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Someone had shot him from very close range. I think. How else could it have looked like that? There were strews and whip lines of blood on everything—the counter, the cash register, all over him.
My knees buckled. I couldn’t pull any air down my throat. Thirty seconds. I’d been talking with this man, this blast of body, thirty seconds ago. What happened? What could have happened? When could there have been a holdup? There’d been no gunshot or scream. Standing right out in front, I’d heard nothing.
But look. Look, there’s his cigarette holder, a smoking butt still inside. It had lived longer than he had. I’d seen death before, but not this close. Not this foul and obscene and fresh. Fresh was the absolute word for it. I said it aloud. “Fresh.”
Then my slammed mind came back to the world and realized the cop’s gun was still at my temple.
“Yeah, you freshed him, party boy. Nuked his fucking brains, then you walked out on the street wearing one of his masks. You’re a very cool customer, eh? A very cool guy you are, party boy. Get over to the counter, spread your arms and legs, and don’t move an inch.”
“Officer—”
“Do what I say. It’s easier and simpler to shoot you here and tell them I caught you in the act. A lot simpler for me. But do what I say now and I’ll try not to. And put that mask on.”
“What?”
“Put the mask on. Do it!”
Madness. The cop, the dead man, me standing spread at the counter wearing a rubber mask, about to be arrested for murder.
Your mind goes so fast. Whom could I call? Sophie. I’d call Sophie. Who was my lawyer? I couldn’t remember his name. Okay, okay, Sophie would know. What proof did I have? Nothing. Would I die in jail? When would they put me in the police car…
“I can’t believe it.” My mouth, or some part of me, spoke. “I didn’t do it! I just bought a—”
“Shut up. And take the mask off now.”
“What?” I turned to look at him. He was down on the floor next to the body.
“Take the mask off and face the wall. I’ll be done in a minute.”
“Why did you want me to put it on?” I took it off and dropped it on the counter. What was this hell? He was a nice man. We chatted. Now he was dead and I was going to jail. Where had it come from? “This is wrong! The whole damned thing is wrong!”
“Does it make any difference without the mask?” The cop’s voice was quiet and calm for the first time.
“What? What do you mean?”
“Turn around. Look at me.”
I turned. There was no longer a body on the floor, but rather a picnic, all set out. Beautiful food, a white tablecloth, red wine in crystal goblets. Places set for two. No body. The cop had removed his sunglasses and was standing a couple of feet back from the picnic. His face was flat, eyes wide-set. A nondescript, healthy-looking man. That was all. Nothing more.
“Do you feel better without the mask? Does the fear go away? Sit down, Wyatt. Have something to drink.”
“What is this?”
“Your mask plan—to put it on only when you’re scared? It won’t work. See what happened when you took it off just now? You felt exactly the same, right? Ready to piss in your pants. Fear’s never friendly or reasonable. I had to tell you that. Then I thought it better to show you. When it’s Death and Fear and Worry, all those big words that begin with capital letters, you can’t cut a deal with them, make them disappear by taking off a mask. They’re too strong and mean. They do what they want.
“You want to know who I am, naturally.” He bowed and put a hand on his heart. “Death. Simply Death. Sometimes I come earlier than our appointment so that people can get used to me. But even then it’s hard. Don’t you want some wine? It’s all very good. I have a large expense account!” He smiled. “Only the best. My customer is king.” He stuck his index finger into the air.
But it was He. Once He says His name to you, there is no question. It is Death. Death is talking to you now. He has come. He brings calm. You are calm although Death is with you.
He bent over, picked a piece of rolled ham off a plate, and, dipping it in a little cup of the yellowest mustard, popped it into His mouth. “I’m sorry to disappoint you with your mask, but I wanted to save you valuable time.”
“I am going to die. There’s no hope? None?”
“None. Yes, you’re going to die; so is everyone. Most of them won’t get to talk to me about it. Consider yourself lucky on that score.”
“Can I ask you questions?” As soon as I said it, I remembered the doomed man in Sardinia. How he had asked Death questions but suffered when he didn’t understand the answers. “Forget it! I don’t want to ask! Forget it.”
The policeman’s eyes narrowed and he paused a moment as if considering. He licked his lips, and that dangerous moment between us shivered down to silence. Then his face softened again and he nodded. “Okay, your only warning. But if you ask that again, I’ll say yes, and you know the terms.” He moved to go.
“Wait! Can I call for you? If I do want to ask questions?”
“Yes. Consider this too: it’s getting close to your time, Wyatt. Not yet, I can say that. But soon. It might very well be worth it to take the chance. Perhaps you’ll understand my answers. There are a surprising number of people who do. Honestly. And once you commit yourself, we can talk about whatever you want.” He gestured toward the untouched picnic. “Sometimes it’s better to learn through shock than through persuasion. One last thing, if you’re interested: the travel agent, McGa
“Wait! One question. Just one. But no ties, no obligations. Please?”
He nodded. “Ask and I’ll let you know if I can answer.”
“How I live till I die… is that my choice? Is there free will?”
“Absolutely. We have no say in that. It’s your cruise. We’re only the last port.” He opened the door of the shop and walked out.
ROSE
Most often they ask what she looks like naked. Can you believe the chutzpah? What does your best friend look like with her clothes off. Which is hilarious, because anyone who has seen Arlen Ford’s films has seen her as naked as she will ever be. What does she look like in her birthday suit, and what is she really like are the two favorite questions. So okay, World, are you ready? Her right breast is slightly larger than her left, and she is almost entirely pleasant. But let’s face it, info like that is neither good copy nor ammunition, particularly for journalists. People want to know the dirt, the smudge, where this illustrious woman’s secret moles are, and what kind of temper tantrums she has when no one’s around to hear.
She has temper tantrums. Who doesn’t? The only chocolate she will eat are Godiva “golf balls” at four dollars apiece, and she drives a ridiculously expensive automobile. Is that enough? Because that’s about it for scam. That’s all the dirt this horse’s mouth has to offer the interested. But their problem is, no one knows this woman better than I do, so they keep coming back hoping one day I’ll have more or new ugly to give.
I am Rose Cazalet, Arlen Ford’s secretary and oldest friend. She refuses to call me her secretary, preferring instead either “adviser” or “companion.” Both certainly sound better, but unfortunately these days both words carry a decidedly gay aroma with them, so I prefer plain old “secretary.”
Just to keep the records straight, we have known each other ever since we were fifteen at a private girls’ school in Co