The Trickster. Muriel Gray
shoved some paper at her.
‘Here’s the shop stock-taking list, and there’s a guy outside looking for work. Do you want me to see him?’
‘Nope. I’ll see him. You fax more celebrities. Try and get something more famous than someone who voiced over an AT&T commercial. Remember the blackmail bit about the kids in wheelchairs. Lay it on as thick as you like. Where’s the guy?’
‘In the ski school.’
She emptied the last of the chocolates into her mouth, threw the packet in the waste bin and moved to the door. ‘Oh and Eric …’
Eric looked up expectantly.
‘No more drama-queen stuff unless a gondola full of customers spontaneously combusts. Right?’
Eric held her gaze without reply for a few more moments than was polite.
‘You’re the boss.’
‘Yes. I am. Aren’t I?’
She smiled and shut the door behind her. Eric looked at the door for a long time until the phone rang.
* * *
As Pasqual left the seclusion of her inner office, walking through the shop and past the ticket booths, she ran the gauntlet of questions and greetings from every member of staff in her path.
‘Oh Miss Weaver! Got a moment?’
‘Pasqual! Can you call the top station?’
‘Miss Weaver – any thoughts on this display?’
She loved it. She adored being pursued by a team of courtiers, anxious for her approval or instruction, and she treasured it all the more when the public saw her in the middle of it.
As she left the building and crossed the darkening nursery area to the ski school shed, she tossed her short brown bobbed hair, waved and shouted ‘Hi!’ to anyone who would respond.
The man was waiting inside. He greeted her with a smile.
‘Hi there. You’re the job hunter.’
‘Yeah. You must be Pasqual Weaver. Moses Sitconski. Pleased to meet you.’
He extended a lily-white hand, which she shook.
‘What kind of a name is that exactly?’
The man looked at her, neither offended or defensive. ‘My name.’
‘Well, Moses,’ she said, pronouncing the word as though it were a shared and intimate joke, ‘You’ve done your resort personnel homework. Now what kind of work are you after? We’re nearly half-way through the season, you know.’
‘Sure, I know. Looks like it’s going to be a great second half. Long time since I’ve seen snow conditions this good. I guess the powder in the back bowls is like spun sugar right now.’
He smiled, crinkling two ice-blue eyes in a face so pale Pasqual figured the guy had never been near a ski trail in his life. She was used to dealing with people with mahogany tans that stopped where their turtlenecks started, but the easy charm of this man was making up for the fact that he was obviously no ski bum. Nor was he dressed like anyone who wanted to be near snow. A long black wool coat hung over what Pasqual noted was a powerful frame. She wasn’t looking at a potential ski instructor, but maybe he’d be some use in the PR office.
‘You a skier, Moses?’
‘Sure. I can get down most things.’
‘So where have you worked before? And what as exactly?’
The man looked into her eyes very deeply indeed.
Pasqual was aware of an acute sexual stirring beginning around her nipples that shifted down over her belly to an area she didn’t have much time to explore these days. He was turning her on with those eyes, and she was ashamed. Why this encounter should have such an effect was a mystery, and made her squirm beneath her fleece with discomfort and irritation. After all, she was surrounded all day by pieces of meat on skis that she could have just by looking sideways at them. If she chose to, she could fuck any instructor on the resort, but sex was never high on Pasqual Weaver’s agenda. Right now, however, it was standing at the front door ringing the bell.
‘Tamarack. Two seasons. Manual grooming mainly.’
She looked at him suspiciously. How could he have worked out doors all day as a manual groomer and still have stayed as white as a baby’s ass? She wasn’t going to be bullshitted. Tamarack just happened to be Silver’s biggest rival right now. So much so, even the name got on her tits.
‘And who was the big white chief at Tamarack? Just in case I want to call him up?’
The man who called himself Moses smiled widely, revealing milky white teeth behind his pink lips. ‘I’d be glad if you called him up, Miss Weaver. His name is William Cole. We called him Hill Billy.’
She knew damned well it was Bill fucking Cole that ran the show over there. Same as she knew that Tamarack had stolen nearly a fifth of Silver’s day trip custom with three new high speed quads. She would drink piss before she would phone up Cole for a reference. The fact that the guy knew his name and his slang name, was enough proof for her he was telling the truth. Plus he would be useful in the office if he knew exactly what was going on with the competition.
‘So are you hoping for manual work again or does something with a desk and a fan heater blowing hot air up your fanny all day interest you?’
‘Anything you got really. I understand you lost a couple of your ski patrol.’
She frowned. ‘Yeah, well we’re on that one thanks. The rest of the guys are still cut up about it and I don’t think they’d take too kindly to me sticking a sits vac. ad in the local newspaper before they’ve got their two buddies in the ground.’
‘A real tragedy.’
‘It’s a dangerous job.’
His eyes were boring through her skull. She looked away, pretending to study the blackboard for tomorrow’s ski class rota. ‘Okay Moses, why don’t you come see me tomorrow at eight thirty and we’ll fix something up. Can’t promise ski patrol, but I’ll be honest and tell you we can use some extra help right now. Things are going to get real busy when the snow reports hit the cities.’
Moses stuck his hand out again and she took it without thinking. This time he held on to it a little longer than she would have liked.
‘Well that’s just great, Miss Weaver. I look forward to that.’
She withdrew her hand as the door threw open to admit five laughing instructors clopping in like carthorses.
‘Robbed the public blind today I hope guys?’ she said in a tone higher than she had planned.
‘Yo, you bet,’ laughed the biggest and brownest of the pack, unzipping his suit with a baroque flourish.
Pasqual smiled once at them, once at Moses, and left.
The tall pale man watched the flimsy wooden door close behind Pasqual and then glanced across at the five faces eyeballing him.
‘Hi,’ he smiled.
Only one nodded back.
Moses Sitconski put his hands back into his pockets without dissolving his smile, then followed Pasqual out into the night.
The ploughs went past with the invincibility of a fleet of Newfoundland trawlers putting to sea; lights flashing, funnels blowing out plumes of snow, their metal bows pushing back the ocean of white in huge, semi-solid waves.
Snaking behind these yellow leviathans was a line of nineteen cars, two trucks and a bus, and right