The Heart Goes Last (31 page)

“That’s all?” says Stan. “All I have to do is hit the gong?” Though he’s been to that Ruby Slippers branch as Elvis a lot, romancing old ladies, nobody will recognize him; not in his current disguise as a giant pea.

“Don’t be a fucking dummy,” says Conor. “That’s the cover! The real job is a snatch.”

“That place has fucking tight security,” says Stan.

“Hey! This is your brother you’re talking to!” says Conor. He rubs two fingers together. “Those guys get paid off! We just go there, start the green act, knock down the security for the look of it, do the snatch …”

Crap, thinks Stan. They’re kidnapping someone. That could get them shot, not to mention himself. “So, I hit the gong …”

“You got it.” says Conor. “And then, whisk-o!”

“Whisk-o?”

“The big snatcheroonie,” says Conor. “It’s genius.”

Ed’s up front, in Business. It would look strange for Charmaine to be there too – after all, she’s only the assistant, officially. That’s Ed’s reasoning, says Jocelyn: he doesn’t want to call undue attention. Thank goodness for that, thinks Charmaine, because she would find it very, very hard to be nice to him or even civil, now that she knows what he intends to do to her. If she were beside him in Business, most likely he’d be squeezing her arm all the way to Las Vegas, plus dosing her with gin and tonic and trying to get his fingers onto her knee or look down her front, though no hope of that because she’s wearing the button-to-the-chin blouse Aurora picked out for her.

And all the time he’d be asking her if she’s feeling any less grief because of Stan. Not that he really cares about Stan, or about anything she likes or loves or doesn’t like or love, because he has no interest in who she is really. She’s mostly just a body to him, and now he wants to turn her into only a body. She might as well not have any head at all.

After feeling so sad for weeks, she’s now really angry underneath. If she had to sit with Ed she’d be sure to snap at him, and then he might figure out that she’s learned about his big plan. And then he might panic and do something weird, right on the plane. He might throw her to the floor and start ripping off her buttons, the way Max used to, but with Max she wanted him to do that, whereas with Ed it would be a very different thing, it would be awkward and quite frankly creepy.
Keep your freaking hands off my darn buttons!
That’s what she would say.

Well, he couldn’t really do that – the floor thing with the buttons – because the flight attendants would stop him. But what if they turned a blind eye, what if they’re all his employees, what if everyone on the plane is on his side?

Calm down, Charmaine, she tells herself. That’s just foolish. Those kinds of things don’t happen in real life. It’s okay, it’s going to be fine, because Jocelyn is sitting beside her and Aurora is in the row behind them, and there’s another Surveillance person on the plane too, Jocelyn has assured her – a man, back near the exit door. And that man plus Jocelyn and Aurora, they’ll be more than a match for Ed. She doesn’t know what they’ll do, but it might involve a judo kick or something. And they have the advantage of knowing about Ed’s plan, while he doesn’t know a thing about theirs.

Or Jocelyn has the advantage of knowing about Ed’s plan. So far she hasn’t shared too much of it with Charmaine. She’s reading on her PosiPad, making notes. Charmaine has tried for an in-flight movie – how amazing it would be to see a movie that isn’t from the fifties, she hasn’t been able to watch anything like that for ages, and it would take her mind off things – but her screen isn’t working. Neither is the Recline button on her seat, and someone’s ripped most of the pages out of the in-flight magazine. In her opinion the airline people do things like that on purpose, to rub it in that you aren’t in Business. They most likely have a special team that goes through the planes at night, ripping out the pages and messing up the screens.

Charmaine looks out the window: clouds, nothing but clouds. Flat clouds, not even puffy ones. At first it was so exciting to be on a plane – she’s only ever been on one before, with Stan, going on their honeymoon. She reads the remaining piece in the magazine. What a coincidence: “Honeymoon on the Beach.” Stan got such a sunburn the first day, but at least they did one thing he really wanted, which was having sex underwater, or the lower parts of them were underwater. There were people on the beach too. Could they tell? She hoped they could, she remembers hoping that. Then they had to get their bathing suits on again, and Charmaine couldn’t find her bikini bottom because in all the turmoil she’d dropped it, and Stan had to go diving for it, and they laughed and laughed. They were so happy then. It was just like an ad.

