Strange Trades (32 page)

Just another partially organized, partially spontaneous monthly shareholders’ meeting of Karuna, Inc.

Shenda thought back to a poetry class.

Rip those boardroom doors from their jambs, rip the executive jambs from the walls, then rip down the corporate walls!

You go, Walt!

Amidst and amongst the several hundred people and several score dogs assembled in Morley Adams Park, Shenda circulated happily, Dame Kind with her flock.

Mama!
These festivities always made her high!

Every face smiled to see her, every adult hand juggled drinks or spatulas or books or tapes or purses or babies in order to clasp hers. Children hurled themselves at her as if she were some natural feature of the landscape placed here for their rightful pleasure: a tree, a mountain, a beach. Shenda caught them up, whirled them and set them down. Fur and tongue and tail foamed around her like breakers, then raced away.

A splash of lemon yellow, a flash of jello wattles: Bullfinch scampered to keep up with his fleeter cousins.

This
was what Shenda lived for. Not all the petty details of running her brainchild, the squabbling altruistic quasi-corporation known as Karuna, Inc. Certainly not all the hourly, daily, weekly headaches and stress. They all faded like phantoms in the sunshine of this assemblage. Here, under her watchful, beneficent gaze, she could gauge the actual good she had accomplished, count all the people she had helped and observe how that help had spread—was continually spreading—outward in circles of big- heart, wide-mind action.

Shenda really wanted nothing else. (A man, a mate, hell—a date? Well, perhaps.…) This gathering was her total and complete yardstick of satisfaction.

This very day would have been perfect, in fact, if not for one matter.

Zingo, that cell-u-licious horsepiss.

The actual owner of Maraplan Importing—this brashly illegitimate distributor new to their city—had visited the Karuna Koffeehouse several times since that day Verity had told his men unequivocally to fuck off. At last managing to snare Shenda, he had delivered one final classic performance of intimidation and blustering. Ignorantly self-assured, crudely sly and warthog- aggressive, he refused to take Shenda’s “Blow me!” reply-in-kind for an answer.

“Little lady,” said Faro Mealey in their ultimate interview, rasping a simian hand across his chin stubble, “you are not being very smart.”

Shenda was a little scared at this confrontation. But stronger emotions were a sense of the scene’s absurdity, and utter infuriation at the
nerve
of this guy!

“On the contrary, Mister Mealey. It’s you who’s acting like a juvenile dumbshit schoolyard thug! You come in here and practically order me to drop my old distributor and replace him with you. Then you tell me that I’ll have to take just as many cases of that poisonous antifreeze you call soda as you decide is good for me. Moreover, I’m not the only business you’re trying to pull this scam on. You’ve been to some of
my friends
, as well as dozens of unrelated concerns throughout the city. Does the word ‘shakedown’ hold any meaning for you, Mister Mealey? Do you know what would happen to you if I went to the cops?”

Mealey unsealed a sporadically gold-capped grin. “Not a fucking thing, babe, I assure you.”

Shenda looked the man up and down. Clad like a cheap racetrack tout, Faro Mealey seemed an unlikely type to actually command the clout he now boasted of. Still, Shenda probed for more information.

“Oh, yeah? Who’s gonna come bail your ass out? The International Brotherhood of Slimeballs?”

“Very funny. I like broads with a sense of humor. They’re always good in bed. No, my business has some important backers. Let’s just say that the makers of Zingo take a big interest in insuring their product gets top placement in the marketplace. Now, why doncha think about my proposition for a few days? I should warn you that our terms in the future might not be so generous.”

“Mister Mealey, you can take a fucking Zingo enema. Now, get the hell out of here!”

Over the next few days, Shenda had done a little financial-pages, web-searching, library-stack sleuthing, following a not-too-shadowy paper trail.

The company that perpetrated Zingo was owned by another. And that one was owned by yet another. But beyond that level, the path seemed to lead conclusively to something called Isoterm. Who or what motivated
them
, Shenda had been unable yet to learn.

