Simon Says

by William Poe

  CHAPTER 37

  Ifelt like Schrödinger’s cat, both dead and alive. Better I had not formed the thought because, the moment I did, I found myself facing a new day and no quantum ambiguity could protect me from it.

  “What was that club called?” I asked Felipe as we got dressed.

  “Muchachos. It is biggest disco in Barcelona.”

  “And Emilio. He goes there often?”

  Felipe walked into the bathroom to survey his face, popping a couple of pimples before responding. “It is Emilio’s club.”

  “Really.” That explained the way the bouncer treated Emilio, not to mention the access Felipe had to the administrative offices.

  “But you know Emilio,” Felipe said, implying a question.

  “I thought he was just a translator. I license video. He came along with one of my clients. Do you know David, Emilio’s friend?”

  Felipe seemed surprised by my ignorance. “What kind of video you sell?”

  “Mostly horror pictures and low-budget action films.”

  Felipe laughed. “You sell the films that are not porno?”

  “You’re right. I don’t sell porno.”

  “But Emilio makes porno.” Felipe was genuinely confused. “David Rodriguez is partner. He, how do you say, takes the money and cleans it.”

  “Money laundering?”

  “Sí. That is the word, laundering. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you. Emilio said before he left that I should not say too much.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t get you in trouble.”

  Felipe sat up. “I am in many films by Emilio.”

  “Perhaps I can see them someday.”

  Felipe smiled. “I think you have the real Felipe. No need a movie.”

  I placed my arm around Felipe’s shoulder. “Thanks for staying with me.”

  “You smoke coca. I know what this does. I was afraid for you.”

  “Thank you, Felipe.” I kissed him on the cheek.

  “You should be careful, señor.”

  “Careful of what, Felipe?”

  “Señor Ruiz, Señor Rodriguez, they are dangerous men. Do what you must do and go home.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Muy, very.”

  “You saw how Emilio treated me. He was generous.”

  “Because he needs you,” Felipe cautioned. “When you finish business, you must go home to America.”

  Felipe’s warning sent a chill through me. The realization struck me that I was on foreign soil, at the mercy of people I knew nothing about.

  A loud knock came at the door. Through the peephole, I recognized Emilio.

  “You’re dressed!” Emilio said as I allowed him to come in.

  “And ready for business,” I said.

  Felipe remained seated on the bed. He and Emilio carried on a lengthy conversation in Spanish. Whatever they spoke about, it put Felipe in a cheerful mood.

  “Must be good news,” I said.

  “Sí. Soon I start new film for Emilio.” Felipe immediately realized that I was not supposed to know about Emilio’s business, but having already said too much, he continued, “Sören, too. We are the stars.”

  “Bound to be a hit,” I said, winking at Emilio. “Felipe explained that you make movies.”

  Emilio smiled. “I will wait for you in the lobby,” he said to Felipe, and then to me, “Is the lab ready for us to view the videos?”

  Felipe gave me a prolonged kiss, keeping one eye on Emilio as he whispered, “Do not stay long, señor.”

  I made a call to the lab that Charlotte had arranged through the customs broker. They said they could accommodate us, but complained about the short notice. When I mentioned that I had a client pressuring me, and that it was David Rodriguez, the woman changed her tune. A screening room would be reserved for the entire afternoon.

  David and Emilio were sitting in the foyer by a window overlooking the bustling boulevard. It was a sunny day. I was relieved to see David in casual attire. I didn’t feel as underdressed as I had before.

  Emilio interpreted for David.

  “Irene sends her greetings. She might join us later. Will the lab receive us?”

  “Everything’s set,” I confirmed. “We have a screening room starting at one o’clock.”

  “Well, it’s eleven now,” Emilio said. “Why don’t we eat?”

  Food had meant so little to me for such a long time that considering a meal as something important seemed strange. Dean probably wasn’t the only person wondering about the cause of my skeletal physique.

  We arrived at a restaurant specializing in Andalusian cuisine—smoked shellfish appetizers and unfamiliar varieties of seafood stuffed, steamed, baked, and fried, all served with generous portions of spicy couscous. The waiters all knew David and Emilio. We were given a table in a private room that was designed like a Spanish galleon with fishing nets stretched from ceiling to floor, and strewn with plasticized ocean fauna. The walls were decorated with rope moorings and life preservers.

  “David isn’t worried about the videotapes,” Emilio said as our conversation turned to business. “We’re sure they’ll be fine.” Emilio looked at David. “What interests us is the fact that you can arrange so many titles. Your catalog has dozens of films, yes? Over the years, we have noticed that you continually find new films.”

  I was struck by the fact that David and Emilio had been tracking my career.

  “Are these truly your films?” Emilio challenged.

  “I have contracts with the owners.”

  “Yes. The owners. And who owns the films? The original producers?”

  These were thorny issues dealing with the legality of what constituted nontheatrical rights.

  “There’s a long chain of title on most of them,” I said, trying to steer clear of specifics.

  “Chain of title,” Emilio repeated. “You can document the chain of title?”

  I took a sip from my water glass with a determinedly steady hand. “I can provide whatever documentation you need.”