Out the window it’s still clouds. She gets up, goes to the washroom for something to do. How thoughtless, the last person didn’t clean the sink. Really, they don’t appreciate their privileges.

It’s better to close the lid when you flush: Grandma Win told her that. Otherwise the germs fly around in the air and go up your nose.

Coming back along the aisle, she wonders which the security man. Right near the exit, Jocelyn said. She glances around but can’t see the heads back there. She reaches her seat, squeezes in past Jocelyn, who smiles at her but doesn’t say anything. Charmaine fidgets some more; then she just has to ask.

“What in the heck was he planning to
do?
”

Jocelyn looks over at her. “Who?” she asks, as if she doesn’t know.

“Him. Ed,” Charmaine whispers. “How was he going to …”

“Hungry?” Jocelyn says. “Because I am. Let’s get some peanuts. Want a soda? Coffee?” She looks at her watch. “We’ve got time.”

“Just a water,” says Charmaine. “Please. “

Jocelyn flags the flight attendant, orders some peanuts and a couple of cheese sandwiches, and the bottle of water for Charmaine with a glass of ice cubes, and a coffee for herself. Charmaine is surprised at how hungry she is; she wolfs down the sandwich in no time flat, gulps down a glass of the water.

“He has it all thought out,” says Jocelyn. “I’m supposed to knock you out on the plane, just before we land. A little something in your drink; a bit of Zolpidem, or GBH, or similar.”

“Oh,” says Charmaine. “Like, those date rape drugs.”

“Right. So you’ll go under. Then I’ll say you’ve fainted, and we call a perimedic ambulance to meet the plane and have you carried off on a stretcher. Then you’ll be taken to the clinic at Ruby Slippers Vegas, and after the brain intervention you’ll wake up, and Ed will be right beside you, holding your hand. And you’ll imprint on him and smile at him like he’s God, and throw your arms around him, and say you’re his, body and soul, and what can you do for him, such as a blowjob right there in the clinic.”

“That so totally sucks,” Charmaine says, wrinkling her nose.

“And then you’ll live happily ever after,” Jocelyn continues in her neutral voice. “Just like in a fairy tale. And Ed will too. That must be what he thinks.”

“How do you mean, he
will
?” says Charmaine. “The first part of it’s not even happening! It’s not happening! You won’t let it happen. That’s what you said.”

“Correct,” says Jocelyn. “That’s what I said. So now you can relax.”

And Charmaine does feel relaxed; her eyelids are drooping. She nods off, but then she’s awake again. Awake more or less. “Maybe I’ll have that coffee after all,” she says. “I need to wake myself up.”

“Too late,” says Jocelyn. “We’re about to land. And look, I think I see the ambulance, right on cue. I sent them an email before we took off. Feeling a little sleepy? Just lie back.”

“The ambulance? What ambulance?” says Charmaine. It’s not just sleepiness, there’s something wrong. She looks at Jocelyn and there are two Jocelyns, both of them smiling. They pat her arm.

“The ambulance that will take you to Ed’s clinic at Ruby Slippers,” she says.

You promised, you promised
, Charmaine wants to say. It must have been the water, something Jocelyn put in.
Oh heck!
You lying witch!
But she can’t get the words out. Her tongue feels thick, her eyes are closing. She feels her whole body leaning sideways.

Bumpity-bump, they must be on the runway. She’s so dizzy. Voices, far away:
She’s fainted. I don’t know what … she was fine a minute ago. Here, let me …
That’s Aurora. She tries to call to her, but there are no words, only a kind of moaning.
Uhuhuhuh …

Don’t let her head hit the wall.
Jocelyn.

She’s in the arms of someone, some man; she’s being swung through the air. It feels lovely, like floating.
Easy does it. There.
He sets her down, covers her. Is that Max? Is that Max’s voice, so close to her ear?
All tucked in.

Falling, falling. Gone.

It’s better for Stan not to return to the Elvisorium, says Conor, because although the guys in sunglasses who’d come looking for him were only Conor and his three pals, you never knew. Next time they might be more sinister, and better to have left no trails, because after the big snatcheroonie took place, leaving trails might turn out to be a fucking bad idea. If everything went as planned there wouldn’t be a problem, but if everything did not go as planned, then there would be police involved or security things, and then it would be all five of them on the red-hot barbecue.

