A Dark Comedy About a Killer Competition
Grab the Groom
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER THREE
Deep in the bowels of the jet, inside the false bottom of a black leather case, perforated to allow airflow, Cleopatra lay, sated by her last meal. Her metabolism slowed as low as it could go, lethargic in the chill dark.
The thrumming of the plane’s engines would have upset her if she’d been warmer. Unlike the repeated movements of her human, these vibrations were anxiety producing, similar to those of a big cat’s rhythmic chuffing when prey is trapped. And, in jaguar country, Cleopatra would be a tasty, if dangerous, meal. Ancient memories activated easily in the deepest, most primitive parts of her brain.
She had no thoughts of where she had been or where she was going, concentrating instead on the digestion of rat pelt and succulent flesh, down to the bones. In the cold, her gut moved as sluggishly as her mind, compacting the indigestible into a pellet she’d vomit up later.
Irwin was trying his best to relax as they headed to the airport. He and Brad had four eager investors and an equal number of girls in tow. Not to mention Suzanne and Brad’s kid—the lawyer had made sure of that. Their private jet was waiting.
The production staff and crew were already on location in France, getting things set up with the help of the local hires they’d been able to snag. The contestants were traveling across the ocean via commercial jet. The Groom, the principal player, their prized leading man was hidden in a locked suite, awaiting the Big Reveal. That way, neither the paparazzi nor the contestants could get a sneak peek to post on every trash celebrity site.
The main investor, the moneyman, the Sausage King, wasn’t fat, as Irwin had pictured a sausage king would be, not even as chubby as Irwin’s departed father, whose hairless limbs had been like an overfed baby’s. The Sausage King was tall and saturnine, towering over Irwin’s five-foot, seven-inch frame, and thin in a peculiarly boneless way, making him sway like kelp when he moved. His face was long and oddly shaped, almost crocodilian. But he had billions and an unquenchable desire to associate with the glamorous world of celebrity, so he had become one of the new network’s biggest sources of ready cash.
The King continued, “My wife finds your partner devastatingly handsome—sees his picture on all those celebrity sites and on TV discussion shows. But I guess putting up with her hopeless crush is easier than having your girls trying to bed him.”
“Ain’t it the truth?” Irwin answered, flicking his pen between his fingers. Something had to be the truth, but he didn’t want the investors figuring out how scarce that something was. They were all from places like Omaha, where they shipped the steaks sold online. They’d learned the Beverly Hills lifestyle from the Actual Housewives series and loved the lowbrow glam of Grab the Groom, which they watched with their chronically dissatisfied wives. Most of all, they loved the girls who were so… How should he put it? So unchallenging, so retro, so Miss America. So overly-lipsticked and nail-polished and decked-out—in a way that hinted of a desperate desire to please men. Or please desperate men willing to put dollars where they wished their dicks could go.
The agreement Grab the Groom had with the contestants was: anything a girl made by entertaining them was hers to keep—but only after the Groom eliminated her. It was all laid out in the contracts.
Irwin sighed and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. The extra effort he’d gone to for this trip, locking down their privacy, would be casting pearls before swine. But they still had to provide the expected luxury and glam: Kobe beef, Fourchu lobster (butter-poached), and coddled baby vegetables, tender and precious. The plane’s seats were upholstered in supple unborn lambskin, the cabin crew a visual delight in striking black and white designer outfits.
But the Sausage King… He always stirred memories of Irwin’s chronically disapproving father, making him a tough sell. Where was Brad, who usually did the charm, the bon-vivanting? Irwin was assigned the scheming and Hebraic penny-counting. Both playing to expected stereotype. Neither set of tasks difficult as the Grab the Groom franchise was wildly successful.
The investors had yet to lose money and Irwin was determined that they never would. No Ponzi scheme shit for them. No prison. Glamour enough to go around—the funds skimmed off the top weren’t at the expense of the backers’ profits.
And as for the inconvenient kid Ana Maria was foisting on them? Irwin would just tell everyone Brad refused to be parted from her, turning a misdeed into a mitzvah, a blessing. People who didn’t know him might believe it.
In the spirit of friendliness, he turned back to the Sausage King. “Have you ever considered investing in a real artistic production?”
Crossing from the deluxe airport lounge to their private plane, Brad was followed closely by Suzanne with Hortensia. They’d almost reached the jet’s stairs when the little girl halted, leaned back on her heels, and screamed, “Kimmie!”
