Dov hung his head. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I shouldn't've acted like that. That was jerky of me. I've been under a lot of pressure lately—not that that excuses my behavior or anything."
"Sure, I understand." The sculptor patted Dov on the back. "It can't be easy, worrying about your mother's health and all."
"Well, it's not as if there's anything I can do for her besides try to keep the company working at peak efficiency." Absentmindedly, Dov reached down and twiddled with Trebek's nostrils. "That's why I'm here, to see if you've got any requests or suggestions for change, any complaints about how we're handling your particular needs."
"You're from the government and you're here to help me?" Agparak had the talent to make a skeptical smirk look charming. "Like I told your sister, what I'm after is getting a foot in the door at the big Eastern art galleries, having my work seen by the people who matter. Well, seen and purchased. Anyone can be a starving artist; I'd rather be the artist who says, 'I'm starving; let's go grab a bite at La Cote Basque.' "
"You've become one of our top clients, Mr. Agparak," Dov said. "I think I've got the connections to get you just the sort of exposure you want for your art. Would you be kind enough to give me a little preview?"
"Of what?"
"Of the pieces you'll be exhibiting when I set up your New York City gallery debut."
"Oh." Martin Agparak nodded, then said: "You're sitting on one of them."
Dov looked down at the head of Alex Trebek and withheld comment.
"That's just the one I did for practice," the sculptor went on. "The finished work will be a totem pole combining Trebek, Barker, Philbin, with—whatzisname, the guy from that old 1950s quiz show, the one where everyone got busted for cheating—anyway, with him for the base and Vanna White for the top figure. It's the last one I need to do for my ideal installation. I've already completed the totem poles of the NFL mascots, the fast food icons, and the sci-fi TV show heroes. That's another thing where I could use the company's help: Maybe you can get a hold of Shatner so he'll sign the release, because I sure as hell can't swing it."
Dov mulled over this information for a while, then finally laughed and said, "Oh, I get it. You do funny art! Like comic strips, only wood. Very smart, Agparak, very cutting edge, Rothko meets Ethan Allen."
He would have gone on to praise the sculptor's business savvy in greater detail, except he caught sight of the venomous stare Agparak was giving him.
"There is nothing 'funny' about a totem pole," Martin said. "Not unless you find yourself in the habit of going into St. Patrick's cathedral for laughs."
"Hey, I know all about totem poles," Dov protested, holding up both hands to ward off any accusations of religious insensitivity. "I have only the deepest respect for what the real ones signify, but if someone slapped a giant propeller beanie on top of St. Patrick's, you know you'd be right there beside me, laughing your ass off."
"The 'real' ones?" Agparak repeated. "What makes my totem poles less real than the ones you claim to respect? Because instead of carving Bear and Fox and Raven, I've used team mascots? Bear is an animal of great power who holds healing in his paws, but more people worship him when he holds a football. If I make a totem pole with the old images, they'll look at it and smile politely and say how quaint it is, how charming. It won't matter if I made it the week before: They'll still see it as a relic, a leftover, an artifact. But if I transform it, if I create it so that it shows them the things that they still worship, they'll be more likely to realize that it's not just a decorative religious fossil; it's a living, vital icon of spiritual significance."
Dov's brow creased in thought as he took in everything Agparak was saying. At last he asked, "You expect people to go into a gallery, see your work, and come away from it ready to worship Regis Philbin?"
It was Agaparak's turn to laugh. "I expect them to come away from my work thinking about their own spirituality. I've seen too many people who call themselves religious when they're really just the slaves of habit. They go through the same rituals their parents and grandparents did, but they never think about what the words or the actions of the rites mean; they never feel the spirit within them. Faith should be a part of life, something you actively care about, like catching your favorite game show every weeknight or rooting for your favorite team. Think of what so many people have lost, Mr. Godz, without anyone taking it away from them. Then think of what they could have, and how much it would enrich their lives if only they'd open their eyes and see."
Dov stood up and shook the sculptor's calloused hand solemnly. "You can count on my support, Mr. Agparak," he said. "Can I count on yours?"
Agparak didn't answer right away. "I did mention that your sister's already been here?" he asked.
There was something in the way he said it that set off a little alarm bell in Dov's mind. Oh wow. This is the guy Peez slept with? Did she do it to cinch his support for her taking over the company? That skanky little—! Naaahhh. That's not her style. Still, I'll bet it didn't hurt her chances of winning him over to her side. And it sure as hell didn't do her any harm either.
Dov applied a liberal coating of Smile #98.2 and said, "Mr. Agparak, I fully understand. You want to consider all your options before making a commitment. I can respect that. But more than that, after what you've told me about your art and its purpose, I really respect you. And I'm not just saying that to kiss up, either. I mean it. Whichever way you throw your influence, it's been an honor to meet you." He released his grip on the sculptor's hand and concluded: "So, would you mind calling me a taxi back to the airport?"
"Sure, no problem." Agparak looked genuinely pleased and flattered by what Dov had had to say. He whipped out a cell phone the size of a pack of bubble gum and put in the call, then said, "It's on the way. Want another cup of coffee while you wait?"
"Sure, thanks. Light and sweet."
"What kind?"
"You're kidding, right? I saw you just have the one can of Maxwell House in your cupboard, you populist rebel, you."
"Right, but I'm talking about the 'light and sweet' part. I'm a lousy host for not asking you before: cream, half-and-half, whole milk, one percent, two, skim, cow's milk, goat's, white sugar, brown, Demerara, granulated, lump, cube, saccharine, aspartame—?"
Dov's scream split Alex Trebek's head wide open.
Chapter Thirteen
"You told the Reverend Everything what?" Teddy Tumtum demanded, button eyes fairly bugging out of his squishy fabric skull.
"I told him that I was thinking about quitting," Peez replied in a calm voice. "You know: giving up on the competition for backing, letting the chips fall where they may as far as who gets to run the company after Mom— I mean, who gets to run the company next. Why are you acting like it's such a big deal?"
She had rented a car at the airport and was driving to the prearranged meeting spot that Sam Turkey Feather had proposed, deep in the heart of a Tucson shopping mall. His choice of rendezvous had puzzled Peez, but only for a little while. She no longer bothered herself over the possible hidden agendas of everyone she encountered. If Edwina could have known, she would have been so proud of her little girclass="underline" Peez was finally learning to go with the flow.
Not so Teddy Tumtum. The only flow the little stuffed bear might conceivably go with was a river of blazing lava a mile wide, oozing its way down Mt. What-the-hell?! Peez had taken him out of the carry-on bag and strapped him into the passenger's seat beside her, hoping that the scenery would distract him. He hadn't been civil since the instant she'd told him about all that he'd missed during her visit to the Immersionarium.