Conor doesn’t seem very worried about this prospect. If anything, he’s excited. Break the window on the mobile home, talk Stan into sneaking inside with him, then, when someone comes, run away very fast, leaving Stan to explain what he’s doing with two steaks from the freezer and a lady’s underpants. Always Conor’s idea of a fun night out.

Conor and the boys have a two-bedroom Emperor Suite at Caesar’s Palace: whoever’s hired Con isn’t poor. Con says they can’t go out, to a show or a strip joint or the casinos, because he can’t run the risk of them fucking up so close to bingo. Budge says that’s fine with him, maybe they can watch a game, but there’s some grumbling from Rikki and Jerold. Con shuts that down by saying who’s running this, and if there’s a question about that he’d be happy to settle it. So the five of them end up playing Texas hold’em for grapes and pieces of cheese off the Cheese Assortment plate Con’s ordered in and drinking Singapore Slings because Con’s never had one and wants to try it, but they can only have three each because they have to be fresh for the next day.

Stan wins a moderate amount of cheese, which he eats; but after three Singapore Slings he’s out for the count and nods off on the sofa. Just as well, because there are only four beds, and he has no yen to be in any of them with someone else.

In the morning the five of them sleep in, shower, complain about their hangovers – all except Budge, who’d showed some self-restraint the night before – and order in breakfast. Rikki stands behind the door when the cart arrives, Glock at the ready like something in a cop show, just in case it’s a trap. But no, it’s only scrambled eggs, ham, toast, and coffee, wheeled in by a cheerful Caesar’s wench: they’re safe so far.

Then they get suited up and paint their heads green. Con’s hired a van; it’s in Parking with the Green Man gear already loaded into it. Before they leave, Con goes over Stan’s gong cues. Every time he points to his ear, Stan is to hit the gong. He doesn’t need to know fucking why, he only has to hit it. That shouldn’t be too hard. If Con should suddenly rush off toward, for instance, an ambulance that might, for instance, be pulling up in front of the facility, and if the other fake Green Men should rush off with him, Stan should hit the gong three more times so people think it’s all part of the show. Then he should wait for further cues. Then he should go with the flow.

Once they’re in the van Stan gets butterflies. What is the flow? Is this going to be another case of Con vanishing over the fence while Stan is left floundering?

“You missed some green at the back,” Jerold says to him. “I’ll paint it in.”

“Thanks,” says Stan. He has a crick in his neck: he’s sitting up very straight so the green from his scalp doesn’t rub off on the upholstery.

Con has a pass that gets their van in through the Ruby Slippers gate, with its motto:
There’s No Place Like Home.

Inside, the road divides: Main Entrance and Reception to the left, Clinic to the right and around the corner. They park in the Visitors Disabled section at the front and lockstep inside; Con flashes his pass at the receptionist.

“Oh, the special event,” she says. “You’ll be in the Atrium.” She’s obviously used to green guys or the equivalent filing in past her desk. Clowns, jugglers, singers with guitars, zombie dancers, pirates, Batmen, whatever. Actors.

In the Atrium there’s one already in full flight – an Elvis, in the white-and-gold outfit. He’s finishing up a gargly rendition of “Love Me Tender” and gives them a dirty look as they troop in. The old people in the audience provide a smattering of applause, and the Elvis says, “Thank you, thank you very much. Would you like another song?”

But Con blows the green New Year’s Eve horn he’s brought along, which puts a stop to that. “Timing’s everything,” he says to Stan. “Can’t have that loser cutting in on our act. Get that music going!”

The music’s on Con’s phone, attached to a Bluetooth speaker. Jerold’s blowing up green balloons with a hydrogen cylinder, Rikki’s handing them to Budge, who doles them out to the audience members. They take hold of the strings, some with confusion, some with distrust, others maybe with pleasure, though it’s hard to tell. Several Ruby Slippers Events Assistants in their trademark red shoes help out, wearing green hats in honour of the Men. “Isn’t this nice?” they coo, in case there’s any doubt, which there is. But no one has protested yet, so the act must be doing well enough, or at least well enough to convince. Conor points to his ear and Stan whangs the gong.

