What if the box is booby-trapped? What if Berky is insane, living in a hut someplace, secretly plotting to snuff out all life on the planet?
On the other hand, what if Berky is truly rich?
Greed overcame him. Cantor held his breath and opened the box.
Inside, blood-red velvet bordered a jewel-encrusted slab with the outline of a fish, in keeping with the box’s nautical theme.
Maybe Ichthy was a sea captain of some renown. Perhaps knowledge of the man whose ashes were enshrined below this false bottom could help verify Berky’s wealth. Maybe Berky’s dead friend was a pirate or drug lord.
Cantor felt the excitement of the hunt. With a deft tug, he pulled the slab out of the box. What was below astonished him. There, glued with precision to a mahogany centerpiece, were ivory-colored bones.
It all became clear now. Of course, Ichthy wasn’t talkative; of course, he had no sense of humor; of course, he needed improvements.
Ichthy was—or at any rate, had been—a fish.
CHAPTER 4
SEX AND THE ART OF WAR
At an abstract level, war is like sex. It’s all about positioning.
—Canduka Cantor
Cradling Berky’s box in his right arm, and with the projector and other paraphernalia still spread across the table back in the Swamp Room, Cantor stepped into the Bella Boner Boutique off the marble-tiled hotel lobby on the main floor. His multicolored robe billowed in the pressure wall of the entryway.
The shop was so select there were no price tags on the designer clothing that hung like artwork on the beige and mauve walls. As he moved deeper into the store, lifelike black and white robots, draped in shiny costumes, assumed classic model poses and twisted on their pedestals to face him. Their LED eyes glowed with colors complementing the garments they modeled.
“Mmm, hello, Sugar. Can I help you?”
He swiveled toward the human voice, adjusting his smile to charm-level 10.
A young man in his late twenties, wearing a semi-transparent silvery shirt that looked like a second skin, responded by brushing his glowing fingernails against an ungrounded pink wig. A patch of fabric near his thick neck briefly displayed the word, Virgilio.
“Are you returning that box from one of our stores?” the man asked.
Cantor shifted Ichthy to his left arm. “This box is a present from someone. It’s not why Ah am here.”
Virgilio scrutinized Cantor from head to sandaled toe, then arched an eyebrow.
Cantor leaned toward the shopkeeper and spoke in an intimate voice. “Ah have a problem that must be handled very discretely. It’s my master. She bought a lot of things the other day from your shop.”
“Oh, that must have been the divine Ms. Rodriguez. I remember she came in with her darling husband, Alphonso. We had to restock after she left. We value her business very much.” His lips tweaked in the faintest of smiles while his fingers made a zipper-closing movement. “Any secret you have is safe with me.”
“Ah am so relieved to hear that,” Cantor said. “You, my fine, good man, are a peach. Ah could just eat you up.” He leaned closer, adjusting his voice to a whisper. “See, Ah always help her with errands when Ah’m not—when we’re not—engaged in deeply gratifying business.”
“I understand.” Virgilio gazed at Cantor’s hand as it touched his arm, then gently wiped a middle finger across the back. “That’s an unusual tattoo. Barblefarb. It must mean something special.”
“It does. In my religion, it means situations in which we are all inextricably connected. And because we look at the world in different ways, this leads to a high degree of confusion and chaos and stress. ‘Barblefarbs’ must be avoided at all costs. Ah had the word tattooed on my hand as a reminder.”
“All that in a single word?”
“Yes.”
“Awesome!”
Cantor leaned closer. “Speaking of stress—that’s the reason Ah am here.”
Virgilio’s eyes drooped. “If you are stressed, maybe there’s something I can do to relieve that.”
Cantor patted the man’s arm. “Ah wish I had more time, but it’s not me. It’s Junie.”
“Ms. Rodriguez?”
“Yes. She is very stressed. And distressed.”
“Goodness. I hope it’s not something we’ve done.”
“To the contrary. She’s missing some things from her room that she absolutely cherished. The hotel cleaning staff removed several empty bags from your store. They’ve been thrown away, like pieces of worthless trash, and she can’t get them back. She so wanted to use them to impress people. That’s hard to do when you travel in Supreme First Class.”
“The bags make a statement, don’t they?”
“Indeed.”
“How many do you want?”
“Five will do nicely.”
“You should always think bigger. That’s my motto.”
“Seven?”
“A magic number.” Virgilio clasped Cantor’s arm in confidence. “You are so sweet. Ms. R is lucky to have you. I’ll get them for you right away. Stay here.” He took a step, then hesitated and pivoted 180 degrees on a pointed heel. “I hope you don’t mind my asking. The robe you’re wearing is absolutely fabulous. Did you get it at one of our stores, or a competitor’s? The reason I ask is that some of the gentlemen who come in are intrigued by our apparel, and their wives are usually willing to spend good money on clothing with a certain panache. It’s a niche market I’d like to accommodate.”
“Actually,” Cantor whispered, “Ah made it myself, and Ah am designing a cape to go with it. Ah take pride in everything Ah put my hands on. Give me your digitag, and Ah’ll be sure to hook you up.” He winked as their two bracelets touched, emitting a warm glow.