Chapter 27

“Abandon all hope, and don’t rock the boat
and we’ll all make a few hundred grand.
Everybody’s tryin’ a be a friend of mine.
Even a dog can shake hands.
You’ll be making the scene, till they pick your bones clean.
No, they don’t leave much for the fans.
Everybody’s tryin’ a be a friend of mine.
Even a dog can shake hands.”
-Warren Zevon, “Even A Dog Can Shake Hands“
A note from T. MaskedWriter before we begin: As this story winds down, I’d like to say a word about feedback. I appreciate it. Even if you’re telling me I suck, there might be something beyond awareness of my general suckiness to take away from it. It turns out that Comments Sections are for more than racism and political arguments. I know, I was shocked, too!

But seriously, on one of the sites that lets the writers see the numbers, my last short story got, as of this time, 5,417 views, 17 ratings, 2 favorites, and no comments. What this tells me as a writer: 5,375 people clicked on that last story (I figure 27 of those views have to have been me.), and of them, seventeen people had an opinion either way; two of whose were high enough to merit extra-special thanks, but none of which were strong enough to actually say anything about.

So yes, I’m aware that asking the internet for opinions is like standing naked and blindfolded with your hands tied behind your back, your dick dangling over a bear trap, and a box that says “Free Long Sticks” next to you. However, I’m trying to think what to do next after this story ends, so I’m open to ideas. A few things from comments have made it into the stories, too. Give it a try. I might be one of those cool people, I don’t know.

But I’m interrupting Susan now. Thanks for listening.

Hi, Susan here. Troy Equals stood in silence, taking in the words that Contessa Helena de San Finzione had told him. That the woman who’d defeated African warlords, military coups, assassins immune to the secret power that she wielded, and the very Phone Company itself; had brought to our home something that even though she knew how to game, she was ultimately powerless to stop, and which he lived in fear of: The Media.

A few seconds passed. Then he walked to the closet, grabbed a handful of folded cardboard boxes, and went into the kitchen, all of us following him and asking what he was doing. Troy didn’t say a word as he got a roll of tape and a pair of scissors from it. He walked toward their bedroom, dropping a couple of the boxes along the way. The questions continued until he sat on the corner of his and Julie’s bed, over by the display of little best-friend gifts he and Julie had given each other over the years and started taping up the bottom of one of the boxes.

“Get the pictures in the living room and hall, Mistress. I’ll secure these, then get to shredding everything in my office. Susan, you should take a couple up to your room and start packing too, I’ll be up to help in a bit. I’ll wipe the hard drives, all my business data’s backed-up off-site, nobody’s going to lose their money, I’ll send a mass email to all my clients once we’re on the way to San Finzione and I can set up shop again there. Looks like you’re finally getting your wish, Helen. We’re moving to San Finzione.”

Helen looked like she expected an angry look and tone to go with those words but found a defeated grin and tone of “oh, well” instead.

“No!” I shouted. “This is not the end!” I turned to Helen. “What did that guy sign to you? How did he find us?”

“Julie’s shoes.” Helen replied. “He covered her art exhibit the week before this all started.”

I began laughing. Troy set down the tape and scissors as everyone looked at me.

“Troilus, My Love.” I told him, then turned to the others. “Julie, Helen; this ‘problem,’ this ‘nightmare scenario,’ has ALWAYS had a built-in solution!”

Everyone looked to me expectantly. I looked at Julie.

“Julie, you are a fucking artist! And a gorgeous one. People would want to take your picture and interview you eventually. You can’t ‘get a design studio off the ground’ AND ‘stay out of the public eye’ at the same time! These have always been mutually-exclusive goals!”

I turned to look at Helen.

“Helen, Julie is an artist, and you are a fucking PATRON OF THE ARTS! Go out there and fucking patronize her!”

