The Heart Goes Last

XIII | GREEN MAN Green Man

The show Lucindas’s got tickets for is the Green Man Group. They’re a spinoff of the Blue Man Group, who’ve been going in Vegas for decades. Stan saw a spoof version of them on YouTube when he was still working at Dimple. There was also the Red Man Group and the Orange Man Group and the Pink Man Group, each with a different gimmick. With the Green Man Group, says the program, it’s an eco theme.

Sure enough, when the spots and floods go on, there’s some fake vegetation with some fake birds in it, and when the first set of Green Men come bouncing out they’re not only bald and painted a shiny green but also wearing foliage. Apart from the leaves, it’s the same kind of tightly directed comedy, tech, and music show that Stan can remember watching online, or parts of it: tricks with balloons that turn into flowers, munching up kale and spitting green goop out of their mouths, juggling onions, and a lot of drumming, plus a guy with a gong who’s used as punctuation. No words – none of the Men ever say anything, the pretense is that they’re mute. Once in a while, there’s a bit of message – birdsongs, a sunrise on the big onstage screens, a flight of helium balloons with baby trees attached to them – but then the drums kick in again.

All of sudden there’s a tulip number, done to “Tiptoe Through the Tulips.” At first this makes Stan sit up straight: the password from his time at Possibilibots, it can’t be a fucking coincidence! But as the number unfolds he thinks, Hold on, Stan. Yes, it can be a coincidence, a lot of things are, and considering the barefaced idiocy of what the Green Men are doing up there on the stage, it has to be. If it were a signal, what the fuck would they be expecting him to do in response? Run around screaming? Yell, Take my belt buckle. Here’s the flashdrive? So, coincidence, for sure.

He leans back in the seat, watches the number. There are tulip-themed pyrotechnics, tulip manipulations, tulip transformations: tulips that catch fire, tulips that explode, tulips that grow out of a Green Man’s ears. Stan has to admit it’s expertly performed, and also funny. It’s relaxing to see other guys making fools of themselves. But if they’re doing it on purpose, maybe it doesn’t count.

Next up, a gong item. The one playing the gong is a clown of sorts. He gets a lot of laughs. But is there only one gong guy? The Green Men are like the Elvises: they’re in identical disguises and hard to tell apart. Stan tries to follow the changes, but it’s like watching a card sharp: the trick is done, you know it’s a trick, but you can’t catch them doing it.

The second-last number is an audience participation segment. Three innocents are hauled up on stage, dressed in waterproof outfits, asked to eat peculiar substances, and bombarded with green goo. Then there’s a grand finale, with more drums, gongs, and things that light up. Then there’s the curtain calls. The bald green guys are sweating.

“So, Rental Elvis, what’s your verdict?” says Lucinda as the lights go up.

“Good timing,” says Stan.

“That’s it? Good timing?” says Lucinda. “Men devote their lives to developing those skills and that’s all you can say? I bet you’re a wow in bed.”

Fuck you, thinks Stan. But I’d rather not. “Ma’am,” he says, ushering her down the aisle with a swirl of his blue cape. “After you.” Her orange horns are on crooked; they give her a rakish air, like a demon on holiday.

Lucinda says she’s headed for the ladies’, and after that she expects Stan to take her to one of the bars in this joint and share a White Russian or two with him, and tell her his life story. The night is young, so after they do that, they can do something else. She fully intends to get her money’s worth, she tells him, with a grin, but also in the stern, slightly accusing voice of a high school teacher.

One thing at a time, he thinks. He shepherds her to the Ladies’. As he’s waiting for her outside, scanning the thinning crowd for anyone thuggish who looks too interested in him, one of the Marilyns sidles up beside him. “Stan,” she whispers. “It’s me. Veronica.”

“What took you so fucking long?” he growls. “There’s Positron some guys in sunglasses asking about me at the place where I’m living. You need to move me! Where’s Budge? Where’s Conor? Am I a small potato? If this crap I’m carrying is so shit-hot, why isn’t anyone coming to collect it?”

“Keep your voice down,” she says. “NAB is always crawling with eavesdroppers. Those broadcasters like to steal scoops and rat on each other to anyone shoe listening. That could be bad for you.”

“I thought Jocelyn wanted to get the news out!” says Stan,

“It’s the timing,” says Veronica. “She needs to hold back until the exact right moment. Come with me, hurry. We’re going backstage.”