A Nerf football hit Shenda in the side of the head.

“Sorry!” called out little Tara Vadeboncoeur, her face a mix of horrified chagrin and stifled delight.

“
No malo, chica!
That’s what I get for daydreaming in a rowdy crowd!” Shenda lofted the ball back, and moved on.

She stopped and talked with Joe Ramos of Kan-do Konstruction for a while. His firm planned to bid on part of the new West-side highway job. Shenda gave him a rundown on what she had picked up on his likely competitors through the grapevine. After a gleeful handshake, she left Ramos crunching numbers on a calculator.

Mona Condeluccio staggered by under the weight of two aluminum pans, each as big as an unfolded Monopoly board and deep as a footbath. Shenda quickly relieved her of one, and peeked beneath the foil lid.

“Mmm-mm! Potato salad!”

“And this one’s macaroni. I got six more in the truck!”

Mona ran Kozmic Katering. She was providing about half the food for today’s bash, partially in lieu of her tithe. The rest was all deliciously homemade. Oh, except for the donuts from Krishna Murphy’s Krispy Kreme franchise.

Following Mona toward the picnic tables, Shenda said, “Louie Kablooie, I wish the business part of the day was over already!”

After a few spectacular failures, Shenda had mandated that Karuna, Inc., finish discussing all its outstanding business matters prior to falling like wolves and vultures and savages on the food and alcoholic beverages. Otherwise, not a hell of a lot got done. And also, while Shenda didn’t mind being heckled, she found that the intellectual quality of the catcalls and witticisms was higher when the audience was sober.

The women deposited their burdens on the groaning buffet. Shenda grabbed the first teenager to fall within her reach. “You, Haley Sweets! What you thinking, standing there like a goofball statue when there’s work to be done? Help Mona! Right now!”

Haley Sweets—acne like strawberry fields—gazed at Shenda with besotted puppy love. He gulped, sending a hypertrophied Adam’s apple yo-yoing, said without satire, “Yes sir!” —then trotted obediently off.

Shenda laughed silently.
Boy—we got to find you a woman!

And then she saw Thurman Swan.

Thurman sat on a folding plastic-basketweave lawn chair, his cane hung from the armrest. If his seat had been a gold throne in a Byzantine palace, his enjoyment would obviously not have been increased one iota.

On either side of him stood the gorgeously decorative SinSin Bang and Pepsi Scattergood, owner-beauticians of Kwik Kuts. SinSin was half-Vietnamese, half-Chinese, one of the few good things to come out of the last border war between those two countries. Pepsi was a Nordic-Anglo mix who—Shenda had always privately observed to herself—resembled no one so much as that infamous comix icon, Cherry Poptart.

The two women were fussing inordinately over Thurman. All they lacked for their role of
houris
were giant palm fronds to fan him with.

“Can I get you some more juice, Thurman?”

“Would you like another cushion, Thurman?”

“Is that sun too much for you?”

“Have some potato chips, Thurman! They’re fresh!”

A burst of jealousy ignited like a Roman candle in Shenda’s chest. What did those two think they were
doing
!

Ever since Shenda had told Pepsi and SinSin that Thurman had admired her pedicure— Shenda’s footwork their handiwork—they had taken a silly fancy to him.

“You know how rare it is for a
man
to notice something like that, Shenda?”

“And then to say it
out loud
in a
public place
!”

“Wow!”

Additionally, Thurman’s sickly condition had sent their unfulfilled maternal nursing instincts into overdrive.

It was all very innocent and probably good for them all.

But somehow, today, it made Shenda’s blood percolate!

Shenda marched over.

When Thurman spotted her, he got guiltily to his feet.

“Un, hi, Shen—”

Shenda cut off the feeble greeting. “You, Swan—come with me!”

“I’ll be right back—”

“No, you won’t! Hurry up!”

Shenda stalked off, leaving Thurman to stump after her.

