Chapter 10

Fri., Jun 22, 7:12 p.m., Place d’Armes Hotel

Avoiding Nikolai Valentino is tricky business, especially if your name, for the time being, anyway, happens to be Karl Cerullo. In his tapioca colored suite at the Place d’Armes Hotel, he has solace. To and from the suite, however, it’s a minefield.

In order to attain the safety of his quarters, Karl must walk in through either the lobby or the garage, up either of the elevators to the fourth floor when he then must make a pivotal decision, whether to walk the hall with the exact same carpet as in the movie, The Shining, the same hallway that passes the newly named Executive Offices of the Valentino Corporation, or he can opt to go the other direction, past the conference rooms, down the 1968 lime green Dodge Dart colored hall and back around to the suites. Either way, there’s danger lurking around every corner, and that danger smells like Stalingrad.

Karl Cerullo is sure that Nick decided to build both the corporate offices and the new conference center on the fourth floor just so he could better keep an eye on him. Back in the old days of the Soviet Union, the men never trusted each other, a fact that hasn’t changed much since.

Not that Karl has much of anything to hide from Nick; he just can’t stand the man, and every conversation he has to have with him brings Karl one day closer to the day he will take an ice pick and stab himself in the eye, ending it all forever.

Today, he will sharpen his ice pick.

“Karl,” Nikolai Valentino says outside the corporate offices, right smack in the middle of The Shining.

“Hello, Nick.”

“It’s been a few days since we last spoke. Are you aware that V.I., a company of which you are an honorary board member, has reached an agreement to buy Applebee’s, the world’s favorite neighborhood grill?”

“Yeah, Nick, I’d heard something to that effect. Congratulations.”

“Thanks, Karl.” Nick wrings his hands together. “We’re going to make a real splash by introducing the world to product placement in the eatery. What do you think about that?”

“It sounds amazing, truly inspirational.”

“Yes, indeed it is.”

“Well, hey, I’m just here to go get reenergized, you know, the whole alien thing, but, um, it was great chatting with you.”

“Indeed.”

Fri., Jun 22, 7:14 p.m., Place d’Armes Hotel

Located in each suite in the residents’ wing of the Place d’Armes Hotel is something called a regenerator. Each of the residents of the hotel were brought to New Orleans by a team of alien psychologists who wanted to study the effect on humans (more specifically, soon-to-be-important historical figures) of an alien psychological phenomenon called historical displacement. This procedure involves removing people from their positions of power a split second before the time of death. The aliens then beam the humans to a laboratory (in this case, a hotel in the French Quarter) where the subjects must return nightly to regenerate. There is one catch, however: they must regenerate for a few seconds in every twenty-four hour period. Otherwise, they begin a rapid aging process (the aliens call it vericociosity) that causes the subject to shrivel like a rotting vegetable in a time-lapse video. The long-term effects of this procedure on humans has the effect of removing 1.34 years of aging for every ten years of regeneration. At 131 years old, Lenin looks to be not a day over forty-five.

Basically, the regenerator looks like a small metallic cobra, one that has two handles instead of a tail end. In order to use the device, the resident grabs the handles and places what would be the head of serpent on his or her forehead. A small electric current feels like it’s flowing through the person’s body and then, after a few seconds, it emits a beep, a noise that sounds like a squawking blue jay, and then it’s done. As long as the regenerator is applied every day, the subject can go on living. If not, well, ashes to ashes, etc. Unfortunately, the regenerator is not mobile, so the residents, whether they like it or not, must stay in town. Really, the aliens could make a mobile version of the device, but it would make tracking their subjects a whole lot more difficult. This way, they can keep tabs on everyone involved.

Karl Cerullo loathes the process, but for now, anyway, loathes the alternative more. A simple squeeze and a dot to the head, and he’s done.

Fri., Jun 22, 7:25 p.m., 626 St. Ann, #2A

Maggie Flick wipes the condensation off of her apartment’s front window so that she can see the entrance to the Place d’Armes hotel. Her vantage point, being on the second floor and directly across the street, allows her a perfect spot to chronicle the comings and goings at this most bizarre of establishments. She has, in her grade-school style composition book, documented at least thirty-seven people she believes to have permanent residence in the building, most of whom bear a striking resemblance to somebody famous and dead.

