There
are certain men who women find irretrievable, gone over into a kind of
nightmare where strength and beauty attract as honey does the bee.
They know what being crushed is.
They’ve drunk too much coffee.
Circumcised, shaking in too many meaningless
ceremonies, excruciating their pain, driving them endlessly bending from
self-love; they have withdrawn to correct it.
They are made of feathers, children’s voices, and
the sound of difficult breathing. They sit listening to each of the lights: the
kings and queens who drift past cities, the saints who bleed above uncharted
seas. At times these men and women slip into the warrior show. They catch fire.
The survivors of this bizarre attachment become even
quieter like wind rippling light.Then, they bathe in a true picture of their
condition. They hide their fire, solidly enclosed, a sweet science.
For
Richard Dwyer, K.O. and Stephanie…
Moonflower……….
1
G.I.V.E.………..
47
The
Last Killing …….………………….. 149
CHAPTER
I
Saturday
- Christine climbs down the steps to her garden and unravels like a snake.
I can see her lashes closing down over her
dark green eyes. I stand in front of
her while she
undresses,
unbuttoning her pants, letting the blue denims slide down her legs to the dirt
floor.
I kneel and grasp her ankles as she struggles
to lift her slender feet. My hands
travel to the waistband of her butterfly patterned underwear, and I slide them
down her coltlike legs.
Lying
down in one another, we are surrounded by a large wooden fence. "Become gentler," I can remember
her saying on one particular brutal afternoon.
And yet, I will nibble on her
flowers,
undisturbed, for an hour or so.
I
love watching her masturbate.
Suppressing cries, rolling over on her stomach, with
her
right hand she'll touch her buttocks.
Turning to me and letting her tongue slip out to caress her painted
lips, she'll moan quietly and say, "Fuck me good."
I
enter her house. She has her childlike
drawings and bulletins of the latest events
taped
to the walls. "Christine," I
say, "are you home?" I can
hear the shower. I walk down
the
hall and open the bathroom door. She is
bending over, a full moon. A white
terry cloth lies on the tile floor. "Am I disturbing you?" I ask.
"Not
at all," she says, "I was hoping you'd come back."
Her
face is between her legs. Her body is
tan and blonde. My cock is aching to break
out
of its skin.
"Take
off your clothes and come on in," she says, "the water's warm."
"Did
you plan this?" I say.
"Don't
be stupid. C'mon, I'm not going to stay
here all day."
She
lifts her head up and turns to me, and puts her hands on the porcelain tub.
My
clothes are off and I'm coming toward her, brushing her erect nipples, kissing
her
neck,
easing my way into her. Our movement is
slow and circular. The steam from the
shower
creates a sauna. She keeps looking over
her shoulder. With a net I'm chasing
her,
driving
her, across a rain soaked field. I think
I might never catch her. I'm right.
Sunday
- I call her. I thought I had been
dialing Bishop, my psychiatrist. She
says
that
what she was doing was trusting; she was trying to trust. That I should look at it that
way,
too. I tell her I love her. She says I don't like her tender, soft
parts. I say that isn't true.
She says, "You don't like the cracked
part, that's the tender part. It's the
same thing." My god, are we crazy!
I
have to reply. I say, "I thought
you said you didn't want to lose me?"
She
says, "I meant that."
Then
she starts to cry. She says she is
sick, and she has too much work to do.
She
is
crying when she hangs up.
I
quickly dress and drive to her place feeling yes, I can see her again, and
offer my
help:
rub her back, make tea (but she drinks coffee in the morning), buy her
groceries, fix
the
bathtub handle (for the hot water).
When
I arrive, I park at the top of the hill; there is a parking spot in front of
her
house. I look up at her window. There is a tall, young man, with black hair,
sitting in the living room. I watch him
for a minute, shrug my shoulders, and leave.
Sunday
afternoon - This is my chance. My
chance to prove how much I love her; cracked tenderness, romantic clown, sheer
energy, that she is. I must hold fast
and be calm. I walk the three levels of my house, through the terraced garden
of rose bushes, and a wild backyard, around the orange and the lemon trees near
the mint growing in the corners.
There is a panoramic view, from the living
room, of the San Bruno Mountains, a railroad
yard,
the San Francisco International Airport, and the Bay. I sit on the edge of the pool
table. Will I fly away? I see a jeep parked at the
top of her hill. I recognize it. It is the same jeep that Christine's uncle
let her drive in the desert. She loves
the desert. Loners, old women, with
pull-down poker lamps above their tables who wear green poker shades; tough and
eccentric desert people.
That
jeep is ours. She's driving. I'm sitting next to her. We've returned to the desert in search of
food, she and I.
Monday
afternoon - Bishop is tall, blonde, with the battered, mashed-in face of an
alcoholic;
his eyes are bright diamonds, a cocaine blue.
How innocent it sounds. What
emotional
junkies we are. I like talking with him because he sympathizes with me, but he
doesn't believe me.
He knows or thinks he knows that I'm
suffering from some egotism, a delusion; he thinks
I
really don't understand reality, the reality of human life, and so, I can't
love. He doesn't understand that I'm
being controlled by something other than myself, some force that is making a
farce out of my existence. I keep
monitoring my thoughts, sifting through, looking
for
the image, but I know when it comes. I
can feel it.
I
enter his office - stereotypical. He
looks like he's sorry for me. I feel
great. He
says
you look like you should be leading a Russian circus with Russian bears
following you.
"The
Christians and the scientists are dead," I say. He likes that. It's safe
ground.
I show him the letter I received this
morning.
Saturday Evening
Dear
Bill -
I
am sorry for the negative things I said to you. It takes away from all the nice and
special
things that happened to us, with us, for us.
It is not so much that something was
wrong
between us, not looking for something else, but open to it if it happened, I
guess.
Somehow
I felt that what you wanted was a playmate and I was that. It never occurred to
me
that you were looking for a more permanent kind of relationship. You told me that you
didn't
want to live with anyone until you had a lot of money, and then you wanted
children,
etc. I knew I couldn't be the person you would
want. If things weren't exactly what I
wanted,
I
didn't worry about it. If I was sad, I
wrote notes which I never sent, because I didn't think that's what
"we" were all about. Looking
back at it, I feel like I gave you my best love and attention and let you know
me. That I didn't do what you wanted, I
am sorry - but we hadn't made that kind of commitment - we had never even
mentioned living together. Even now, I
don't think you would want to be saddled with that kind of responsibility.
The
qualities you admired in me at the start now make you angry. I can't be made
to
feel guilty and hurt because I didn't do what I didn't even know you
wanted. I must feel
free
to do what I feel is best. But I am
responsible to you - if you want to talk to me I will be available, without
fear. I had hoped we could be friends,
work together and whatever happened. I
understand your hurt and I am sorry. I
cared and still care very much for you and I know that you know that.
Sunday Morning
Right
now I don't have anymore to add to the above and preceding except that it was
good
talking to you yesterday and I still mean it about talking more if you want to.
I
don't want to sever all connections with you - but I do feel that I need to find out
what
the other thing is all about. And I want to send you this book since I finally
found it. And I'm glad that you
brought
the Tomato Soup writings back. Love,
C.
The
Tomato Soup writings are her diary, which she had given me a few weeks
before. I had
been
tempted to keep them. The book is
Malamud's The Natural.
"There
it is," he says, "it's all verbalized. Do you accept that?"
I
nod my head and watch his eyes, very blue.
Inside there, it looks like someone's lost at sea. He says, "Have
you seen your wife?"
"No,"
I say. I pause.
He
looks at me. He must think I'm a fool
to think I'd tell him the truth.
He
nods.
"What
the fuck do you think you're doing?" I ask.
Without
blinking an eye, but slouching, he says, "Trying to understand you."
"Fuck
off," I say, and, once again, leave.
He expects it. He just says,
"See you
later."
CHAPTER II
There
are greater, less explored realities.
Psychiatry has had its two deep sea divers.
The rest, and all the divergent movements,
are pale imitations, piranhas living off the Freud-
Jung
creation. For the past twenty years,
the great field has been extrasensory, human
telepathy,
interstellar communication, Chardin's Alpha & Omega, the revealing common
unconsciousness:
In short, Jung's world.
There
is an obsession in our culture with drugs, with books that speak of life after
death. People die knowing these things. They spill their blood to the Greater Truth,
for it
is
the only sacrifice the God will accept: the complete transformation of human
reality. To
go
beyond this narrow plain of war and religion. Bishop is a fool, but I will
continue to work on him until he breaks through the mask.
Someone says calm down. How can I?
It's an exquisite, heartbreaking afternoon. The sounds on the street, the car horns, the whistling of
children, birds, the large dog barking, its
mouth
agape: an orchestrated symphony of domesticity...a pleasure to listen to from a
distance.
My concern is for the lower vibrations.
I must keep myself in tune to the humming that one cannot hear, to the
invisible engine that one knows is there.
Does
Bishop realize that what he thinks and feels is the community, the
intermin-gling emotions of what his group is thinking? The feeling of the forest is coming from the
forest, from the inhabitants of that mind.
Tuesday
morning - Sometimes, it's difficult to get moving in the morning. I
like to lie around, in the early winds, catching those slow, cold
explosions from the approaching sun. I
like to stand on the stairs above the garden, especially after a rain, and let
all the
fragrance
seep into my body. It's a sexual
fatigue the plants and trees feel after a strong rain.
I've
got my light blue jeans, maroon sweater, and not quite matching levi jacket on.
I'm wearing buckle-over dress shoes, and a
Russian hat. Liz, the blonde,
hook-nosed
bartender,
from a bar I frequent, the Mauna Loa, brings down black coffee and scrambled
eggs. She says, "I've got an appointment at
10:00. I'll see you later."
"Wait
a minute," I say.
"Oh
no," she says, bending and giving me a kiss. "I'll see you later."
"All
right. Bye."
I
watch her walk up the stone stairs. She
has trouble closing the gate, but she finally
does,
and leaves.
Rain
clouds have appeared. I have to take
the eggs and coffee inside. Someone has
come
and is standing near the orange tree. I
can't make out the form. It's trying to
say
something. "You are loved by her. You must act on it." Slowly, it vanishes. Patience,
somehow
patience was what this was all about.
CHAPTER
III
Tuesday
night - Life in the city, the bee into the various beehives. The hummingbird
in
the garden of delights. The smoke, the
ground haze that surrounds us. The
drugged beauty. The dance of changing
partners, and the constant money exchange for services rendered. Sleep in the city is fitful without
sex. If not sex, certainly
alcohol. The tensions
are
too continuous. There is no rest, no
peace in the city.
I
hear the grove of eucalyptus being rustled by the wind. I've always heard it, and
the
sound and sight transfixes me. It's as
if I made the sound, when I was born, and will make it, again, when I die. A creaking.
In and out. An almost leathery
sensuality. A gentle
passing,
like the sound of ice melting. I see Christine tonight. I feel there was hope for us. We talk, turning in the bed, aching. All night long, holding each other. I can't fuck her. She can't let me back in.
"Remember,"
she says, "you feel right."
She nods her head. Indicating
she still feels that way? I tell her
I’ll wait one month before leaving. I
want to live with her. Have us become
successful. Business, lovewise. Gently understanding the feelings. In response, I write her
this
letter: "Even now you don't think I want to be saddled with the
responsibilities. Are we joyous
people? Do we believe in love and
experience, work and the healing of wounds (old
wounds)? Of course, we do, of course, we are. If only I could have pulled off the road,
and
spoken
to myself about the depth of my feeling, about my desire. If only I could have
spoken
to myself and resolved the conflict."
I think she says she hates me and she loves me.
I arouse all those feelings. Basically, she doesn't like me. So what am I to make of that?
I continue.
The car is burning; I have to jump out.
My feelings unwind slowly. I
wake up
to
myself. I have lost (for the moment); I
went to the station, but the train had left.
I look
at
it go away. I run after it; I run. I restart the engine. I love you.
I wait for you. For the
train
that you are on. Return. But I'm in the past, aren't I? I have become
another memory,
almost
a fantasy.
CHAPTER IV
Wednesday
morning - It's curious how weird I can become.
People begin moving across the veranda.
There's no end to them. Their
faces are smiling; they all believe and are attached to God. They have a general, and he mutters something
about topping, and, as one, they halt the march. They break their lines and stretch out. A few lie on their backs to catch
the
morning sun; others sit in circles and talk.
The general looks off into the distance. His
wife
has sent him a nagging letter. She says
he's been away too long. Goddamn woman,
he
thinks
to himself. This journey may be a
delusion, but I must do it. "Do
it, do it," the
general
says, hardly visible, staring madly out of the shadows. The creatures, hearing him,
stand
and walk back into line, leaving the sun and their circles. Why is he so obsessed?
Why
are they so obedient?
No
one wants to buy the ping pong table, but I have sold the pool table, my car,
metal
desk and filing cabinet. The fuse has
been lit. I'm leaving this shattered
kingdom. To Bishop, I have given my
papers. To my wife, Barbara, my
appreciation and respect. I don't
want
to think about Christine: smiling, frowning, waiting, serious, businesslike,
expectant, gone from my life, a kind of poetry, a delicate strength, a
projection of my feelings. I feel
there
is more to say about this. I am moving because I do not want to repeat the same
cycle. I am hungry. I do not
want
to become an old cigar, or plain brown shoes.
I'm diverging. Like a falcon, I
must
circle
closer to the quarry.
CHAPTER V
Wednesday
morning - Stars are roots. I replay one
of our sex scenes; She moves into
my
bedroom and strips, removing her shoes, and then her pants.
"I'm
here," she says.
Startled,
I turn to her pretty legs.
She
says, "I'm here to get fucked."
Now,
she could say it, a stroke of independence.
She says it again, "I'm here to get
fucked."
"All
right, I will."
I
walk nakedly with a stiff hard-on pulling me along. She drops to the floor.
"I hope this satisfies you," she says, tilting her head back. "Does it?" I slip her panties off, and kneel with
her. Separating her, I unravel her.
"Oh,
Bill," she says.
"I
miss you," I whisper.
Wrapping
her legs around me, she says, "I know."
CHAPTER VI
Wednesday
afternoon - I walk to the road above my house.
I'm not really possessive.
I just want to make sure, when I lose
something, that I haven't been ripped off.
Drifting,
from
moment to moment, without checking and balancing, is an escape from the depth.
For
instance, the man I call my old man was given a blueprint of his contract, yet,
chose
not to believe it. He told me the
story, at least twenty times.
They
had been on their second honeymoon, a winter in Northern Canada. I was two
years
old at home, with my grandmother. Great
time, he said. Skied, fooled around,
you
know. On the sixth day they were riding on a land
bordered by tamaracks. Anne, my
mother,
talked about the possibility of an avalanche.
The horses became skitterish.
The old man heard moans, human sounds, coming from somewhere up the
lane. He jumped off; she held the
reins. He walked toward the sound. The old man said he was scared, but he
turned
to
pure fear as he saw the unfortunate soul, all too human, caught in a bear trap,
his mouth
agape,
his blood frozen. He cries at night
when he dreams of that cold uncomprehending
stare.
Sometimes I feel like telling him that the man in the trap is him, his
contract, but I
think
it would break his heart. In a lot of
ways he's innocent, well protected, a good sport.
There
is a wild bed of roses growing on top of the hill. I am not in tune. As I
look
upon
it, I become aware of the struggle.
Inside, there is a world. So,
there is a world outside. They are not
in tune. I've stopped thinking. I know because there is a creek that runs
alongside the road, and now I can hear its glib gliding sounds. It's true,
though. From each of these
confrontations, the tree that is me grows a little
more,
the soil becomes enriched by the psychic blood that flows through the trunk and
into
the
roots. The blood is like paint and
winds its way through the trunk and into the roots.
The
paint winds its way into a discernible form, a painting which vibrates and
sends out
messages. The picture is called Tenderness. I will not hide from my tenderness.
I
call Bishop. He says that I've been in
this lush, vibrating California pit too long.
He's drunk.
He's got a woman he fucks but doesn't love, a child he loves but cannot
see, and a wife whom he is indifferent to.
He doesn't smile much.
CHAPTER VII
The
happiness I feel at this moment is the result of a small glass of beer. My father
sits
across from me on his yellow recliner.
We are surrounded by sun. The
magnolias turn.
He
nods. "Where are you going
now?"
"I
think I'd like to drive a cab, or maybe I'll get back into commercials but I
won't be able to do that stuff for about a month. Can you loan me $500 until I get going?"
"I
don't know. How much do you owe me
now?"
"About
$1,700.00."
"If
you want to know the truth, Bill, I think you're wasting your life."
I
stand. The old man tries to look tough,
but age has softened his face leaving his
brown
eyes tender and domesticated.
"You
think I could have been a pro, eh?"
Wistfully,
he says, "Everyone thought so. You
were the best end in the country,
Bill."
"It
was your dream," I say, "not mine."
He
doesn't like that.
"It
just shows how irresponsible you are."
I
smile. "Right."
I
can see him over sixteen years ago, on a cold evening, bowing down in his
bedroom,
and saying a "Hail Mary" for the team. Then, he rose from his knees to climb the
stairs
and knock on my bedroom door.
"Come in."
"Would
you like to share a brandy with me?" he asked shyly.
"I'd
love to," came my voice from the other side. "I'll be there in five minutes."
"Fine. I'll see you downstairs."
Carefully,
he closed the door.
His
brandy was excellent. He boasted it was
his only drinking weakness. Above the
television,
in a Blackburn portrait, a boy was shoeing a horse.
I
accepted the snifter. He sat across
from me, in a chair, and sipped the deep amber
colored
wine. I can remember I felt like
telling him that this was all a joke, that he shouldn't
take
it so seriously but I knew he'd think I'd gone completely crazy.
"I
know what you're thinking," I said.
The
old man moved forward.
"What?"
"You're
worried about the game. You're
wondering what happened, aren't you?"
"That's
what's been on my mind, yes."
"All
right. Let me tell ya. I was tense. It's true. I, also, felt disoriented. Now, what
blows
my mind is your taking one lousy performance so seriously. I'm fine.
The team's fine.
We had a let down. We don't feel good about it.
But it happened. We don't think
it will
happen
again."
"I
think it will."
"What?"
"I
can't say, this is a delicate subject.
You're a football player, maybe, a great one.
You should just stick with it. You know?"
"I
know what you mean."
"You
know...good. There's plenty of time for
women. You've got to stick with
it."
"That's
up to me, I think."
The
old man nodded his head.
"Alright." He raised
up. The brandy glass in hand,
a
red Pendleton on his back, he turned to the fireplace.
"You
know, I love you," he said.
"I want the best for you."
Against the fire he,
looked
like a monk.
I
looked clearly at the brandy, at its silken texture. I touched it, raised it to my lips.
I looked up.
"I love you, too," I said.
I
felt the old man was crying.
"What's really wrong?"
I asked him.
He
kept his face from me.
"I
don't know."
I
watched the left side of him. He looked
bloated.
I
left the brandy on the table and came up to him. I touched him on the shoulder and
said,
"I love you."
He
said, "Go on."
I
turned and left the room, flickering a deep orange and red.
"C'mon,"
I say, "I'm hurting; I need your help.
Goddamit!"
"I've
got room for a truck driver. You can
have the job.
"I
can't work with you."
I
feel like we're aching there in the sunlight, linked like two dogs in heat,
needing
someone
to throw water on us.
"You're
a fool," I say.
He
peers up from beneath his baseball cap.
As I pass by, he stares at me.
He says,
"Don't
hurt yourself, Bill."
After
quitting football, I got up to 320 pounds.
It took three years. I
hitchhiked
down
to a fat farm in Raleigh, North Carolina.
I don't think I've ever had a happier time.
To the majority of the people there, the farm
was home. They felt no pressure being
ugly,
obsessive,
or disgusting. They fucked each other
with care, and love. Once a month,
around
midnight,
three or more of us would sneak out to an all night Denny's and eat a dozen
eggs,
a
pound of bacon, pancakes, and hamburgers.
Back home, getting into bed, we'd pop a water
pill,
and shed the pounds. When I left three
months later, I weighed 240 and attributed the
loss
to a steady diet of fucking, and an ample supply of water pills.
There's
nothing I can do to prevent all this from happening. Nor do I have any desire
to. I am receiving pictures from the past, or
the future, and occasionally, I can feel, but not
see,
all the steps in the movement, all the moves in this chess game have been
played out.
I am a hunter who looks for an opening, a
clearing, a clarification of will, a demonstration
of
clairvoyance. A madness is growing in
me.
On
top of Russian Hill, a fire is blazing.
Sirens arch through the city heading for
what
is probably Macondary Lane. From the
spark, the entire city could burn.
Visions of
grandeur.
The red trucks stamp it out and cones of smoke drift toward the Bay.
I
have been there before. The last time I
was unsuccessful. This time I will
complete
the
process. I have the feeling I created
this situation and have done it many times.
Each
time
failing to complete it. This time I
know I will not fail.
What
is the purpose of it all? Wouldn't you
like to live and let live, to build on the
old,
create from the new, survive and raise your young? If so, it is within your grasp by
disarming
and learning to share. Too simplistic.
The
fact is that is not what you want.
People the world of your imagination, with
your
desires, crown it with your dreams, and the phantasmagoria that arises would
put any
single
genius' portrait of hell to shame. The
true picture of man is in Sappho, Aeschylus,
Bacon,
Balzac and Melville. Obsessed with power,
a gabby mouth, a desire for salvation,
a
cunning unmatched in creation, he walks about glum or smiling, repeating old
worn out
phrases,
which he knows will enable him to pass by unnoticed, and undisturbed.
