It felt strange passing Phil’s door without the familiar pot smog. It felt stranger still to have a face for the man in the Clapton T-shirt. Phil was no longer invisible. He wasn’t even a pothead. But he was still a mystery.
Who was he? Who did he work for? Why did he create that druggie persona? What was he doing at that charity orgy?
Once inside her apartment, Helen began shivering uncontrollably. She fixed a cup of decaf coffee and sat in the turquoise Barcalounger with her cat on her lap, absently scratching Thumbs’ ears until he rolled belly-up in ecstasy.
The cat and the comfortable chair could usually lull her to sleep on the most restless nights. But not tonight. Helen kept flashing on Kristi with her white lace and lilies, and the heart-stopping moment when she sat up in her coffin.
Then she thought of sassy little Laredo, with her yellow hair and red shoes. There would be no surprise resurrection for Savannah’s sister.
Helen sat up until the night sky turned into gray dawn, drinking decaf and asking questions she couldn’t answer.
Where was Laredo’s body? Did the Mowbrys’ parties have something to do with her death? Did Savannah’s sister see something that got her killed? Had she been blackmailing someone? Or had Laredo stumbled onto something stranger with the Six Feet Unders?
The coffin scene made Helen believe this was way beyond anything her Midwest imagination could conjure up.
The Mowbrys’ guest list read like a South Florida who’s who—with one slithering exception. Why was Mr. Cavarelli, the boiler-room reptile, mixing with the movers and shakers at a charity orgy?
There was one more guest who didn’t belong in that crowd. A slim, muscular man with white hair, blue eyes and a lean, tanned face.
Chapter 16
“You look stunning,” Jack Lace whispered in her ear. “All set for lunch at the Delano?”
Helen nodded. She was wearing her best black Ralph Lauren suit. Both she and the outfit looked slightly shopworn in the bright morning light. The suit was too shiny. She was too dull.
After that long slow night, morning came rushing straight at Helen. As soon as she clocked in at the boiler room, the staff was crammed into Vito’s smelly little office for another pep talk.
Jack boldly sat on the edge of Vito’s dusty desk. The room was so crowded, Helen was practically in Jack’s lap. The prospect was not as pleasing as she thought it would be.
Jack’s cologne was overpowering in the hot room. His hair was suspiciously black. His manner seemed smarmy.
Vito started marching up and down behind his desk, a plump pink piglet on parade.
“Listen up, people. I don’t have to tell you these are tough times for telemarketers. The Feds are making it harder for us to call people. Millions of people have signed up for the National Do Not Call Registry so far. Freaking millions. Our database is shrinking. With so many people on the do-not-call list, who’s left for us to call? The stupid, the old, the lonely, and the technologically challenged.
“How are we going to sell to someone too dumb to put their name on a national no-call list? These are the dregs.
“Wrong. They are the cream—and the government skimmed it off for us. These people are our natural customers. We want them. We got them.”
“You may want them, man, but they don’t want us.” Rico was a skinny, pimply kid who’d started three days ago. “People hate us. All day long, they say, ‘Why do you telemarketers bother me?’ ”
“And what do you tell them?” Vito asked.
Rico shrugged. “I say I’m a telemarketer. I can’t help it.”
The room laughed.
“Here’s what you say: ‘Sir, please don’t call me a telemarketer. I’m a technical advisor for a company that sells a product for septic-tank systems.’ ”
“Technical advisor,” Rico repeated. “I like that.” Even his spots looked brighter.
“You are also a surgeon,” Vito said. “Bet your mama always wanted a surgeon in the family. Know what kind of surgeon you are, Rico? A wallet surgeon.”
More laughter. Vito was warming up, his porcine body pacing faster. He waved his meaty arms, exhorting them like a TV evangelist.
“Get those prospects to say yes. If they say yes three times, the sale is yours. Get those sales, and I’ll get you out of here.”
The telemarketers looked startled.
“You heard me right,” Vito said. “This is boot camp. The worst of the worst. If you survive this, I’ll put you in the promised land.”
Vito paused dramatically. “I’ll let you call Canada. Canadians are polite and courteous. They don’t have many telemarketers up there. No one has harassed them like in America. In Canada, they listen to you. In Canada, they talk to you. They’re lonesome. It’s winter. They’re frozen in with nothing to do. They want to talk. Canadians are like little virgin girls, tender and sweet.”
Vito, the fat pervert, was practically drooling. Was he planning to sell to the Canadians—or saute them?
“Now get out there and sell. And if you keep selling, you’ll have little Canadian virgins all day long.”
That’s disgusting, Helen thought, as she filed out.
“That’s terrific,” Jack said. “That man has a real way with words.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Well, maybe it was a little politically incorrect, but he knew how to talk to his audience. They’re inspired.”
“I’m not inspired by little virgin girls,” Helen said. “Vito sounds like a child molester.”
“That’s the problem with you women. No sense of humor.”
“What did you say?” Helen said.
But Jack was already oozing into his phone. Probably anxious to get those Canadian virgins, she thought sourly.
Helen didn’t get any virgin on her first call. She had an irate veteran in Maryland. “Why are you calling me?” the woman demanded. “My name is on that national no-call registry. I’m reporting you.”
“When did you sign up?” Helen said.
“Six weeks ago.”
“Ma’am, it takes up to three months for your request to go into effect.”
“Three months? Three months of you waking me up on my day off? I’m not waiting another minute. I keep a shotgun right here by my bed—”
Helen hung up before the woman shot her ear off.
All morning the calls were like that. She talked to the addled and the angry. The lunch at the Delano shimmered before her like a mirage in the boiler-room desert. Helen was miffed at Jack for his asinine remark, but the Delano would be a mini-vacation. Instead of dirty carpet and scruffy walls, she’d be in exquisite surroundings, waited on by an attentive staff. Sigh. She could have that life again, if she would only...
No. She had her pride. She was not giving one penny to that lying, no-good—“Jack Lace!”
The voice was so loud it cut through the boiler-room racket. “Is there a Jack Lace here?”
Jack hung up his phone, jumped up, and waved his hand.
“I’m right here.”
“Come forward, Jack Lace,” the voice said. Helen saw a man in a brown uniform standing by the door. There was almost a skip in Jack’s step as he ran up there. Strange.
“Is he being arrested?” Helen asked Taniqua. But she knew he wasn’t. Jack looked too happy.
Taniqua had the mirthless laugh of a much older woman.
Even in the dreary boiler room she was beautiful. Why was she so bitter?