Con looks at his watch. “Fuck,” Stan hears him mutter. “What’s keeping them? Squirt some water out of your mouth,” he tells Rikki. “That’s always a howler.”

Now there’s the wail of a siren, coming closer. An ambulance drives in through the front gate, heading for the clinic entrance at the side. Con produces a giant rubber tulip from inside his jacket, waves it aloft. It explodes, mildly. That’s the signal: Jerold, Rikki, and Budge release a clutch of helium balloons into the air, rush out through the Atrium door, and disappear around the corner.

“Are they coming back?” says a plaintive voice from the audience. Stan nods vigorously and hits the gong again. Maybe they’re a success after all.

Now Con is tugging on his sleeve. Up. Stan rises to his feet. Con is bowing, so Stan does the same. Con links arms with him and two-steps him out through the door. “We got him,” he whispers. Who have they got? Stan wonders.

Around the corner. There’s the ambulance, back doors open. There’s Jocelyn, with another woman. Jocelyn’s asshole of a husband is helping Budge with a third man, who appears to have slumped to the ground. It’s Ed, the big cheese at Positron, without a doubt. Two Ruby Slippers security guards and three other guys in black suits litter the pavement. Fast work, thinks Stan.

“Let’s move it, lynchpin,” says Con. “In here. He steers Stan to the ambulance.

Inside there’s a stretcher, with someone on it, covered to the chin with a red-and-white blanket.

A woman. Charmaine. Is that the robot head? It looks too real. Stan touches her cheek.

“Oh fuck!” he says. “Is she dead?”

“She’s not dead,” says Jocelyn, who has joined him. “Everything’s in order, but we don’t have long. “They’re standing ready.”

“Let’s get them inside the clinic,” says Con. “Fast.”

Lucinda Quant breaks the story of the big leak on the six o’clock news. She’s straightforward, she’s believable, and, best of all, she has extensive document trails and video footage. She tells the story about how she came by her treasure trove of dirt, though she doesn’t name names – she says “a brave employee” – and how she smuggled the flashdrive containing the information through the herds of nosy journalists and undercover security agents at the NAB convention by taping it to the top of her fuzzy head under her cancer survivor’s wig – here she removes the wig, to demonstrate.

She closes by saying that she is so glad fate has given her this opportunity at what might be the end of her life, because
Live every minute to the full
has always been her motto, and she’s humble about the small part she’s played in what is after all a much bigger picture, and though she could have been a casualty and found dead at a blackjack table or similar, because big money has a lot invested in Positron, she took the risk because the public has a right to know.

The host thanks her very much, and says that America would be a better place if there were more people like her. Big smiles from both of them.

Instantly the social media sites are ablaze with outrage. Prison abuses! Organ-harvesting! Sex slaves created by neurosurgery! Plans to suck the blood of babies! Corruption and greed, though these in themselves are no great surprise. But the misappropriation of people’s bodies, the violation of public trust, the destruction of human rights – how could such things have been allowed to happen? Where was the oversight? Which politicians bought into this warped scheme in a misguided attempt to create jobs and save money for the taxpayer? Talk shows roister on into the night – they haven’t had this much fun in decades – and bloggers break out in flames.

Because there’s always two sides, at least two sides. Some say those who got their organs harvested and were subsequently converted into chicken feed were criminals anyway, and they should have been gassed, and this was a real way for them to pay their debt to society and make reparation for the harm they’d caused, and anyway it wasn’t as wasteful as just throwing them out once dead. Others said that was all very well in the early stages of Positron, but it was clear that after they’d gone through their stash of criminals and also realized what the going price was for livers and kidneys, they’d started in on the shoplifters and pot-smokers, and then they’d been snatching people off the street because money talks, and once it had started talking at Positron it wouldn’t shut up.

Yet others said that the idea had been a good one at first; who would sneeze at full employment and a home for everyone? There were a few rotten apples, but without them it would’ve worked. In response, some said that these utopian schemes always went bad and turned into dictatorships, because human nature was what it was. As for the operation that imprinted you on a love object – if not of your own choice, then of somebody’s choice – what was the harm in that since both parties ended up satisfied?