  Emilio reared back in his chair, gently stroking his mustache. “The titles you are able to acquire, such a thing is not possible for us,” he said. “We need many films.”

  “How many films do you need?” I asked.

  David smiled as Emilio asked, “How many can you find?”

  I raced through a mental Rolodex. Many people had stopped talking to me, but I had no doubt they’d return if I came with cash in hand. Nothing engendered forgiveness quicker than a fat check. “Hundreds,” I finally said, “if you make a firm commitment.”

  “Sí, bueno,” Emilio said, rising to his feet.

  David touched Emilio’s arm to ask what was being said. As Emilio filled him in, David’s face wrinkled in a worried expression. “We must show the Spanish authorities that you have the right to sell the films,” Emilio translated. “Documentation is important. We trust you on quality.”

  “Definitely not a problem,” I said. “But the video stores will care about the tapes; you should view the masters to be sure.”

  Emilio choked on an open-throated laugh. “You still do not understand, my friend. No one knows what an old film is worth. We license a film from you and make contracts with many companies around Spain. Money goes into circulation.”

  “I think I get the picture,” I said, slapping my forehead, and risking to say, “You want to launder money.”

  “Make the money legitimate,” Emilio corrected.

  “Money from your films?” I asked.

  Emilio frowned. “This does not concern you.”

  I recalled Felipe’s warning and figured I better not ask any more questions.

  “My films have limited value,” Emilio said. “We need to report more money than my films can make.”

  Emilio was telling me it was drug money that needed laundering. It suddenly struck me that I was joining illegal activities on an international scale.

  Both Emilio and David studied my reaction to al
l that had been said.

  “None of this is a problem for me,” I said with a smile. The danger in Emilio’s proposal was oddly alluring.

  “Bueno!” Emilio exclaimed.

  “Bueno,” David repeated.

  Emilio took my hand in a vigorous handshake. “Trust no one,” he said sternly, pulling me close. “No one must know about this arrangement.”

  Despite their professed lack of interest in the quality of the video master, David and Emilio studied the films closely as we sat in a screening room at the lab.

  “Send us quality this good,” Emilio said after viewing the last video. “Then, we never have a problem.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “About the price,” Emilio began. “You will need money to negotiate with your Hollywood contacts. Our lawyer will write up an agreement.”

  I was sure the document would record more money than they would put into my account.

  “Here’s what we propose,” Emilio said. “You manage your contracts. For the Spanish authorities, to authorize the transfer of American dollars, we will make new contracts showing fifty thousand dollars for each film.”

  Emilio was talking about millions.

  “At first, we will give you two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “With capital like that,” I suggested, “we could purchase the Spanish rights to independent films. Movies that could make millions.”

  Emilio thought for a moment and then said, “Such films would arouse attention. The Spanish government would ask many questions. Fifty thousand a title on paper, this will not be noticed. The contract will say the money is an advance against royalties. Acquire as many titles as possible.”

  “This I can do,” I said with confidence.

  “Keep your finances in order,” Emilio said. “Otherwise, you stop being useful.”

  Again I recalled Felipe’s warnings. “Don’t worry,” I said. “You can depend on me.”

  We prepared contracts at David’s office—one set for me, one for the Spanish authorities. I signed them all. Everyone was happy.

  “Now I show you Barcelona,” Emilio said. “Or we can go to my villa on the Costa Brava, a few hundred kilometers from here. Perhaps you like to gamble in Monte Carlo?”

  “Your offer is tempting,” I said, “but Christmas is near. I should get back to the United States. I promised my family I would come home for the holidays.”

  “Good to be with su familia,” Emilio said. “And yes, I should tend to my own children, Felipe and Sören. We start filming after Christmas.”

  “Felipe is a sweet fellow,” I said. “Take good care of him.”

  “Of course,” Emilio said. “He is one of my boys.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Dean met me at the airport. The first thing he told me was that Sean had been calling. “He phoned last night,” Dean said. “He gave me a number for a motel somewhere in Texas.”

  As soon as we arrived at Dean’s house, I rushed to the phone. Sean answered after what seemed like a thousand rings.

  “Sean, I’m back,” I said enthusiastically, to no response. “Sean?”

  “Yeah,” said a barely audible voice.

  “Should I come get you?”

  Another moment of silence, and then, “Where are you?”

  “Little Rock.”

  “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “You’ll call when you get into town?”

  “Yeah,” Sean said, abruptly ending the conversation.

  Dean scurried about the house vacuuming while I unpacked.

  “Aren’t you curious about my trip?” I asked Dean later, as we sat in his parlor. Cicero went to Dean’s chair for a scratch behind the ears.

  “Sure, but I’ve been waiting for the chance to tell you that your sister called. Charlotte gave her my number. Your mother is ill. Connie said to make sure I told you. But I knew you’d want to hear about Sean first.”

  “Shows you where my head is at, doesn’t it,” I confessed.

  No one answered when I telephoned Connie, so I tried Vivian’s number.

  Connie picked up the phone.

  “How’s Vivian?” I asked.

  Connie had her own question. “Where are you?”