Laying on her stomach propped up on one elbow, on the top of her Palais Royale silk sheets, Maggie Flick gnaws on a cracker, allowing the crumbs to collect in the center of her notebook. She’s happy to be home; the time in the hospital was more likely to make her crazy than coming across the walking deceased. And best of all, now that she’s home, she can return to chronicling the comings and goings at the Place d’Armes.

Fri., Jun 22, 7:28 p.m., an entry into the journal of Maggie Flick

6/22 7:30 pm

Tonight has been rather fast paced outside the morgue. In the last 30 minutes or so, I’ve seen VL hurry inside as fast as possible, per his usual. AS dropped off IB and waited around for a few minutes. IB returned and they both headed north. No sightings of JS, but he’s a busy man. I’m sure he’ll be out and about soon enough. He’s easy enough to spot; the limo precedes him, always. I’m hungry, but all I have in the house that hasn’t spoiled are crackers. Might walk up the street later and see if AS and IB are at the Bombay Club and see what kind of entertainment the dead might be taking in this evening. Or may just head Uptown tonight. Haven’t decided, something has to give in this food situation, and that something is probably me.

VL just raced out of the front door like he’d been shot out of a cannon. I think I might have just spotted the new guy, who I believe is PT, but I haven’t figured it out for sure. He’s been here a solid month, and that’s a long time for a tourist. PT is a curious person to be included here. More on that later.

Can’t wait for what tomorrow brings.

It’s good to be back home.


Fri., Jun 22, 7:49 p.m., The Bulldog

Sunshine’s bright pink Nokia E62 phone, email, dog catcher, non-violent protester starts to ring on the bar.

“Hello?” she says. “Oh, hey. Hold on a sec. It’s loud in here. Let me walk outside.”

Lush Muffin, bouncing to the tune on the sound system, looks at Art for a moment and then looks away. She wants him to be cute, really, because he is such a nice guy with a steady income and lots of great friends, but the curly hair, the damned curly hair. If only he shaved it off, then maybe. But the hair, like he wakes up every morning and puts in tiny little rollers really tight, kind of like the bottom of George Washington’s wig, but brown and with even smaller, tighter curls. Lush Muffin calls it honeycomb hair, a truly unfortunate tonsorial handicap.

“Hey Art?”

“Yes?” Arthur Cole is drinking a vodka and orange juice, milking it, really, hoping he can keep ahead of Lush Muffin. The thinking is, if he can get her drunk enough, maybe she’ll want to sleep with him.

“Have you ever thought about shaving your head?”

“Are you serious? I’ve got great hair.”

Lush Muffin casually sips her Ketel One greyhound. “Hrmp,” she mutters.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you not think I have great hair? I’m not going bald, there’s no gray, and it’s immaculately coiffed.”

“I was just curious if you’d ever considered it.” A shiver runs down her spine as she imagines running her fingers through the tiny curls. “You know, for a lark?”

“It has never occurred to me. And now that you bring it up and it has occurred to me, I can say I am certain it will never happen.”

Sunshine reappears, her hips dancing in tiny circles. “Hey, I just got off the phone with Karl. He called to tell me he’s down at Dos Jefe’s and says I should get up there because there is some kind of cop convention taking place there, a bunch of FBI and other federal types there. He referred to them as my type, whatever that means.”

Arthur Cole grimaces.

“Lawmen? Like in uniform?” Lush Muffin asks excitedly.

“I don’t know,” Sunshine replies like a toy poodle hopped up on amphetamines, “but I sure know I want to go find out. Boys! This is so romantic,” she squeals.

“Um, Sunshine,” Art offers, “don’t you remember the batshit insanity thing?”

“You told me yourself. We were dosed.”

Arthur Cole imagines a perfectly good evening swirling down the opposite direction of a South American toilet.