“What about my date?” Stan says. Lucinda will raise hell if he vanishes; she’s the hell-raising type.

“Don’t worry about that. We’ve got another Elvis, he’ll take your place, she won’t be able to tell you apart.”

Stan doubts that – Lucinda’s not stupid – but he follows Veronica down a side aisle and through the Exit door at the front row of the theatre. There’s a corridor, a corner, some stairs. Then the stage door. He knocks on it. It’s opened by a bald guy painted green, in a dark green suit and an earpiece. “That way,” he says. They’ve thought of everything: themed bouncers.

Veronica hurries along a narrow corridor, Stan following. She’s got the Marilyn rear action down cold: do they give classes in it? Sprain your ankle, then stuff your feet into the high heels? Veronica, he thinks mournfully. You are so fucking wasted on that bear.

They pause in front of a closed dressing-room door with a green star on it. THE GREEN MAN GROUP.

“Wait in here,” says Veronica. “If anyone comes, say you’re auditioning.”

“Who’m I waiting for?” says Stan.

“The contact,” says Veronica. “The handover. The one who’ll take your info to the press. If we’re lucky, that is. You’ve still got the belt buckle?”

“What’s this?” says Stan, indicating his large, ornate midsection adornment. “Kinda hard to miss.”

“Nobody switched it on you? The buckle?”

“Why would they?” said Stan. “It’s crap silver, it’s not real. Anyway, I slept with it under my pillow.”

Veronica shrugs her lovely Marilyn shoulders. “Hope you’re right,” she says. “It wouldn’t be good if they open it up and they’re expecting a flashdrive and there’s nothing inside. They’ll think you flogged it.”

“Who the fuck would I flog it to?” Stan asks. He’d considered such a thing briefly, but he has no leverage. Whoever wanted it and knew where it was would simply take it, then fling him into a ditch.

“Oh, someone would pay,” says Veronica. “One way or another. Now, in you go. I’ve gotta run. Good luck!” She purses her Marilyn lips, blows him a Marilyn kiss, closes the door quietly behind herself.

Nobody’s in the dressing room. There’s a long, lighted mirror, a counter running along underneath it, a bunch of makeup pots, green paint in them. Brushes. A chair to sit in while painting yourself. A couple of Green Man suits on hangers, on the hook in back of the door. Street clothes: denim pants, jacket, black T. Pair of Nikes, large. Whoever’s got this dressing room, his feet are bigger than Stan’s.

There’s only one way out of this room: he doesn’t like that part. He bypasses the chair and sits down on the counter, facing away from the mirror. He’s careful not to turn his back to the door.

Gong for Hire

There’s a knock. What should he do? Nowhere to hide, so he might as well go down trying. “Come on in,” he says, using his Elvis voice.

The door opens. It’s Luncinda Quant. Fuck, how did she track him down? But she doesn’t say, “Where did you get to?” or anything like that. Instead she nips inside, closes the door, strides over to him, and hisses, “Undo your belt!” She’s fumbling at him with her red-tipped fingers.

“Whoa!” he says. “Wait a minute, lady! If that’s what you want, you need to be back at your hotel, and then I can call, we have a service, you’ll love …” The thought of Lucinda Quant in bed with an Elvis bot makes him shudder. Even in her present diminished form, she’d be odds on to win that one.

“Don’t panic, I don’t want your body,” she growls with a derisive laugh. “I want your belt buckle. Right now!”

“Wait,” he says. She can’t be the one! She’s not at all what he was expecting – not a suave double agent in black, not a tough Surveillance guy working for Jocelyn, not – worst case! – a Positron-sent assassin. How can he know this unlikely biddy is the right handover link? “Just a minute,” he says. “Who sent you?”

“Don’t be silly. You know who,” she says, tossing her black wig and orange Nymp horns with a hint of the coyness that must have made her a lethal flirt forty years ago. “This is gonna be my fucking comeback, so don’t screw around.”

Wait, wait, he tells himself. You can’t just roll over. “There’s a password,” he says as sternly as he can.

“Tiptoe Through the fucking Tulips,” she says. “Now do I have to pull your pants off or what?”