I
might have a drinking problem. I should
go to Triple A and get towed away. I
close
my eyes, and picture the painting, Yradsgil, A Tree of Life. It's a masterpiece of light
greens,
whites, browns, and greys. The tree is
the center. There is an unmistakable
fish in
the
left hand corner. The rest is shapes
and half-forms, a Rorschach. It hangs
in my wife's
living
room. I see a white tiger hurling
itself through the upper branches. In
the upper left,
looking
toward the nearest frame, a sea horse, and to the right, four legs tucked under
him,
sitting
on a branch, a smiling ram. Above the
ram, a strange creature with a large moose's
face,
but without the antlers or hair, and with a patch over one eye, and a long,
flaccid penis
lying
on its back. I think it is somehow
connected with scholarly work and manipulative
desires. At the roots of the tree, above the fish, is
a football, and a host of half-creatures in
the
process of being born.
At
the top of Market Street, before the tram enters the tunnel, I slip out the
front
door,
and walk up 17th Street, away from Christine's and head for the view on Twin
Peaks.
It's a climb and I'm out of shape, but
reaching the top, standing below the Benign Protector,
the
crucible through which all our visual information blows, I get the microcosmic
flash, the
profusion
of parks, the deep, orange towers of the Golden Gate.
At
the end of Market Street, I can see the World Trade Center, one of the few
survivors of the 1906 earthquake. We don't need a war to keep us on our toes. Though right
now,
from here, it would be nice to see the planes and the troops, the underground
against
the
overground, maybe the smokers versus the nonsmokers in an old fashioned
destructive
action.
I've
calmed down enough to smoke. I light it
in the wind. In a '56 Chevy, two white
kids
in their late teens pull up alongside me.
I'm sober enough to sense trouble.
I look over
at
them, and unzip my coat. They're
"good times" kids, punks riding the 50s crest of
nostalgia
and aggression. I want them to know I'm
no one to fuck with. The one driving,
a
younger version of the "Fonz," rolls down his window and says,
"Eh, man, you got a
match?" I look at him. He doesn't seem too frightened.
His buddy raises a can of Coors.
With
the left hand I scratch my beard.
"No, I ain't got no light," I say. "Sorry."
The
driver nods and rolls his window up. I
don't want to turn my back on them, and
I
know they're not going away. I begin
walking backwards. I'm tempted to blow
their tires
apart. The passenger opens his door, stands up and
walks to the back of the car.
"Hey,"
he yells, "you got a couple of dollars we can borrow? We're almost out of
gas."
That
does it. I take the .32 out and point
it at him.
He
panics. "Wait a minute," he
says.
"Tell
your friend to get out of that fucking car." The young "Fonz" ducks. I can't do
it. I fire two shots into the air. The passenger falls behind the fender, and I
run for the hill
adjacent
to the Television Tower.
I
watch them take off. From where I am,
it looks like they'll go off the road, but they
make
it down. I wonder if they'll head for a
bar, or go home.
I
feel trapped, but safe. This has
suddenly become my territory.
"Who’s next?" I
yell
to the pastel rows, the jigsaw puzzle of cheap Mediterranean style housing.
I
look out over the water. It has become
dark. Slowly, I climb down the
mountain.
At the Twin Peaks bar, I call Christine. She answers; I hang up. "Take a chance," I say, and begin
moving toward her place. My heart is
pounding; tears stream down my face.
Why
this
emotion? I catch a glimpse of myself in
a parked car. I look insane. From a hill above her house, I watch her in
a chair reading. I don't think anyone
else
is
there. I climb over the back
fence. Standing on top of her stairs, I
look down on her garden. She is growing
greens, mints and lettuce, amid the flowers.
A bust of a woman with a Harpo Marx wig sits near the bottom of the
door. It is locked, but the window
opens easily.
What
does it matter that she has redecorated her kitchen, or what book she is
reading.
I unzip the jacket and place it cautiously
around the arms of a chair. When I walk into the living room, she looks
up from the book and doesn't bat an eye.
She doesn't register fear or surprise as I point the .32 at her.
She
sits in the chair with a yellow bandanna around her neck, wearing a black and
white
cowboy shirt, and a pair of Levi’s. No
shoes. Her legs are tucked underneath
her.
There
are three neatly rolled joints on the table at the base of her lamp. Vibrating,
in
back of her, the diamond lights of the city look like so many stars.
"T'ai," she says, "fast and clear as a mountain stream. You know, I was just thinking about you when
you walked in."
I
pull the trigger. It sounds like the
Earth’s sighing.
SAVAGES
CHAPTER
I
"Dearest
Marilyn, I can see you walking in the fresh morning grass. With your right foot you'll find a small
rock; your toes will curve around it; to lift it and fling it into a blackberry
bush.
I
cannot hide from my sorrow. I am bound
on all sides by this past winter's snow.
The patterns and traps of Washington, the
feelings of remorse, what are they but to enslave
us,
to keep us here. Now, I am being
followed. Someone, if I am not very
careful, will
murder
me. I dream every night that I am
flying to you. I want you with me in
this time of
trouble. What am I waiting for? I will go to you.
I
loved your sun, your water, your tent, your dreams; why haven't I returned
sooner?
My hands go up; I got lost in a whirlpool, without
a memory, in a fantastic country of my
own
making.
But
finally, out of necessity, I am planning my trip back to you. I am leaving
tomorrow. I want to talk with you, see you, kiss
you. I think if only I can let myself
into the
warm
folds of your country, again, I'll be safe.
“I'll
be arriving on the 22nd, 7:00 o'clock - Amtrack, Oakland.
Love, Joe."
She
folded the letter and slipped it into her back pocket. She sat in the grass,
drawing
her legs toward her, tilting her head toward the light.
The
note of desperation puzzled her. Six
months ago an article in Newsweek hailed
him
as one of the country's leading therapists.
Newsweek had spoken of him as a realist, a
man
in touch with practical solutions.
There was a hint, in the article, of Joseph's political
ambitions
which she found alien to her knowledge of him.
Possibly that, the political
pressure,
plagued him. She jumped the two feet
into the shallow brown water and began
walking
toward the road.
Like
a bird arranges and rearranges its feathers after a rain, her feelings and
thought
reconstructed
themselves. His power to make her
believe in what he said, to feel for him,
attested
to her affection. Watching the light
play in the trees, she knew that was what she
liked. Little black Joseph, gentle and strong,
placing himself in her so she could not forget.
Once
she had described a place, a jar that someone had given her. She said she lived
in
the jar. On one level were flowers,
another pots and pans. She lived at the
bottom of the
jar
on a floor coated with raspberry jam.
"My
God," he exclaimed, "do you really?"
She
said, "Yes," her soft brown eyes laughing.
"Don't
you feel trapped in that jar?"
"I
feel secure."
He
had nodded.
The
sweet smell of cherry blossoms brought her back. Sliding over rocks she felt the
snakelike
turns of the creek. She moved onto the
grassy bank.
Across
the Bay, in Japantown, the streets were lined with the signs of festival.
Lights,
plastic flowers, parades, and demonstrations of ability exploded into
sight. In the
spirit
of the season she turned her body into a tent, an old Japanese custom.
If
one could appreciate the little things in life, the grains of soil at the
bottom of the
grass,
strife and conflict would evaporate. To
become absorbed by life was its secret.
Her
one
great enemy was this dream she had about thinking there was an end to her
flight for
survival.
To
her right she noticed a bluejay landing on a small eucalyptus. It frightened all the
smaller
birds from their perches. He, or maybe
it was a she, looked around angrily.
"You're
a
bad bird," she said.
She
scowled at him. Unmoving, it stared
back.
She
moved toward the road. It cut her
property in half. There were no cars in
sight.
Quickly, she ran across the old stone bridge,
then into a small meadow of poppies to reach
the
front door of her house.
CHAPTER
II
She
stood in the doorway staring at the piece of paper tacked to the wall years
before.
She was naked, the beads of water drying,
being absorbed by her skin. "If
you are to live,
you
must fight, gently, quietly. Against
you are all the enemies of the past.
You must
always
go forward." Her first husband had
written it six days before his plane crashed.
She
turned to look through the bay window at the hills and admired the red texture
of
its soil, the clay and grass surrounding it.
She noticed two figures, people scrambling on
all
fours up the side of it. The sight gave
her a warm feeling, as if she had created the hill
and
placed the people on it. She knew there
had been a time when she had first come out of
herself,
when she wasn't sure. After his death
it seemed quite plausible to her that she was
the
Creator. Now, she only flirted with the
feeling.
CHAPTER
III
Joseph
turned the tape recorder on.
He
heard himself say: "I'm going to give you one chance to redeem yourself,
one
opportunity
to show me that you are alive. What is
this?"
A
boy's voice, a high tenor, replied: "A knife."
"What
do you propose to do with it?"
"Throw
it."
"Where?"
"Against
the wall."
"That's
a good suggestion. Do you think you can
make it stick?"
"I
don't know. I've never thrown a knife
before."
"You're
lying. I want you to throw it. But I also want you to make it stick."
"Is
it okay if I throw it at your head? I
think I can make it stick."
A
robust, incredibly intelligent ten year old, his orange hair and blue eyes were
running,
churning somewhere outside of him.
Joseph shook his head. In a way
they were
both
walking across the same street, a long nightmare stretch of white and blue, the
absence
of
darkness, the heat of a thousand dreams.
He
pushed the button down. "The child
must be given every opportunity to channel
his
aggression." He shut it off and
lay back against his seat. Looking out
the window he
saw
himself in the glass. There was no joy
there. His face had been scarred and
stretched
by
the American changes of weather.
So
many changes of clothes. So many
disguises. Was nothing real? For what?
Now,
I am another illusion, he thought, being chased by the sky. The making of another
memory...
At
7, the train pulled into Oakland. He
tucked his recorder into his case. He
carried
the
case at his side and stepped down onto the waiting platform. He passed through the
aluminum
gates. He heard his name pronounced,
flatly, mechanically...Petaca, please come
to
the Information Booth...Joseph Petaca...
He hurried. His normal walk was
like a gorilla's,
but
now he was a ludicrous imitation of one, moving quickly, his head forward, his
shoulders
hunched. Marilyn had left a message. He was to take a bus to the city and then a
cab to her
place. At the bottom of the piece of paper was an
asterisk and next to it this note:
"I was
afraid
my car would blow up. Love."
He
hung his head, smiled. She was probably
right, it would have...
Six
years ago in Paris, standing in front of a bookshop on a steamy street in a
section
called
Rue de Loin, she was turning and running inexplicably down the street. He tried to
follow
but slipped on the pavement. He
gathered himself and continued after her thinking
she
was in trouble. He heard the blast as
if it were the sound of a man screaming.
He
stopped
to turn and saw a thin, black creature crumpled like a paper bag, his head
shredded
and
bloodied, lying in front of the window they had been peering into. Twenty yards ahead
she
stood in a doorway, visibly afraid. Her
voice trembled when she said, "Joseph, let's find
beauty." There was something so alert in her
eyes. She had made him realize he had almost
died.
On
the bus it was a good night, clear and bejeweled with the lights from the
Casino,
yacht
harbor and two bridges. A former
maximum security prison had been transformed into
a
gambling casino, a sign of the times.
The hills of Marin stood overlooking the bay like
prehistoric
monuments, gentled and quieted. The
mystery of this region remained in
evidence. The Golden Gate spanned two continents. The smell of savagery mixed with
elegance
to create a heady grin on one's face.
But it didn't last. Here western
civilization
rammed
head on with the mystical, the hypnotic, and lost.
E.
M. Ciroan had said, An Age of Self-Pity.
The people had lost their sense of
humor. The time that had spawned a Cioran (who had
understood the peoples' powerful and
sometimes
subtle rush to destruction) did no more than count the splinters from the
wreckage. Did Newsweek understand how conspiratorial
his methods were? How he
wished
to overturn the American system?
The
bus floated down the Main Street ramp and pulled, gears shifting, into the
terminal. 7:31.
He walked through the clean corridors and heard the announcer maintain
there
was a bus leaving in ten minutes for Los Angeles.
Outside,
three cabs leaned against the curb.
Petaca walked. He knocked on the
first
cab's
window. The driver, a small
long-haired, white man of about twenty-seven rolled
down
the window.
"Can
you take me to Marin?" Petaca
asked.
"I
sure can," the driver said.
They
turned left on Pine and down to Franklin.
The driver crossed the bridge and
shot
through the Rainbow Tunnel.
They
were flying down the Sausalito hill.
The water, houses, trees, surrounded by
a
silent night sky.
"Can
we turn off at Sir Francis Drake Boulevard and head for the College of Marin?
I'm going to Ross.”
"Okay."
"Maybe
you should turn on that radio."
"It's
not necessary," said the driver, "unless you really want to hear
it."
"No,
that's all right."
"I
envy these people," the driver said.
Petaca
nodded, "They in turn envy something else."
The
driver looked in the rear-view mirror.
"What do they envy?"
"A
vacation in Colombia...two weeks of silence..."
"I'd
like to blow a few of their heads off."
"You
ought to spend more time out here," Petaca said.
"Not
a bad idea," said the driver, rolling down the front window.
"With
the trees and flower bushes, and horse trails," Petaca said, "this is
another
country,
a dreamland. That's what you're envious
about." The driver snorted.
"This
is our version of Beverly Hills. Plenty
of professional guards make their living
out
here."
In
front of a large yellow mansion set far back from the road, they stopped. Petaca
gave
him fifty, thanked him for the ride and stepped out.
He
was caught in the magic of the place.
The fragrance was alarming.
After a
moment
his breathing returned to normal.
CHAPTER
IV
Jack
Monday, prematurely grey, former head of ITT, sat at the top of his stainless
steel
desk reading the speech that had galvanized the country three years ago. Cocaine
dripped
like honey into his throat. A ping pong
table occupied the middle of the room,
paddles
lay on each side of the net. The sight
of it, through the green netting, momentarily
took
his mind off the speech. He adjusted
his glasses and turned back to the sheets of onion
skin,
his eyes skimming over the rocklike surface of words. "I believe in repression as a
means
of managing human life," a gruff statement, fascistic. But then he lightened up. "The
rules
of the game I intend to play are governed..." His mime, dressed in jogging clothes,
stood
watching him from the end of the room.
She smiled. He spoke aloud,
"...by the extent
to
which I am able to compress this fever we have been gripped by these last
twenty years.
We have lost faith in ourselves, as watchers,
gaugers of our own spirit. Our way of
life has
been
distorted by rising prices, shabby goods, a loss of value. As a nation, we act as if we
no
longer know what any given thing means:
a kiss, an apple, a job well done.”
"We
must repress our desires and begin to look more clearly at the things that
surround
us, at ourselves and our country, our friends.
We must kick the money habit and
focus
our attentions on the qualities of the goods we produce. We are still the richest, most
fallow
nation on earth...etc...etc."
He
threw his hand away. "I want to
talk to Barber."
She
arched her eyebrows and lifted her paddle.
She squeezed the ball between her
index
fingers and tossed it in the air.
"Now,"
he bellowed, "I'm in trouble."
She
turned, paddle and ball in hand and, military-style, marched from the room.
Barber
headed what was fondly known as the Bloodsucker's Division, a political
surveillance
wing, whose job it was to key into anyone who was becoming politically active,
find
out who they were and what, if anything, they were capable of.
The
Barber maintained a thick head of brown hair with short, well clipped
sideburns;
the
cut exposed the trombone shape of his ears.
His eyes, like a boa constrictor's riveted the
watcher
to a stop. His cheeks were slightly puffed,
mouth hard and turned up at the edges.
The face of a cowboy. He never spoke of his business. Indeed, through two presidents he
had
never been called upon to divulge his information.
He
held a pen in his left hand as a pool player would hold a cue stick, first
finger
pressed
gently over the thumb. He looked down
at the photo of Joseph Petaca. He met
Petaca's
large, spidery eyes. There was
intelligence, compassion, a normal sense of
calculation
there.
The
light flashed above his door. He picked
up the receiver. It was Monday's
secretary.
The
appropriate buttons pushed, Barber was now on the line with Monday. In
response
to Monday's order, Barber said, "If he's as politically disruptive as you
think, why
not
charge him with a crime and let the publicity do the rest?"
"He's
committed no crimes, and besides, I don't want to take a chance on making a
martyr
out of him. Do you have any other
suggestions?"
"No."
"Then
do it."
Barber
hung up a moment after Monday. He
called his secretary. "Gimme Karl
Marsh,"
he yelled.
Marsh
sat in a booth at Tadich's Grill. He
was impressed by booths. He could press
an
ivory button and a waiter with a white cloth draped across his arm would
appear. The
swordfish
was the best he'd ever had. The man, Geoffrey
Hoop, who sat across from him,
ate
salmon. It was two o'clock in the
afternoon. Outside, a clear sixty-two
degrees.
Hoop
acted as if Marsh was one of the most fortunate of human beings. He didn't
talk
about what a great product he had.
"Knowledge
was what we were both after," he said.
He wanted to know where
Marsh
had heard about it.
"The
chemical?"
"Yes."
"From
a friend."
"What
friend?" He stopped, not wanting
to be too serious. "I'm just
curious," he
continued,
almost apologetically.
He
couldn't have been more than thirty years old, yet his hair was white.
"A
friend of my father's," Marsh said.
"He's a man interested in news; he keeps his
ear
to the ground."
"What
did he tell you about it?"
"He
told me it was something that would be good for the government."
"I
think he was quite right. If he was
speaking religiously. I think it could
revolutionize
our world, if handled properly."
A
passing waiter refilled their wine glasses.
"What
do you mean?" Marsh asked.
"You'll
see, Karl. The bottle's finished."
They
passed the waiting customers and out the swinging doors.
"You
know, you look different," Hoop said.
"What
do you mean?"
"I
think we knew each other a long time ago Karl.
But you don't remember, do
you?"
Marsh
looked puzzled. "No. When did we know each other?"
Hoop
moved quickly to his car, opening the passenger door, and walked around it,
a
'69 grey Ferrari.
"You'll
see," he said.
The
drive out of the financial district and up the long, high California Street and
down
Van Ness to Lombard terrified Marsh.
Hoop drove fast, changing channels on the
radio
as if he were typing a letter.
Marsh
kept turning to look at him, wondering what he was doing.
He
responded as they approached the bridge, "The gestalt of the robotic
culture,
twenty
channels are better than one."
Marsh
said, "I didn't understand any of what we had listened to."
Hoop
shifted into low gear, easing the grey machine through the passageway.
"Good
for you," he said, almost yelling, and roared onto the bridge.
This
manic, self-absorbed creature was not the human being Marsh had been talking
to
in the restaurant.
"What's
your real name?" Marsh asked,
hoping to bring him back to his senses.
"My
real name," and he turned to him, "is Geoffrey Hoop. What's the matter, Marsh,
am
I scaring you?"
"Machines
scare me," he said. "I don't
understand them."
"Would
you open the glove box, Karl, and get my glasses? The sun should be out
in
Marin."
Marsh
reached into the box and picked out a typical pair of aviator shades. He
handed
them to Hoop and asked, "Are you on this chemical now?"
"Once
you've been on it," he offered "you're never off it. Right now, see if you can
enjoy
going down this hill."
Marin
stretched out before them, an exquisite water-filled land of rolling hills and
boats
in harbor. The Ferrari roared wiping
out the curves.
They
pulled into a gravel driveway. In front
of them was a rustic, two-story, on
stilts. It overlooked the Tiburon lagoon.
"The
chemical was imported from the Amazon.
They had a distilling process which
turned
the plant into an easily transportable liquid, a gallon of which would sell for
$100,000. A lifetime supply," Hoop said,
"for one thousand people. As
necessary as water.
A drop is too much. Lightly wet your finger, that's all that's necessary."
"What
is it?"
"Come
inside. I'll give you a glass of white
wine."
They
moved through the spacious house and out to the back porch.
"I
put some in your drink. Here."
"Actually,"
he said, rolling his eyes, "you are about to learn to fly, Karl."
Marsh
sat down. Hoop moved to the railings of
the porch.
"That
water is sacred."
Marsh
nodded his head.
"You
know, some day I think I'm going to go for a long swim in that water."
Marsh
wanted to say, 'this is a nice house you have.' As he began bringing the words
up,
he felt his heart enlarge. He could
barely breathe. He wanted to call out
to Hoop to tell
him
he was in trouble. He made an effort to
get his attention but Hoop looked out to where
a
light breeze had appeared, rippling across the surface of the water.
Marsh
released himself; a bubble burst. The
cords and muscles in his body vibrated
like
birdsongs. The sun felt like a shower
of pure mountain water. Hoop
turned. Marsh
took
him in. Hoop raised his upper lip and
tilted his bead back eyeing him. Marsh
felt a
warmth,
an ease in the other's manner. It was
funny because Hoop looked grotesque.
Marsh
remembered
where he had seen Hoop's face - he was the spitting image of the old
archeologist
priest, Teihard de Chardin. His nose
was not as hawklike, his eyes not as
piercing,
but he looked like that man.
"Do
you wanna try and stand?"
"I'm
just beginning to talk," he said, "but feeling better about it. I feel like a
plant...sprung
from the wood."
Hoop
smiled, "Well, I'm gonna have another drink." He started to move into the
living
room. Marsh began to laugh.
"Yes,
I...maybe I'd like one, too," he said.
"What
do you want?"
"I
don't know, something..."
"How
about Bull's Blood?"
"Bull's
Blood?"
"It's
a Hungarian wine."
"That'll
do."
He
had never felt so rooted. A benign
monster had been released from him and now
it
sat in the sunlight. He could see why
the officials were interested in it, the sensation of
raw
power created a feeling of self-confidence.
Happily, he sat sipping the Bull's Blood,
enjoying
the weather.
"C'mon,
you have to stand up, Karl."
"I
don't want to."
"C'mon,
I'll help you."
Hoop
took his hands and helped him to his feet.
Marsh felt a rush of blood, his head
a
bloody flower.
"I'm
a thousand and fifty years old," Hoop said. They were standing.
"What's
your real name?"
"You've
already asked me that."
Marsh
was not actually interested. He
wondered what would happen after Hoop was
busted. Would he tell the government about his age,
the Amazon, all the rest.