When they were some distance away, Shenda stopped under the semiconcealing foliage of a willow. Fronds whispered at her passage. Thurman caught up and leaned gratefully against the trunk, out of breath.

“Do you know what those two are?” demanded Shenda. Without waiting for an answer, she spat, “They’re lovers! Lesbians!
Lipstick
lesbians!”

Thurman looked puzzled. “So what? I can’t be friends with them? It’s not like I want babies or anything.”

Shenda’s ire deflated. She lowered her head and pinched her brow. “Oh my god, what am I
saying
? They’re my friends too. I don’t care they’re lesbians. I never even thought twice about it before! I swear it! That’s not
me
!”

Thurman moved next to Shenda. Cane in his right hand, he took her left in his. He didn’t press any advantage that her confusion provided, but simply said, “Don’t worry about it, Shenda. You must have a lot on your mind.”

Shenda felt immense gratitude for the sympathy. The same tactical pause she employed not to prejudge others, she now used to forgive herself. “I do, I do! In fact—” she consulted her watch “—I’ve got a meeting to call to order that’s already late!”

“Let’s go then.”

People were already gathering expectantly about the central focus of the bandstand, growing quiet and alert. The crowd parted for Shenda, and she found Thurman somehow still behind her, his face drained from the small exertions.

“Oh, shit, I am so sorry I dragged you around like this!”

“I —I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

“Listen—you can’t stand for the whole time, and the only seat is up there with me. Do you mind?”

“Nuh-no,” panted Thurman.

They ascended the three stairs, finding themselves amid the band’s equipment and instruments. Thurman collapsed onto Buddy Cheetah’s drumset stool. Shenda picked up the microphone and tested it. It was on. With a backward glance to make sure Thurman was okay, she shifted into business mode and began.

“This meeting of Karuna, Inc., is now officially underway. Can I have the minutes of the last meeting, please? Ellen Woodrose, are you out there?”

Business was conducted. People ascended the stage as called. Officers read reports. Motions were proposed. Yays and nays were tallied. People were praised or confronted. Plans were debated and modified. Arguments expired in compromise. Agreements were reached. No blood was spilled.

At last Shenda was able to utter one of her favorite sentences. “If there is no more business, then this meeting is adjourned—”

Chef Mona called loudly out from the mass of people. “Shenda, I got a shortage of help and grill space today! Which should I cook first? The veggie burgers or the meat?”

The crowd went into noisy spasms. “The meat, the meat!” “No, the falafel first!”

Then an anonymous voice called out: “Let the dogs vote!”

The whole crowd took up the absurd chant: “Let the dogs vote! Let the dogs vote!”

Children ran off screaming to herd the romping packs up to the tables. Like a madman’s cattle drive, the dogs were chivvied toward the food tables.

Shenda knew them all by sight. Spaniels, briards, whippets, shepherds, Scotties, terriers, Great Danes, greyhounds, sheep dogs and many a miscegenetic mongrel. Hounds and lapdogs, hunters and retrievers. Ten thousand years of human-inspired breeding. There was French Fry, Slinky Dog, Muzzletuff, Often- bark, E. Collie, Dogberry, Wagstaff, Nixon, Tuff Gong, Gromit, G-Spot, Snake, Whiskey, Deedles, Subwoofer—and dozens more.

And of course, sticking out like a bright bouncy beachball, the resplendent Bullfinch.

The kids had succeeded in massing the dogs around Chef Mona. In her hands, she held two patties: one meat, one bean. The crowd fell still as Arctic night.

Strangely, the dogs too had grown calm and composed. They seemed aware of the responsibility that had devolved on them.

Mona bent and offered the patties.

Not a single dog moved forward out of the ring. Instead, they seemed to consult with muted growls and ear prickings among themselves.

Then one animal emerged from the pack as if nominated by the rest, strutting with immense dignity right up to his own personal canine Judgment of Paris.

Bullfinch.

And without a second’s hesitation he chose the falafel.

Half the crowd applauded, half booed, before dissolving into a disorganized surge toward the buffet.