high up to watch the fights. Ink loved to be invited in there at post-competition parties, to sit in the cushioned seats and motion to the bartender behind the counter for a drink. The bathrooms were private to those in the club, one for men and one for women, and each one had an attendant to give out a towel at the sink. Because Ink had won at Filo, the pre-Games to the Games, he already had an invitation to the post-party here, Samson notwithstanding. That would be where he’d hit up Constanzo for a chat and determine the likelihood of his guilt.
The atrium was on the ground floor of the stadium, and semi-private. It had been cordoned off for the managers’ photo and celebratory champagne, and after that, anyone could walk in. Take a break from the screaming crowds and the heat to walk beneath the arches and rest on benches between vases full of flowers. Dozens upon dozens of managers were there when he arrived. It was five minutes to nine-thirty, and the photographer was already ordering them into a half-circle with tall people in the back and short ones in the front. Two stadium organizers raced around to prop up the suitcases before the shorter people. They put the last one in place at 9:28. Nadia had yet to show up. At 9:29, another manager ran in flustered, and almost leaped into the half-circle. Still no Nadia.
At 9:30 on the dot, the photographer got behind his camera. Then he told them to squeeze in closer, which they did. Ink watched the clock over the photographer’s head as everyone pushed together. At 9:30 and fifteen seconds, the photographer said, “Forget cheese! I want to hear aloha!”
“Aloha!” they all shouted, and he clicked. Then he took one more at 9:30 and twenty-five seconds, all of them crying aloha again.
“Perfect!” he said, and it was done. Nadia strolled in five minutes later. The photographer was gone and everyone had long disbanded to shake hands with each other, with the sponsor, and to accept flutes of champagne from smartly dressed busboys.
Anyone else would have learned by now that a competition was a machine. The machine didn’t stop for one person to blot her lipstick or fix his zombie’s hair. It ground on relentlessly, so you conformed to it or got crushed. Ink sipped his champagne and told his Thor versus Samson story over and over to those who hadn’t heard it in the stables. Then he changed the subject to Hawaii, which was what most people wanted to talk about anyway. The volcanoes! Zip-lining! Snorkeling! Giant turtles! Even those who had been to Hawaii before were very excited, because few of them had been there in style .
“I put a black henna hibiscus flower on my zombie for luck,” one man said, and another manager laughed because she had done the same with a rub-on tattoo.
“You got to be careful with black henna,” someone warned. “Looks exactly like a real tattoo, but it’s got coal tar in it. Nasty reactions, some of them will have to it. You can give them blisters and scars. I’ve had that problem in my stables and stopped using it.” No one answered the party pooper, and two men whispered to one another that they had been using black henna tattoos on their zombie fighters for years and never had a problem.
Constanzo Rolf was there, but he was in a tight discussion with Gareth Hodging that Ink didn’t feel confident about interrupting. And Cantine had brought his women along, three new ones and all having posed with him for the picture. Ink took one look at the blonde and was instantly sorry he had ever seen her. That was a woman whose beauty could drive a man to obsession. The other two had baby fat on their cheeks and a dizzy look in their eyes; the blonde was a little older, a little more angular in her face, and absolutely riveting. As the younger ones giggled mindlessly about their tight-fitting Hawaiian shirts, she was calm in a purple halter dress with hibiscus flowers on it. Leaning over Cantine, who was sitting upon a bench, she
The atrium was on the ground floor of the stadium, and semi-private. It had been cordoned off for the managers’ photo and celebratory champagne, and after that, anyone could walk in. Take a break from the screaming crowds and the heat to walk beneath the arches and rest on benches between vases full of flowers. Dozens upon dozens of managers were there when he arrived. It was five minutes to nine-thirty, and the photographer was already ordering them into a half-circle with tall people in the back and short ones in the front. Two stadium organizers raced around to prop up the suitcases before the shorter people. They put the last one in place at 9:28. Nadia had yet to show up. At 9:29, another manager ran in flustered, and almost leaped into the half-circle. Still no Nadia.
At 9:30 on the dot, the photographer got behind his camera. Then he told them to squeeze in closer, which they did. Ink watched the clock over the photographer’s head as everyone pushed together. At 9:30 and fifteen seconds, the photographer said, “Forget cheese! I want to hear aloha!”
“Aloha!” they all shouted, and he clicked. Then he took one more at 9:30 and twenty-five seconds, all of them crying aloha again.
“Perfect!” he said, and it was done. Nadia strolled in five minutes later. The photographer was gone and everyone had long disbanded to shake hands with each other, with the sponsor, and to accept flutes of champagne from smartly dressed busboys.
Anyone else would have learned by now that a competition was a machine. The machine didn’t stop for one person to blot her lipstick or fix his zombie’s hair. It ground on relentlessly, so you conformed to it or got crushed. Ink sipped his champagne and told his Thor versus Samson story over and over to those who hadn’t heard it in the stables. Then he changed the subject to Hawaii, which was what most people wanted to talk about anyway. The volcanoes! Zip-lining! Snorkeling! Giant turtles! Even those who had been to Hawaii before were very excited, because few of them had been there in style .
“I put a black henna hibiscus flower on my zombie for luck,” one man said, and another manager laughed because she had done the same with a rub-on tattoo.
“You got to be careful with black henna,” someone warned. “Looks exactly like a real tattoo, but it’s got coal tar in it. Nasty reactions, some of them will have to it. You can give them blisters and scars. I’ve had that problem in my stables and stopped using it.” No one answered the party pooper, and two men whispered to one another that they had been using black henna tattoos on their zombie fighters for years and never had a problem.
Constanzo Rolf was there, but he was in a tight discussion with Gareth Hodging that Ink didn’t feel confident about interrupting. And Cantine had brought his women along, three new ones and all having posed with him for the picture. Ink took one look at the blonde and was instantly sorry he had ever seen her. That was a woman whose beauty could drive a man to obsession. The other two had baby fat on their cheeks and a dizzy look in their eyes; the blonde was a little older, a little more angular in her face, and absolutely riveting. As the younger ones giggled mindlessly about their tight-fitting Hawaiian shirts, she was calm in a purple halter dress with hibiscus flowers on it. Leaning over Cantine, who was sitting upon a bench, she
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