"Let's
walk."
They
passed blackberry bushes and stunted trees.
Marsh
felt sorrow for all their branches, reaching out, extending hopelessly. The
bushes
entangled in one another. Like us, he
thought, they are trapped in a density of their
own
making.
Suddenly,
they were standing at the water, the lifegiver. Marsh's face shone above
it,
a bland, calm, clean-shaven face of no distinction.
Karl
said, "Did you see that?"
Hoop
said, "Yes, you're beautiful."
Marsh
laughed, "How can I be beautiful?
I am dull and flat." White
fire crackled
all
around them.
"Energy
from our own bodies," Hoop said, and smiled.
Across
the lagoon, across the bay, the buildings of the city stood like electric
mannequins,
a bright army of computers.
"It's
breathtaking," Marsh whispered. He
meant it.
"I
can arrange to have the money tomorrow if you'll drive me back into town. Now."
Hoop
shrugged. "Fine," he said,
and they walked back to the car.
On
the way to the city, Marsh saw the ground, the people, the colors of the sky,
the
birds,
the sun, roads, and tires, for the first time.
It was the work of a great artist.
All
existing
in one space, one frame. He shook his
head at the wonder of the balance.
The
Bureau had placed his account with the Bank of America. A fitful night's sleep
where
he would awaken to find himself hanging from the ceiling had not done anything
to
restore
him.
On
the fourteenth floor of the calliope-shaped building, he received two hundred
five
hundred
dollar bills, all marked along the red thread that ran through the nose.
He
could go no further with Hoop. Barber
was calling him. Others would take over
and
it would be up to them to decide how to use him.
To
Marsh's surprise, because he thought they'd possibly go back to Hoop's place,
they
made the exchange outside the bank.
Hoop opened his trunk and produced a large gift-
wrapped
bottle and handed it to Marsh.
"Try
not to drop it, Karl," he said.
Marsh
gave him the attaché case.
Flamboyantly, Hoop turned to the street and hailed
the
first passing cab. "Airport,"
he said to the driver, as Marsh slipped into the cab.
"Keep
in touch," Hoop said.
CHAPTER
V
The
garage smelled clean and efficient.
Karl had just left Barber. A small drop of
rain,
a pinprick, hit his windshield. The
road was curving to the left, he turned the wheel.
About half a mile ahead on the right hand
side of the road stood the "two temptations from
hell": twenty-four foot female nudes, sculptures,
that "encouraged the people," as the
President
said, "to fuck and devour one another." Like so many of his
contemporaries, Marsh
was
impressed by Monday's rhetoric but, unlike many of them, he did not believe
much of
what
the President said.
Looking
up at their legs and hips, he traveled slowly around the circle. The rain
began
to pour more steadily. He reached over
and tapped a button. The wipers swept
away
the
rain.
He
crossed the bridge and turned into the deepest parking lot. He was surprised to
see
only nine cars. Petaca was scheduled to
give a speech at noon.
Crazy,
he thought; he felt like going for a long walk in the rain, but sat tight. He
imagined
a pretty blonde woman about his age passing him and holding a tan umbrella
above
her
head. He was surprised to find himself
smiling at her and she returning the grin.
The
sign said Johns Hopkins Medical School. Inside the building, Petaca
talked.
Faint
lighting made it difficult to make out the features of his face or the contours
of his
body. Marsh could have shot him right there...no
one would have said anything. Instead,
he
joined the medical students and their teachers, upright and attentive.
Petaca
stood on the stage and said nothing. He
looked gentle and unassuming. A
few
in the audience coughed.
"I'm
sorry," he said. "We
communicate too much with words. In
this silence I can
hear
what's really going on. Generally, I
don't want to hear it. The words that I use are
playful
or serious tools which are supposed to mirror thought. When I laugh or cry it is
caused
by feeling, not words. We have lost
touch with our feelings. Real feeling
is
expressed
in silence. Yes, in lovemaking, in
gestures, in the way we look at one another.
Not in words. Words are great deceivers.
"As
I stand here talking, I feel two definite things. You want to be fed and you want
to
fight...fight me, I suppose. I'm not
sure I can fight you. Possibly we can
talk. I'll take
questions
later, if you have any."
A
few people nodded their heads.
"I'm
going to tell you about a boy, an extremely powerful boy, that I've been
working
with. His basic interest is murder...His
name..."
As
Petaca talked Marsh watched a pretty blonde woman sitting off to the right of
the
stage. She looked like the one he had imagined, the
one holding the tan umbrella.
Apparently
she was with Petaca.
Marsh
left the hall. It was still
raining. Their car was easy to
spot. Obviously the
rented
automobile. He tried the driver’s front
door. It opened. Marsh took the
explosive
device
from the black bag in his trunk and placed it under the seat. The pressure switch
would
complete the job. With the first plop on the driver’s seat Joseph Petaca and
his lovely
blonde
would begin their final journey.
Marsh
started his car and drove out of the parking lot. He was on his way to the
airport,
eventually to Marquesa, an island off the coast of Tahiti. It was Barber's idea.
"A
place of lofty peaks," Barber said.
Massive head walls, plugs of volcanic stone,
bare,
grotesquely curved turrets, a land where a thing called the 'no-no fly'
lives. A perfect
place
for a man like you.
G.I.V.E.
CHAPTER
I
At the gate, John Mouton, a short man with a
beard, waited. Approaching him,
Clifford
Mason, the entrepreneur, held out his hand.
Mouton, barely making contact
said,
"Your car is parked in a restricted zone reserved for police. We better get moving."
"No hurry," Clifford said, "they
aren't working at this time of the morning.
How
are
you?"
"Terrible! I've gotten a lot of tickets because of that car. I wish you'd have stored
it."
Clifford said, absently, "Parking
tickets?"
"One for parking, and one for crossing a
double yellow line. After that, it was
about
a week ago, I stopped driving it. The
fan belt broke too, but I put it back on."
As they rounded the corner, he saw the right
front fender had been bashed in,
giving
the car a kind of snarling grin.
"What's that?" he said.
"Bob Cracker ran into the side of a
mountain. Do you mind?"
"Funny world. No."
Mouton did not reply. His shop, at the bottom of Pacific Heights, on Sacramento
Street,
displayed miniature unicorns on softly colored slate landscapes, Buddha’s
perched
on
ledges of driftwood, and silver coat clasps.
A jeweler, Mouton had been at this spot
since
'72. With his steel-rimmed glasses and
blowsy satin shirt, he would sit and listen to
the
ladies' conversation.
As they entered, the radio voice warned of
rain. Clifford sat on a half-broken
wooden
stool, adjusting the leg beneath him.
"There is a hole in the ceiling and a pail
in the corner. So watch it!"
"Have you got any grass?"
"No.
But Yanno has. Do you want me to
check on the price?"
"Whatever it is, I don't want to pay more
than three hundred a pound. I've got a
little
money. I've got to make it work for
me."
He nodded.
"I'll ask him."
"What have you got there?"
"It's just a cigarette."
"How is Yanno?"
"Fine . . . " Mouton paused and
chuckled. "I've been drinking for
four days.
Yesterday,
I started feeling a little guilty about it, a little scared." He laughed.
"I told
myself,
'I've got to tighten up.' Sometimes, I
think I'm losing my mind. Way to
much. I
was
at a party two days ago and everybody left around nine thirty. I was the only one
left. I didn't even know where the host was. Drinking white wine. I walked home. It
was
about five in the morning. I was
flashing around. It was a weird space,
and a cop
stopped
me. No big deal, that's what they do.”
"Did he think you were a burglar?"
He was coughing. "That was kinda weird.
I was so high, so stoned . . . "
"Did he get out of the car?"
"Oh yeah, he got out of the car. He wanted ID and all that."
"Then what happened?"
"Not much." His voice trailed off.
"I told him who I was. I
told him I
understood
what he was doing -- it was his job.
I'm walking along, people don't do that at
five
in the morning. I told him it was my
business. The cop seemed to
understand."
Clifford smiled. "You could have told him you were a stock broker."
Mouton nodded.
"Listen, I want to lay low, but there's another party tonight at
Bruno's. He's moved in with a woman named Jule."
"They're having a party?"
"Yeah.
At 2610 Chestnut."
"Do you want me to pick you up?"
"No, that's what I'm saying; I don't know
if I'm going."
"Okay.
I'll call you before I leave."
"Cliff," John said, "you don't
look too good either."
CHAPTER
II
Carlos Yanno was everybody's rich friend. His house, a large Victorian,
contained
the finest collection of Tiffany stained glass in the West. Yanno's hair, like
Orphan
Annie's, came out about two inches from the sides of his head; his arms were
short
and his eyes were shiny.
"I know what you want," he said to
Cliff and strolled to a Captain's sea chest set
against
the far wall. Opening the lock, he
said, "This is Mexican sensimilla."
Yanno said, "It's worth a hundred an
ounce." He placed it on the scale
and
weighed
it. With his back to Clifford he said,
"How come you weren't at the party last
night?"
"I was sick. How was it?"
Yanno took a deep breath. "Very important." He came back and dropped it on
the
table in front of him. "Sit
down. Bruno was talking about
G.I.V.E. Though I don't
think
it can solve any real problems, it's a happy medium, good to talk about. I mean it
has
no sign-up sheet or proposed fee.
Basically, Cliff, it's a simple, fun-loving notion.
Besides,
I don't think you take it too seriously."
"No, but the time is right for
G.I.V.E.," Cliff said. "Look
at the way Hakeem puts
the
people on a positive wave length.
They're willing to contribute ten dollars apiece to
him,
rather than going to dinner. He gets
maybe two hundred people a night."
"Be
careful."
He passed Broadway. A Pinball Factory stood invitingly at Pacific. He walked
past
the restaurants; the Butcher Shop and the Casablanca.
There were no colors like these in any other
city, the architectural pastels; greens,
red,
browns, and blues mixed with the layout of trees and flowers, and gave a
feeling of
storybook
unreality. The houses were more like
ships or chess pieces, many varieties,
each
with it own personality. He looked down
on the Wharf, and turned left onto
Chestnut. In front of him, a white cloud sat above an
apartment building. With the Bay
in
the background, it looked like an advertisement for Greece. The houses were the
treasures. They gave the place definition: The sad and
solid Tudors, Victorian castles,
the
mansions like mausoleums, the reconverted and almost Southern-style
whorehouses.
All
contributed to the feeling that San Francisco was a stage set.
He stood across from Jule's apartment and
looked up to her window. A hand
tapped
him on the shoulder. "Mr.
Mason," a voice growled.
"It's too bad you missed the
party,
you would have been appreciated there.
I met quite a few of your friends . . . "
"Bruno," Clifford said, "can I
buy you a beer?"
Bruno nodded.
"I'll follow you."
He wore white pants with a light blue shirt and
a blue blazer. With his salt and
pepper
beard, he might have just parked a yacht and stepped off for a leisurely
stroll.
The redeeming feature of Chestnut Street was
its nearness to the water, the feeling
it
gave of being a town in a seaside resort.
"This is not chance," Bruno said.
"I'm familiar with those ideas. And chance as far as I can see is not ruled
out. I
suspect
you're making something of this. I'd
like to know what it is."
"Matter of fact," he said, "I'm
interested in your religion."
"You're an honorary member. Cheers."
"All right. What have you been doing with this G.I.V.E. thing? I've been looking
for
an idea like yours for the past year.
We've entered an age of renewed religious fervor.
Your idea could be expanded."
Bruno's cause was found in the Ferris wheel
turning, in the circus smells. When
they
first met, in the Midwest, Bruno was a barker.
Clifford tended a concession called
the
Mirror At The End Of The Road.
"I'm interested in . . . " He hesitated. "What I'd like," he said, "are your straight
legitimate
answers and your promise that you will stick to them, just in case I do let you
in
on this. I am planning a move. You'd be invaluable, but I don't want people
laughing
and
hooting at me. For instance, what's
your background?"
"I'm a magician." Bruno smiled.
"A stage magician?"
"No.
A real magician."
"Good.
What did you do before that?"
"I've never done anything else. I was born in New York City," he said,
"in 1930,
if
that helps. In 1958, I married; you
know all this. In 1966, my wife and
child died in an
automobile
accident. I quit my job and became a
public relations man for Rockefeller
Center. That lasted for six years, etc."
Bruno's hands were on his thighs. He seemed relaxed. As he spoke, Clifford
watched
for any nervous movement, any sign of drugs, but there were none. He seemed
wise
and giving, a champion of the world.
"Actually, I'm glad you're here. I can't afford any fuck-ups. My idea is the same
as
yours."
"What?" Bruno said.
"Expand it. Turn it into a big-time religion. There's a need for giving.
For
spectacle."
"Then let's do it together."
Clifford nodded, and finished his beer. "I'll check back with you in a couple
of
days."
CHAPTER
III
She had been Yanno's mistress, an ex Las Vegas
showgirl. Outside her window
clouds
drifted like dirigibles. From her perch
the city looked like an island on a wind
swept
steppe.
He said, "I'd like you to meet Bruno and
you can tell me what you think of him."
She said, "I don't want to meet him. I don't want to have anything to do with
your
friends. I don't want to hurt Carlos'
feelings." She walked into the
kitchen; he rose and
followed
her. "C'mon," he said. They walked back into the living room. She had him
sit. She was giving him a haircut.
In the living room, she stared out the window,
and said, "I don't know what you're
all
upset about anyway."
"We're not upset."
"You are.
Sometimes you talk complete nonsense.
I think I'd be better off going
to
New York." She faced him. "All the people I know here get
swallowed up in their
own
petty concerns."
"I'm not upset."
"There's something ugly about what you
do. Sinister and fragile is the way I
see
it. Carlos too.
It's repulsive."
"You've got to strike out more on your
own. Spire. Are you still seeing the
carpenter
and the lawyer?"
"They're no better."
"It's this town," she said. "It's a breeding ground for
malcontents."
"You protest too much."
"Actually, the men here don't stick
around," she said. "I get
turned on, and then
they
leave. I need a change of
scenery."
"Every time I come back here I appreciate
it more."
"Oh sure," she said, "you can
have the pick of the litter. I had a
dream about you
last
night. You were walking through a
mess. It looked like dead bodies. It took place
in
Ghirardelli Square. You climbed the
stairs to the fountain. And then, a
young man
pointed
a gun at you. He held the gun, it sort
of froze and then he fell backwards, the
gun,
you know, firing up. The man was
crying, tears falling, like paint down his face.
He
said, 'Yanno started this war,' and turned over on his face. You said, 'I'm sorry,' and
you,
too, turned away. Then my dream changed
to something called the Reality Land
Amusement
Park and I was on a desert. It was a
problem. If I couldn't find the correct
way
out, I heard someone say, 'She will suffer great pain.' Even so, standing there I
could
feel the heat. It was unbearable."
She placed the scissors on the couch. Pulling away and pointing at him, she said.
"Now you look like a German." She moved closer to him, and said, "I
won't tell you
anything
more about yourself if you're nice to me."
Clifford stood. "I have a lot of work to do. I'll be back."
"I wish you could stay," she
said. "It's another beautiful
day."
"Spire, I'm going to give Yanno your
number."
"Oh, so that's it," she said. "I'm a pawn in the game."
Clifford pictured Yanno saying it again:
"She's too young; she's got too much
energy. When she learns how to control it, she'll
abandon me. I'm too old
besides." She
was
28 to his 40.
High expectations. No return. Either they
didn't know what it cost, or they didn't
have
the strength to hold on to it. Everyone
wanted to be taken care of. In the
coming
time,
would the people be able to see the necessity for getting down on all fours to
pray
and
kiss and kneel in front of one another?
From the highest hill in the Alta Plaza, he
watched the sails, like water flies,
maneuvering
in the harbor. Marriage, Clifford
thought, was the traditional way in which
societies
grew, maintained course, and prospered, and the counterweight to egotism and
despair. He would have to marry again.
He walked down the hill to Sacramento
Street. Mouton's sign, a miniature of a
fully
dressed courtier surrounded by two nude women, said Closed. There was a light on
in
the back. He knocked on the glass. No answer.
Out of habit, he pressed down on the
latch,
and the door opened.
"Mouton," he called. "Mouton," but there was no
answer. He walked around a
glass
case and into Mouton's workroom.
Mouton's legs were sprawled, arms at his side.
His
eyes looked like Greek sculpture. There
were three envelopes by his right side.
One
was
addressed to Paula, his second wife, one to Cliff, and one to his parents, who
lived in
rural
Pennsylvania. Clifford pulled up a
stool, and opened his envelope.
"I'm leaving you my sword. It hangs over my bed. The sheath goes with it. I
think
I told you I found it in the desert in Mexico, lying on top of the
sand." Standing in
Mouton's
bed, Clifford knocked over an empty bottle of beer. He wanted that sword. He
called
the police. He said, "I think I
have a dead man on my hands."
They said, "What's the address?"
The paramedics were the first to arrive.
Clifford sat while they pounded on Mouton's
chest. Then, he watched them lift
him
onto a stretcher and carry him off. He
had not moved from the stool when Gordon
"Red"
Knightsbridge walked in. He had been an
outspoken critic of the mayor,
homosexuals,
and the Police Chief. Red had the face
of an orange peel.
Red looked over his glasses, and said in a
loud, raspy voice, "You came in."
Clifford extended his hand. "My name is Clifford Mason."
Red said, "What else? Tell me the whole thing. Give me that sword."
"I walked in. I wanted to see John, he was a friend of mine. The sign on the door
said
Closed. I pressed down on the latch,
the door opened. I walked in and found
him
here. There were three letters, one to me, which I
have in my pocket, and the two you see
on
the floor."
"Give me the letter." He handed it to him.
"You'll have to come down with us."
"Am I being booked?"
"For what?"
Clifford widened his eyes.
"We want you to fill out a report, Mr.
Mason."
"Mason." He said it as if the name had gotten stuck, like a chicken bone,
in his
throat.
CHAPTER
IV
The coke was on top of Yanno's armoire,
gleaming crystalline flakes in a
cellophane
bag. He brought down a large oval
mirror and put it on the bed and dropped
about
four grams. He opened the armoire, put
the coke inside, closed it, and left the
room.
The magnolia strains of Nina Simone came on at
about the same time as the
central
heating. "Oh, Baltimore," she
went with a slightly reggae beat, "ain't it so hard
just
to live."
The night air, cool and foggy, was an
appropriate shroud. Some people could
be
seen
at the edge of the yard near the bougainvillea. A shadow behind a tree looked like
Yanno's
cab driver, Michael Manley, the Padre.
He took a few steps and then looked
down
at the Padre, who had his face turned to a tree and his shoulders slightly
hunched.
The Padre turned his head from the tree to look
over his shoulder. From the hill
Clifford
yelled, "Unclap thy hands and you will find your life hanging in the
balance."
The Padre chuckled, a deep-throated,
mucous-choked laugh.
Clifford turned and walked back into the
house. There had been a slight chill in
the
wind, and he thought he could use a shot of brandy and a nosefull of
cocaine. In the
kitchen,
he poured the brandy into a crystal snifter.
In Yanno's bedroom, Louise Nettleson, the
painter, sat on the bed, her knees bent,
tying
the shoelaces to her sneakers. He
poured another glass and walked in.
From the far
left
corner of the room, he heard snatches of conversation.
"It's all internal."
"I think I agree. He's not stimulated by the outside. The relevance of what's
happening
outside is immaterial compared to the amount of stuff that's going on
inside."
He turned.
There was a man he knew, who owned a restaurant called Down
Home,
and his wife. The other couple, in
their late fifties, he did not know. He
thought
they
had been talking about somebody's newborn child.
Louise handed him the mirror.
"Fair trade," he said. "How's the work going?"
"Oh, yeah, I'm having my annual show next
week." She took a deep breath.
"How many paintings you gonna have?"
"I've got about fifteen ready. It'll be on Saturday and Sunday. Can you come?"
"I'll sure try. I've been in New York."
"I love New York."
"Are you still with Zack?"
"Yes." She smiled. "He's
having a show in about three weeks. He
doesn't like
parties. Actually, he doesn't like Carlos."
"That's because Carlos is more paranoid
than he is."
"I think that may be true," she said.
He bent down to the mirror.
Louise painted whales diving through the ocean
and suns flaring above Mexican
deserts. She had a knack for bringing out the
light. "Have you talked to
Cracker, yet?"
"Yes."
"Are you the official guard of this
cocaine?"
"It seems that way. Not a bad job."
"Not a bad job at all. I'm going into the living room."
In the hallway, Frank Black, the architect, and
Cracker were talking.
"It's kind of like yours and mine,"
Frank said, "very matter of fact, and yet, they
are
famous and they have their relationships only because they are there
together."
"I don't think it's fame so much as the
kind of circuit they're on," Cracker said.
Cracker
leaned his heavily bearded face toward Cliff and whispered, "Tennis
players."
"That's what I mean," Black informed
Cracker, "it's the machine they're on.
They're
probably just as human as anyone else though they appear at that point in time
to
be
playing a specific role that makes them part of the elite. I don't think they see
themselves
in that way."
"Rather marvelous thing about them, if in
fact it's true, because I think the
audience
is totally tripped," Black said.
Clifford looked into the kitchen and saw Carlo
Beni
with Big Mary. They made an odd
couple. She was a supporter of lost
causes.
Beni
was an opera buff.
In the living room, Yanno turned Simone down to
a light hum, and had the people
sitting
around listening to the taped conversation between Karen Lily and Mouton.
Karen
sat next to Carlos, with Kennedy on her right.
She was smiling. Clifford came
in
and
sat down next to Paula, Mouton's second wife.
Mouton said, " . . . in a quiet way, not
even a quiet place, I didn't have any time to
talk
to him, because I had this other trip going."
"Right, right," Karen replied
enthusiastically. "It's so
strange, John, our paths
crossed. Did he mention my daughter?"