As Helen processed the idea, Julie turned on the news, which was showing a picture of our house with the caption “Con-Hel in Secret Love Nest?” (I don’t need Helen to explain that phrasing it like a question not only implied the answer but was probably a legally safe way to attack her, because a question doesn’t have to be supported with evidence; so, whatever bullshit “question” you “ask,” you put them in the position of “answering to you” or “hiding something.”)

Helen looked out into the living room, to see Mander putting on the Julie wig she’d left on our coffee table three days before and no one had bothered to pick up since, looking out the back door to see if he could make it across the street to the Green house undetected.

“It’s been a lovely few days, Your Countessness.” Mander told her. “But, eh, this is ‘bout the time a guy like me does a thing like this. So, I’ll make me own way back to the island, if that’s all right.”

“I can’t even be mad. It’s the smart play to make, and the knowledge that you make smart plays is why you were the only man for this job in the first place, Mander. And because I knew you’d get along with them, and that if you failed to protect me, you’d at least try to get THEM out of the situation safely with you first before you bailed on them. I’d be outrunning you to the island right now, if it wouldn’t leave my family holding the bag and Springheel in the hands of Whoever. So, while I’m throwing my Countessness around, I’m decreeing that it isn’t going to happen, you’re not going to be caught on camera, either.” Helen explained calmly. “Susan’s idea is brilliant. I can take care of this.”

“Susan ‘as some good ideas.” He responded, slowly removing the wig. “I better be stayin’ cause I really believe you can pull it off, not cause any o’ you lot are makin’ me believe it.”

“I’m not, and they’re above that kind of thing.” Helen replied. “Our agreement was protection until I left Seattle with Springheel. With Leonard and The Elders gone, the Auction’s not likely to explode into a bloodbath anymore. In fact, our little war has kept everyone else too scared to pop their heads up by making a play for one another, so it’ll be pretty safe. But we never signed anything, so I guess you’ve earned about 75% of what’s been promised if you want out now.”

“And you WOULD be upset enough if I scarpered at this point to give me a yacht with no bottom or 75% of a helicopter, with no landing gear or rotors, wouldn’t you?”

Helen nodded.

“Is that what she’s paying you to risk your life for?” I asked, stepping out the open door to the bedroom. “A yacht and a helicopter.”

“‘Er Countessness already given me an island. Are you sayin’ a yacht an’ a helicopter ain’t enough for that?” Mander replied.

I had to think on that one. Julie emerged from the bedroom and looked out the front window.

“They’ve set up a podium with microphones.” She said.

“They’re calling me out.” Helen replied. “They’ll camp on your lawn until I go talk to them, and every minute I delay, another will ask the camera ‘Just why is she hiding from us?’ ‘Because you’re camped out on the fucking lawn,’ would be the answer, but the public will ignore that one.”

She fished her sunglasses out of her purse and lit a cigarette. She seemed to be looking for her cigarette holder, but I remembered that she’d probably left it back in her limo downtown. I walked over to her and put my hands on her shoulders. Carefully, because I knew she’d had some breaks in the left one when she got stabbed.

“Do you need reminding?” I asked her.

“Oh, hell no! Julie’s coming out there with me.” She turned to Julie. “When I signal for you, if you don’t mind.” Julie nodded and went to get camera-ready. Helen didn’t need to worry about that; she’s always ready for cameras. Helen had another thought.

“Oh, damn! Denise is coming by! When?”

Troy checked the time on his phone.

“Her bus should be stopping at the highway about now, she’ll bike from there. About twenty minutes.”

Helen nodded. It was explained to me later that this is an Anchorage thing. Everything in Anchorage is “twenty minutes away” from everything else. How long will it take you to get from the airport, out past Spenard, to your friend’s place in Muldoon; on the other side of town? Twenty minutes. How long will it take you to run up to the corner store? Twenty minutes. When you spend a good portion of the year waiting for your vehicle to warm up enough to drive, it’s a safe estimate. Anchorage is a city, but everyone thinks of it as “town.” (I wonder if it’s related to the twenty minutes that every pissed-off customer has been waiting. You can’t even call them on it and say, “I clocked on seven minutes ago and you walked in after,” because it’ll just prolong the argument.)

