Читать книгу The Book Of Schemes - Marcus Calvert - Страница 7

Rita Kolansky strolled toward a busy intersection, stopped, and waited for the traffic light to change. The tall runway model’s long, stylishly-dyed red hair was lightly blown about by a soft summer breeze under a clear sunny sky. Still beautiful enough to turn heads, her lovely azure eyes glanced down at the Cartier watch on her left wrist. As the light changed, Rita’s red Prada heels made hardly a sound as she gracefully strolled along the crosswalk. The model almost felt like she was on display in the raspberry-hued summer dress, which she had actually modeled five years ago. Its silk reminded her of better, younger days when she was in high demand and updated her wardrobe on a monthly basis.

But time had stolen her modeling spark.

In the lifespan of runway models, Rita was in the “out-to-pasture” age of thirty-seven. And no amount of surgery could delay the inevitable signs of aging – either on her face or on her soul. The flow of modeling jobs had been reduced to a trickle and her lavish lifestyle was fading away. On top of that, she was too independent and short-tempered to marry a wealthy man and “retire” comfortably. Thus, Rita came here at the guidance of a colleague who once needed “special assistance” with her post-modeling lifestyle as well.

Rita paused outside of Perfection’s Edge and regarded the renovated two-story brick-and-mortar building. Once a bank, it went under during the savings and loan debacle of the early 1990’s. Soon after, the building’s ground level was turned into an overpriced hair salon. Located just outside of Boston’s business district, Rita heard that it attracted a lot of the white-collar corporate types. While the building looked harmless enough, something about it irked her. When told about this place, Rita was promised that the owners could revive her modeling career … for a price. The idea of paying a “price” amused Rita, seeing as she felt that she had nothing left to lose.

And with that sad realization, her hesitation went away.

Rita opened the door and allowed it to close behind her as she looked around. While the establishment looked plain on the outside, it was elegant within. The floors and ceilings were of a dark green marble. Mirrors were strategically placed, as were abstract portraits. The model recognized some of the paintings from various promotional appearances at the homes of rich clothing designers and realized that these were original works … and they weren’t cheap. Rita figured that the owner(s) sank more money into interior design than the building was worth.

The stylists were all dressed in loose-fitting crimson uniforms and were very busy, too. All fourteen stylist chairs were filled, with ten more customers patiently waiting their turn. Some read the salon’s trendy stash of current magazines. Others watched the news from a large, flat-screen TV in a corner of the room. Most of the gender-mixed clientele were professionally-dressed and upper-middle class. Unless a haircut required a second mortgage, Rita figured that Perfection’s Edge had to be more than just an upscale beauty salon.

“May I help you?” A cute young stylist asked, as she deftly manipulated her female customer’s drying black hair.

“Yes,” Rita replied as she pulled a black card from her purse and handed it over. The stylist’s middle-aged customer saw nothing but a blank black card. The stylist, however, saw the word “Vanity” upon it in fancy gold lettering – as did Rita.

“He’s in the basement,” the stylist said as she nodded toward a closed door that read EMPLOYEES ONLY.

“Thanks,” Rita nervously replied said as she went through the door and down a flight of well-lit stairs. The stairs descended three continuous stories, without any landings. Halfway down, the fluorescent lighting had dimmed enough for her to notice. She felt as if she were heading into a subway tunnel. At the bottom, Rita found herself in a long, narrow basement lined with brick walls and white linoleum floor tiles. More florescent ceiling lights illuminated the room. Along the far left side were seven furnished and occupied desks, each against the wall. Beyond the desks was a plain-looking exit door.

Each desk had a guest chair positioned next to it.

The first desk was occupied by an older, plain-faced Asian woman in her apparent mid-50’s. Expensively-dressed and adorned in fancy jewelry, she reclined in a plain chair and was listening to her messages. In her right hand was a sleek cell phone. In her left was a pair of gold coins, which she deftly maneuvered between her manicured fingers. She noticed Rita and gave her a polite nod.

As the model passed her by, she noticed a fancy nameplate on the woman’s desk that simply read “Greed.” Rita paused for a moment, opened her mouth to ask about the nameplate, but then thought better of it. If these people want to go by aliases, Rita thought, that’s none of my business.

She moved onward.

At the second desk, Rita passed a fat, unkempt man surfing through fantasy football sites on his PC as he absent-mindedly waved off some flies. Apparently, his work area was such a food-cluttered pigsty that it attracted a menagerie of ants, roaches, maggots, and flies. His sweat-stained white shirt strained to keep his enormous gut from pouring over his gray, food-stained slacks. The stench he emitted was ten times worse than anything she’d ever smelled in her life. His nameplate read “Sloth.” As she passed, he grinned at her with yellowed teeth.

Rita involuntarily cringed.

The third desk’s nameplate read “Envy” and was occupied by what appeared to be a bratty-looking teenage girl with metal braces and too much makeup. Dressed in a black skirt, black turtleneck, and matching boots, Envy regarded Rita with a strange smile before she went back to perusing a stack of manila file folders.

Wrath, a thin man of modest height, a balding head, and deeply reddened face, was in the middle of an argument. Rita noticed that his gray trousers, plain white shirt, and black suspenders were all designer quality. He was shouting in Italian and completely ignored her as she passed. Oddly enough, a wave of anger flashed through her as she moved past him.

Lust was a well-toned Latino with a bad comb-over who leaned back in his chair and regarded her with a horny smile. Four of his front teeth were gold. She pegged him to be a bit south of forty, with penetrating black eyes. His purple zoot suit reminded her of a stereotypical pimp costume (but without the “pimp hat”). Rita noticed that he was surfing porn sites on his computer as she passed.