"Yes."
"I mentioned you to him."
"He said you recommended me."
"He's such a nice person. The old fashioned idea of going to visit an
old friend
and
sharing his thoughts. My daughter has
been seeing him once a week for two years.
She's
such a nice person, my daughter, but I'm in a funny position. I'm her mother, and
she's
still young. She's the kind of kid
who'll slide if you don't stay on her."
Mouton laughed. "You don't want to get the reverse reaction, which is real
easy
to
do with people, what happens most in the world, you know what I mean. Well-meant
criticisms
are interpreted the other way by the receiver.
You know what I mean?"
"Right, and yet I don't want to criticize
her. I want her to get a picture of
herself.
The
minute I said that I thought it was really dumb. She'll get a picture of herself soon
enough. But I mean the way she walks and writes, you
know, we are what we write or
the
way we walk. We give off what we are,
you know what I mean?" Clifford
heard the
sound
of desperation.
"That changes though," Mouton
said. "While you're growing up, it
changes.
She's
really young, but you've been around her for twelve years. She's real young, but
not
to you."
Paula started to cry. Clifford put his left arm around her. She said, "I'll be all
right." The conversation continued for another few
minutes with Karen complaining
about
how hard it was to raise children, alone, and how deep down she felt a
bitterness
and
sometimes could not help but communicate it to her daughter. Mouton sympathized
with
her.
Clifford remembered something Mouton had said
to him about couples. "They
were
shock troops for the future and the conventional wisdom had nothing to say
about
relationships." He wondered if Mouton might not be alive
today if he had made a
commitment
to Paula.
Carlos shut the machine down. Paula stood up. "I'll take you home if you like,"
Clifford
said. Paula shook her head. "I'm driving." Carlos walked over to the living
room
door and said, "I believe it's time for wine. Mr. Kennedy, Karen, friends, would
you
like to join me? Would you like to help
me with the bottles, Clifford?"
As Cliff walked back into the kitchen, Carlo
Beni turned as if he'd been caught in
the
act. He looked startled. He looked toward Big Mary. Cliff saw guilt, but what was
he
guilty of? He said, "Carlos, I'm
afraid I have to go. Like the rest of
us, I'm sorry.
Thank
you for your thoughtfulness." He
tried to slow down.
Yanno said, "I'm glad you could
come."
"Mr. Mason."
"Goodbye, Carlos, I'll be talking to
you." They shook hands.
Big Mary said, "I'll go too. Good night all."
Big Mary caught up with him. Side by side, they reached the living room,
and
called
out "Good night," opened the door and left.
"I know for a fact that she was
instrumental in hiding at least two of the top
political
fugitives of the early 70's," Yanno said.
"I also believe she has quite a bit of
money,
but she keeps up a good front. In her
gingham dress."
He handed Clifford a corkscrew and two chilled
bottles.
By 3:30 that morning it was apparent to
Clifford that Yanno was losing his mind.
Together they had polished off five bottles
of the stuff, and now they were alone in the
living
room. It amazed Cliff how everything
remained so neat and clean after one of
Yanno's
parties.
Yanno sat on the couch; Clifford sat on a chair
next to him. "Where is that
spirally
bitch," Yanno asked leaning back.
"Do you know?"
"Yes," Cliff laughed. "This may break your heart, Carlos, but
I've been sleeping
with
her."
"Oh, you have," he said, sitting up
and leaning toward him.
"Exquisite, isn't she?
You're kind of a bastard, aren't you,
Cliff. A sliding, conniving kind of
guy."
"You know better than that."
"I do?" His eyebrows went up. Clifford
was seeing precisely the kind of reaction
he
had hoped for.
"You threw her out," he said. "A few overtures and she'll be
back."
"Why don't you, ah?"
"You see how ridiculous it is. You can't even say it. I enjoy her company, but
living
together with a woman is not for me.
I'm no threat to you, Carlos."
Yanno raised a clasped hand to his mouth and
tongued the knuckle of his left
thumb.
God, he was strange. "I don't know why you don't marry her and have
children.
What
else are you going to do with your life?"
"Do you know the only reason I'm
considering this?"
"Exactly.
Right."
"What's her phone number?"
"922-4330."
"Thank you. Help yourself to the coke.
I'm going to bed."
Yanno stood.
He looked wobbly. Clifford
followed him into the bedroom,
reached
into the armoire, and picked up what was left.
Yanno slipped into his dressing gown, a heavily
brocaded satin robe. It was torn
under
the left sleeve.
Clifford nodded. "Good night, Carlos."
"Okay, you crazy fucker," he said,
and turned and fell into bed.
"Make sure you
lock
the door on your way out. And don't let
the sun up!"
Walking around San Francisco at a quarter to
four in the morning with a quarter
ounce
of cocaine in his jacket, and wine on
his breath, he decided to stand at a bus stop.
It
was late enough that anyone seeing him standing there might think he was on his
way
to
work.
He had been surviving for years without
work. Not that he hadn't done his
share,
but
he could see there were larger issues.
He didn't mind dealing for a living, but he felt
he
couldn't get big enough; either he didn't have the resources, or the
brains. Playing the
horses
was still a possibility.
Sitting in front of him was the opportunity of
a lifetime. Yanno had the money,
Bruno
had the organizational ability, and he had the fuel. It looked like the forces were
operating
in his favor. If he could bring the
three of them together, he thought, he might
pull
it off.
He thought about Yanno, how fifteen years ago,
he had, supposedly, devised new
methods
for bringing in the cocaine; how he had become an expert at covering his
tracks.
Yanno often bragged he didn't think a law
enforcement agency in the world connected
him
with the drug traffic. Yet, he was
frightened as a hare; as the next man caught in
traffic.
Clifford thought he now had an edge, that psychological difference that could set
his
life to music. Attacked from all sides,
its basic tenet, the pearl, remained firm.
The
core
was a miracle, the essence of all religions.
CHAPTER
V
A woman hung over the street vomiting.
Bruno, the Great Bruno, for that was how
Clifford really thought of him,
answered
his sister's buzzer with a friendly and comical "Helloo."
Cliff said "Hello" back. "Are you receiving?"
"Mr. Mason," he said through the
intercom, "please come up."
Bruno laughed as
Clifford
came up the last flight of stairs.
"You look tired, Clifford."
Bruno stood with
one
hand on the balustrade. "Why
didn't you take the elevator," Bruno continued.
"I need the exercise. I guess you've heard of Mouton's
death."
Bruno nodded ceremoniously; he was more
interested in the present.
His sister's apartment was sparsely furnished.
They sat around the kitchen table along with an
overflowing ashtray and two
yellow
cups.
"I've decided to take you up on your
offer," Bruno said. "Yes, I'm
pleased. I've
been
thinking about it and I believe the first step is finding and then applying the
money."
Bruno raised his eyebrows and gave Clifford his
Cheshire cat smile.
"Yes, I know. I'll be talking to Yanno either today or tomorrow. You're going to
handle
all the publicity."
"Well." He folded his arms.
"I suppose you'll be preparing a sermon."
"I'm sure I will."
"You know, we shouldn't have this coldness
between us."
"I'm keeping an eye on ya."
"That's a good idea, eh?" Bruno said.
"Mmm.
This is going to be a celebration.
I don't think right now you can believe
what's
going to happen, but the one thing I'm not, in this, is an idealist. The thing you
must
remember is that this is not a vehicle for your own expansion. This is something for
everyone. Do you understand?"
"I am myself." Bruno spreads his arms. "I am a big man, as you can see. I love
crowds,
I love the stage, and I love people. I
should have been an opera star, but I had no
voice,
or a transvestite, but I wasn't partial to dresses or make-up. You can't suppress
it
. . . and you, Clifford, no longer have the stomach for it."
"George, what role do you see yourself in,
besides the organizer of publicity?"
"I want to be the master of
ceremonies."
"You got it."
"Thank you."
In front of a large audience he couldn't help
but impress them with his large, grey
head.
Clifford sat back. "You must be pleased,” he said.
"Indeed, Mr. Mason, indeed."
He had no idea what Jule did for a living, but
if her apartment was any evidence,
she
had not been gifted with a high paying job.
He stepped back onto the street. In the bus stop three boys, maybe eight or
nine
years
old, had broken a wine bottle, and were kicking the pieces of glass against a
liquor
store
wall. An old woman wearing a ski cap,
curls coming down over her ears, finished
eating
a Neato Burrito, and let the wrapper fall to the sidewalk.
He dialed Yanno from a corner phone booth. Yanno said, "I'm busy right now,
you
know." He said it as if it took a
monumental effort to speak. "I'll
talk to you
tomorrow
morning."
"Fine.
I'll see you at eleven o'clock.
It's important."
"Okay." Yanno sounded resigned.
He could picture him: the contrite lover,
saying,
"I've missed you, Spire," and Spire holding his hands and smothering
him with
kisses.
CHAPTER
VI
Carlos Yanno and Clifford Mason sat in the
garden overlooking the pool.
Yanno's
upper lip curled over his teeth and his mouth was slightly open. His hair had
been
cut.
"My plan," Clifford said, "is to
make t-shirts with the letters G.I.V.E. on the front,
and
the explanation on the back, to organize an event to kick off with, and to
eventually
build
a center, a kind of clearing house for new ideas, a club where everyone is
welcome."
"That's what a church is, isn't it?"
"Yes.
It would be member-supported. We
would need a half million to begin
with. I think you, Bruno, and I would be on the
board of directors."
"What about Spire?"
"That would be nice if we could manage
it."
"Yeah." He looked out over the pool.
"I think I'm going to go for a swim," he
said. "I don't know if I like the sound of
this."
He stood up, slipped out of his robe and
walked, bare ass, down the hill. He
turned. "I'll think about it while I
swim," he said, and nodded as if to agree with himself.
Cliff went back into the house to get another
cup of coffee. He wondered if
Yanno
had proposed to Spire. It would be
easier for Yanno to change gears if he had
Spire
to keep him company.
Yanno came back up the hill. He was talking. "You know we have to
incorporate,
now, before they rewrite the non-profit organization laws. We'll need a
lawyer. Probably Kennedy. I'll have the money transferred to the corporate bank
account
with only you and I having withdrawal signatures."
Yanno reached over his chair and pulled on his
gown.
"Isn't that okay?"
Clifford nodded. Yanno sat down.
"I have your new number."
"That's right."
"Wendy."
"That's it."
"Well, we both have a lot of work to
do."
"It's going to be a lot of fun,
Doctor."
Carlos nodded, and said, "It's a new
life."
"Don't look so sad."
"It's not sadness."
"It looks like a frown."
"Like the barber says, one learns you
can't please everybody."
Clifford leaned forward a little.
"What d'ya mean?"
Yanno closed his eyes and smiled.
"I mean you've got to take care of
yourself," Yanno said.
"You've got to make
yourself
happy."
"It's the ways people have of doing that which
surprises me," Clifford replied.
"Well, I have something else to tell you,
and it may not make you very happy, but
there's
nothing I can do about that."
"Yes."
"It's about Mouton."
"What?"
"I killed him."
Carlos squinted at him. "Mouton was blackmailing me. I suffer from an
emotional
condition, something like consumption.
People excite me to the point of
madness. My whole body begins to shake, including my
brain. I know it sounds crazy,
but
you see, I can't control myself. It's
degenerative. I need certain drugs to
keep me
calm.
Like sedatives, only the opposite.
Cocaine, occasionally did it, but it was a
degenerative
drug. I've been experimenting for
years. At first a derivative of
Ayahuasca,
a
South American liana, harmine, did the trick.
I was getting very used to it, you could
say,
bored by it, and I was in the middle of concocting a new chemical compound, a
combination
of two drugs in conjunction with harmine.
John was here. You must
know."
Yanno leaned toward Clifford.
"I had the drug prepared. I asked him, 'How would you like to try this
experimental
drug,' you know? He asked me what was
in it. I told him. About a month
ago
he had drunk Ayahuasca for the first time."
Yanno stood up from the chair. His face was twisted; his nails dug into his
skin.
"Life is an experiment," he said,
calming down.
"Of course, Doctor, what happened
then?"
"He took the drug, and about an hour later
had a massive coronary."
With his left hand, Yanno began to squeeze his
eyebrows together and pull the
hairs.
Clifford put his arms around him. "Come on, let's go inside."
"He knew he was taking a risk,"
Clifford said.
"Yes, fuck, yes," he repeated. "It was horrible."
"Let's go inside."
"I'd better go to bed now."
"Yes.
Who else knows."
Together they opened the door.
"The Padre drove the body over."
"It's amazing no one saw him." As they went through the door, Yanno looked
up
at
him in horror. "Maybe someone
did," he said.
He slid into his covers. Clifford stood at the foot of the bed. Yanno propped
himself
up.
"Before you leave, bring me the
phone. No matter how we may feel, we
still have
business
to attend to."
"Did you type the letters?"
Yanno placed the phone on his stomach. "Yes."
"Thanks for the sword."
CHAPTER
VII
He wasn't aware of any laboratory Yanno might
have had, but then maybe it was
portable.
He was staring at the sun. It was a question of honor. Hard to swallow. The
closer
he got to Yanno, the crazier, and more of a liar, he seemed. Clifford was nodding
his
head automatically, but he had no idea what to think. It was too late to back out now.
Clifford thought of his first year in a
Jesuit military academy when the freshman
president
had declared that the new quarterback was to be his prize whipping boy. For
protection,
he had aligned himself with two of the largest linemen, Cioti and
Laughlin.
They
spent most of their time together outside the school. Clifford always felt a little
ashamed
that he didn't challenge the other freak's authority. Now, here he was in a
similar
spot. Deep down, he must have harbored
a feeling of inferiority. The other boy
was
stronger and smarter than he was. If he
had applied his energy, concentrated, he
knew
he might have taken him, but he had drifted.
The other boy must have known he
would.
He pushed the faded velvet curtain and entered
Mauna Loa, always dark and
quiet. His contact sat at the far side of the
horseshoe bar. Clifford walked by him
and
into
the bathroom. Within minutes, the other
man, Gunnar, followed and locked the door
behind
him.
Gunnar said, "Clifford Ray, how are
you?"
"Look at this. Five hundred," Clifford said. "It's the best."
"Oh, I know," Gunnar said, and took
the package and handed Clifford five $100
bills.
CHAPTER
VIII
"Well, George, did you get the news?"
"Mr. Mason, I've come to the conclusion
that you are a genius. It's
fantastic. My
instinct
has again been proven correct. A fine
instrument for survival. Dr. Carlos
Yanno
called
me in and in no uncertain terms outlined the corporation and where I was to
sit.
It's
fine with me."
"What did he say, George?"
George's voice dropped. This maneuver made it sound like a trigger
being
cocked.
"He told me about the money. How he was setting up a non-profit and asked
if I
would
be the advertising manager."
Bruno burped and said, "Excuse me."
"Would you like to handle the public
relations, that's what he said. I hear
you
have
some knowledge of the field."
"That was it?"
"That was it, except for saying that you
would call and give me the details."
"Okay, I'm going to take $40,000 out of
the bank and I want one-tenth of that to
go
into the making of t-shirts with Dr. Yanno's name on one quarter, 'The Padre
Lives' on
one
quarter, G.I.V.E. on each of their backs and the other half just the letters
G.I.V.E. on
the
front and the explanation in small lettering on the back, 'God's Inner Vision
for
Everyone,'
'For Everyone' in bolder letters. All
colors and one style. I want at least
3,000
of
them. For fifteen grand I want you to
reserve full page ads in the local papers and take
space
on billboards. Set up your checking
account. I want money shifted into your
account
this afternoon. I'll call you later and
give you the rest of the information.
Your
salary
is $400 a week."
"Adequate," he chuckled. "Actually," he said, curling in
upon himself, "that's
very
generous. You know it's all done with
press releases."
"Bruno," Clifford said, "did you
ever hear of the 'mental patient manifesto'?
It
was
something that was being passed around in the cities two years ago. It went, and I
quote,
'mental patients are part of the untouchable class of humanity in
America.' In
India,
they go into a village, round up several untouchables and shoot them in the
village
square. The untouchables who see this quit fighting
and give up their human rights.
They
would do it the same way here in America if they thought they could get away
with
it. So they do it in a lot of different
ways. So clever, and covered, it is
almost impossible
to
prove it is happening. But you and I
know it is. The American Civil
Liberties Union
needs
to hear from you. Please telephone or
go to the office."
Cliff sat back and looked out the kitchen
window.
Bruno grunted.
"They were really getting fucked
over. Reagan had thrown them out of the
hospitals."
"Fine," Bruno said. "Excellent. This movement is for everyone."
"All right, I'll talk to you later."
Clifford knew Bruno was an elitist. It was the reason Bruno refused to speak
about himself.
Bruno was about six years his father's
junior. Clifford thought the magician
concealed
himself in too much bullshit, too many nodding agreements. He never spoke
of
his troubles, never of his defeats.
Bruno lived in a fantasy world where he was the
star, the main attraction. His gift
was
that, sometimes, he could make people believe it.
Sausalito had once been a proud and
hard-working artists' colony, but now, like
everything
connected with the city, it was exploited for commercial purposes. It had
fancy,
overpriced boutiques, jewelry stores specializing in cocaine paraphernalia, and
overpriced
restaurants. The last of the poorer
artists had been driven out of the
houseboats
when a developer bought the property next to the water and asked the city to
declare
the houseboats trespassers on his property.
When the artists protested, the city
responded
with helmeted cops wielding batons and pressurized hoses.
As he came up Bridgeway, Clifford noticed the
Padre's Model Cab in the Trident
parking
lot. He could see Yanno was in the
back, and with him sat a shadowy Spire.
He
stopped
about 20 feet from the cab. The Padre
swung out of the driver's seat and walked
toward
him. He walked bow-legged like a cowboy
who'd been on his horse too long.
His
gaunt face, on which he wore black-rimmed glasses, arched into a grin that
reminded
Clifford
of a dinosaur mouth.
"Hi, Buddy," he said.
"Hi, how you doing?"
"Fine.
We're having a good time."
They walked over to the car and Cliff opened
the door. The Padre stood next to
him.
"I've proposed," Yanno said, sitting
back on the other side of the car. He
wore a
black
suit with a white shirt and a polka-dot tie.
Clifford looked to Spire. It was as if the lights of Vegas had fallen,
permanently,
into
her flesh.
"May I kiss your fiancé?" he asked.
"Of course."
He reached in and kissed her carefully on the
mouth. She reached out and gently
held
his cheek. His eyes slid over and met
Yanno's watching eyeballs.
"Congratulations," he said. "I am happy for you both."
"Will you join us for lunch?" Yanno
asked.
"Just a taste," he said, and he
helped Spire out of the car.
Yanno spoke a few private words to the Padre,
who then stepped back into his
cab.
Inside, on the deck of the Trident, Carlos was
in high spirits. He pointed out a
"cigarette"
boat. It was sixty feet of elegant
power as it drifted by Angel Island.
Yanno
said,
"It's a smuggler's boat capable of speeds of over ninety miles an
hour."
Yanno leaned toward him.
"We're going to have a big wedding,
Cliff. I think you'll be able to use it
for
publicity."
"Is that wise?"
"Yes.
It's all right."
"Why wouldn't it be?" Spire asked.
"I don't know. You'll probably attract a lot of attention."
"I think that's what we're going to
do," Carlos said, "and film it.
I'm in the
process
of selling the shop, and then we're going to go a-traveling."
Spire smiled.
"It's fabulous," she said.
"I can hardly believe it."
Clifford poured her, Yanno, and himself another
glass.
"I really can't stay long," he said,
and raised his wine glass.
"Believe it, Cliff," Yanno said, and
slowly shook his head up and down.
"What will you do when you get back?"
Spire laughed.
Her euphoria was catching.
"I don't know yet."
"I mean how are you going to occupy your
time, Doctor?"
"I don't know. What shall I do?"
"Rely on your instincts."
"You're a wise man, Clifford. What are your immediate plans?" His agate eyes
narrowed.
Across the water Clifford saw the fog rolling
through the gate.
"I have work to do," he said. "You know that."
"Goodbye," Spire said. "See you soon."
G.I.V.E. was against all forms of abuse.
The Padre drove by. He stopped the car in front of Clifford. Then, waved him
over. "Come here," he demanded, "I
want to talk to you."
Clifford shook his head. He didn't like the tone.
"C'mon," the Padre said.
"What?"
"Come in," he said.
"Are you going to throw the meter?"
"No.
Listen."
The street was lined with poplars, the road
went straight up.
"What Yanno told you about Mouton was a
lie. He was testing you."
Clifford watched him.
He wore his matter-of-fact expression,
basically hard, denoting his awareness of
the
strangeness of life.
"I don't care one way or the other,
Padre."
"Is that so?" The Padre took off his glasses.
"Yes."
"Don't you think it matters?"
"No."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I suppose it's the lawyer in me."
"Well, it doesn't matter because it's
nobody's business, but our own. And
either
way
it has nothing to do with our goals.
Maybe Yanno thought he was playing with his
mind, but it was his heart that
ached. Death lay at the bottom of these
contradictions. Meetings like the one
with the
Padre
tried to change the course of things but couldn't. Mouton had been a friend of his,
but
his death was not his problem. It
didn't matter whether Yanno had helped him to die,
or
not.
CHAPTER
IX
A familiar voice called out to him from the
kitchen as he entered his front door.
"Mr. Mason?"
"Who the hell is that?"
It was Detective Knightsbridge, leaning against
Clifford's stove, his eyes cocked.
"How the hell did you get in here?"
"Doing a little investigating, son."
He looked electrocuted. His hair seemed a mass of light, red
waves. His face, a
battered
orange to begin with, was grimy like a little boy's. He wore dusty overalls and
construction
boots.
"I find it a lot easier to go right to the
source. You clean your own house?"
Clifford was flabbergasted.
Red laughed.
