”

Whyte’s response was a chuckle.

“Heh. No. I recall the name of your other business, Mr. Equals. I suspect you’d enjoy that far too much. Plus, you’re a very loyal grandson, so I’d have to be a fool to think YOU had a price I could meet. If I thought I could buy any of you, it’d be Mr. Clean’s Childhood Bully. Have you had fun looking over my finances, tracking down all my dirty dealings? You’re not downtown with La Contessa and her entourage; one of whom I presume is Mrs. Equals. No, you’re special. She’d keep you safe behind a desk, all on your own, following the money. You know you’re not ‘gathering evidence’ for her to take to the police, right? That she’s not looking to ‘build a case’ against me here.”

“Yeah, I figured that. Helen’s never been the ‘trust cops and judges to solve my problems’ type. She’s out to destroy you, so she’s got me finding every dirty little operation you’ve got a cut of, so she can shut it down. I’ve gotta tell you, Mr. Whyte, if you were a videogame boss? Hong Kong would be the glowing part of the flamethrower on your back that we should have been shooting at all this time.”

“And you have no issue being a party to that, Mr. Equals? You struck me as an ethical man; law-abiding citizen and all that. You know what she has planned for me, don’t you?”

“There are certain questions that I don’t ask Helen, sir. Like ‘Why did Wade start a race riot fifteen minutes after we left the prison,’ or ‘Why would you need to know how to launder an island?’ ‘What happened to Ramirez’s predecessor,’ or ‘Why is the music of Daftpunk outlawed in San Finzione?’ But once I knew who you were, ‘Why do you want my help destroying Leonard Whyte CBE financially’ wasn’t one I HAD to ask, sir. I also don’t intend to ask her about any other plans she has for you.”

“Well, you’ll make certain all of my money goes to worthy causes, I’m sure. Everything I’ve ever done, there’s some group opposed to it. Not going to keep any for yourself? Processing fees, and so on?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mr. Whyte, about the money thing: Are you coming on to me? I’m sure you’re thinking ‘he’s Greek, he’s probably down,’ and, well, yeah, I AM Greek; so of course, I’ve tried it once or twice. Turned out it wasn’t my thing, but you be you. I’m not going to tell someone else how to live. Well, except most people who call this number; but they’re generally asking me to do that.”

“Almost as much a pity as learning I’ve blown my shot with La Contessa.” Whyte replied.