“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.”
Flamed
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
“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.