The Devil Always Collects Page 7

  Holy shit. Was this Charlotte’s doing or was it Mandy Morris? Who cares, it’s Vegas, baby! I was definitely back in the saddle. Vegas this weekend and then a Mardi Gras Ball next Tuesday. Cinder-fucking-ella! Nothing formal about Vegas though. I had clothes for that wild place. Shorts and jeans by day and party dresses and low cut tops by night.

  “What am I supposed to do for them in Vegas? Do they have a PR problem?” I asked.

  “No problems. The Council of Sugar Refiners has pooled money to create a new PR campaign for the sugar industry. Sugar is getting a bad reputation these days. Some are saying it is responsible for the obesity crisis in America, and there are scientific research papers that conclude it is one of the primary sources of inflammation throughout the body. Mayor Bloomberg in New York City tried to limit the size of sugary drinks in his city. They beat him in the courts but the sugar council’s members are worried about the sentiment spreading. They want to shape sugar’s image more positively,” Sarah said.

  “OK, I’ll pull my old file and bone up on the details of Superior’s acquisition of cane fields in South America and research what people are saying about sugar,” I said. Whoa, who was I kidding? I knew that South American deal inside out. I could handle this assignment in my sleep. I had also heard everything disparaging people had to say about sugar. High fructose corn syrup came from corn, and I came from a corn farm. Been hearing bad things about sugar all my life. I could hear my Dad’s words ringing in my ears. “Sugar makes the world easier to swallow.” Vegas, baby. Bourbon time!

  On my way back to my cube, I got a call from Prince Charming, aka Tom.

  “Hi, Alexandra, I’m downtown today. Would you like to meet me at Mother’s on Poydras for lunch?” he asked.

  Hell, yeah, I thought, but answered, “That would be nice.” Nice? It was perfect. I’d have a chance to learn more about him. Then, when I’m in Vegas, I can tell Charlotte everything and see if he lied to me. I really shouldn’t think like that but what the hell, a girl’s got to be careful these days.

  Once in the privacy of my cube, I had one of those moments. The kind you have when a thought you’ve fought hard to suppress takes over your whole body. My mother and father were gone, both taken from me too soon. I was very much alone in this world. I felt like I should be wearing black and observing a respectable mourning period, not heading to Sin City for debauchery. Then I asked myself, what would my parents want? My dad’s spirit would want to drive me to Vegas in his truck. My mom was certainly looking down, so very proud that her college graduate daughter was so successful that clients trusted no one but her to help with important business transactions. I laid my head on my desk and said a thankful prayer. I wanted my words to fly to heaven to let all who dwelt there know that I was proud to be my parents’ daughter.

  Mother’s Restaurant on Poydras Street was within walking distance of my office. The line to get food, as usual, extended nearly out of the door. Tom was waiting outside for me, wearing a pair of tight Levi jeans and a loose T-shirt from the Aquarium of the American.

  “Hi, Alexandra, I’d forgotten how pretty you are,” Tom said.

  I didn’t even bother to blush and said, “Why thank you,” in my best imitation Southern Belle voice. He was so hot. Better looking than I remembered. And that chemistry thing was working again, warmth circulating through my body. Of all the places he could have chosen for lunch, he picked my favorite. We inched forward in line till we reach the buffet-style serving area.

  “Red beans and rice,” I said.

  “Make that two,” he said.

  Holy shit, I can’t believe it. Most people came here for the three napkin roast beef poboys with au jus. He liked what I liked, red beans and rice. We were so in sync. I saw an open table and grabbed it while Tom retrieved our food. Tom told me about his life in California and how environmentally conscious his parents were. He told me he had a brother living in Chicago. I learned how devastating the BP spill was to the ecology of the Gulf of Mexico, particularly the marshes of Louisiana. He said the recovery period would be decades if not centuries. He was so passionate about his career. Tom didn’t care about climbing any personal success ladder. He had a deep love and sensitivity for all creatures and for the planet itself. He viewed the planet as a living, breathing entity. What we did to one part directly affected all other parts.

  “What would you say is the major threat to the preservation of our natural habitats?” I asked.

  His eyes turned from warm, caring, and considerate to cold, steely, and hawkish. His face fell and his body tensed.