Stan unsnaps his belt. Lucinda takes it over to the makeup counter, puts on her reading glasses, and holds the buckle under the light. She’s got a tiny implement, like a little screwdriver. She inserts it into the top of the buckle, gives a twist, and the thing snaps open. Inside there’s a miniature black flashdrive.

She tucks the drive into a small envelope, licks it shut, whips off her hair complete with the horns, and duct-tapes the drive to the top of her fuzzy scalp, which isn’t totally bald, but close. Then she pulls the wig back on and adjusts her horns. “Thanks,” she says. “I’m off. I sure hope this has a major scandal in it. I don’t mind risking what’s left of my neck, so long as it’s worth it. Watch the news!”

She’s gone in a swirl of hibiscus floral print and Blue Suede perfume. What’s next? Stan wonders. Wait until the four guys in sunglasses arrive and start ripping out my molars? I don’t have it! he’ll scream. It’s that wizened-up cancer survivor with horns! She’s duct-taped it to her head! Why can’t life hand him something plausible for a change?

The door opens again: four bald guys file in, except they don’t have sunglasses, and they’re green. They fill the dressing room. “Stan,” says the first one, advancing in back-pat stance. “Welcome to Vegas, bro!”

“Conor!” says Stan. “What the fuck!” They do the pat; something wet comes off on Stan’s cheek.

“Right,” says Conor, smiling greenly. “You remember Rikki and Jerold. It was Jerold let you in backstage.”

Handshakes, grins, whacks on the shoulder. The fourth guy says, “Stan. Well done.” Could it be Budge? Bald and green? Yes, it could.

“You guys freaked me out,” says Stan. “Turning up at the Elvis place, with my picture and all.” His honeymoon photo on the beach, the one he’d sent to Conor. That’s where they’d got it.

“Sorry about that,” says Con. “Thought we could cut some corners, make contact earlier, save time. But we missed you.”

“It came out okay in the wash,” says Budge.

“How’d you get out of Possibilibots?” Stan asks him.

“In a box, like you,” says Budge. “Hard to find an Elvis outfit my size, but we cut it up the back the way the undertakers do; plus the box was cramped, but apart from that it worked without a hitch. Our lady friend closed my lid at the Possibilibots end.”

“Let’s get you out of that dickwit Elvis suit. You look like a twat” says Conor. “Who’s got the razor?”

Stan, wearing a badly fitting Green Man suit, his head newly shaved, his face a seaweed green, is drinking a coconut water in Conor’s dressing room. Conor says the coconut water is a quick energy lift, though Stan really doesn’t need any more energy right now: he’s buzzing like a bad fuse.

On the small, blurry dressing room screen, the second Green Man show of the night is in progress. They run them through in teams, says Conor, because the act takes so much out of you. Not out of the boys, because they’re not really in it, they’re just in disguise. They can come and go backstage because everyone in Team One thinks they’re in the other team and vice versa. But Conor himself has always craved the spotlight, so he’s had himself inserted as a gong player.

“Yeah, I know, it’s moronic,” says Conor. “But you have to admit it’s the best cover while we’re waiting to pull the job.”

“What job?” says Stan.

“Oh. She didn’t tell you? She was extra-fucking definite about you. She said you totally had to be in with us; otherwise, it would be a fail. She said you were the lynchpin.”

“Who says? You mean …” He stops himself from saying Jocelyn’s name. He glances around, then up at the ceiling: is it safe in here?

“I mean her! The Big Wazooka! She said the two of you were fucking joined at the hip.”

The Big Wazooka isn’t how Stan would have thought of Jocelyn, but it kind of fits. Bazooka. “So, I’m the lynchpin,” he says. “Mind if I ask why?”

“Fucked if I know,” says Conor cheerfully. “Been doing odd jobs for her since before Christ. She’s known you were my big brother ever since she saw you at the trailer joint, before you signed into that body-parts wholesaler corral. I warned you about. But I never ask her why she wants what she wants, that’s her business. Deal is I just do the job, no loose ends; then I collect, end of story, have a nice life. But I guess we find out tomorrow, about why you’re so fucking central. That’s when it’s going down.”

Stan tries to look wise. Is it possible to look wise with your face painted green? He doubts it. “What do I do?” he says. He hopes they aren’t going to rob a bank or kill anyone. “On this job? When it’s going down?”