"I wouldn't want to be your age.
From where I sit, the party's over.
I'm gonna retire and put a machine gun on my
terrace. It'll overlook the front
steps. Out
back
will be a sheer drop. Me and the rest
of 'em over here will defend our territory.
There
are going to be a lot of people scrambling for crumbs. Look at your poor friend on
Sacramento
Street. He was straight, wasn't
he?"
"Where did you miss the boat, Red? If you don't mind I'd like you to
leave."
"Call me if you come up with
anything."
Clifford twisted in his sleep.
Knightsbridge would put a machine gun on his
terrace; he felt threatened by the
forces
exerting themselves in the world. His
reaction was widespread. The 1979
California
ballot indicated the extent of the fear.
The two major initiatives were, one: an antigay
item, originating in Florida, which
said
homosexuals shouldn't be allowed to teach children for they influenced their
sexual
behavior. The second was called Proposition 13. Its rallying cry was "Stop the
government
spending. Curb government waste. Give the homeowners a smaller tax to
pay." Its effect would be to limit educational
facilities.
Clifford thought it was all part of an attempt
by the aging power structure to shore
up,
to plant their idea of the world in every emerging head.
CHAPTER
X
Bruno moved smoothly across the floor talking
into his instrument. He cradled it,
gripped
it like a scepter, purred into it, summoning yesses from the other side.
"Fine," he said. "I'll send you a check in the
morning. "Fine," he repeated
loudly,
as
he slammed the phone down. "That
was a t-shirt manufacturer."
"We have to line up some
celebrities," Clifford said, "before we break these ads."
Bruno looked at Clifford.
"Yes, my friend, I sure would like to get
Jule in on this, but she has a terrible
phone
manner. I don't know what she could
do." He let his words drift. "I know just
who
I'm going to call," he snapped back, "Just in case, I kept, Mr. Mason
just in case
something
like this occurred, a notebook with the names and addresses and phone
numbers
of all the stars on the left coast.
This is good."
He nodded again. "How about a glass of wine?"
"Yes."
George returned from the kitchen holding two
plastic yellow glasses filled to the
brim
with red wine.
"Louis Martini, Pinot Noir, 1973," he
whispered. "To you, my
friend," he said.
"The
first time I met you at the amusement park, I knew we were linked to share a
great
adventure."
"To your health, George," Clifford
repeated, "and to the fact that we are doing
this
for others and not solely for ourselves."
He raised his eyes.
"Of course," he replied, and drank
the wine.
That slightly sinking feeling Clifford had
toward Bruno was his knowledge of the
egotist.
"What about Knightsbridge?"
"Mouton's death doesn't interest
Knightsbridge, Clifford, and the police
department
wants him out. The town no longer has
sympathy for his kind. I think you
have
to watch your paranoia. I don't have
time to do any thorough checking."
"Okay, we've got the ads breaking in three
weeks. I'm renting one store front at
Fillmore
and California. We'll do the beginning
work there. I intend to wear my Ben
Franklin
glasses, eh?"
"Good touch," Bruno said.
"Now listen, we're going to tie the
centers into a job exchange. Three
weeks from
today,
after the pre-publicity has made its way, I want you to have three celebrities
come
up
and participate to dramatize the event, the idea would be for them to work
regular
jobs. It will be a demonstration, an alternative
to the present philosophy of employment.
Instead of training people in one job,
G.I.V.E. will propose a job exchange.
Bankers will
exchange
jobs with construction workers, successful actors with construction workers,
cab
drivers with insurance salesmen, fishermen with farmers, farmers with salesmen,
waitresses
with dress designers, architects with cops . . . Ultimately, we hope to see a
broader
educational base. People would still
choose professions, but they would get a
chance
say once every eight years to see, to try something else, to see what the other
guy
is
doing. My reasoning is that all
professions become incestuous. Lawyers
deal only
with
lawyers, waitresses with other waitresses.
This begins to encourage idiocy, and that
permits
our barbaric foreign and domestic policies.
"Idling with one's own kind has created a
nation of dwarfs. It's an old
story,"
Bruno
continued, "Man is driven to market.
Do you know Keys?"
"You mean Francis Scott?"
"No.
This one has written a number of books in our time. He has shown, Mr.
Mason,
how in a picture advertising a scotch, a crystal filler with ice cubes is,
also, a
picture
of something quite different. Inside
one of the cubes is an elaborate air brush
painting
depicting torn limbs, monsters, and death masks. These bloodsuckers, and I
know
them well, have found that the consumers buy more when there are images of
death,
perverted sex, and destruction slipped in.
The idea is that we receive the message
subliminally."
"That's close to treason."
"Un un."
"Maybe Keyes is hypnotizing everyone else
into thinking these images are there.
Do
you have a copy of the book?"
"No.
I don't think so. These artists
are paid to put those images there."
"I can't understand," he said,
"why they constantly appeal to self-destruction
instead
of self-creation."
Clifford peered into his friend. He saw him leafing through his little black
book,
saw
him sitting in his robe, pitching them, then listening to the effect his sound
made. If
there
were arguments, protestation, he would launch into the financial, moral,
aesthetic,
and
political virtues of his project. When
it came down to it, Bruno offered the same as
the
other advertisers, from the first oracles to the pompous Ogilvy, protection
from day-
to-day
friction, a place to hide.
Tuesday, the ad broke; Tuesday, the doors would
open and by Wednesday the
actor,
Paul Newman, would begin a two day stint driving a cab. The Padre had
generously
supplied his. Thursday and Friday,
Barbra Streisand would wait on tables.
Friday,
Liza Minelli would be included among the mimes at Ghirardelli. The topper
would
occur on Sunday afternoon; Luciano Pavarotti, the Earth's greatest singer,
would
perform
in Golden Gate Park. It would be a free
concert with the San Francisco
Symphony
backing him up.
CHAPTER
XI
Sunday arrived. He awoke with a headache.
With poached eggs and wheat toast,
he
went out onto the back porch to watch the white stuff gather in one corner,
billowing
like
parachutes up against the mountain.
Today, it would surround the bay, a luminous
wall
of protection.
The phone rang. Bruno said, "I guess you haven't heard. Moscone and Milk were
shot
this morning. Dan White shot them in
their offices. I was listening to it on
the
radio. Then, it was reported that a salesman on Van
Ness Avenue spotted White and his
wife
walking past his window."
"There's going to be a scandal."
"Going to be?" he laughed.
"The t-shirts are doing nicely. And gold is beginning to rise."
"What do you think about a huge concert
after this Pavarotti thing? We're
known.
We'll say it's the first Annual G.I.V.E.
Concert for the Starving Artist; and we'll solicit
applications
in all the major dailies."
"Please, don't panic."
"I have a lot of groups in mind."
"Yes.
Are you going to be there today?"
"Of course."
"Of course. Yes, okay. There's one
complication. I received a call, just a
few
minutes
ago from the acting mayor. She would
like to turn the performance in the park
into
a requiem for our fallen leaders."
"Have they caught White yet?"
"He gave himself up."
"How about in memory of. Just have Pavarotti say . . . in memory
of."
CHAPTER
XII
"Didn't you know? Haig took complete control during Nixon's
breakdown. It's
obvious. He represents the fusion of the corporate
and military minds. He's the obvious
ruler. Now to the matter at hand, see if you can
get this connection. Moscone appointed
Jones. Being a politician, it was a political
appointment. His poor judgment in that
matter
was beginning to trouble him. Some
said, after Guyana broke, that Moscone was
finished
as a politician. Once again, in the
White affair, we have him exercising poor,
moral
judgment, opting for a move that can only be described as politically expedient.
By
changing his mind about White, by giving in to Harvey, he side-stepped the
moral
issue,
the right thing to do. Wrong action
creates wrong action."
"To begin with, no one should profit by
their sitting there. That's the
problem."
"Oh, most of them are set before they get
on the board. White was an
anomaly."
"Mn."
The park was crowded.
People hung from the limbs of trees; they
spilled out onto the museum lawn.
Clifford
stayed at the perimeter.
Standing on the stage, in front of a half-orchestra,
Pavarotti, in black shirt and
white
tie, and Bruno, resplendent in a white Russian shirt and jogging togs, had
their
arms
about one another. Behind them, a large
banner, with the letters G.I.V.E., stretched
across
the bowl. They swayed back and forth to
the sounds of the orchestra.
Apparently,
Bruno
had made an introduction. Now, he was
tipping his hand in salute and leaving the
stage.
Pavarotti, sweet and gangster like, began the
first aria. It lasted three
minutes.
There
was a tumult of hand clapping and then roses were flung onto the stage. He
gathered
one up and looked out, with seal eyes, at the clapping and then raised one
finger
to
his lips and the crowd boiled down. He
began again, seemingly flinging open the vault
of
heaven.
After each song, the roaring of the crowd
became a kind of song in itself. Even
the
police, sitting on top of their horses, seemed beside themselves. Pavarotti took
everyone
into his private conversation with God.
After the first hour, he daubed at his face,
his handkerchief in constant, but
hopeless
use.
Clifford noticed Detective Knightbridge to the
left near the first horseman.
Cliff craned his neck and caught a glimpse of
him again before someone moved,
obstructing
his view.
The songs ended. Pavarotti scooped as many roses as he could and bowed deeply
to
his orchestra and then turned to the crowd.
From the wings, Bruno came on, dancing,
walking
on a cloud. Again, they threw their
arms around one another. Bruno bent
down
to
the microphone. "Will you, please,
make way for the man who made this
magnificence
possible. He's in the back, the
co-founder of G.I.V.E., Clifford Mason.
Please,
Mr. Mason, I saw you. Come up."
As he moved toward the stage, he received blows
on the back. Instinctively, he
threaded
his way toward the steps and looked to the left and saw Knightsbridge moving
across
his vision. Pavarotti embraced
him. Clifford turned to the
audience. "We're
always
about to begin," he said.
Knightsbridge was now below him; his face a neon
pomegranate
and in his hand he held a toad like thing.
Cliff saw a flash. He noticed
Pavarotti
hold out his hand and the last thing he heard was Bruno scream like a bird.
Anders’
World
W.R.
BAKER
CHAPTER
I
A
man in his late twenties in a large overcoat and carrying a camera case and a
tripod
walks
toward the Washington Monument. Ten yards from the base of the monument, the
young
man sets up his tripod and places his camera upon it. He walks back toward the
monument
and turns around to face the camera. He unbuttons his large overcoat and tosses
it
onto the ground. Strapped to his waist
is a belt of explosives. He begins to
talk to the
camera.
“I
always know when I am out of sorts when I cannot bring myself to write or call
you,
and for this past month is has been difficult.
In ‘difficult’, I mean I find myself
unable
to explain myself, and the longer I wait, the greater this difficulty becomes.”
Inside
a monitoring station a mile from the Washington Monument, an older
woman
looks at a screen. She sees the young
man standing in front of the monument.
She
zeroes in on the belt of explosives.
She reaches for the telephone and alerts the
security
force.
“Code
blue at the W.M.. Looks like he’s wired to blow.”
A
few moments later, she watches in horror as the young man blows into
smithereens.
The
security force arrives. A helicopter circles above. In front of them are the
shattered
remains of the young man. The camera in
unharmed.
Inside
a Washington D.C. newsroom day.
There
is a reporter. She is, also, a spy. Her
father is a Persian King and an
inventor;
her mother is an Anglo Catholic with real blonde hair and a Master’s in
Political
Science. In the newsroom where she
works it is Sunday. She sits at her desk.
Her
name is Heather Ahmid. She is one of
four people working that day.
She
is concentrating on completing a story about the young man who blew
himself
up that day. Against the far wall,
satellite feeds from all over the world bleed
through
the TV monitors .
The
young man who looks like a young Abraham Lincoln thinks the Big Business
Partnership
between the media and politics is an evil thing. Evil. Like cutting down
rain
forests.
Heather met him at an anti-globalization rally. Now there are two parcels on her
desk. She better look before continuing. She shuts down the PC. The first envelope
contains
an invitation from her boss, Colonel Alexander Rand. The second envelope
contains
a disc. She slips it into the Sony vid
cam.
The
long-bearded face of George stares back at her. His eyes glitter clear and
bright. He says, “I always know that I am out of
sorts when I cannot bring myself to
write
or call you, and for this past month it has been difficult. In “difficult,” I
mean I find
myself
unable to explain myself, and the longer I wait, the greater this difficulty
becomes.
Finally, I have no choice but to send this to you. Follow me.”
George
walks a few feet.
“As
you can see, Heather, I’m strapped in.”
He tugs at the explosives wrapped
around
his waist.
“Originally,
I was going to take a few tourists with me. But your remark the other
afternoon
got me to thinking. You’re right. I wasn’t made for this world.”
Heather
stops the P.C. and moves away from her desk.
Two photos accompany
the
note. She slices open the envelope.
Dearest
Heather,
The
white man is Dave Anders and the Chinese gentleman is Ho Sin Mae. Anders
will
be your next assignment. If you’re free this afternoon, you can drop by my
place for
the
details.
Colonel
Alexander Rand.
She
returns to George who explodes. She
toys with the image- speeding it up and
slowing
it down. She shuts the P.C., opens a
drawer, removes a single page of copy and
with
the disc, slides it into an envelope.
She stands with her P.C., the envelope and walks
across
the near-empty newsroom. She stops in
front of an old woman's desk. The old
woman
has her back to Heather.
“Excuse
me, Margaret.”
Margaret
turns and smiles.
“Hello,
darling. What’s up?”
“Ned
wanted to see this for possible inclusion on the evening news. He instructed
me
to have you peruse it.”
“All
right, dear. You can count on it, as soon as I’m done here. Did ya hear about
the
horse that came into Baker’s the other night? Really. The bartender, you know
Joey,
he
looks at the horse. He asks, ‘Why the long face’?”
Heather
smiles slightly.
“Sorry,
Margaret. It’s been a weird day.”
Heather
walks out of the building and into the D.C. sunshine. A cab waits at the
curb. She is silent during the ride to Colonel
Rand’s townhouse. The doorman tips his
hat
and she instructs the elevator man to the fourth floor.
Colonel
Rand, a tall, gray-haired man of 55, waits for her in his apartment. He sits
in
a big, easy chair listening to a Stockhausen recording from 1959. Hearing the
buzzer,
he
stands to let her in.
“Heather,
what’s the matter?”
“Fenn
killed himself last night and recorded it with instructions to give me a copy
of
the video.”
“Here. Let me take this stuff from you. Don't let the turkey's get you down,
Heather. He was a goner long before he met you. “
Heather
shakes her head. “You’re right. You’re
right.”
“Becks?”
“Please.
Just let me catch my breath. I’ll be all right.”
She
slumps into his easy chair. Colonel
Rand comes back into the living room
with
two Becks and pulls up a chair to sit in front of her. He hands her the bottle. She
takes
a swallow. They clink bottles. He moves back into a chair. They each have a
few
more
swallows.
“I
can't believe that prick did that to me.
I was this close to a complete analysis.”
“Who's
doing the psychological autopsy?”
“I
don't know.”
Colonel
Rand reaches into his attaché case and brings out a file on Dave Anders,
Ho
Sin Mae and Jonathan Canne.
“This
is big, Heather. Your father will be
proud you are assigned to this. Have
you
spoken to him recently?”
“Last
week. He was in great shape.”
Colonel
Rand tosses their photos onto the coffee table.
“I've
never seen such a devoted couple as these two.
They have discovered a new
energy
source. We're introducing you to the
younger one tomorrow at the White House.
A
few days later you'll fly to where this gentleman works and... you know the
drill. We
want
you to get close to him. As close as
you can get. We have to know what he's
thinking.”
“Would
you mind putting on another musician?”
“Sorry
honey. How about Ofra Haza?”
“Yes.”
Colonel
Rand stands and slides in the latest Ofra Haza disc.
“Do
I communicate with you?”
“No. You stay on the ground. Close to him. That's all.”
Colonel
Rand sits and listens to Ofra Haza for a few moments. Heather stands and
stretches. She breathes a sigh of relief.
Heather
look at this. Dr. David Anders,
mathematician/scientist, currently
working
for The Center of Exploration. The
Center is a branch of the State Department
near
Palo Alto. He’s regarded as the world's
top bio-physicist specializing in bio-kinetic
energy
research since 1986. He's regarded as a
true genius in scientific circles for his
superior
mathematics.
This
is his teacher, Ho Sin Mae. He's
China's premier mathematician/scientist.
He
taught at Stanford, where he and Dr. Anders became professional colleagues and
best
friends. We are sure he is close to the
discovery. Three weeks ago,
communication
between
them was disallowed for security reasons, but transmission between them has
continued
unofficially.
Dr.
Jonathan Canne, Chief of Staff for The Center of Exploration. He is the main
operative
for the State Department. Considered a
conscientious objector by U.S.
officials. Close personal contact with Anders. He has contacts everywhere. Even with
your
father. We don't know who he's backing
at this point.
“What's
his relationship with my father?”
“They
worked on the carboatplane together.
Dr. Canne was one of the first pilots.
“Oh. That’s great. Have you ever flown it, Alex?”
“No. It’s more of a toy than a fighting
machine. What time is the party? I’ll pick
you
up at nine.”
CHAPTER
II
It’s
hot in D.C. The night wind is blowing,
the trees are moving. Stars are
flashing
in the sky. Sounds of music come from the building to the left, mixed with
laughter. Guards are like human shades against the
walls, here and there, under the trees,
and
close to the bushes. The large gate
opens. Two human shades move to the
left and
one
to the right. Two headlights
appear. A limo enters through the gate.
The
darkness of the limo is pierced with light.
Colonel Rand sits next to Heather.
The door opens and the shoe of a man appears,
and then the other. The man steps out.
Heather’s
legs appear from inside the limo. Her
hand reaches for the door. She starts
to
walk. Her heels get stuck between the stones. She is falling. He grabs her. He wants to
hold
her, but she gets away with a polite ‘thank you.’
Small
ground lamps light the way to the great White House. Her hat covers her
face
as he leads her by the arm to the door.
He
is dressed in a black tuxedo. She is
dressed in a tight gray skirt and black vest
to
her waist. Her black hair is cut
short. In the darkness, she is a
mystery. The guard by
the
door smiles.
The
rooms are large and men in tuxedos and women in evening wear are scattered
throughout
the Great House.
As
they walk inside, people are saying ‘hello.’ Waiters walk round with trays full
of
champagne. Dancers move across the massive
seal of the U.S. Eagle. The party, being
led
by a 30-piece band, is gracious and elegant.
“Good
evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’d like to welcome you, on behalf of the
President
of the United States, to this final evening of the International Energy
Conference.
I think the President has a few words for you.”
General
applause as the President walks up, shakes the hand of the Announcer,
and
has a short laugh with him.
“Hello. Well… This time, I think we can safely say
we’ve done it.”
He
looks once to the left and slowly, with a smile, turns his head to the
right. He
sees
everyone in the room looking at him.
“I
would like to end this Conference by expressing my overwhelming gratitude to
all
of the individuals who compose this team.
This has been the most exciting conference
I’ve
attended. Period. Every person here tonight is very special to
me, to my family, and
to
this country.
Col.
Rand notices David Anders and Ho Sin Mae standing at the bar. He nods to
Heather.
Dr.
Anders, dressed in a black suit and loose tie, is 43. He stands next to Ho Sin.
Ho
Sin is a man in his 50s, 5’8” with a round, clear face, tall, gray haired and
dressed in a
dark
gray, Chinese-style outfit. His black eyes stare at Dave.
“Well,
Dave, I must be going soon. The
gentlemen await.”
Dave
bows slightly to Ho Sin.
Two
Chinese diplomats watch them from the right corner of the bar.
“You
see what I see?” Dave points at Rand.
“The
bait is in the trap.”
Ho
Sin stares at Rand. Across the room,
Rand’s boss, Jack Follet comes over to
Heather
and the colonel and blocks Ho Sin’s view.
Follet says, “Between you and me, I’d kill him.”
Heather
raises her eyebrows. “That’s an
interesting point.”
Follet
turns and looks at Ho Sin, then turns back to Col. Rand.
“I
thought you’d like that.”
Rand
watches as Ho Sin and the Chinese leave. Ho Sin stops at the door to say
good-bye
to Dr. Jonathan Canne, head of the Center for Exploration, and PROF. Kaplin,
special
advisor to the President. She
smiles. Rand takes a deep breath.
“They’re
all here. The hideous gang.”
Follet
looks across the room in the same direction as Rand. Follet points him
toward
Prof. Kaplin.
“Prof.
Kaplin wants a word with you. Meet her
over there.”
Follet
grabs Heather gently by the arm.
“This
is a very big deal, my dear. And I know
with your way of doing things . . .
Well,
he’s over there. Go to him now.”
Across
the room, Anders stands idly by the bar.
Anders
looks around the room, then he looks at Heather. He smiles briefly.
Slowly,
he walks up to her and stops. He puts his hands into his pants pocket and looks
at
her.
“That’s
where the danger lies—in the bubbles.”
Heather,
holding her drink with her left hand looks at her glass, then up to him. Her eyes
sparkle.
“If
bubbles were all the danger there was, I’d be one.”
Anders,
with his chin hanging low and only his eyes moving, answers as if he just
woke
up.
“And
safety is important. My name’s Dave.”
Heather,
takes another sip from her glass. Her red lipstick sticks to the glass. She
wears
light make-up around her eyes. “I’m
Heather Ahmid.”
“So,
are you one of us or them?”
She
laughs. “Which one are you?”
“A
Saving Sanity Scientist.”
“Good.
Then I’m one of you.”
“Really?
What do you think of cold fusion?”
Heather
takes a moment. “I’m 100% for solar.”
“Really? What’s your field?”
“Telekinetics
and energy research.”
“Oh
really! That’s interesting. I’m one of the main men in that field. I mean
energy
research.”
“The
Center?”
“For
Exploration and Research in Portola Valley.”