She reached Pride’s desk and the handsome older fellow who occupied it. His feet were propped up on the desk as he tapped a pen upon a blank notepad. He patiently held a phone at his ear – clearly on-hold. Everything about him looked perfect: from his neat desk, gleaming black leather shoes, immaculate dark-gray suit, and even the dyed-black hairs on his thick head of hair. Pride gave her an appraising glance and then flashed her a perfect smile.

Rita looked past Pride and realized that Vanity was even better-looking than Pride – with his blonde curls, the look of someone in his late twenties, and a trimmed swimmer’s physique. He wore an all-white Armani suit, blue shirt, and a pair of black diamond earrings in each ear. For a half-second, she was attracted to him. Then she spotted the stack of gay-oriented magazines on his desk.

“May I help you?” Vanity asked with a high-pitched voice.

“Yes,” Rita replied with a hint of disappointment as she handed him the black card. “I understand that you help people with their problems?”

“Absolutely,” he replied with an effeminate wave of his hand. “Have a seat.”

Rita sat.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m having trouble finding modeling jobs. My friend, Grace Westerly, said that you could – maybe – help me get back into the field. But she was vague on exactly how you could do that.”

“Yet you came here anyway,” Vanity sympathetically replied. “Things are that bad?”

Rita nodded with embarrassment. What little money she had saved/invested over the years was all but gone. She was in debt up to her eyeballs. To top it off, her loft was two months away from foreclosure.

“Would you like your youth back?”

“Anyone would,” Rita lightly joked. “But you can’t fight Time.”

“I’m serious,” Vanity replied as he reached into his desk and pulled out an ovular, antique mirror.

He handed it to Rita, who gasped as she gazed into it and caught a reflection of her younger self – when she was about sixteen. The model grinned as she thought back to those times. Her career was just starting to roll. The parties, the men, and the money – it was all too easy back then …

Her mind suddenly snapped back to the reality and the impossibility of this.

“How did you - ?”

“Don’t worry about the pesky details,” Vanity interrupted with a grin. “Do you want to be young again or not?”

“Hell yes!” Rita said with a smile.

“An interesting choice of words,” Vanity replied as he produced a contract and an old-fashioned fountain pen.

Rita’s quick mind connected the dots … and then she laughed. Her melodic guffaw made the other partners turn and regard her with varying expressions. Vanity glanced over his shoulder at them and shrugged. Then he regarded his prospective client.

“This arrangement is very real,” Vanity insisted with a serious edge in his tone. “I’m offering you twenty-one years of youth, in exchange for your soul.”

“I know,” Rita said through her laughter as her youthful reflection laughed with her. “You can’t fake that!”

Vanity regarded the mirror, a bit thrown-off.

“You expect me to toss out my immortal soul for only – and I repeat, only – twenty-one years of youth?! Are you nuts?! That’s a shit deal and you know it!”

The physical manifestation of Vanity leaned back into his chair with a satisfied grin. It had been four years since one of his clients had the stones to haggle with him.

“Your friend, Grace, thought it was a good deal.”

Rita frowned with curiosity.

Grace wasn’t younger or better looking. In fact, the aging model had put on thirty pounds of “ice cream thighs” since she quit modeling, some ten years ago. Grace was lucky enough to marry a middle-aged dot-com millionaire, have a few kids, and enjoy spending his considerable wealth. As far as Rita was concerned, Grace had the good life. What else could she want?

“What did she sell her soul for?”

“Wealth, children, a controllable husband, and a long life that was free of disease,” Vanity replied.

“She cut that deal with you?”

“No,” Vanity replied, pleased that Rita was more than just a pretty face. “Greed, Pride, and Sloth handled the negotiations.”

Rita looked over at the other associates, who had returned to their various activities.

“She still got a shit-deal,” Rita muttered. “When she dies, Grace is going to burn in Hell.”

“Maybe you can make a better deal,” Vanity purred. “Think of it, Rita: anything you could possibly wish for could be yours.”

Rita shook her head and rose to her feet. She wasn’t a saint. In fact, she was quite the bitch. Her scorecard of deeds was a mixed bag of sins and kind acts. And through her early mid-life crisis, the model had never much pondered the existence of Hell. But now that she knew that it was real, the thought disturbed her. She turned and started to walk away, when it hit her.

“Grace sent me to you,” Rita said, more to herself, as she turned back to face Vanity. “Why?”

“Well,” Pride cut in, with a deep and elegant voice. “About five months after signing her soul away, Grace came back and signed out an addendum.”

Rita paused to weigh Pride’s words. Then her face slowly turned red.

“Let me guess: Grace sends you X number of clients and the bitch gets her soul back?!”

“Correct,” Pride said with a proud nod. “I negotiated the terms myself.”

“How many souls did she have to send your way?”

“100 souls within ten years of signing the contract,” Vanity chimed in. “Potentially, you’re the 90^th client.”

Tears of rage began to appear in Rita’s eyes as she reached into her purse and tossed Vanity’s card to the floor.

“If I had a dick, I’d piss on both of you!” Rita yelled as she turned to storm away.

Still on the phone, Wrath glanced over at her as she passed him … and smiled approvingly. Rita headed back toward the stairs.

“Why the anger?” Greed asked with a soft, tempting voice. “One hundred successful referrals and you could regain both your youth and your soul with the stroke of a pen.”

Rita gave Greed a scornful grin.

“Like God would let me in after something like that!” she spat.

Without another word, the aging model turned and stormed up the stairs … leaving all types of evil behind her.