The Hinky Bearskin Rug (32 page)

Let me pretend
I can give you a dream now.

Are you ready?

o0o

That was all
on that page. She read it twice, and then stopped because her throat was tight.

She turned to
the next sheet.

o0o

You turn over
in your sleep and smell your own hair, freshly washed, on the pillow. Your body
is clean and sweet from the bath. The sheets smell of sunshine.

You slip into
a dream that you are younger, although you know this cannot be. In your dream
you are walking along the river at university, feeling young and safe and
foolish, and the sun pours a path of gold before you, gold on the glittering
river beside you, gold on the greensward at your feet, the fragrant, gilded
trees arching overhead like the bones of a cathedral. Behind you come clouds
like years, full of regret, but although you know they await you, for this
moment you are free. In this moment you walk on sunshine.

I know this.

I stand among
those clouds, holding them by their leashes.

I want to walk
on that sunshine with you.

Steven’s eyes
bugged out at Lena. “You!” Behind him stood a gathering crowd of office girls.

“Me.”

“What are you
doing here?” he sneered. “A slut who spreads her legs for the world?”

Lena looked
around at the girls. “Did you hear what he called me? I think that constitutes
sexual harassment in the workplace. I can sue this firm into the ground for
that.”

He glared at
the girls. “Nobody says anything.” His face radiated heat.

She wouldn’t
look away. “Let’s vote, shall we? All in favor of shutting up for Steven, say
aye.”

Stony silence
from behind her.

“All in favor
of blowing the whistle?”

Sharisse’s
voice called out, “Aye.”

“Fuck him,”
said a voice far in back.

“Been there,
done that,” said Geri’s voice, and Tonia laughed her braying laugh.

Now what was
she supposed to do? Oh, yes, Onika’s wacky idea. Lena pulled the ikon out of her
skirt pocket and held it face-up in her palm. Supposedly it would make Steven
crazy.

He looked down
and did a double take. A weird gurgle escaped his throat, like a coffeepot
sucking up the last drop of water in the reservoir.

Lena raised
her voice. “Let’s hear ’em all together. All in favor of blowing the whistle on
Steven?”

“Aye!” said
many voices.

Lena shouted, “I
can’t hear you!”

“Aye!”
A chorus of laughter followed.

“Shut up!”
Steven screamed. He looked past Lena, his eyes rolling. “I have something on
every one of you. Pictures. Nasty, slutty pictures. You’re all in my power.” He
was dark red, weaving on his feet, his chest heaving, his fists opening and
closing at his sides, foam flecking his lips and shirt. He threw his head back
and howled, “I’m covered, and you bitches are
toast!”

“Thanks for
the confession,” Lena purred. Yikes, that ikon really worked.

Steven laughed
long and nasty. “They’ll keep quiet. So will you, for your mother’s sake.”

“There’s the
recording.” Lena tapped her chest and winked.

Steven’s face
turned purple. He reached out, grabbed the front of her blouse, and ripped it
off, exposing the wire she had taped between her breasts.

Lena was
ready. She leaped backward. There was lots of room between her and the crowd,
now.

Steven lunged.

She kneed him
hard in the groin.

He went down,
retching.

“Don’t hurt
me, my dear,” said a voice behind her. Lena flinched, still full of adrenaline,
and turned.

Hugh Boncil
was watching.

The senior
surviving partner stood over Steven’s retching body and said with sorrow, “I’m
very disappointed in you, Steven. This is not acceptable behavior. I’m afraid
you may have irreparably prejudiced your chances of staying on in the firm.”

“Who’s — augh —
gonna — uhv — stop me — aughughgh—”

Lena backed
away. Now for the rest of Onika’s plan. She glanced at the ikon.
Ikon, shmikon. It’s a nekkid girlie playing
card.
On the card-back, Wilma was painted with her hands on her dimpled
knees and a smooch on her lips.

Lena shook her
head.
This is crazy, but okay.

She pressed
the card to her forehead.
Wilma, Wilma,
come to me, come to me, Wilma, Wilma, help me, help me, Wilma, Wilma, he’s
gonna kick my ass if he ever stops throwing up —
That wasn’t in the script,
but it was heartfelt.

Hugh offered
his hand to Steven to help him stand.

Steven was a
mess. His tie was half-undone. Drool ran from the corner of his mouth.

“You’re
nothing,” he said hoarsely. “You prance around, fucking in front of everybody
in that hellhole building, and you’re
nothing.
I’m gonna have that place
gutted.”
His hands made fists.

Lena pressed
harder on the card.
Wilma, Wilma, come to
me, come to me, Wilma, Wilma, help me — eek!

o0o

Clay came to
himself slowly, hearing Wilma’s voice.

“I have an
avatar now. Like it?”

He felt
himself stand and pirouette, and a weaselly, nasal male voice said, “What the
fuck? Who are you, lady?”

“I’m Wilma.
You prayed to me, remember?” her voice said cheerily. The voice came out of
Clay’s own mouth.

The room swam
into focus. It was small and smelly and oddly familiar. Tatty curtains. Ratty
sofa. Naughty posters thumbtacked to the wallpaper. Stacks and stacks of
magazines piled four, five, six feet high against the walls.

And against
one of those walls, his eyes rolling in his little ferret face, stood a total
stranger with his pants down around his ankles and panic in his voice. “Don’t
come any closer!”

Thrown over
the back of a chair was a blue nylon windbreaker with
Inspectional Services
printed on the left breast in white, and
Zachariah
on the right breast in red.
Ah-hah,
Clay thought.