“Oh,
that’s even more interesting. I’m being transferred there.”
“Well,
this is actually some good news. I’ll
be watched by you.”
She
looks up to him. Her self assurance
lapses slightly. “Is that so?”
Inside
the surveillance room large TV screens and security monitors cover most
of
the walls. Security guards stand in
front the screens. Some move around passing
papers
and informing each other. There is a
big wooden table in the middle of the room,
on
top of which is a complete holographic model of the House and the grounds. Dr.
Kaplin
stands next to a heavy wooden seat. She
looks uneasy. Thick carpet covers the
floor. Colonel Rand stands next to Prof. Kaplin.
Dr.
Kaplin looks at Rand. She is serious and direct.
“The
trade-off with the Chinese and the absence of Dr. Mae are going to
backfire.”
Rand
looks down at his feet. “How so?”
“We
gain nothing by giving him up, and we loose our trump card in case Dr.
Anders
doesn’t make it. I think we’re going to miss the boat on this one.”
“That
remains to be seen.”
Dr.
Kaplin turns and leaves the Surveillance Room.
A
thirteen-piece band begins a song by Cowboy Junkies, ‘If I Were a Woman.’
Anders
asks, would you like to dance?”
“Testing
the theory. Can scientists dance?”
“This
is only a test, right? Not an actual emergency?”
“Oh,
and even if it were …?”
They
walk to the dance floor and begin.
“So,
how do you like government intervention in your life?”
She
pulls back.
Anders
continues, “They look at things under their magnifying glass until it
catches
fire and burns. I have heard a government official say, ‘We didn’t imagine that
would
happen.’ Just like ducks, they wake up to a new world every day.”
“That’s
some dangerous ducks.”
In
the main hallway, people are moving in different directions. Dr. Kaplin is
walking
down the hall. She says hello to people
who recognize her, and keeps walking.
Dr.
Canne, who is Anders’ boss, is talking
to a man and a woman. He sees Dr. Kaplin
coming
down the hall. As she approaches his circle, Dr. Canne moves into position to
get
her
attention.
“Good
evening, Dr. Canne.”
Canne
replies, “Ms. Kaplin. I was hoping you’d make it here to charm us all.”
“Well,
I couldn’t miss it, of course.”
They
shake hands.
“Yes,
of course. How is Washington treating you?”
“The
time of my life. And California, is it still shaking?
“Stretching
is the word I prefer to use. Always expanding its horizon.”
Colonel
Rand stands behind an operative, watching the television monitors. He
lights
a cigarette. He stares into space as the music and conversations feed in. He
looks at
the
screen showing Anders and Heather. Anders says something to Heather and they
walk
off the dance floor to the balcony.
Vines
are climbing by the side of the railing and the gardens look ghostly.
Heather
walks out to the railing. She touches the railing with her hands and looks up
to
the
sky. She turns around and lays her back against the railing.
“It’s
really nice to have someone to dance with,” she says. She stops and turns
her
head and listens.
“Sometimes
I get this feeling that I’m aiming too much to please. Yes, away,
somewhere,
alone. Or …” She turns back and looks
at him with a sad face.
Inside
the surveillance room Rand is glued to the monitor. His mouth is closed but
he
is grinding his teeth.
“Oh
Christ, here it comes,” he says. With
his fist, he hits the monitor.
Dr.
Anders closes in on Heather.
“I
was just thinking a friend of mine has been taken away but now I've found
another.”
“Scientists
do dance. New evidence confirms theory.”
Dr.
Canne appears on the balcony. Canne
says, “Well, there you are. And just
like
you to try to keep the most beautiful woman in the party to yourself.”
“Oh.
Does the gentleman have a reputation?”
“Other
than having a possessive nature and being an introvert, yes, probably.”
“There’s
more?”
“Yes.
But it’s all classified.”
Canne
looks at Anders. “Especially his good
side only the trusted few see. I’ve
read
your resume Dr. Ahmid. I’m pleased you
are joining us. You have a very
impressive
background. Did you know I worked for
your father?”
Heather
nods.
“State
Department . . . In the gory days.”
Canne
moves around. He turns to Anders.
“We
must go.”
Anders
takes a couple steps back.
“I
go. Jonathan knows best.”
“Well,
it was nice to meet you. A friendly face will be good to see.”
“Keep
up the good . . . work.”
Heather
is trying to stay on top.
“Oh,
the tortured scientist. I’ll be lucky if you look up from your work to say
hello
to me.”
“See
you.”
“Good
evening, Heather. See you at the fort.”
The
band is in full swing with an elaborate jazz version of Michael Jackson’s
“Billie
Jean.” Colonel Rand strides across the
dance floor onto the veranda. Heather
has
her
back to him.
“How
did I do?”
Rand
moves to her side and looks quietly into the distance. “As usual.
You have
a
gift. Shall I drive you home?”
“Thank
you, Colonel. You’re very thoughtful.”
Together
they walk to the foyer and out into the night.
Rand’s limo promptly
emerges
from the shadows.
“He’s
a good looking boy, isn’t he?”
“I
thought Ho Sin Mae was better looking.”
“Probably
not for long.”
Drawing
up to the entrance to her apartment building, the limo stops.
“I’ll
let myself in.”
She
bolts out of the limo and walks quickly into the building.
Her
walls are painted beige and white. They
are bare. There is an expensive
stereo
system, a couch and a chair in the living room. She flips a switch and the room is
suffused
in green light. She plays Indian music
and sits in the lone chair in the middle of
the
room. After a few moments she begins to
dance.
CHAPTER
III
Russ
Elliot emerges from a cab to stand in front of the world headquarters of
British
Petroleum. He is the President’s
personal advisor. He walks quietly, as
is his
manner,
into the imposing façade. The lobby
hums with a cacophony of English voices.
Mr.
Elliot takes the elevator to the penthouse floor. He is greeted by a phalanx of armed
guards,
then ushered into another elevator which takes him to the board room, where the
seven
controllers of the seven largest energy companies await his report. The man at the
top
of the conference table, Farroh Ahmid, greets him.
“Welcome, Mr. Elliot”
“Thank
you.”
“Coffee?”
“Yes.”
CHAPTER
IV
The
Center for Exploration in Portola Valley is a twenty-acre estate. The main
house
is made of red brick, wood and titanium
steel. Heather drives up the long
narrow
road
to the main house. She is met at the
chateau by a uniformed guide.
“My
name is Jann. I’m going to show you to
your office. Lucky the facility was
finished
last year. This place was so noisy that
everyone worked at night. The days of
the
bats.
Heather
acts as if surprised. “What’s that?”
“That’s
the name the construction guys gave all the scientists here. Bats.”
They
enter her office. It is full of wisteria.
“Am
I going to get a tour?”
“Dr.
Canne will be down to see you in a few moments.”
Inside
Anders’ office, Dave works at his computer. The console displays multi-
symbolic
formulae ‘biophysics.’ Dave moves his
hand on his lap to another board and
types
equations. Looking between screens, comparing the two, he sits back.
On
another screen next to the computer he sees Canne staring at the camera above
the
door.
Anders
presses a button on the console.
“Yes?”
Canne,
on screen, says, “Taking visitors?”
Anders
presses another button and the door opens. Dr. Canne enters the room as
Anders
continues to work.
Canne
looks around him. Bookshelves cover one section of the room. A long
window
overlooks the hills. Canne walks toward Anders and stops next to him. He looks
at
his computer.
“Your
specs on the new cable frequency worked. Kramer and Juke say it’ll be
ready
at the end of the day.”
Anders
stops typing and turns toward Canne.
“What? She’s here?”
“Yes.”
Anders
turns back to his computer. “Oh, I’m
just finishing the calculations on the
storage
capability.” His face is lit with the
colors from the computer.
Dr.
Canne puts one hand on Anders’ chair, the other on the console, and bends
closer
to him. “The technicians will be
working this weekend on finishing the
installation.
The reception of energy is only one small part.”
Anders
is still looking at his computer.
“And
the storage problems?”
Canne
moves back and puts his hands in his pockets. He turns and walks slowly
toward
the window.
“Our
guys are always going to push too hard, but they know the limitations you
face,
especially without Mae whom they took too quickly. What a pity.”
Anders
stops, turns his seat around, and crosses his hands on his lap.
“The
greatest teacher a man could have. And
they’ve got him imprisoned.”
“You keep the faith, Dave. You and Mae.
You’re the light at the end of the
tunnel.”
Anders
turns back to the computer.
“And
the train, too. They just want too much of us, and they really haven’t a
clue.”
Canne
moves close to him and he puts his hand on Dave’s shoulder, and in a very
soft
voice says, “We're going to make this
happen. I'm going to welcome her. Do you
want
to come?”
“Not
now, Jonathan. Can you have her meet me
in the garden in a half an hour?”
“I'll
tell her.”
Anders
turns back to his console and continues his work, twirling numbers
through
virtual shapes in virtual space.
CHAPTER
V
Heather
stands amid the flowerbeds and trees as she tosses a set of keys in the air.
Dave walks across the grass and stops in
front of her.
“Hello
Doctor,” she says.
“I
see you've been given the guest house.
Would you like to go for a ride?”
“Let
me throw a few things together and look at this cottage. Can you pick me up
in
thirty minutes?”
“Will
do, Doctor.”
CHAPTER
VI
Inside
southern China, on a remote terraced hilltop Ho Sin Mae and a tall Chinese
man,
Lin Yee, walk through a garden of roses.
Lin
Yee speaks, “We had access to the Russian research years ago. We pointed
you
in that direction.
Ho
Sin Mae replies, “I know. There is
something unpredictable there. We can
capture
it, but we can't seem to contain it.”
“Your
mathematics indicate otherwise.”
“As
Descartes established the infinite as a fact using numbers, so have I created
the
possibility of containment by using numbers.
None of us know if either proposition
is
true.”
“We're
sending you two of the finest minds to assist you. They should be ready to
join
you in three days.”
“I
see.”
They
continue to walk.
CHAPTER
VII
Inside
Heather’s cottage the walls are painted a rust color. The solid wood black
doors
make the cottage look very old. There
is a straight back chair, twin bed, and a
small
couch.
Heather
takes care of some paperwork at a small desk, which is next to a window.
She
gets up and walks down the hall and into the kitchen. She walks to the refrigerator
and
opens the door, picks up a can of soda and takes a few sips. She puts the can on the
counter
and walks down the hall, into her bedroom to her closet. She dresses in jeans,
leather
boots, and a white T-shirt. She opens
the door and gets a red T-shirt, takes off the
white
and puts on the red. She then walks
across the room to a mirror. The buzzer
rings.
She walks to the door and opens it.
“Hi. You’re on time. Would you like to come in?
I’ll get my jacket.”
“Do
you have gloves and a scarf?”
“Yes.”
“Bring
them with you. It might get cool.”
Heather
walks to her closet.
“You
have a convertible?”
“Yes.”
Heather
gets a black leather jacket.
Anders
and Heather walk across the grass to a nearby parking garage. They walk
by
her car and up to a new BMW motorcycle.
Heather
says, “The ultimate convertible.”
He
hands her the helmet. Anders jumps on
the bike and starts it up. Heather puts
on
the helmet and hops on behind Anders.
He
maneuvers out of The Center and takes a left.
Heather holds onto Anders as
they
speed up the winding road toward La Honda.
Trees fly by as the BMW picks up
speed. They head for the ocean.
Walking
toward the ocean, Heather looks out and stretches. Anders walks off
toward
the jutting rocks. The sky is clear and
the sunlight reflects off the water.
“I
love this.”
“You
know I’m glad they sent you. I tell
you, I feel like I’m busting out of a
cocoon.”
Heather
says, “Afraid of who might be listening?”
“Part
of the price”
They
move further up the beach.
“Do
you hate them?”
He
takes a good look at her as she stares at the ocean. “No. Hate would be too
strong
an emotion. Pity is more like it. A world of followers bothers me.”
“I’m
surprised anything bothers you, especially that. I’d have thought you’d be
amused.”
“Amused?”
“While
some see others look.”
“And
you?”
She
makes a face. “Huh?”
“See
or look?”
“Both,
I hope. I’ve been tested for it continuously.”
“Do
you work for them or with them?”
“I
think scientists are supposed to be a little more specific in their procedures
of
evaluation. Who is it you’re talking about?”
“I’m
glad you cleared that up for me. I had
hoped so.”
“Are
you now answering for me? I don’t like
to have someone else put words
into
my mouth, thank you.”
“None
of us does, it’s the nature of the beast.
Changing our minds, making up
our
answers, controlling our actions, reacting to what others think.”
She
smiles. “Putting on a pretty face.”
“Listen,
hear me out. A lot is involved with my
work. I don’t know if you know
all
there is or anything at all. The
dangers of being with me or against me seem to be the
same
nowadays, depending on the day. I have
to provoke an answer.”
“And
do you feel I’ve answered your provocation?”
“Yes.
I know you’re not just a researcher, which is good. We all need to be more
involved,
and being here is part of your job. But being with you is part of mine. We are
on
the same side, just seems different at the moment.”
“And
which side is that, at the moment?”
“The
one in which everyone wins. It’s the best game there is, but the rules are a
little
undefined.”
“You
should function well, then. Why be vague about everything?”
“Can’t
read your mind.”
“You.
I thought you could.”
“Some
I can.”
Heather
is contemplating the discussion. They stare and go inside each other’s
eyes.
He moves to kiss her. They kiss. It’s one that really connects them.
Heather
breaks away. “Not here. Let’s go back to your place.”
CHAPTER
VIII
A
peasant walks up a hill with a basket on his back. Inside the house Lin Yee
stands
at a window and watches the peasant struggle up the path.
Lin
Yee says, “Did you know the Americans are implementing the system in
hospitals?”
Ho
Sin Mae stands behind him.
“They
are behind schedule.”
Lin
Yee, his hands crossed on his chest, turns his upper body and looks at Ho Sin.
“The
energy is our future.”
“The
power of numbers. Our quantity cannot overcome the quality.
“You
are the genius. It was your mind that discovered it and you will complete it
for
the good of all. The Americans would have taken this from us.”
“Now
I’m here and the experiment has not even been tested. Time must be
taken.”
“You
will solve all problems. As a son of China, for all the people, you will
succeed.
The machine you worked on will be ready in five days. Then the glory will be
ours.”
“Glory?”
“You
have a sharp ear. Be happy it is allowed to you so freely.”
Ho
Sin watches Lin Yee go out the door. A football is perched ceremoniously on
a
writing desk. Ho Sin picks it up and twirls it in the air.
Ho
Sin looks out the window as darkness follows the setting sun.
CHAPTER
IX
Outside
of Dave Anders’ cottage it is cold and wet.
Inside a fire rages.
Reflections
of light slide over the walls. The
clock on the computer screen reads
3:25
p.m.
Dave
and Heather are asleep. Anders’ eyes open almost as if he were not asleep.
He
gets up and goes to his computer. Words appear on the screen. His cat, Esmerelda,
sleeps
on the keyboard.
The
cat opens her eyes and looks at him. She blinks her eyes at him. He does the
same
and looks back at the screen.
The
words read, ‘Their lips encircle me. I caress their breasts. They beat with the
cycle
pulse of the moon.’
On
a note pad, Anders transposes the words into numbers.
‘Underneath
I place my hands. From far above I slide my golden cock into her.’
Anders
raises his hand to his head in horror.
CHAPTER
X
Colonel
Rand sits in Follet’s office. Both are dressed in uniform.
The
desk is located in the middle of the room. Two long windows light up the
room.
Follet sits facing Rand. Photos of the
President and the First Lady hang on the
wall
next to the N.S.A. Seal.
Follet
says, “Her position with him is of the
utmost importance; it cannot be put
in
jeopardy. I want no one to contact her outside of regular communications. Is
that
clear?”
Colonel
Rand is very serious, and words come from his mouth without moving.
“Clear.”
“You
surprise me sometimes, Colonel. Always the most difficult. In your field,
you’re
the best, but you might be doing some injustice to yourself. You trained her. Now
if
she seems to be attached too quickly to him, and though this might upset you,
you must
remember
we’re racing.”
Colonel
Rand scratches his chin with his right hand.
Follet
continues, “the President seems to like the State Department on top in this
one.”
“Then
why are we even there?”
“Where
would you like us to be at the verge of one of this century's greatest
discoveries?”
“What’s
happening to us?”
“You
know I think we’re being superceded.
Maybe we’re not organic enough.”
“I’m
worried.”
“I
know.”
The
intercom flashes on his desk. He extends his heavy frame and reaches for the
button. “Yes?”
“Professor
Kaplin, sir.
“Thank
you. Please let her in.”
Professor
Kaplin enters the room. She is dressed in a white shirt, a black jacket
and
a skirt above her knees. In her left hand she is holding a small briefcase.
Follet and
Rand
watch. She sits next to Rand.
Follet
rises from his chair. “Well good to see
you, Isabella. Thanks for coming
over.
I am glad that you are here.”
Professor
Kaplin says, “There’s no information yet on Dr. Mae’s progress, but we
expect
the Chinese to finish within a week.”
“Well,
our team should finish and have it in operation by Tuesday. Then all we
have
to do is let the thing run its course.”
Rand’s
eyes are glued to Kaplin’s .
Professor
Kaplin says, “Colonel Rand, do you have any further observations?”
Rand
recovers himself, and replies, “I’ve never felt so out of an operation. I think
we
should consider an alternative while we still have the chance.”
Follet
waves his hand. From his desk he
retrieves an electronic device. He
presses
a button.
They
all turn and look. A section in the middle of the bookshelves moves to the
right,
and a large screen appears. At the same time, dark drapes cover the windows and
the
room turns dark.
On
screen, through an infrared lens, we see Anders’ cottage. Follet taps a button
and
now we see a close-up of the house. The focus is the bathroom. Anders is
urinating,
flushing,
then turning the light out. We follow him through the house into the bedroom.
We
see him kiss the woman in bed and leave the room with his clothes and shoes in
hand.
Anders
stands in front of his computer. We see his back as he sits down and stares
at
the screen. Now the eye focuses on the screen, so we see the message.
The
animal is outside.
I
am permitted to
disregard
my surroundings though
I
have no real retreat
I
am the hunted
watching
quail
shudder
across a lake.
On
top of the computer is a note: “Change code every day, the NSA never sleeps”
Anders
ties his shoes and types back.
The
ice is thin
in
this cold air
Brittle,
painful
Don't
lose hope
Follet
says, “We've got the Cipher people on it.”
Follet
looks at his watch. The intercom
flashes.
“Yes.”
“The
President, sir.”
“Thank
you.”
The
President enters Jack Follet's office followed by General Franker and Russ
Elliot. Follet, Rand and Kaplin stand.
The
President says, “Good morning. Shall we
get right to it.”
Professor
Kaplin stands in front of one of the chairs and stares at the President.
“Mr.
President, we are facing the dilemma of using human energy, so to speak, to
build
what could be the ultimate weapon.”
She
stops and looks to see if everyone is paying attention. The President
reassures
her.
The
President nods, “Continue, Professor.”
“We
are dealing with a new type of fusion, that of a sub-element, the potential of
which
hasn't been determined until now. This
new device has made possible the
disintegration
of an atom, no longer as a whole, but that of the so-called root particle.
This
is the basic, fundamental element scientists have been looking for since the
first
nuclear
experiment. This idea goes back to
Einstein's work in 1917, but no one has ever
made
this sizeable a leap.”
“Is
Anders cooperating?”
Dr.
Kaplin takes a breath and holds her hands together in front of her.
“As
far as we can tell. Certain equations
are vague but we believe Anders has
already
figured out how to contain it. We have
five platinum boxes at Stanford. We
trap
the
energy as it leaves the body but it keeps escaping. That's what we are working on
now:
containing it.
The
fact that energy is released by humans at the time of death has long been a
principal
of ancient cultures, cultures in which sacrifices of the ‘soul’ were used to
satisfy
their
deities or gods. They believed that the
emanation of the energy associated with
death
was ultimately powerful. This power was
perceived as having the ability to render
phenomenal
supernatural status. The Egyptians
classified it as a type of ‘spirit’ that hung
around
the burial sights in the after-life.
This spirit or ‘soul’ was a permanent fixture in
the
world of the dead. Similar versions of
this belief have been made by other cultures
including
Tibetans, Eskimos and Christians. We
believe this is the power Ho Sin Mae
and
Dr. Anders have discovered.”
General
Franker leans forward. “Are you saying that death is itself the ultimate
energy
source, the final power of future society.”
Dr.
Kaplin looks directly at General Franker.
Dr.
Kaplin continues, “The technology that Anders is trying to develop could
make
all present forms of power obsolete.
Once containment is perfected, it could end
the
world's quest for resources. It might
be a perpetual energy source.”
Russ
Elliot speaks up. “The perception of a fundamental crisis in all natural
systems
is pervasive, almost universal among the public. People believe natural systems
are
breaking down. This Technology may not
be the solution but rather the culmination
of
the crisis.”
The
President stands. “So far, Anders' work
has remained covert. We have
successfully
maintained the highest level of security.
Not even Moscow has questioned
us
about it, though they may be communicating with the Chinese about Ho Sin Mae.
Dr.
Kaplin continues, “The discovery of an energy source derived from human
emissions
at the time of death will pose many problems for all world powers and their
societies. Questions of the economic value will be
raised. In the pursuit of expansion,
the
determining factor will be the volume of energy produced by the dead. Eventually
this
might even be promoted as the ultimate form of dying for one's country. It will be
ones
duty to be recycled.”
Russ
Elliot turns to Kaplin. “Of course any
attempt at implementing the program
is
likely to cause problems with the religious communities. Undoubtedly Rome and
Mecca
will have the most powerful say on the use of the energy. The President received
an
official Vatican memo three days ago.
Kind of an inquiry, wasn't it Mr. President?”
