E.Godz

Chapter Twelve

It was raining in Seattle when Dov arrived. Luckily he was able to find a place selling hot coffee to take the chill off before he made his way to Martin Agparak's studio.

"Give me a small coffee, light and sweet," he told the girl staffing the tiny kiosk on the corner of Martin's block.

"What kind?"

"Regular. I could use the caffeine." He shifted his umbrella slightly and gave her one of his pocket-pack-tissue smiles: clean, cheap, disposable, and plenty more where that came from.

"Single, double, or triple?"

"What?"

"Caffeine. Or you want that espresso?" To his surprise, she did not pronounce it "ex- presso."

"Um, okay, sure, espresso, why not? Single," he clarified.

"What kind?" she asked again.

"I told you, a single espresso, light and— Oh, wait, if it's espresso I don't want it light, but I still want it—"

"Beans. What kind of beans do you want? This is just a little stand so we don't have the selection you'd find in one of our shops. If it turns out that we don't stock your favorite, I'm sorry. Anyway, we do have Sumatran, Brazilian, Columbian, Nicaraguan, Costa Rican, Ecuadorean, Madagascar, Jamaican ..."

Dov felt as if he were trapped on an endless voyage through the now-defunct Small World ride at DisneyWorld, only with all of the happy, prancing international puppets high on caffeine and armed to the eyebrows with coffee grinders. The girl was still rattling off the options when he cut in and said, "What would you recommend?"

"Oh, the Jamaican, definitely."

"Fine. I'll have that."

"What kind?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"From what part of the island? I mean, obviously you want the highlands, but do you prefer the northern, southern, eastern, or western face of the mountains?"

"Eep," said Dov. "Uh ... you have anything from the middle? I don't like to play favorites."

Clearly this was not the choice of those in the know. The girl gave him a look as if he'd farted in church, but then remembered that she was a businesswoman, not an educator of woefully untrained taste buds. "What roasting process?" she asked.

"I don't care. Whatever they used on Joan of Arc. Look, all I wanted was a lousy cup of coffee, light and sweet, not the Spanish Inquisition!"

"Spanish roast process?" The girl frowned, then ducked down behind the counter. She popped up an instant later, like a gopher on springs, with a plastic scoop full of coffee beans. "Okay, but it kills the secondary bouquet. You sure? I mean, the customer is always right, but I don't want you to come back complaining to me when your soft palate doesn't get the full effect."

"Why don't we leave my soft palate to follow its own damn bliss and just give me the freaking coffee?!"

A strong hand fell on Dov's shoulder and spun him around, putting him face to smiling face with the very man he'd come to Seattle to see.

"Dov Godz?" Martin Agparak inquired casually. Dov could only nod. "Thought so. I got your message on my answering machine. I've been expecting you. Come into my studio and I'll give you that ... freaking coffee."

Embarrassed, Dov let himself be led away like a little lamb. Behind him he heard the coffee kiosk girl calling, "If he still wants the Spanish-process Jamaican, Marty, make sure you use distilled water, not spring. It's the only thing that can save him!"

* * *

Rain pattered down on the tarps covering the workspace where Martin Agaparak created his customized totem poles. Dov sat on a stump that had been sculpted into the shape of Regis Philbin's head and sipped his coffee. Martin had very kindly given him a towel to blot up all the rainwater that his umbrella had failed to deflect, and now Dov wore it slung around his neck like a chubby ascot.

"I'll be with you just as soon as I put the finishing touches on this," the sculptor said, suiting up for work. On went the goggles and the earphones, up came the chainsaw. Its full-throated, hungry roar was louder than Dov had expected. He shifted his seat to the head of Alex Trebek, over in the corner nearest the door back inside.

Agparak noticed the move. He turned off the chainsaw, took off the earphones and goggles, and said, "Sorry. I kind of forget how rough this can be on someone who's not used to it. I'll tell you what: How about we talk first, then I'll get back to work after you've gone, okay?"

Dov became suspicious. "You make it sound like you're going to give me the Uh-Huh treatment."

"What's that?"

"You know, pretend you'll listen to what I've got to say, nod your head, go 'Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh' the whole time I'm talking so that if I'm dumb enough, I just might believe you're really paying attention, then get rid of me as soon you can do it without looking like a rude jerk."

"Uh-huh." Agparak nodded. Then he grinned. "Speaking of rude jerks, am I speaking with the president of the club right now? You ever listen to yourself, Godz? So far I've rescued you from that coffee girl before you had a total meltdown in front of her kiosk and she called the cops, I've given you a cup of coffee without the Caffeine Catechism, I've handed you a towel, and I've offered to put my work on hold so I could hear what you've come all this way to say to me. Gosh, how much ruder could I be?"

Dov hung his head. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I shouldn't've acted like that. That was jerky of me. I've been under a lot of pressure lately—not that that excuses my behavior or anything."

"Sure, I understand." The sculptor patted Dov on the back. "It can't be easy, worrying about your mother's health and all."

"Well, it's not as if there's anything I can do for her besides try to keep the company working at peak efficiency." Absentmindedly, Dov reached down and twiddled with Trebek's nostrils. "That's why I'm here, to see if you've got any requests or suggestions for change, any complaints about how we're handling your particular needs."