“Figure we’ll put you on the gong,” says Conor. “Not hard to pick up, you just have to know the cues, then hit the gong with the hammer and look like a dumbass. That shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

“So I’m onstage?” says Stan. That’s not safe, everyone will be looking at him. But then, so what? He no longer has the thing in the belt buckle; he no longer has even the belt, since Rikki took away his whole Elvis outfit and tossed it into a dumpster.

“Not here,” says Conor. “Place called Ruby Slippers. It’s a retirement home clinic type of thing, lot of rich old farts warehoused or getting themselves cut and sewed. We’re the entertainment.”

“That’s all?” says Stan. “All I have to do is hit the gong?” Though he’s been to that Ruby Slippers branch as Elvis a lot, romancing old ladies, nobody will recognize him; not in his current disguise as a giant pea.

“Don’t be a fucking dummy,” says Conor. “That’s the cover! The real job is a snatch.”

“That place has fucking tight security,” says Stan.

“Hey! This is your brother you’re talking to!” says Conor. He rubs two fingers together. “Those guys get paid off! We just go there, start the green act, knock down the security for the look of it, do the snatch …”

Crap, thinks Stan. They’re kidnapping someone. That could get them shot, not to mention himself. “So, I hit the gong …”

“You got it.” says Conor. “And then, whisk-o!”

“Whisk-o?”

“The big snatcheroonie,” says Conor. “It’s genius.”

In Flight

Ed’s up front, in Business. It would look strange for Charmaine to be there too – after all, she’s only the assistant, officially. That’s Ed’s reasoning, says Jocelyn: he doesn’t want to call undue attention. Thank goodness for that, thinks Charmaine, because she would find it very, very hard to be nice to him or even civil, now that she knows what he intends to do to her. If she were beside him in Business, most likely he’d be squeezing her arm all the way to Las Vegas, plus dosing her with gin and tonic and trying to get his fingers onto her knee or look down her front, though no hope of that because she’s wearing the button-to-the-chin blouse Aurora picked out for her.

And all the time he’d be asking her if she’s feeling any less grief because of Stan. Not that he really cares about Stan, or about anything she likes or loves or doesn’t like or love, because he has no interest in who she is really. She’s mostly just a body to him, and now he wants to turn her into only a body. She might as well not have any head at all.

After feeling so sad for weeks, she’s now really angry underneath. If she had to sit with Ed she’d be sure to snap at him, and then he might figure out that she’s learned about his big plan. And then he might panic and do something weird, right on the plane. He might throw her to the floor and start ripping off her buttons, the way Max used to, but with Max she wanted him to do that, whereas with Ed it would be a very different thing, it would be awkward and quite frankly creepy. Keep your freaking hands off my darn buttons! That’s what she would say.

Well, he couldn’t really do that – the floor thing with the buttons – because the flight attendants would stop him. But what if they turned a blind eye, what if they’re all his employees, what if everyone on the plane is on his side?

Calm down, Charmaine, she tells herself. That’s just foolish. Those kinds of things don’t happen in real life. It’s okay, it’s going to be fine, because Jocelyn is sitting beside her and Aurora is in the row behind them, and there’s another Surveillance person on the plane too, Jocelyn has assured her – a man, back near the exit door. And that man plus Jocelyn and Aurora, they’ll be more than a match for Ed. She doesn’t know what they’ll do, but it might involve a judo kick or something. And they have the advantage of knowing about Ed’s plan, while he doesn’t know a thing about theirs.

Or Jocelyn has the advantage of knowing about Ed’s plan. So far she hasn’t shared too much of it with Charmaine. She’s reading on her PosiPad, making notes. Charmaine has tried for an in-flight movie – how amazing it would be to see a movie that isn’t from the fifties, she hasn’t been able to watch anything like that for ages, and it would take her mind off things – but her screen isn’t working. Neither is the Recline button on her seat, and someone’s ripped most of the pages out of the in-flight magazine. In her opinion the airline people do things like that on purpose, to rub it in that you aren’t in Business. They most likely have a special team that goes through the planes at night, ripping out the pages and messing up the screens.