Brad wheeled around. The loathsome doll was lying fifty feet back on the tarmac, face down with arms and legs splayed out as if flattened by a heavy weight. Depressed by the sight of the ugly thing, he froze as Hortensia pulled away to get the doll.
Suzanne ran after Hortensia and hoisted the kid to her chest, staggering under the weight. As they moved closer to Brad, Hortensia, holding Kimmie, sagged in Suzanne’s arms, dropping lower and lower, weird LED-lighted sneakers twinkling on and off, pink, baby blue, and yellow. The stockholders looked on, aghast.
“Brad,” Irwin hissed, “get down there and help, for crissakes!”
That broke the spell. Brad darted down the steps. He grabbed Hortensia’s middle and tugged. But his kid refused to let go of Suzanne, and the three of them did a clumsy waltz before awkwardly stumbling as one. Finally, they made it into the plane. The entire time, Brad played to his audience, plastering a smile on his face, despite breathing harder than he had in months.
He collapsed into one of the seats, wondering how he could lift weights five times a week with a personal trainer and still be exhausted after carrying a five-year-old.
“Kids,” the Sausage King, said with his weird reptilian smile. “Dead weights. Millstones around your neck. Always in the way. Got three myself, all boys, home with the old ball and chain. Should’ve left yours home.”
Why did Brad have the overwhelming urge to tell this guy to shut his pie hole? Irwin’s hand crept over his back and patted his shoulder. That calmed him enough to handle the situation.
His daughter was in Suzanne’s lap, arms wrapped around her neck like a baby orangutan around its mother, and his assistant was smiling beatifically down at her. He felt a sudden longing to be next to them. Should he move to the long couch and ask them to join him? He shook his head to clear those thoughts away. Business first. Schmoozing. Irwin had done his part; time for Brad to do his. So instead of moving, he locked his seatbelt and settled in for the flight.
When the door closed and the plane taxied down the runway to a smooth lift-off and an even smoother cruising altitude, Brad turned his attention to the investors. He walked back and slid into the seat next to The King. “So, sausage, eh?” Brad said. “Interesting. Tough to slide the casing on, I imagine. Two- hand job.”
“Got automation now, but yeah, tough to do right. Fortunately for me, we have good workers. Let’s me move on to creative work.” He sucked on his teeth while Brad kept his eyes from rolling. “My granddad’s whole family made sausages. He built a factory in Omaha and we continue his traditional flavorings. Particularly delicious blood sausage! White sausage, too!”
A sudden thud. The Sausage King’s body snapped forward and bounced back. They’d been told to anticipate turbulence but no one else seemed disturbed.
“You okay?” Brad asked.
“Yeah. Must have been a bump but felt like someone kicked my seat.” The Sausage King turned to look behind him. The nearest seats were too far away for anyone’s leg to have reached him.
Snapping his fingers for the air hostess to bring more drinks, Brad was mystified, too.
He moved across the aisle and motioned, oh so discreetly, for a girl to sit next to the King.
Mabel DeVine wandered the manor house, sucking down one cigarette after another. The local staff had tarted up the place to welcome the show, replacing the high-deco style on which her darling Maxim had spent so lavishly. No one had discovered the dead girl, whose corpse should be scaring off the living, so the infestation of human reality vermin was still on its way.
The manor had been merely a stage for her in the old days. Countess Mabel de Summer, the Toast of Gay Paree, the Queen of Hollywood, hostess extraordinaire for endless hot summer weekends, when louche champagne drunks motored up in limousines to cavort in the surf. Meanwhile Mabel stood smoking cliff-top, a slender vamp, glittering diamonds adorning her turban, looking down on her guests, the star of her own show.
That was then, this was now, when the guest rooms had all been split in two so the contestants would have private rooms with en suite bathrooms replacing the old chamber pots. The beds sported tacky brocade counterpanes to keep away the night air—perhaps the chill Mabel could generate would counter that coziness and spark fear at staying the night.
One of the public areas, a massive room in which Mabel had once held balls for royalty, was set up as the main filming area, sectioned with movable walls faux painted to appear old. There were towering fake flower arrangements and potted plants that brought color and life to the beige walls. They also created “private” nooks for assignations. Interesting. Plenty of places to find the enemy alone and waiting to have the pants scared off them.
From the middle of the plane’s cabin, Irwin saw little Hortensia dart behind the Sausage King, lift one leg—with astonishing grace for someone her height and heft—and kick the rear of his seat. She twirled about as she landed and, as she passed on the way back to Suzanne, stared at Irwin with a peculiar steady gaze from beneath lowered brows. Sweat broke out on his brow. It was obvious she dared him to call her out. “No fuckin’ way,” he muttered under his breath, forcing his eyes away.