“Well, we can deal with that when the time
comes. Right now, we must assure
ourselves
that Anders’ work is completed. If
we’re going to achieve our goals we must
provide
him with the safest, most secure environment possible. We must have every
assurance
that Anders will remain in our custody. Colonel Rand is flying to California
now
to oversee the operation. We gotta go.”
CHAPTER
XI
“There
was a meeting this morning in Washington; there’s concern about your
progress,
Dave. They’re afraid you might crack up.”
Dave
looks at Canne and nods his head in agreement.
“Heather’s
worried, too. She’s too compassionate. How does she even work for
them?”
“In
one way or another, we all do.”
Dave
raises his head.
“Or
we’ll wish we did. Do unto others as they would you, something like that,
right?”
“Do
you think we can trust her in the long run?”
“I
do believe we can.”
Grinning,
Anders sits in Canne’s chair while Canne paces.
“You
guys are in love.”
Anders
does not reply.
“Okay,
they know we can tap the energy as it leaves the body. The corporations
are
pushing for completion, but I think the NSA will be patient. They’ll wait ‘til
it’s
finished
and perfected to make any kind of move.”
Dave
shakes his head. “It may never be
functional, you know.”
Canne
walks around the table in slow motion, dragging his hand over the table.
“They
want the bugs worked out before they continue their plans.”
“Bugs?
They don’t understand what we’re talking about here, the enormity of
what
we’re proposing. Weaponry powered by the energy released at death. The way they
are
behaving, I suppose there’ll be a cartoon about it on Saturday morning,
followed by
sermons
on Sunday.”
Canne
smiles.
“Why
do I always agree with you?”
“Shit,
you know the reason. Here we are looking for a solution to the energy
problems,
for the right cause, and the pressure is building around us to energize the
military.
For Christ’s sake. How can they expect us to work and concentrate on the
energy?”
Canne
looks on as Anders continues.
“The
Public Relations people have already begun the groundwork. Imagine the ad
campaign!
You’ll still be here after you’re gone, giving ‘til eternity. Located wherever
the
dying congregate. Along freeways, in hospitals and in high crime areas.”
“Listen,
we both know the pressure you’re under. That’s why I’m worried about
your
safety. But you have to understand, the corporations know the potential of this
and
they
are determined to beat the Chinese. The economic repercussions have made
tensions
very
high.”
“I’m
sure that if they plan something on that level. Heather will tell me.”
“If
they tell her, of course.”
“Of
course.”
Anders
and Canne leave the room and travel through the Center. They walk
through
an atrium that looks out onto the garden.
Canne stops and says, “Representative
Clark
is waiting for you in the game room.
Try to be nice.”
Professor
Anders walks into the game room.
Jerome
Clark who stands next to a snooker table says, “Hello, Dr. Anders.
How’ve
you been?”
“Fine,
Congressman, just fine. And you?”
“Well,
to be honest, Dave, I need some information and I think you can help me.
That’s
why I asked Jonathan Canne to arrange this meeting for us.”
“Oh?”
“You
see, it’s about the project you’re currently working on. I realize it’s not
public
knowledge yet, but some of my constituents have asked me to look into it.”
He
stops. Dave is watching him. Clark continues.
“The corporate community to
be
exact, to find out where you’re headed
with this thing.”
“I’m
not at liberty to discuss that, sir. Besides, it would be completely premature
at
this point to even consider any practical sort of application.”
“Oh,
c’mon.”
“But
it isn’t even finished yet. We’re way ahead of ourselves here. We can’t
control
it. Hell, we can’t even contain it. You think this is a substitute for nuclear
power?
You could light a whole block of flats with
the equivalent of one-thousandth of what we
use
to make a car run today. You could, but we haven’t figured out how to break it
down.
There
seems to be something irreducible there.”
Clark
leans forward and raises his voice.
“But all that is just a matter of time,
Dave.
You’ll figure it out. We have the basic premise and that’s all we really need,
isn’t
it?”
Anders
turns and looks to the side, then turns back to Clark.
“No,
it is not! My God, have you thought
about it? Any of you? We have no
idea
what its effect will be, but the military is raring to go, to start marketing
and selling
it.
First as a weapon, then to run the street lights.”
“You
know, David, we are reaching the end of politics. Soon, there will be no
external
control that can be exercised over any people. You can help me make that day
energy-efficient
by doing the right thing for your country.”
“What! My God, are we all insane?”
The
front door opens from the other side and Jerome Clark gestures to Dave. He
taps
the right side of his nose.
CHAPTER
XII
Colonel
Rand flies his jet. In the background,
he listens to the violin of Yo Yo
Ma.
His
phone rings.
“Alex,
it's Isabella Kaplin. Creepy Elliot has
been to see Pleaides.”
“Not
good. Does the President know?”
“I
don't think so.”
“I'll
be landing in Moffit in a few minutes.
Call me if there is any more news.”
Rand
dials another number.
Inside Anders’ cottage, the phone rings. Heather comes out of the bathroom. She
has
a white towel wrapped around her.
She
answers, “Hello.”
“We
have to meet.”
She
sits on the bed. “I don’t have much
time. Forty-five minutes, MacArthur
Park?”
“Yes.”
She
comes out dressed in black jeans, leather shoes and a black turtleneck. She is
moving
fast. She is wearing her black jacket.
She stops the cat from exiting.
She
leaves the house and walks through the woods to her car.
She
strides into the restaurant. Colonel
Rand stands as she approaches his table.
Rand
says, “You’ve got to try harder.”
Heather
has her leather purse open. With a small mirror in her hand, she applies
her
lipstick.
“What
else can I do? I think I’m losing
him. I don’t think he feels patriotic
about
the
issue anymore, if he ever did. He’s
thought it over and he feels he’s been dealt a hard
card. He’s basically pissed.”
She
closes the mirror and puts it back in her purse. She turns and looks at the
other
diners.
Rand
beckons to the waiter and orders a scotch for himself and a bottle of Beck’s
for
Heather. He places a microscopic transmitter on Heather’s sunglasses.
She
turns and looks at him. He smiles.
“No
United States President can let anyone else, any other bloc, take power. We
can’t
let anyone get ahead of us.”
“Dave
says we are in the midst of a civil war.”
“We
are always in the midst of a civil war.
That’s what democracy is.”
She
takes a good look at him.
“Sooner
or later you’re going to get orders to kill him. And you’ll ask me to help
you.”
The
waiter serves the drinks.
He
bends over the table and gets closer to her.
“Come
on. If there’s one thing the world has learned, it’s that you can’t stop
anything
by assassination. This guy that you’re with is a dangerous weapon.”
“Yeah,
right, he is; but it’s not his fault.”
“Heather,
you are working for us. That’s US, the United States government. He is
no
longer working for anyone but himself.
You now see me as some kind of a
combination
of a superpatriot and the hit man in ‘Apocalypse Now’… You never tried to
get
to know me very well and you don’t know Anders very well, even though you’ve
tried.
. . . I admit I’m a bit jealous of Anders, and I envy his youth. . . . you
don’t meet
many
women like you. But the personal is
secondary . . . I wouldn’t like him even if I’d
never
met you. Not for who he is, but for what
he represents. With all your
romanticizing
he’s nothing but a high class technocrat and I’m an old fashioned soldier ...
I detest all this modern technology which has
fucked up the world so much . . . and this
death
gasp thing is the last straw.
“You
sound like the unabomber.”
“I
don’t think he was so far wrong, except I’m not that unhinged.”
“Can’t
you see David and I agree on a lot of what you say?”
“So
what's he doing about it?”
“What
can he do about it?”
“He
could commit suicide; millions of men have died for less.”
She
flinches, but keeps her cool.
“What
about Mae? What if the Chinese get it?”
“Mae
will never let them have it; I’m tuned in to the little poetic messages Anders
has
been getting, and if I don’t miss my guess they’ll either have to kill him or
he’ll kill
himself
. . . Although I’d never be able to convince Defense or the White House of
that.
Anders
hasn’t got that kind of moral fortitude.
He’s just a God-damned liberal who’ll
continue
to waffle.”
“At
least you could tell your bosses your theory about Ho Sin Mae.”
“They’re
not interested in psychological conjecture.”
“And
you don’t want to admit you’re in a double bind like everybody else.”
“Correct.”
“So
it gets back to you wanting David to quit, providing Dr. Mae’s out of the
picture.”
“He
won’t quit. Not only would his career
be ruined by NSA, but he’d have the
FBI
on his ass for the rest of his life . . . which would likely be short, as China
will
definitely
be after his ass . . . either to kill or kidnap.”
“So
what you are telling me is that you may have to terminate him.”
“I
don't know. It's up in the air. Maybe
he’ll kill himself.”
“You
hope?”
“I
don’t see him doing that; he’ll just stall and stall, praying China will have a
resolution,
or maybe Washington and Peking will get together and see the whole idea is a
fucking
disaster.”
“You'll
let me know?”
“You’re
my only direct contact with him.”
As
Heather gets up Rand also rises. She
salutes him then takes a final swig of her
beer.
“Good
to see you Colonel.”
Outside,
she opens her purse and gets her phone.
“David.”
Anders
is standing above his computer.
“Yes.”
“I
just met with Rand. I’ve got a feeling he’s about to make a move on you.”
“Touché.
He’s handcuffed. I don’t feel like eating. How about dancing? I’ll be at
Balloons
in half an hour. Be there?”
“I’m
on my way.”
Anders
changes a few equations on the blackboard, then wipes it clean.
At
the Balloons, a private club for Silicon Valley scientists and technicians,
there
are
face-balloons of the patrons everywhere. Inside the door, the bouncer looks
suspiciously
at Anders, then recognizes him, as Dave removes his sunglasses.
“Doctor,
she’s waiting at the bar.”
Anders
enters the bar. Against the wall, to the left, are wooden booths occupied
by
people eating lunch. Beyond that, there is another larger room.
He
sees Heather and walks in her direction.
Heather
says, “I reserved a table.”
They
walk into the second room. The room is three quarters full. They exchange
greetings
with other patrons. At one table, a completely bald skinny older man beckons to
them.
He is Cassein, a Russian scientist. Warily, Anders and Heather approach him.
Cassein,
with kind blue eyes, says, “Will you join us?”
Anders
looks mockingly around for the invisible others.
“I’m
afraid not, Dr. Cassein.”
“I
heard you were about to break it.”
“Break
it, eh?” Anders shakes his head.
Cassein
looks at both of them. “I don’t blame
you. If we agree that a living
organism
is an open system, it feeds on the energy and materials in the environment. It
keeps
building up more complex chemicals from the chemicals it feeds on. But your
research
is demonstrating that the energy that leaves our body at death does not feed.
Isn’t
that it? Please …”
Anders
likes what Cassein has to say, he replies, “A completely integrated power
source?”
Cassein
moves his head forward. “You know,
David, these open systems are
always,
even in death, changing into something else. It looks to me like you’ve stopped
the
process in man by capturing it.”
“Capturing
it, the so-called soul of man, putting it to use?”
Heather
gives Anders a push. She wants to move.
Cassein
says, “I suppose there will be devices in all the hospitals.”
“I
suppose Stanford and some of the independents along the coast won’t
cooperate.”
Anders
and Heather signal ‘later’ to Cassein and take a table at the far end of the
room.
On
the stage, at the front of the room, is an all-female band, The Terrakians.
They
begin
to play and people get up to dance. Dave and Heather are among them.
The
band finishes its number.
Two
men, followed by another, pass from the back room into the second room. A
gay
man, an attendant, walks across the dance floor. The attendant leans over
Cassein
and
whispers something, then leaves.
As
the music starts up again, Anders and Heather are the first to notice Cassein
slumped
in his chair.
She
dances. Anders looks hard at Heather
and she sadly nods her head.
They
exit the club.
Heather
says, “Let's see if I can make you blow that damned cool of yours.”
“Mmm.”
CHAPTER
XIII
In
a remote section of Southern China, the sun penetrates the few clouds in the
sky.
Birds are going crazy, jumping from tree to tree.
Inside
Ho Sin Mae’s prison house, Ho wears a white gown with black specks that
resemble
birds. He wears headphones and a cassette player strapped to his belt. A man of
dignity,
he walks slowly, preparing to die.
He
steps out into the garden and stops by a gigantic rose bush and examines a
single
rose’s petal. His hands play in the air. He brings his hands close to his
chest, as if
he
were holding a ball.
He
goes back inside and makes his bed. He
sits down in front of his computer
and
speaks.
Dearest
Dave,
Our
pincers raised
We
moved one another
In
and out of the shadows.
See
you in the Shadows.
He
strides off to his meditation chamber. He kneels down against a shimmering
blue
neon background. In front of him, on the floor, is the football. His right hand
extends
upward as he throws an imaginary bird, his soul, skyward.
CHAPTER
XIV
Anders
rolls out of bed and stretches. The cat walks up to him while he’s bent
over
and Anders pets her. He then walks over to the computer and reads the message:
Dearest
Dave,
Our
pincers raised …
Anders
goes back into the room and gets his clothes and leaves the bedroom. He
dresses
in the dark, the only light comes from the computer screen. He sits forlornly in
front
of the glowing computer and says, “At any cost! Any cost? It's in
us. Our job is to
discover
the secrets.”
Heather
appears. “Dave …”
Anders
lowers his eyes.
“Dave.”
“Can
you cry?”
Heather
says, “Yes.”
“My
friend and I were too dumb to know the difference.”
“Between
what and what?”
“Between
crying and not. Living without that peculiar luck. He’s dead, Heather.”
“Who?”
“Ho
Sin.”
Heather
watches Anders move toward her. He stands
in front of her.
“They
thought I was going to sell it to Cassein.”
Heather
shakes her head.
“You
would think that. That was probably unrelated. You’ve got to play ball.
Otherwise,
you’re next. They’ll kill you.” Heather
gestures hand-to-head.
“All
the movements indicate more control over our destiny, don’t you think?”
“Yes,
I think I’m more concerned about you than your goddamned contribution.”
“You
don’t. How could you understand the
beauty of it; the perfect mathematical
reality
of it.”
“I
know . . .”
“I
know what to do. If I give them perfection, they’ll use it, and that will
destroy
us.
It’s better that I die than the entire human race, don’t you think? Don’t you
think there
is
something in each of us that wants to die?”
“That’s
nonsense. We want to fly, become
greater . . .”
“Ah
yes to take our rightful place on the Earth.”
“I'm
sorry. Come back to bed.”
Hand
in hand they walk back to the bedroom.
Fading
into what looks like the surface of a moon. It is actually a magnification of
one
side of Anders’ face. It appears spherical. As it turns, we notice, in the
upper left
corner
of the frame, Anders’ watching right eye and curving eyelash. He is dreaming.
Fading
into a dream sequence. As “the sphere” continues to turn, two Chinese
Grave
Diggers, caked with mud and holding shovels, walk forward.
1ST
Grave Digger (in Chinese), “How are they made?”
Behind
the Grave Diggers, in the distance, a bus can be seen.
A
bus pulls around a corner and stops outside a small house. Standing in the
yard,
Anders
has food in his mouth and a parrot on each arm. He is wearing old, tattered
clothes.
The Driver of the bus, Ralph Kramden, pulls back the handle, and the door
opens.
He climbs down and walks across the street to confront Anders. Behind Ralph,
the
bus
is filled with laughing people.
Ralph
says, “No, don’t. Please, relax.”
In
the background the sound of static accompanies a lazy Benny Goodman
clarinet.
The
parrot on Dave’s arm says, “Yeah, it’s work.”
An
inaudible static becomes louder.
Those
who work create; those who don’t, suffer.
Anders
is looking at Ralph.
Ralph
says, “The honeymoon’s over, pal.”
Anders
gives him the parrot.
Ralph
climbs back aboard the bus. We hear the
sound of distant planes mixed
with
the sound of the ocean and little girl voices.
Dr.
Anders awakens. He is staring at the
ceiling. He leans over and picks up his
watch.
It is 6:30 A.M. He gets up. Heather is asleep.
Anders makes himself a cup of
coffee
and munches on a croissant.
He
walks outside and stands on the porch.
Colonel
Rand emerges. “Morning, I'd like a word
with you.”
“You’re
on my private property.”
“I’m
holding the thread you’re hanging by, asshole.”
Anders
smiles and walks over to him. “Spun
from the hands of In God We
Trust?”
“Don’t
tell me you’re a hate-America type. I’ve always considered you a
thoroughly
unprejudiced person. I thought you hated us all equally.”
“All
this could have been avoided if our research could have remained
theoretical.”
“We
live in a practical culture Dr. Theories turn into tools. Is this theory of yours
going
to work?”
“Yes.”
“Right
again. So you and Einstein have gotten together and destroyed our world.
And
while you doodle away, the Final Chaos begins. Yet you and Einstein see
yourselves
as
innocents.”
Colonel
Rand slides his right hand through his coat and retrieves a Glock 9 mm.
“You
don’t understand Dr. You have made
death more profitable than ever. I let
you
go…
Say goodbye, Dr.
Colonel
Rand squeezes the trigger and pumps two bullets into the other man’s
admirable
brain. He kneels down and feels for a
pulse. Then, quickly, moves away from
the
cottage and into his car.
The
Last Killing
CHAPTER
I
A knee cap floats in the murky water behind
Scomas. A seagull dances on it. The
cap
belongs to Bobby McKnight, a bad boy alcoholic who had been embarrassing the
North
Beach
crowd with his lack of finesse. Poor
Bobby, there were four attempts to straighten
him
out.
Despair creeps in gradually, accumulates like
dust through an old window.
I walk down Chestnut Street and notice a party
at the Art Vault. I walk in. One guy
catches
my eye. He’s with two radiant
20-somethings. He’s around 50, 5’11”,
200 lbs., and
a
shaven head. We start chatting. Turns out he’s in the porno business. The two ladies with
him
are producers. Stephanie, and Judy
L. He introduces himself as Rumple.
At one point I suggest that perhaps they can
help me produce and distribute a movie.
“I own the property and could put up say
$100,000…”
Rumple says, “Make it $120,000 and we’ll talk
tomorrow.” He hands me his card.
At home, I tap into their website. I am pleased to see most of their stuff has
story;
the
actors keep their clothes on for the first 7 or 8 minutes and they attempt to
create
character. I think
I might be able to do business with these people.
I suppose Rumple’s origin to be German. He is a collector of sixties cartoon art
(Ryan,
Mouse, and Crumb). There isn’t a
pornographic image in the house.
He invites me down to the backyard. After we have settled in with a coffee and a
joint,
he asks about the story. “What’s the
hook?”
“Two scientists who fall in love at a U.S.
Energy Conference and constantly watched
by
the Government as the viewer.”
“Why do you think it’ll cost $100,000? I could do that for $30,000.”
“Read the script. Different locations and some digital animation.”
“Oh.
Did you bring the script?”
“No. I
want to get the details straight”
Rumple says, “Do you think we can work
together?”
“You’re the producer. I’m the director.”
“Normally, I get my fee up front.”
“The $20,000?”
“Right.”
“You present me with a contract saying you will
help me here, shoot, cut and
distribute,
and I want to see what you have in the way of distribution contacts, and I’ll
give
you
$10,000 on signing.”
“That’s good,” he says. “I, also, get 49% of the profit and $10,000
more when we
wrap. I’ll send you the contract tomorrow by
noon.”
I say, “You were there in the 60’s?”
“Yeah.”
“Must have been great.”
“This is better,” he says.
CHAPTER
II
I am bent by a sense of the absurd. Was it mother who wove it into me by
pointing,
during
one of my rages, and saying “Look at yourself in the mirror, Lyle?” I did and I was
absurd. Is it because through the millennia we
constantly talk about changing ourselves but
never
do?
I feel I am standing on a precipice overlooking
a chasm. Behind me, there is nothing
but
memories.
I put my shoulder holster on and place the 9mm
Baretta in it. We have a meeting
today
with the prospective actors. Judy L.
has been assigned to be my assistant.
We pare
it
down to seven actors. The two leads are
college students. The supporting five
are
veterans
of the skin trade. We meet in the
Mission at Rumple’s warehouse. He’s
nowhere
to
be seen.
I give each of the actors the script,
instructions and a 30 day shooting schedule.
I ask
the
two leads, Jack and Jill, to fall in love during the shooting. From them, I say, I want
tenderness
and heart.
We are going to shoot the opening scene at
night in Masonic Hall. There will be a
four
piece band, thirty-two extras, and here, Jack and Jill will meet for the first
time.
Two minutes into rehearsing the dance, Jack
slips his hand up Jill’s dress. I’m
afraid
he’s
going to start howling but he keeps himself under control. She begins kissing him.
Yes,
the cameras are rolling. By God, they
start to fuck right there on the floor.
One camera
gets
in close. The other moves around them
like a boxer.
CHAPTER
III
We’re in the 21st day of shooting. Rumple thinks we’ve got a hit.
“This film of yours might inspire a trend
toward fidelity,” he says. “Anyway it’s
great
work. We’ll have no trouble selling
it.”
“What’s the next step?”
“I think we’ll have a party. To celebrate. I’ll make copies and send them to my
compatriots
in L.A. and Montreal. See who’s the
highest bidder.”
“When’s the party?”
“How about this Friday.”
“Who are you inviting?”
“The usual cast of players.”
“You won’t show the film?”
“No.”
“I’ll pass.”
I’m disturbed that I won’t allow myself to get
close to people. I think the film is
teaching
me about my need for intimacy.
Surrounded by lit candles I sit alone in my
apartment and look through old
photographs:
My first wife, brown-haired with granny glasses and large teats standing next
to
me, in our Haight-Ashbury flat in ’74.
Our cat, Black Milton, unable to walk or see,
destined
to spin in his own shit, and his calico sister, Fantambule, who totters from
wall to
wall,
spinal cord warped half brain-dead cats we inherited from their incestuous
mother; a
red
farm house in Hudson, N.Y.; my second wife, blonde and muscular, hanging from a
diving
board in her red Speedo; our Golden
Retriever, our vacations, our Christmas trees;
Dad
and I; My brothers and I.