  “Mankind,” he answered through clenched teeth.

  Clearing my mind of naughty thoughts, I imagined he would have loved little Alex’s first and last edition of her investigative report scandal sheet, The Daily New Castle World. He probably would have liked little Alex too. But did he like the one with boobs, sitting in front of him? Big boobs, you idiot. Notice them! But he didn’t. I had touched one of his hot buttons and he held forth as if he were an environmental science professor at Tulane.

  “All of the pesticides and herbicides sprayed on all the farms in 38 states and two Canadian provinces make their way into the Mississippi River. That contaminated water flowed downstream, depositing polluted silt along its way throughout the entire delta. When the river finally dumps into the Gulf, it is rife with man-made chemicals and waste. These man-made poisons are deadly to the wildlife. Hurricane Katrina dumped a toxic gumbo into the Gulf to make a bad situation worse. Even our government, whose only real mission is to protect the wealthy corporate polluters, said that the Gulf was deluged with sewage-related bacteria and toxic chemicals during and after Katrina.”

  My heart sunk at the mention of pesticides and herbicides. They gave my mother cancer. I can’t go into that with Tom now. He’s my date for the biggest party of the year, not my father confessor. I decided to lighten up the conversation and talk about the Rex Ball. He seemed genuinely excited and least that’s what I wanted to believe. Dan Broussard had arranged for a limo to pick me up at my condo, which I thought was a great idea since the booze would be flowing, and some might accidentally find its way into me. No need to drive in Mardi Gras traffic anyway. After the ball, we were going to Mr. Broussard’s condo on Bourbon Street for the traditional party. We would be able to stand on the balcony and throw beads to the partiers below. I’ve always been one of the below people. Now I’d be a balcony girl. Cinder-balcony-ella.

  Tom’s face glowed and clearly he loved the idea. He actually liked the French Quarter because it had a nautical flair to it. I guess he was right, considering how close it was to the river and how many pirates had made it their home base. Secretly I thought he just wanted to be with me. Our chemistry was thick and I dreamed of him kissing me.

  We wrapped up lunch, and I headed back to my office. Jenkins summoned me into his office upon my return.

  “Alexandra, you have to watch yourself while in Vegas. Those Morris’ are important clients. They like to party in some crazy ways even for this town. Be careful. Watch yourself around them. Don’t piss them off, but don’t let them fuck you over either. You’ll be on your own. Here’s a credit card. If you need to separate yourself from them and come home, then book your flight and get the hell out of there, no questions asked,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Jenkins, I’m a city girl now,” I said. I think I need to work on my delivery a little more before I say that I’m a city girl out loud again. I didn’t sound too convincing. Who was I kidding? Most of the time I was scared shitless. I still had a long way to go before I became a Sarah or a Jess Johnson.

  He grunted, picked up the phone, and waved me away.”Thank you, Mr. Jenkins. I’ll be extra careful and bolt at the first sign of trouble,” I said as I left his office. He would stroke out if he knew I went to The Cat’s Meow with Mandy and took some stranger home with me. Damn, I’m stupid. Was there more to the Morris’ than I
knew? Of course there was. There was more to everyone than what they show the world.

  I couldn’t help thinking about Tom. There was a mystery to him, but he was so transparently dedicated to saving the planet. Intense, perhaps dangerous, but definitely sexy. Oh shit, was I falling for him? Maybe it was just like my college roommate always said: I just wanted to get laid. I couldn’t trust my feelings right now. Sadness, the loss of my family, my ties with my past, and my very identity were butting up against my new world filled with Mardi Gras balls and Jimmy Choo shoes. I was confused. Besides, Tom wouldn’t even look at my boobs. Gay? Nah! Not with that animal vibe he put off.

  My workday ended without further incident. I promised Zach I would meet him at Cafe Du Monde after work. I hadn’t seen him since my father died and needed to tell him that I couldn’t go to the Rex parade with him. I should tell him about Tom too. After all, I wouldn’t go to a parade with Zach, a good friend, but I was going to a Mardi Gras ball with a guy I hardly know. I sucked as a friend. I just don’t feel the chemistry with Zach.

  “Hi, Alexandra,” Zach said from a table he’d gotten for us by the street.