Some bloggers objected, others agreed, and in no time at all “Communist” and “Fascist” and “psychopathy” and “soft on crime” and a new one, “neuropimp,” where whizzing through the air like buckshot.

Stan’s watching one of the talk shows on the flatscreen in the recovery room where Charmaine lies in an anaesthetic slumber. There’s a small white bandage on her head, no blood. Happily they didn’t shave off her hair; that would have been unsightly. She may get a fright when she first sees the new, bald Stan, but that will be fleeting, says Jocelyn, and after that Charmaine will be all his. “But don’t push your luck,” she says. “Remember, she didn’t have any more sex with Max, or Phil, than you had with me – less, in fact– and I intend to tell her all about our little interlude. This is your payout for all the help you’ve given us, so don’t muck it up. By the way, get rid of the green makeup; otherwise you’ll have to paint yourself up like a zucchini every time you want sex.”

Stan did as suggested, wrecking a couple of hospital towels in the process, because he could see the point of it. Then he settled down to wait for the magic moment when his sleeping beauty would awaken and he could say goodbye to froghood and become a prince. He’s listening to the TV on the earphones, so as not to disturb Charmaine prematurely. Jocelyn has been very firm – he must not leave the bedside, even to pee, or Charmaine may imprint on the wrong love object, such as a wandering nurse – so there’s a bedpan handy.

How long is this going to take? He could use a burger.

As if on cue, in comes Aurora, carrying a tray. “I thought you might like a nibble,” she says.

“Thanks,” says Stan. It’s only tea and cookies, but that will hold him till something more carnivore-friendly comes along.

Aurora perches on the foot of Charmaine’s bed. “You’re going to be amazed at the results,” she says. “I certainly am! As soon as Max woke up and gazed into my eyes he swore undying love, and five minutes later he proposed! Isn’t that a miracle?” Stan said it certainly was.

“He’s so handsome,” Aurora says dreamily. Stan yups politely.

“Of course he’s already married,” Aurora says, “but the divorce is underway; Jocelyn ordered it up in advance, and UR-ELF is taking care of it for them. It’s called the Lonely Street Special, they fast-lane it.”

“Congratulations,” says Stan. He means it. The idea of philandering Phil or roaming Max tied by the ankle to Aurora – or to a pit bull or a lamp post, come to that – does not displease him at all, so long as the fucker is out of commission.

“Jocelyn doesn’t care?” he says.

“It was her idea,” says Aurora. “She says she isn’t even being generous. She has something else in the works, and this way, poor Phil will be cured of his sex-addiction problem. Would you like another cookie? Take two!”

“Thanks,” says Stan. She looks so happy she’s almost pretty. And for Max, she’ll be ravishing. Good luck to them, thinks Stan.

On the screen now is Veronica, more luscious than ever. She’s explaining that she’s a Positron experiment gone wrong, doomed to be romantically bonded to a blue teddy bear forever. Close-up of the bear, which is looking a little frazzled. The woman anchor interviewing her asks whether there’s the possibility of a second operation to reverse her fixation, but Veronica says, “No, it’s too dangerous, but anyway why would I want to do that? I love him!” The anchor looks out at the TV audience and says, “And that’s just one of the stranger-than-fiction angles on this unfolding story! Some of the culpable middle management have been rounded up and warrants are out for more. We’d hoped to be able to talk to the
ceo
and president of the Positron Project, who hasn’t yet been charged with any crimes though an arrest is said to be imminent. However, a news flash has it that he’s collapsed from a stroke, and is currently undergoing emergency brain surgery. We’ll be back later with more!”

“So where did Ed get to?” Stan asks Aurora. “Frying in hell?”

“Just down the hall,” she says. “He’s had the operation, but he’s still out cold. Now I’ve got to buzz. Max says he can’t get enough of me! See you later!”

Ed’s had the operation too? Stan grins. What are they going to love-bond him with? Delicious possibilities float through Stan’s head: a plumber’s helper, a car vacuum, a blender? No, the blender would be too harsh, even for Ed. Maybe an Elvis sexbot: that would be fucking sweet. It must be Jocelyn who set this up; she has a sick sense of humour, and, for once, Stan appreciates it.