Mid-Atlantic, they hit the predicted turbulence, more dramatic than anticipated. Bumps caused steaks, champagne and lobster to bounce about the cabin and spilled expensive booze onto expensive suits. One of the contestants seized the opportunity to throw her arms around the neck of the closest investor, who clutched her in return, a bit lower than the neck.
Everyone was queasy or outright vomiting. Everyone but Hortensia. She raced, shrieking with delight up and down the aisles. Her low center of gravity protected from falls as the plane bounced its way through the clouds. Heavy weather obscured the tumultuous sea far below. The pilot took the plane higher, above the storm until the descent, where they encountered even more disturbance.
Their trip wasn’t to go as planned—another huge storm was brewing in the North Sea, extending to the English Channel, making landing at Le Havre’s airport perilous. They diverted to Paris, with transportation arranged to Normandy, though there was still no guarantee they’d reach their destination.
Brad wiped the sick sweat from his forehead. Someone tugged his sleeve and waved something in his face. It was Hortensia with a drawing of two large figures, monsters from the look of them, one small but even more monstrous figure between them. “Mommy, Daddy, and Hort,” she crowed.
A fresh bump. His mouth filled with bile and he pushed her away, only to be startled when she returned to snuggle next to him. She looked up into his eyes and fluttered her eyelashes in what seemed a mockery of adoration.
Returning to his chat with the Sausage King was impossible. His daughter was humming, the sound almost mechanical like the grinding of small stones underfoot. It made his thoughts swirl.
In one of the two seats across the aisle, practically drooling over the girl next to him, the King really did look menacing, a dragon in disguise. He raised one eyebrow and sent Brad a half-concealed smirk.
To Brad, it was like a huge and precariously hung sword above him. He cut his glance to the contestant, a bit of redheaded pulchritude at least two degrees too slutty for the show. She got the hint, purred up against the King like an adolescent cat in her first heat. Brad smiled with gratitude, trying his best to telepathically convey the images of a Mercedes convertible and condo in Vegas, the King bringing sausage to her on gambling trips.
Her eyes wide and fixed, Hortensia also appeared to study the King and the girl. After what seemed an eternity, she held up her doll, pointed at the redhead and exclaimed, “Look Kimmie, that lady is just like Barbie!”
In response, the contestant practically twinkled. She cooed, “Aren’t you the cleverest little thing! So, so sweet!” The Sausage King put his arm around her shoulders. “Did you hear that? She thinks I look like Barbie!”
For the first time in Brad’s life, a beautiful, all-too-available girl repulsed him. And yet he couldn’t pull his eyes away from the russet tangle about her face. He pictured the King huge as Godzilla, ripping off her head and crushing her torso into a pancake.
Hortensia’s humming grew ever more dissonant. She smiled into her father’s face, then left his row to curl up against Suzanne. Looking for a moment like an innocent child, she yawned and fell asleep. And, for a moment, Suzanne looked like the mother he’d like to have for his kids.
The old convent’s nuns were right where Mabel had left them. Under the protection of the cloister’s roof, they faced each other in two lines, hands folded, drab black hoods covering all but their moving lips.
“Come on, ladies!” Mabel said. “Can the chanting. There’s work to be done. A lot of cardinal sins will be played out here. You could save quite a few souls.”
The susurration continued without any sign they heard. Praying was all they could do, stuck in the same place for almost four hundred and fifty years. If all their praying hadn’t set them free, didn’t let them contact the living, what chance did a libertine like Mabel DeVine have?
Depressing, but there was no one else to talk to and that had nearly driven her cuckoo. A star needed an audience, so she’d talk to them until someone else arrived. Someone who could see and hear her.
That day might never come. Mabel lit another cigarette and thoughtfully blew smoke under the veils. No reaction. She headed up the crumbling bell turret, to ring the ghostly bell, the original having been melted down to make cannon balls. The sound was low and mournful, like the distant rumble of a coming storm. Maybe that would sow a soupcon of fear in the approaching horde.
There wasn’t room in the limo for everyone. Irwin begged and pleaded with the rental agency but was told that, due to the storm, there were no other cars to be hired. Nothing to be done but send some of their group on the chartered bus with the contestants.
He gritted his teeth at the wasted expense of the private jet. He and Brad conferred, selected the two less attractive girls of the four they’d brought and sent them, with Suzanne and Hortensia, on the bus. Then they climbed into the limo with the rest of their party and opened a bottle of champagne.
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