  “Dean told me you called,” I said, avoiding a direct answer.

  “We had no idea how to reach you. It’s like your family doesn’t even exist to you.”

  “What’s wrong with our mother?” I asked, trying my best to avoid getting into a spat.

  “She had a stroke.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “Bad enough. She can barely talk, and there’s stiffness in her left arm. Are you coming to see her?”

  “Of course I am, Connie.”

  “I heard that some boy was traveling with you. That woman at your house mentioned something about it.”

  “Did Charlotte also tell you about my dog?”

  “Your mother’s here. Do you want to say hello?”

  “Yes, Connie.”

  The receiver banged against a hard surface.

  Vivian’s stroke had made it a chore simply to articulate a hello. It came out something like, A-ee-o.

  “Don’t try to talk,” I said. “Put Connie back on. I’ll see you soon.”

  Vivian was trying to communicate something when Connie came on the line.

  “Are you staying with Vivian?” I asked.

  “Someone has to. I’ll tell you more when I see you. When are you coming by?”

  “As soon as I can.”

  “Vivian keeps asking for you.”

  I had never forgotten the shame I experienced when Vivian warned that I might grow up to be homicidal, intending to say homosexual, even if, through the years, I’d been able to laugh it off because of her linguistic faux pas. I wanted to rush home and assure Vivian that she had raised a successful son. But it wasn’t that easy. As a child, if I brought home straight As on my report card, Vivian warned that my friends might shun me if I flaunted my intelligence. For Vivian, the only safe way to live was to be anonymous, to appreciate whatever scraps life provided. She feared success even more than failure. Failure she understood.

  When I explained Vivian’s condition, Dean started to ask me something, but instead went to the kitchen and brought us cups of coffee. We sat in his living room and watched the blinking lights on his Christmas tree. The gaudy angel on top reminded me of one of those Sumerian statues with the huge eyes. Its gaze would not let me go. When smoke from Dean’s cigarette entered my nose, it summoned Lenny’s ghost along with thoughts about Christmases past. I could not recall a single one that I wanted to remember.

  “See you later,” I said, abruptly rising from my seat. “I’m going out for a while.” I needed to find drugs.

  Cicero’s ears stood at attention.

  “Let me give you a key,” Dean said, finding a spare in a kitchen drawer.

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back,” I said, “but I’d like to stay here when I return. If that’s all right.”

  “That’s why I’m giving you a key, silly. Go work things out. See your mom. Take care of yourself.” Dean placed his hand on my arm. “Simon, I’m here for you.”

  Cicero sprang to his feet.

  “You be good, Cicero. Stay with Dean.”

  As I walked out the door, Cicero’s crying nearly broke my heart.

  I set out for Sibley and drove around the old neighborhoods. Memories began flooding my thoughts. I passed the house of my high-school friend, Jake, where I had first experienced LSD and had visions of heaven that led me to believe the messiah had returned and that I was destined to be a new disciple.

  My twelfth-grade art teacher, who seduced me during a moment of weakness following an attempted suicide, still lived in the same apartment. It was there that I made love to Tony, who rejected me for Jesus. When he broke off our affair, saying I was going to hell for being gay, it was the first time I realized just how hateful religion was toward homosexuality. Seemingly overnight, Tony had
lost his ability to love.

  I left Sibley and drove toward Little Rock, following the same route I had taken the night Tony broke up with me. Feeling betrayed by everyone and everything in my life, I thought I might go through with it this time—drive off the cliff as I had meant to do so many years ago.

  But I never made it to Lookout Drive. As if guided by a force beyond my control, I found myself near Highland Court—Little Rock’s largest housing project. It was dusk, and a dense fog had risen. Cars driving down Twelfth Street pierced the night with an eerie blend of low-beam headlights and slow speed. Parka-hooded men stood in front of a Church’s Chicken adjacent to the Delta Express convenience store.

  I pulled in to fill the tank, trying to make eye contact with one of the young men lurking about. They were being especially cautious since I was a white guy in a black neighborhood. I hoped that the California license plates would make it clear that I couldn’t possibly be a cop.

  One of the hooded figures walked up as I was returning to the car after paying the attendant. The boy wore a camouflage military jacket open at the chest. Dog tags jangled against his white-ribbed undershirt.

  “Want a piece?” the boy said, holding out the box of chicken.

  I took a greasy wing.

  “Chicken what you looking for around here?” the boy asked.

  “Actually, I was hoping to find something to put in a pipe. Trouble is, I haven’t got one of those either.”

  “How much you spending?”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  “You willing to drive into the projects?” he asked, nodding toward Highland Court.

  “Let’s do it,” I said.

  When he got into the car, a few of the other lurkers called out warnings: “You goin’ to get ripped off!” and “Don’t go with him! I’ll show you some action.”

  “Let’s get outa here,” the boy urged. “We’re attracting too much attention. Lots o’ cops ’round here.”

  The fellow pointed toward a street heading into the heart of the projects.

  “Is there someplace to buy a pipe? What’s your name, anyway?”

  “They call me Snake,” he said. “And yeah, they’s pipes up on Twelfth Street. Let’s go there first.”