I interrogate myself. Have you ever though of why you did what you did to yourself?
Chasing the rainbow? Possibly.
Probably that simple.
I turn on the TV. A good looking pudgy and tan Newt Gingrich gives a speech on
the
abolition of adolescence and the reformation of our mutilated educational
system. God
knows
our educational system needs abolishing.
The day of the party and I feel a little
gloomy. I call Rumple and tell him I’m
coming. I dress in a white shirt, silk pants, and a
black merino wool jacket, and take a cab
to
the warehouse. Rumple’s got a pair of
guards at the door. Apparently, Rumple
is
charging
fifty bucks to get in unless you know the password, which I don’t. I step back a
bit
and say “Will you please ask Mr. Mesbusch to come to the door?” Rumple appears and
throws
an arm around me. The warehouse is
loaded .
Subdued lighting surrounds the dancers. The music is the pounding, thumping
techno
variety. Nothing to soothe my
nerves. At the far end of the room, a
five foot
sculpture
of a vagina is encased in plexiglass.
“Jack and Jill aren’t coming,” Rumple says.
“Too bad,” I reply.
I am staring at the nipples of a dancer in her
thirties who is wearing bottoms and no
shoes. She moves languidly and then jerks up and
forward to a hip-hop tune. She begins
to
slink, her left hand on her left hip, her right hand on her head. I start laughing. There is
a
child-like openness in her face framed by dirty blonde hair. She ends her dance with a
twirl
and comes up to the bar where I am drinking.
“Are you in the porno business?” she asks.
“No.”
“I’d like a Becks, Please.”
“You seem to be enjoying yourself.”
“See that couple over there in the corner, the
two men kissing. They brought me
here. I’m looking for a man. Do you dance?”
“No,” I say, “but I can take you outa here.”
“Who are you?”
“Lyle.
Desmond. I developed the movie
some people are celebrating tonight.”
“You’re a porno…. developer.”
“Not really.
It was my first and probably my last.
Something I always wanted to
do.”
“I love to watch myself fuck.” She has a slight, Swedish accent. She takes a swig
of
her beer.
“If you still want to take me out in ten or
fifteen minutes, I’ll let you.” She
puts her
beer
down and walks away.
I haven’t wanted a woman in 2 ½ years. After another Becks I walk through the
dancing
crowd and over to her.
“Shall we go,” I say.
“Do you have a car?”
“No.”
“I do.
Let me dress and tell the boys goodbye.”
I see Rumple watch us as we walk out.
She stops in front of a white 80’s Lincoln. “I’m Jasmine Lang,” she says. She turns
and
opens her door. I walk around to the
other side.
CHAPTER
IV
On a corner a block from my apartment, they are
tearing down a Jack-In-The-Box;
cleaning
the debris and paving. The sounds of
shovels and pulleys, the pounding and
twisting
of concrete and metal tumble in my ear like the sweet and excited flatterers in
Dante’s
8th Circle of Hell. I hope Jasmine Lang is not just a one-night stand. She left
hours
ago.
In the morning Rumple calls sounding out of
breath and panicked.
“We’ve got a disaster on our hands. Someone broke into the safe after the
party.”
“When did you last check it?”
“On my way out last night.”
“What was in it?”
“Your negative of the film and $20,000 or so.”
“Have you called the police?”
“Not yet.”
“Wait till I get there. I’d like to look at the
safe.”
The party ended around 1:15 A.M. The place had been cleaned by Rumple and
Judy
L. They had left around 3 A.M. Rumple came back to the warehouse at
noon. The front
door
and the safe had been opened by a pro.
There had been no force involved.
It was a
professional
job.
We start calling the people connected to the
film. The only anomaly is both numbers
for
Jack and Jill have been disconnected.
Rumple says,
“If they planned it from the beginning, their resumes will be
phony.”
Jack, whose name on the resume is David
Isralow, had completed his third year of
a
Baccalaureate at UCLA Jill’s name is
Heloise Jonah. She had graduated from
UCLA with
a
BA in Psychology. I check with the
schools and the names are real. Would
the faces
match?
“I guess you’ll be going to L.A.,” Rumple says.
I call Jasmine and leave a message. I feel like inviting her, but I don’t.
At U.C.LA. I check with Admissions and sure
enough their faces match. I call
Heloise’s
mother (her only surviving parent) and tell her Heloise has interviewed for a
job
at
IBM in Customer Relations. I ask to
speak with her. Mother volunteers that
Jill is in
Vegas,
but she doesn’t know where. I give her
my name and cellphone number. I call
David’s
house but there is no answer.
On the third night, I’m sitting around Les Deux
watching the starlets mingle with the
business
people and the cell rings. It’s Rumple.
“They called a little while ago. They’ve sent it back.”
“Do you have it?”
“It’ll be here tomorrow.”
“What happened?”
“They’re getting married in Vegas. I guess they were going to burn it.”
“Why?”
“They said something to that effect.”
“They decided against it?”
“So they say.”
“Yeah well… you wanna bet they made a copy?”
“What do you want to do about that?”
“It’s in the contract, right? All pirated versions etc…”
“Definitely.
But bootlegs overseas, down south?”
“Let me think about it. Call me when you get the package. And let me know the
return
address, sender and the postmark. What
did they say about your $20,000?”
“Employment costs.”
“That’s funny.”
The package arrives the following day. The negative is in fine shape. They are
honeymooning
at the Luxor. I call them. Jill answers the phone.
“Jill,” I say, “it’s Jack Rack.” (my stage
name)
“Oh, Mr. Rack, how are you?”
“Better now that we have the film back.”
“We’re sorry, but you have to understand…”
I cut her off.
“Jill did you make a copy?”
“We did, but it’s just for us. Dave wants to talk to you.”
“Mr. Rack, we were afraid. Our parents… they really don’t know about
us. I don’t
know
when we decided to do this but we now know we were wrong. Do you accept my
apology?”
“No.
David, I want your copy.”
“We can’t give you that, sir. Heloise wants to say goodbye.”
“You really helped us, Jack. You’re a valuable man. We’ll never forget you.”
“Will you come back to San Francisco and help
us launch the premiere?”
“We’re not there anymore.”
“Jill, do not under any circumstances pass out
copies. Capisci?”
“I said, we’re sorry.” She hangs up.
Should
I go and grab the copy? Will they be
there? How many have they made?
Fuck it.
I’ll fly home.
That evening, Jasmine comes over. She brings a six pack of Becks, and wears a
black
silk Chinese pants suit. She moves
lovingly about my apartment, asking about my life.
“Other than making me so happy, what do you
really like doing?” she asks.
“I like cooking vegetables.”
She
stares at me. I feel loved.
“I used to be fond of hand to hand.”
“What?”
“Combat.
I boxed and wrestled as a kid.
It’s all on the line. Taking
it. Standing
tall.”
“I knew it,” she says. “That’s why I feel comfortable.”
“When I was nineteen I killed a man in a knife
fight.”
“Did you go to jail?”
“No. It
was ruled self-defense.”
“When was your last fight, Des?”
“Ten years ago.”
Suddenly, she is in my arms.
“Do you have a lot of friends, Des?”
“You know over the years we’ve sort of lost
contact. I was very much in love with
a
girl named Jill three years back.”
“Is that why you named the girl in your movie,
Jill?”
“Yes.
Do you want to see it?”
“I’m not into that. I like my movies straight and if not enlightened at least not
insulting.”
“What are your favorite movies?”
“The Secret of Roan Innish, Burnt by the Sun,
Central Station, Gods and
Monsters…”
“Never heard of them.”
“Did you see Sixth Sense?”
“Yeah.
That’s good.”
She got a lot out of me that night. After dinner, she led with, “You won’t
always be
a
mystery man, but I like your mysterious side, Des. Don’t worry about me getting too close
to
it.”
CHAPTER
V
My father was a powerhouse right hand
puncher. Feet slightly apart, his
defense
consisted
of moving his shoulders up and down and covering his face. His body took
thousands
of shots from quicker, stronger men. He
won 40 and lost 36, and retired from
boxing
in ’57. His next job was cab
dispatcher, which was like a vacation to him.
My mother never allowed us to watch him
fight. But once I did see him on TV on
an
under card at the Garden in ’56. I
don’t remember much about it.
In the morning I check my messages. There’s a job in Brussels. Jasmine comes up
from
behind.
“Are you going to take it,” she says.
“I don’t know.
I have until July 13th to
decide.”
“This is what you really are,” she says, “a
bodyguard?”
“Yeah.
For the last eight years.”
She smiles and walks towards the living room.
“Do you want to use the shower?”
“No,” she says, “go ahead.”
When I come out, she is at my computer. I walk into the bedroom and dress. When
I
come out again, she is gone.
CHAPTER
VI
Killing a person, for me, is not easy. The hardest part is deciding who needs
killing.
I observe the behavior of the marked
individual for one week. At the end of
the observance
I
know I’ll take the job.
A
fellow traveler, Jack Burner, calls himself a travel agent. I prefer the term cleaner.
Sometimes the client gives the cleaner
instructions as in the case of Bobby McKnight;
dismember
him, grind him up and throw one body part, other than the head, into the Bay.
This anonymous culture I live in, which has no
philosophical vision, no juicy gut, is
with
its absence of critical support for the new either killing itself from
self-hatred or
unconsciously
ferreting out weaknesses and thus readying itself for a New Heroine, and a
New
Hero.
Rumple calls and tells me he’s close to a deal
with HotZone. They are offering ½
mil
for all U.S. distribution rights.
“I’m
trying to get 10% of the gross but it’ll only be for the U.S. Brace yourself, man.
Jack and Jill were murdered in Hong Kong last
night. Jill’s mother called. She was very
upset.”
“Are
you sure?”
“You
see the problem. Whoever killed them…”
“Stole
the tape.”
“I’ve called the D.A. and told him of our
involvement. I’m sure it’ll go through
the
proper
channels. It might help them find the
bastards.”
“Idiots.
I can’t believe this.”
“Yeah.”
An assistant D.A. calls and would like a word
and permission to view the film. She
would
like to make a copy to send to the Tokyo police. I arrange to meet her tomorrow at
the
warehouse.
That night Bobby McKnight’s knee cap floats above a stormy San Francisco bay.
It’s an oracle. It talks in a grave garbled voice about world’s weather: sunny in
Rio,
torrential
rain in New Delhi, bridges collapsing along the Danube, drought in the MidWest…
then,
I’m in a delicatessen and Jasmine is to my right. Behind are a covey of French school
girls. The clerk starts walking toward me. The girls begin a French song – a wonderful
patriotic
song which fills my eyes to the brim.
The sun rises in my kitchen and travels around
the apartment to set in the bathroom
above
the Golden Gate Bridge. My
grandmother’s paintings look very good today.
Her
young
girls in bikinis look life-like.
I arrive at the warehouse at 10. Rumple and the assistant D.A. sit at the
coffee table.
“The director appears,” Rumple says.
“Hi,” she says with an upbeat English accent.
“I’m Frances Sheffield.”
“Desmond,” I say.
She has a sharp nose, frizzy blond hair, and an
easy sensuous manner.
“I was telling your boss, here, we’ll make
another copy for ourselves and send this
to
the Hong Kong police. “Perhaps if the film surfaces they’ll be
able to pin the killers.”
“You’ll see what wonderful kids they are,” I
say.
Rumple looks a little glum. She hands me a piece of paper. “If you’ll sign this, I can
be
on my way.” It’s a release form. It makes them responsible for any bootleg
copies that
may
derive from their mishandling of the tapes.
Rumple says, “if it gets out we’ll sue.”
“Don’t worry,” Frances Sheffield says, and
stands. She says with a wink, “I’ll let
you
know what I think.”
Rumple walks her out. He comes back and says, “these people have their own
agenda.
I wouldn’t have given it to her if
Hallinan wasn’t her boss. I met
Hallinan at Dennis
Natale’s
wedding. I knew Dennis.”
“Yeah. Any word on HotZone?”
“They said they’d talk it over and give me an
answer by Saturday. What are you
doing
today?”
“I don’t know.”
As I walk out I think of Dennis Natale. I didn’t know him, but I knew someone who
did,
who had been at Dennis Natale’s wedding at the Flower House. Natale had been
assassinated
a few blocks from his house by Vietnamese hoods. Apparently he was the
lawyer
slash bagman for his killer’s competition.
Natale and his client had been murdered
on
the same night within minutes of one another.
The phone rings. Jas tells me she is going to New York and I can’t come.
“It’s going to be non-stop work, Des,” she
says. “I’m with a negotiating team which
will
try to untangle the Verizon problem.”
“Well that’s too bad. I was looking forward to tonight.”
“I’ll be back next Wednesday. I hope.
See you then. Gotta go. Bye.”
Days go by.
I should have taken the Brussels job.
I call my contact. He says,
“nothing,
unless you want to take on a million dollar deal.”
Million dollars deals are high profile evil
doers. Million dollar deals are death
warrants
for the assassin. At least, the Giants
are leading the West. Fall and football
are
around
the corner.
I tried for two decades to become a peaceful
creature. I decided I was kidding
myself. The only time I really felt peaceful was
when I fasted. I, being a typical
representative
of humanity, am not peaceful. I am
restless yet disciplined. I am fiery
yet
cold. I know the reservoir of anger in me is
deeper than most and my method of channeling
it
unusual.
After my two decade meditation on violence I
found only the expression of violence
could
make me happy. It looks as if most of
America feels as I do. Increasingly I
notice
people
sitting on hair triggers.
I dream that night I’m with my second wife,
blonde neurotic Allison. We’re on the
Russian
River listening to Eric Clapton with a couple hundred others. We dance.
Behind
us,
in the river, bloody hands float by swimming children and empty canoes. I think I will
have
a place to go with my lady, a place always where we can go to worship. I think I will
have
a fulfilling job, one that demands the very best of me. The dream, like the day, slips
away.
Another job comes up from Global Security. It’s the United Nations Millennium
Conference. I take it without thinking. I see in the protocols the founder of Global
Security,
Terry
Kingsberry, will be there.
Terry started me out. Eight years ago, I was his fifth employee. Now, he has three
hundred
plus people on board. I give him a
call.
He answers.
“You remember that July 4th party last year?” he says.
“That was intense. Did you go to Brussels?”
“No.
Just paddling away under the fluorescent skies. You should see some of the
insane
money that’s moved into my neighborhood.”
“I’m going to New York.”
“Good, good.”
Kingsberry, who is 6’6”, 270 with a scarred
boyish face, looks awkward in an
expensive
black suit. He’s originally from
Martha’s Vineyard. He cut his teeth and
rattled
his
mind with the Special Forces in Vietnam.
He was awarded the Purple Heart and three
years
of psychiatric care. He is the great and
good warrior – the one man you want on your
battlefield. Married happily now for twelve years with a
beloved and darling wife and child.
“How’s Tori?”
“She keeps me on my toes. Why don’t you come up this Halloween?”
“I’d like that.”
“I’m looking at the detail. I think you could be the lone wolf. You can go anywhere
in
the building except to private meetings.
There. Your pass will be at the
front desk. If you
hear
anything talk only to me. This will be
my number 415-386-2024.”
“Alright.”
“I’m cooking lamb. I’ll see you there.”
I call my father. He lives in a little apartment in Jersey – his mother’s former
place.
A Puerto Rican woman cooks and cleans for
him. His rent is subsidized by the
Veterans
Act. I tell him I’ll be visiting in a while.
CHAPTER
VII
New York – mid-town Manhattan:
I stare at the perky, deluded faces in the
crowd before me. I’m on edge. In my
room
there is a message. “Des,” she says,
“I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’m a
mess. Dad
died. I called you a few days ago in S.F. I called your work. They told me where you
were
staying. I’m meeting a school chum at
450 – 24th St. I’ll be done by 9. Could you
meet
me at the bar on the corner of 24th and 11th?
I think it’s called… I don’t know.
If
you
don’t show I’ll understand.”
I listen to her voice a couple of times, then
erase it and leave the room to go down
to
the hotel bar.
I am wearing a bullet proof vest and carrying
the Baretta. In the bar I see John
Barnes
and Semel – the only female operative of ours at this convention. Semel is part
German,
African and American Indian – a slender beauty, tough and cruel. John is from
the
Bayou. They’re schmoozing. I’m tempted to join them. Instead, I start a
conversation
with a Mets fan. He thinks the Mets
beat the Braves and the Giants go all
the
way. Finally, I take off.
The city streets are a labyrinth of cordoned
off areas and construction sites. At
28th
I cut over to 9th. I unbutton my coat
and walk on the left side of 24th to stop at 450
London
Terrace, a monstrous apartment complex.
It’s 8:45. I linger. I imagine school
chums
kissing and exchanging presents.
Eventually, I walk down to the end of the street.
I approach the bar. I turn the corner and peek inside. No females. I stand to
the side
and
look at the cars drive beside the Hudson.
Bang – one shot hits me square on the left
chest. I twist.
Bang – another shot hits my left shoulder. I’m down, stunned, but not out.
Three guys rush from the bar. One guy is on a cell phone. The ambulance arrives first
followed
by two squad cars. Now there are six,
seven, eight people around me. One of
the
paramedics leans down and sees me smile.
“I’m wearing a bullet proof vest,” I murmur.
“Well you’re arm isn’t.”
They lift me onto the gurney and drive
away. One guy is taking my jacket and
vest
off; the other guy works on my arm.
“We’re going to look through this jacket and
tell the police who you are so they
can
start working this up.”
I’m a little drowsy. At the hospital they remove the bullet and give me pain
killers. Two hours later I’m in the hotel with a
stiff left arm; it hurts like hell. I
pop two
more
Percosets and order dinner. The phone
rings. It’s Kingsberry.
“Des, what happened?” His voice ends on a high note.
“I just finished talking
with
the Gestapo. You don’t want to talk?”
“No, it’s not that, Terry. I’m trying to figure out what happened.”
“Do that out of town. That’s my advice. And run.
I certainly expect to see you
on
Halloween. Right?”
“Right.”
“You get full pay. Injury and all. I gotta
go. See you in the morning.”
“Thanks, Terry.”
In the morning I call room service for the
Post. My story is on page eight.
SECURITY GUARD BUSHWACKED IN CHELSEA.
An
unidentified assailant pumped two bullets into a man standing at 24th
St.
and 11th Ave. around 9 p.m. last night.
The recovered bullets came
from
a Winchester 44 carbine. The guard was
set to begin work at the
U.N.
Millennium Conference. The man, in his
mid 40’s, survived the
sniper
attack.
The Winchester 44 carbine is an odd old
weapon. A small rifle, which can fit
under
a coat, it is or was used primarily by Western deer hunters.
I start up the laptop and tap into my home
files. I search for a connection. I
start
with
the last first. There’s a knock at the
door. It’s Terry. He crushes my right hand.
“I’m heading to the opening ceremony. Let me see the arm.”
“It’s bandaged.”
“Was it a flesh wound?”
“It didn’t break a bone.”
“The police aren’t going to follow this. It seems like a random sniping incident to
them
– weird gun and all.” He stares at
me. His eyes seem to be searching for
something.
“We’ll talk later,” he says and reaches into
his suit pocket and hands me a little
gun.
“It’s a 22 Baretta subsonic model 21A. What the Mossad use on their up close
and
personal assignments.”
He drops a box of bullets on the table and
walks out.
Bobby’s file is deeply layered. It takes me half an hour to get in.
Bobby was born in Wisconsin. Father divorced Mother when Bobby was
ten.
Mom
received custody. His father remarried
a Danish cheese executive who had a
twelve
year old daughter, Annette, by a Danish national. Could Bobby’s step sister have
known
him? I need a picture of Annette McKnight.
I type in Copenhagen.org: an
exquisite
web site. It takes me an hour to scroll
through school year books, but I find
her. Annette is Jasmine. I’ve got to assume she is here and suicidal
bent on finishing the
job.
They must have been lovers. What else could account for her
behavior? She
could
have killed me in the beginning, but she wanted to taste my flesh, to have me
merge
with her as Bobby did when they were young and secretive. Why not be a good
girl
and go back to Copenhagen?
I wear a black merino jacket over a new vest
and gray slacks with the 21A in my
pocket. I walk vigorously through the lobby and onto the bristling street. I’m a little
panicked.
I walk cautiously among the crowd and hail a cab and ask him if he’ll take me
through
the tunnel and into Maywood. He says
with a West Indian accent, “gladly.” I
call
my father and tell him I’m stopping by for an hour. At the moment, I don’t like
myself
very much.
Maywood is a garden of earthly delight. I cheer up as soon as I see the ballparks
and
the sugar maples which envelop the streets.
He greets me at the door with a hug. He looks frail and kind; sides of him that
were
non-existent when I was growing up.
He’s been in Maywood most of his adult life.
“What’s the matter with your arm?”
“A fight.”
“Why don’t we stand side by side – eyes to the
front,” he says.
I laugh.
He nods his head. His
turtle-like face grins. He hasn’t
bothered to pop
in
his dentures.
“I was thinking of Ruth all morning before you
called.”
He lights a cigarette and starts coughing.
“About the time we went to Lake Placid when
your brothers were conceived. So
cold
and beautiful. We didn’t have a
reservation. Ruth didn’t care. She said we’d find
something
and we did. A cabin with the
works. I think it was $8.00 a day. This is in
’45.
Oh, we had some nice horses, Des. Do you miss your brothers?”
“I miss them.”
“War is the great defiler. When you got the college deferment I was
happy. I am
sad to say it but I was.”
I walk into his bedroom where Grandma’s two
earliest paintings hang. The first a
snowy
scene in New York City painted in 1905 when she was ten; the other a portrait
of
my
father when he was nine.
I go back into the living room. We talk baseball. We sit together locked in a kind
of
dream state. We’re the last of the
Desmond clan.
iv
176