  “Hi, Zach,” I replied as I sat down, breathing the smell of the beignets wafting through the air.

  Zach got us both a cafe au lait and some beignets for me.

  “So, how are you doing, Alexandra? I am so sorry to hear of your father’s passing,” he said.

  I took a bite my beignet, being careful not to inhale the powdered sugar that coated the top, slurped my coffee and sighed, “I’m fine, Zach. My father had such advanced Alzheimer’s, he’d really passed a long time ago. He’s with my mother now, and I know they are happy.”

  I told Zach about my mother’s letter and how conflicted I was about how to feel about her life and death. Zach looked at me incredulously. I couldn’t figure out why. I didn’t ask or give him a chance to tell me what was on his mind. I needed to tell him about Tom and the Rex parade/ball. I had worked myself up to it and it was now or never.

  “Zach, I have to tell you something that may hurt you. I can’t go with you to the Rex parade. I have a date and am going to the Rex Mardi Gras Ball. I know you’ve asked me out on dates and I haven’t gone, but you know...”

  Before I could say another word, Zach busted out laughing, leaning backwards almost falling out of his chair.

  “You think I wanted to date you? Now, that’s funny. Honey, I’m gay! I have a date that night myself, and I’ll bet that my guy is hotter than yours.” He smiled and winked at me.

  “Gay? Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I tried to mask the relief in my eyes with a little righteous indignation.

  “Same reason you never told me you were straight. It’s not a disease, you know. You are straight, aren’t you, and your date is with a guy?” he added with a comical lilt in his voice.

  “Maybe I won’t tell you,” I said, feigning coyness. Fat chance. I couldn’t wait to tell him all about Tom. After I did, he told me about his date. We bonded even closer than ever. No wonder there was no sexual chemistry, I thought.

  I told him about my upcoming trip to the processed food show in Vegas and that lit him up. His nostrils flared, and his voice raised an octave and several decibels.

  “What? You are going to a processed food show? With Superior Sugar no less? Alexandra, you are going into the wolves’ den. Processed food?!!! That stuff is shit. It is responsible for more illness, misery and death than any plague in history,” he said.

  “Whoa, I know you don’t eat it, but plague? Really? That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

  “Hell, no, not at all. You have been brainwashed like the rest of America into thinking that trash is food. Bread is a good example. Farmers used to grow wheat on their land and grind it into flour. The bran or fiber was left in the wheat. The bread that was made from those farmers’ wheat had nutritional value. Not anymore. During the industrial revolution, people left the farms and moved to the cities where the jobs were. The only way the wheat could be sent to market by truck or rail was to strip all of the fiber and nutrition out so it didn’t spoil on the way. That doughy white bread paste isn’t good for humans. It clogs their systems and increases the chance of colon cancer and other diseases. What did the processors do? They started adding artificial vitamins so they could make the claim that their bread was fortified. Hogwash! It is nasty and not good for you. Sugar is the worst thing you can eat. Do you want me to go on?”

  “No, Zach, I’ve got to go home and pack. We can pick this conversation up later if you would like.”

  “Sorry for losing it, Alexandra, but I see how much of this shit people cram down their pie holes every day. I have been meaning to have a serious talk with you about it anyway. I know Charlotte is your friend, but she works for a company that promotes poisons. You both love The Walking Dead. I find that very ironic. You and most of the rest of this country go through life just like zombies, eating the corporate America shit put out by advertising companies. Coke, it’s the real thing, Coke adds life. Burger King, have it your way. They are making zombies out of everyone. Never thinking, just stumbling through life till someone sticks something through their brain. We will definitely return to this conversation when you get back in town.”

  “OK, Zach, you’ve got it.” I was already edging my way out of Cafe Du Monde but I nearly sprinted back to my car.

  Where did that come from, I wondered. The food companies treating us like zombies? Someone sticks a knife in our brain? A bit dramatic. Something deeper going on there. No worries though, I’ll learn a great deal about the food business while I’m in Vegas. I’ll bring back what I learn and see if I can set Zach straight. The rest, well....What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

  Chapter Nine:

  Processed Food Show

  As my plane pulled up to the terminal at the McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas, I could barely contain my excitement. What a place! Many on the plane were already drinking their cocktails of choice, getting ready to let loose in Sin City. Not me; I was on a business trip. I thought about the two warnings I’d gotten in New Orleans, one from Jennings and another from Zach. Maybe I should watch myself. Nah!!! Not going to happen.