She took out her phone and sent a text, then put on her sunglasses. She thought a second, then stepped into the bedroom, where Julie was still getting ready.

“I need a hat.” Helen said to her. “This is a hat moment, too. Ah! Were you planning to use this one?” Julie nodded no, so Helen went out of sight to grab it. A moment later, she returned, wearing one of the white, floppy sunhats that Julie, Brenda, and Claire wore around San Finzione for the honeymoon prank.

She lit a fresh cigarette, put her hand on the doorknob and went to turn it. I yelled for her to stop.

“Say something cool before you go out there.” I told her with a tiny smile. “It’s worked out the last two times.”

Helen thought for a moment.

“Time to give ‘em more than they got last night at the bar?” She asked me. I nodded.

“It’ll work. Don’t die.”

Contessa Helena de San Finzione put on her best “delighted-to-meet-you” smile and stepped out our front door.

The Media watched the front door of the Equals house open. Chatter turned to murmurs, turned to silence. That was when Contessa Helena de San Finzione stepped out the door and approached the podium. She put out her cigarette.

“You’re on private property. Nonetheless, you’re here. And so am I. So listen carefully.”

She allowed the silence to resume, as the crowd of reporters stopped everything they were doing, each compelled to listen carefully. Helena turned to Bob Arnette.

“You, and anyone else who can understand me,” Helen signed. “Turn off your recording devices and go over to the lawn across the street. Help yourself to some barbecue, just ignore us for now, and I’ll get to you in a moment.”

She turned back to the microphones as Bob and two others in the crowd walked over to the Greens’ yard.

“Ok, for a start, if you could all forget the address and how you got here once you get wherever you’re going after you leave, yeah, that’d be great.” Helena commanded, going for the Lumburgh impression. She took out another cigarette and stuck it in her mouth. “Now, I don’t have all day to take questions, so let’s keep this...” She lit her cigarette. “This short. I’ll point to you, you’ll ask your question, you’ll take a plate of barbecue if you’re so inclined, and then be on your way. There’s a secret bonus question that’ll extend the time, but let’s not waste it. You.”

Helen pointed to a reporter in the third row of the squeeze in front of the podium. She often wondered if this was why they still referred to themselves as “The Press.”

“Why did you leave the hotel with no underwear last night, Contessa?” He asked.

“I didn’t.” Helena replied. “I simply gave them to someone in the bar. There’s your story, go print it. Next. Um ... you.”

“What do you have to say about all the violence in and around your hotel recently?”

“Who DOESN’T love the Mariners, but try to keep it down, Seattle, ok? Next. You.”

“Contessa,” A reporter from one of the more widely-read papers asked. “Leonard Whyte CBE jumped out of your hotel last night to his death. According to reports, there was a gathering going on in your suite upstairs. Explosions were reported. Were you involved in Mr. Whyte’s death?”

Helen looked taken aback. She took a step back from the microphones to match it.

“Lenny White? Chick Corea’s drummer? My God, has something happened to him?” The reporter shook his head no.

Helen mouthed “But Lenny’s ok, though?” The reporter nodded affirmatively. Helen sighed. La Contessa stepped back up to the podium.

“Oh, the phone guy? Didn’t he lose a bunch in the stock market yesterday? Like, more than ALL the guys who jumped out onto Wall Street in the 20s combined? Was he that old? Could he have been around to see that back then and think of it now? Well, from what I know of him, if he was at my soiree, he DEFINITELY wasn’t on the list, and he CERTAINLY made NO impression whatsoever.” She seemed to think for a second. “That might’ve been poorly worded. We have four official languages in San Finzione, you know; Italian is the one we use most around the castle. But that’s your answer, learn to cope. OK, eeny-meeny...”