Distraction

“I’ll see to it that the Senator gets your message, sir.”

“You think I’m kidding, Mr. Valparaiso? You think I’m fu

“I would never think that, Your Excellency.”

“That’s good. That’s real good. You know something? I loved your dad’s movies.” Huey turned to gaze over his shoulder. “WHAT’S WITH THE BAND?” he bellowed. “Are they DRUNK? Put the band on!”

The musicians rapidly reassembled and began playing a minuet. The Governor slurped a demitasse, then returned his attention to the monster crayfish and lit into it savagely. He snapped and devoured both claws, and then sucked hot spiced juice from its head with every appearance of satisfaction.

The waiters began laying out fresh platters of Cajun delicacies. Oscar examined the steaming feast. He had rarely felt less like eating.

“What about you now, darlin’?” Huey demanded sud-denly. “You’re not saying much tonight.”

Greta shook her head.

“You gotta know what the Soap Boy here is up to, right? Dougal is out, the FedDems are in, it’s s’posed to be somebody else’s pork now. What do you think? Nice little lab up on Route 128? Some kind of promise, I guess.”

“He doesn’t make many promises,” Greta murmured.

“He better not, because he can’t promise Boston beans. I got two boys in the Senate who can sit on his Senator’s neck from here to Sunday. I built that goddamn laboratory! Me! I know what it’s worth. Up in Baton Rouge, we just put a new bill through the Ways and Means Committee. A big expansion for ‘Bio Bayou.’ Maybe my lab ain’t as big as yours, but it don’t need to be big, if you don’t have to feed every pork-eatin’ lawn jockey in the fifty states. I know the goddamn difference between neuroscience and them sons of bitches who are cataloging grasshoppers. You know I can tell the difference, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know, Etie

“It’s a cryin’ shame, you fillin’ out them federal grants in quintu-plicate. A woman like you needs a free hand! Let’s just say that you fancy workin’ on… blocking the uptake of methylspiropedirol in extrastriatal dopamine receptors. Might sound kinda fu

“I don’t do cognition, Etie

“You won the Nobel for establishing the glial basis of attention, and you’re claiming you don’t do cognition?”

“I do neurons and glial cells. I do neurochemical wave propaga-tion. But I don’t do consciousness. That’s not a term of art. It’s meta-physics.”

“You’re a mile deep, darlin’. But you’re an inch wide. It ain’t metaphysics when it’s sitting on a table in front of you with an apple in its mouth. Look, we known each other a long time. You know old Huey, don’t you? You’re a friend of Huey’s, you can have anything you want. Anything you want!”

“I just want to work in my lab.”

“You got it! Send me the specs! What do you want, airtight? We got sulfur and salt mines a mile down, holes bigger than downtown Baton Rouge. Do whatever the hell you want down there! Seal the doors behind you. Science, the endless frontier, darlin’! Can’t ask for better than that! Never sign an impact statement again! Just get your results and publish, that’s all I’m askin’! Just get your results and pub-lish.”

Oscar and Greta returned to the beach house at four in the morning. They watched from the deck railings as the headlights of their six-car state police escort turned and faded into darkness.

The krewe, alerted by Fontenot, had been carefully guarding the beach house. It had not been entered or searched. That seemed like a small comfort. “I can’t believe that people came up to him and kissed his hands,” Oscar said.

“There were only three of them.”

“They kissed his hands! They were weeping, and kissing his hands!”

“He’s made a lot of difference to the local people,” Greta said, yawning. “He’s given them hope.” She stepped into the bathroom with her overnight bag, and shut the door.

Oscar went into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door. His hands were shaking. Huey hadn’t cracked him. Oscar hadn’t lost his temper or his nerve; but he was appalled at the speed of the man’s reaction and the swift price he’d had to pay for taking foolish risks in Huey’s sphere of influence. He found an apple in the fridge and picked it up absently. Then he went in and sat in the hideous armchair. He stood up again, immediately. “He had that place packed with armed goons, and those people were kissing his hands!”

“The Governor needs bodyguards, he lives a very dangerous life,” Greta said from behind the bathroom door. “Oscar, why did he call you the ‘Soap Salesman’?”

“Oh, that. That was my first company. A biotech app. We made emulsifiers for dishwashing liquid. People don’t think these things through, you know. They think biotech should be fancy and elaborate. But soap is a major consumer item. You get a five percent processing edge in a commodity market like soap, and the buyout guys will beat your doors down…” His words trailed off. She was brushing her teeth, she wasn’t listening.

She came out in a white fla

“Allergies?” Oscar said.

“Yes. The air outside the dome… well, outside air always smells fu

Oscar checked the windows to make sure they were shut and curtained, then stared at her. All unknowing, his feelings about her had undergone a deep and turbulent sea change. His encounter with the Governor had roiled him inside. He was all stirred and clotted now. He was passionate. He felt aggressive and possessive. He was sick with jealousy. “Are you going to sleep in that?”

“Yes. My feet always get so cold at night.”

Oscar shook his head. “You’re not going to sleep in that. And we won’t use the bed. This time, we’ll use the floor.”

She examined the floor. It had a lovely hooked rug. She looked up at him, her face flushed to the ears.

He woke just after dawn. He was asleep on the rug. Greta had stripped the bed and placed the sheet and coverlet over him. She was sitting at the bureau, scribbling in her notebook.

Oscar slowly examined the water-stained ceiling. His kneecaps were rug-burned. His back felt sore. There was a slimy damp spot congealing under his hip. He felt truly at peace with himself for the first time in weeks.