  Talk about world class people watching. I watched a group of blue-haired women huddle around a bank of slot machine cheering each other on as they put quarter in and pulled the levers, the machines ringing with deafening tones. I had forgotten how much fun people watching could be. Vegas had to be the people-watching capital of the world. And the airport was a target-rich environment. I saw a plethora of people who could stand to lose 100 pounds or so. I hadn’t realized how fat America had gotten. I wondered if it was just in Vegas where people with unhealthy habits congregated or did people look like this everywhere? I don’t think I was being judgmental because I’m not exactly model material, but I was shocked by the sheer size of people. Maybe I should take a closer look at my own habits and make healthier choices, my clothes suddenly feeling tighter on me.

  I called Charlotte on her cell from the airport to let her know I had arrived. She was at the Las Vegas Convention Center helping bedeck Superior Sugar’s huge exhibitor’s booth. She informed me my room was prepaid by the Superior Sugar accounting office and, all I had to do was go to the hotel and check in. Charlotte had arranged for massages for both of us at the Canyon Ranch Spa inside the Venetian at 6:00 that night. Her plans for the evening included staying in her room and having fun and ordering room service in her suite after our spa treatments. That would give her time to fill me in on what to expect during the Food Processors Show. I had my own room. My own room at the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas. Cinder-fucking-ella’s room. What a hotel, the opulence was like nothing I’d ever seen before. It was one of the most gorgeous places on earth I was certain. Fountains, shops and a canal with gondolas in it. I had my own room in paradise.

  I called Sarah to tell her how wonderful th
e hotel was and just to check in with her. She was pleased but her voice took on a serious tone and she repeated Jenkins’ warning about the Morris’.

  What the hell were they so worried about anyway?

  I washed the airport from my travel-weary body and readied myself for Charlotte. She arrived promptly at 5:30. Of course she did. Charlotte was always precise. Not like me, the “what did I forget this time” girl. I was about to go to one of the best spas in the world and I had never been in any spa before. I didn’t know what to expect. What the hell, I thought, I’ll just go with it, and we went to the Canyon Ranch Spa Club. After we checked in at the front desk of the spa we were escorted to the Ladies Lounge by the spa’s assistant manager, Jeff Dugan. The friendly lounge attendant offered us water from a clear urn flavored with at least four several types of fruit floating inside. She showed us our lockers housing the most luxurious fluffy robes ever worn by anyone.

  I hesitated while undressing, not knowing whether to leave any underwear on. Holy shit, I thought, Alexandra, why didn’t you wear matching underwear? Sorry, Mom, maybe no one will notice.

  Charlotte saw me, paused and said, “Alexandra, you have to get au natural and put the robe on. That way the massage therapist can give you the best massage possible.”

  “OK,” I said. Sure, that’s alright for you, cause with your body you could be a swimsuit model. I, on the other hand, could only be a boob model. I wondered if seeing my body would cause the therapist to permanently leave the profession. Then I remembered all those people in the airport. Surely these therapists had seen worse.

  Jen, a dark-haired, pony-tailed lady in her early 40s, entered the lounge, called my name, and introduced herself as my massage therapist. She instructed me to take my robe off, hang it on the hook on the door, and lie on the massage table face down under the top sheet. Jen excused herself to give me privacy. I mounted the table and within a minute, I was having my back massaged by an expert. The feeling was amazing. Just the right amount of pressure. I drifted with the rhythmic flow of her hands and the soothing music. When my massage was completed, she gently roused me and exited the room to allow me to re-robe my jelly-like body. I barely found the door. Jen was waiting outside for me and escorted me back to the lounge, explaining that massage moved some of the toxins that had built up in my body. They were now circulating in my bloodstream. To get rid of them, I needed to drink plenty of water in the next day or so. She also invited me to use the hot tub or steam room but cautioned me about staying in either very long. No problem, I thought, I was looking forward to room service and chatting with Charlotte.