Wilma pouted. “Don’t
you recognize me?” Clay felt his hands slide over his own chest and waist, and
he realized that the body he occupied was female. As in, va-va-voom female.

Evidently,
when Wilma took over, she redesigned.

“C’mon, sugar.
You wanted it.” Wilma squirmed and posed and flung out her hands. “Come and get
it.”

“Uh.”
Ferret-faced Guy tried to back away but he was already against the wall. His
eyes got bigger.

“You prayed to
me and I came. So what’s on your mind?”

Wilma cozied
up to the guy until her breasts — Clay’s — no, he wouldn’t call those things
his. They were all Wilma. Wow.

“What were you
thinking about when I manifested?” She laid her hand on the guy’s forehead. His
eyes fluttered and he slid down the wall.

“Uh-bah-uh-bah—

She murmured, “Tell
me.”

“Just how I’m
gettin’ screwed out of my cut.”

“Your cut?”
Kinky,
she thought.

Clay heard her
thought. Apparently now it was the opposite of how it was when he had the body
and she was just a passenger. He could hear her thinking. But could she hear
him?

Clay said,
silently because he was trapped inside her head,
He’s a criminal. His accomplices are cheating him out of money. Can I
have my body back, please?

Not until I answer his prayer,
Wilma thought. Silently, Clay groaned.

She laid a
hand tenderly on the guy’s unzipped crotch.

Euw!
Clay protested in vain.

“Those
bastards,” Ferret Face said dreamily. “I do the heavy work. They get the money
and blow me off. Broke my back luggin’ magazines. For chicken feed! They made
millions!”

Darn it, you’re right,
Wilma said silently to Clay.
I never know what to do about these requests
for money. What’s money compared with a good fuck, or true love, or a reliable
boner? Doesn’t he even pay attention who he’s praying to?

Let me talk to him,
Clay suggested. To his relief, Wilma
quit fondling the guy and her own amazing attributes and retreated enough for
Clay to pilot her — his — no, still her body.

He looked
around the depressing room and spoke to Zachariah. “Do you think they might
double-cross you? Uh, sugar?” Boy, it felt funny, hearing Wilma’s high, girlish
voice when he talked.

Zachariah
nodded. “In a heartbeat. One of ’em’s with the city and the other fucker’s in
real estate. He tried to hide his identity from me but I followed him and I
found out. But what can I do? I’m in it deeper than them. People saw my face.”

Clay examined
the piles of magazines. Yup. Artistic Publishing product.
So he kept it all.
“You sneaked the porn into the houses. Then you
inspected and found the pocket zones and threw a scare into the owners.”

“You know
everything,” Zachariah said, not sounding particularly surprised.

“I’m a
goddess,” Clay said curtly. “You’re screwed, all right, buddy.”

“I could
probably handle sex now,” Zachariah said faintly.

Clay put a
pink forefinger on Zachariah’s lips and pressed, and Zachariah slid farther
down the wall, smiling, his eyes rolling up in his head.

Clay hunkered
down beside him. “I bet you could, sweetie,” he felt his mouth saying. His hand
reached out on its own to pet Zachariah on his greasy little face.
Am I handling this or are you?
he said
furiously inside his — Wilma’s — head. To Zachariah he said, “You’d better move
quick if you don’t want to be left holding the bag.”

Zachariah
opened his eyes. “You think?”

“There’s a
city team on your trail right now. Your friends will hang you out to dry. Your
only hope is to turn state’s evidence and get out from under, before you become
the fall guy.” Clay took a ballpoint pen out of the windbreaker pocket and
picked up Zachariah’s hand. “Call this number.” Clay wrote his own cell number
on the palm. “Do it first thing tomorrow. Tell him everything. He’ll set you up
with protection.”

And now,
Wilma said,
get out of my way.
She took control of Clay’s body and reached for
her worshipper’s crotch.

Clay tried to
shut his eyes. No luck. They were Wilma’s eyes, now.

“Everybody
gets a prize,” Wilma breathed into the crook’s hairy ear.

Clay burrowed
into Wilma’s mind, trying to find a corner without widescreen live action
coverage of Wilma’s divine benediction, but he was no Randy.
I gotta get me some skills,
he thought,
as her worshipper moaned happily.
Or else
a mystical paper bag to put over my head.

He would die
before he ever admitted that it was, well, kinda fun.

Five minutes
later, Wilma’s worshipper was out cold, apparently from an overload of divine
blessings, and Wilma walked to the bathroom, placed her hands against the
mirror, and planted a kiss on it.

Clay found
himself slipping into control of his own body like a man putting on his favorite
jeans. “Ahhhhh.”

He resisted
the urge to find clothes. Instead, he went through the wallet lying on the
dresser. With the handy ballpoint and the back of an unpaid phone bill, he made
notes of Zachariah’s full name, driver’s licence, social security number,
credit card numbers, and Chicago Department of Inspectional Services badge
number. Then he found Zachariah’s cell phone in his pocket and went through it
methodically, writing down phone numbers stored in its memory, with an X by
recently called numbers. Then he went through the wallet again. Yup, here was a
password list. Phone, email access, and — jackpot — bank passwords.

Really, this could be quite a racket.

Jewel counted
off the blocks until she found Lena-slash-Velvita’s place. It was a basement
apartment in a four-flat off Lake Street, a few blocks from the Artistic. Its
front stoop glittered with broken glass. The “L” screamed past every few
minutes. She checked her watch. Only two-thirty. Looking up at the building, she
decided to try the back door.