"You're from the government and you're here to help me?" Agparak had the talent to make a skeptical smirk look charming. "Like I told your sister, what I'm after is getting a foot in the door at the big Eastern art galleries, having my work seen by the people who matter. Well, seen and purchased. Anyone can be a starving artist; I'd rather be the artist who says, 'I'm starving; let's go grab a bite at La Cote Basque.' "

"You've become one of our top clients, Mr. Agparak," Dov said. "I think I've got the connections to get you just the sort of exposure you want for your art. Would you be kind enough to give me a little preview?"

"Of what?"

"Of the pieces you'll be exhibiting when I set up your New York City gallery debut."

"Oh." Martin Agparak nodded, then said: "You're sitting on one of them."

Dov looked down at the head of Alex Trebek and withheld comment.

"That's just the one I did for practice," the sculptor went on. "The finished work will be a totem pole combining Trebek, Barker, Philbin, with—whatzisname, the guy from that old 1950s quiz show, the one where everyone got busted for cheating—anyway, with him for the base and Vanna White for the top figure. It's the last one I need to do for my ideal installation. I've already completed the totem poles of the NFL mascots, the fast food icons, and the sci-fi TV show heroes. That's another thing where I could use the company's help: Maybe you can get a hold of Shatner so he'll sign the release, because I sure as hell can't swing it."

Dov mulled over this information for a while, then finally laughed and said, "Oh, I get it. You do funny art! Like comic strips, only wood. Very smart, Agparak, very cutting edge, Rothko meets Ethan Allen."

He would have gone on to praise the sculptor's business savvy in greater detail, except he caught sight of the venomous stare Agparak was giving him.

"There is nothing 'funny' about a totem pole," Martin said. "Not unless you find yourself in the habit of going into St. Patrick's cathedral for laughs."

"Hey, I know all about totem poles," Dov protested, holding up both hands to ward off any accusations of religious insensitivity. "I have only the deepest respect for what the real ones signify, but if someone slapped a giant propeller beanie on top of St. Patrick's, you know you'd be right there beside me, laughing your ass off."

"The 'real' ones?" Agparak repeated. "What makes my totem poles less real than the ones you claim to respect? Because instead of carving Bear and Fox and Raven, I've used team mascots? Bear is an animal of great power who holds healing in his paws, but more people worship him when he holds a football. If I make a totem pole with the old images, they'll look at it and smile politely and say how quaint it is, how charming. It won't matter if I made it the week before: They'll still see it as a relic, a leftover, an artifact. But if I transform it, if I create it so that it shows them the things that they still worship, they'll be more likely to realize that it's not just a decorative religious fossil; it's a living, vital icon of spiritual significance."

Dov's brow creased in thought as he took in everything Agparak was saying. At last he asked, "You expect people to go into a gallery, see your work, and come away from it ready to worship Regis Philbin?"

It was Agaparak's turn to laugh. "I expect them to come away from my work thinking about their own spirituality. I've seen too many people who call themselves religious when they're really just the slaves of habit. They go through the same rituals their parents and grandparents did, but they never think about what the words or the actions of the rites mean; they never feel the spirit within them. Faith should be a part of life, something you actively care about, like catching your favorite game show every weeknight or rooting for your favorite team. Think of what so many people have lost, Mr. Godz, without anyone taking it away from them. Then think of what they could have, and how much it would enrich their lives if only they'd open their eyes and see."

Dov stood up and shook the sculptor's calloused hand solemnly. "You can count on my support, Mr. Agparak," he said. "Can I count on yours?"

Agparak didn't answer right away. "I did mention that your sister's already been here?" he asked.

There was something in the way he said it that set off a little alarm bell in Dov's mind. Oh wow. This is the guy Peez slept with? Did she do it to cinch his support for her taking over the company? That skanky little—! Naaahhh. That's not her style. Still, I'll bet it didn't hurt her chances of winning him over to her side. And it sure as hell didn't do her any harm either.

Dov applied a liberal coating of Smile #98.2 and said, "Mr. Agparak, I fully understand. You want to consider all your options before making a commitment. I can respect that. But more than that, after what you've told me about your art and its purpose, I really respect you. And I'm not just saying that to kiss up, either. I mean it. Whichever way you throw your influence, it's been an honor to meet you." He released his grip on the sculptor's hand and concluded: "So, would you mind calling me a taxi back to the airport?"

"Sure, no problem." Agparak looked genuinely pleased and flattered by what Dov had had to say. He whipped out a cell phone the size of a pack of bubble gum and put in the call, then said, "It's on the way. Want another cup of coffee while you wait?"

"Sure, thanks. Light and sweet."

"What kind?"

"You're kidding, right? I saw you just have the one can of Maxwell House in your cupboard, you populist rebel, you."

"Right, but I'm talking about the 'light and sweet' part. I'm a lousy host for not asking you before: cream, half-and-half, whole milk, one percent, two, skim, cow's milk, goat's, white sugar, brown, Demerara, granulated, lump, cube, saccharine, aspartame—?"

Dov's scream split Alex Trebek's head wide open.