Charmaine looks out the window: clouds, nothing but clouds. Flat clouds, not even puffy ones. At first it was so exciting to be on a plane – she’s only ever been on one before, with Stan, going on their honeymoon. She reads the remaining piece in the magazine. What a coincidence: “Honeymoon on the Beach.” Stan got such a sunburn the first day, but at least they did one thing he really wanted, which was having sex underwater, or the lower parts of them were underwater. There were people on the beach too. Could they tell? She hoped they could, she remembers hoping that. Then they had to get their bathing suits on again, and Charmaine couldn’t find her bikini bottom because in all the turmoil she’d dropped it, and Stan had to go diving for it, and they laughed and laughed. They were so happy then. It was just like an ad.

Out the window it’s still clouds. She gets up, goes to the washroom for something to do. How thoughtless, the last person didn’t clean the sink. Really, they don’t appreciate their privileges.

It’s better to close the lid when you flush: Grandma Win told her that. Otherwise the germs fly around in the air and go up your nose.

Coming back along the aisle, she wonders which the security man. Right near the exit, Jocelyn said. She glances around but can’t see the heads back there. She reaches her seat, squeezes in past Jocelyn, who smiles at her but doesn’t say anything. Charmaine fidgets some more; then she just has to ask.

“What in the heck was he planning to do?”

Jocelyn looks over at her. “Who?” she asks, as if she doesn’t know.

“Him. Ed,” Charmaine whispers. “How was he going to …”

“Hungry?” Jocelyn says. “Because I am. Let’s get some peanuts. Want a soda? Coffee?” She looks at her watch. “We’ve got time.”

“Just a water,” says Charmaine. “Please. “

Jocelyn flags the flight attendant, orders some peanuts and a couple of cheese sandwiches, and the bottle of water for Charmaine with a glass of ice cubes, and a coffee for herself. Charmaine is surprised at how hungry she is; she wolfs down the sandwich in no time flat, gulps down a glass of the water.

“He has it all thought out,” says Jocelyn. “I’m supposed to knock you out on the plane, just before we land. A little something in your drink; a bit of Zolpidem, or GBH, or similar.”

“Oh,” says Charmaine. “Like, those date rape drugs.”

“Right. So you’ll go under. Then I’ll say you’ve fainted, and we call a perimedic ambulance to meet the plane and have you carried off on a stretcher. Then you’ll be taken to the clinic at Ruby Slippers Vegas, and after the brain intervention you’ll wake up, and Ed will be right beside you, holding your hand. And you’ll imprint on him and smile at him like he’s God, and throw your arms around him, and say you’re his, body and soul, and what can you do for him, such as a blowjob right there in the clinic.”

“That so totally sucks,” Charmaine says, wrinkling her nose.

“And then you’ll live happily ever after,” Jocelyn continues in her neutral voice. “Just like in a fairy tale. And Ed will too. That must be what he thinks.”

“How do you mean, he will?” says Charmaine. “The first part of it’s not even happening! It’s not happening! You won’t let it happen. That’s what you said.”

“Correct,” says Jocelyn. “That’s what I said. So now you can relax.”

And Charmaine does feel relaxed; her eyelids are drooping. She nods off, but then she’s awake again. Awake more or less. “Maybe I’ll have that coffee after all,” she says. “I need to wake myself up.”

“Too late,” says Jocelyn. “We’re about to land. And look, I think I see the ambulance, right on cue. I sent them an email before we took off. Feeling a little sleepy? Just lie back.”

“The ambulance? What ambulance?” says Charmaine. It’s not just sleepiness, there’s something wrong. She looks at Jocelyn and there are two Jocelyns, both of them smiling. They pat her arm.

“The ambulance that will take you to Ed’s clinic at Ruby Slippers,” she says.

You promised, you promised, Charmaine wants to say. It must have been the water, something Jocelyn put in. Oh heck! You lying witch! But she can’t get the words out. Her tongue feels thick, her eyes are closing. She feels her whole body leaning sideways.

Bumpity-bump, they must be on the runway. She’s so dizzy. Voices, far away: She’s fainted. I don’t know what … she was fine a minute ago. Here, let me … That’s Aurora. She tries to call to her, but there are no words, only a kind of moaning. Uhuhuhuh …

Don’t let her head hit the wall. Jocelyn.

She’s in the arms of someone, some man; she’s being swung through the air. It feels lovely, like floating. Easy does it. There. He sets her down, covers her. Is that Max? Is that Max’s voice, so close to her ear? All tucked in.

Falling, falling. Gone.