There was a momentary ascent, based mainly on style points, when the SLA knocked off the Hibernia Bank with the bereted Tanya in tow, brandishing an AK 47, a “revolutionary” as plausible as Ethel Rosenberg was a master atom spy. Then a bank robbery in Sagrada, along with another murder, and an escape to Los Angeles where they were run to ground in a South Central bungalow after a shoplifting spree at a sporting-goods store went awry, resulting in another shoot out, the police bullets zinging, the cases of ammunition inside the house popping like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. Zappa’s Trouble Every Day live on prime time back east… Then on the run for two years until the memory of them almost faded from public consciousness, the clamor of it almost an echo, its volume reduced to next to nothing, while disco and cocaine supplanted it, reducing it to a relic of history, of a thing called a “movement” whose original touchstone of nonviolence had disintegrated into a madness that mirrored the very thing it once sought to overturn. The capture was now a barely remembered postscript, a caption on a picture, an emblem of an era fading with its headlines. The house looked absolutely normal, Ram thought, its’ once occupants had left no trace upon it. All it was now was a two-story with a story attached to it that would occasionally and clumsily stagger into view during Tonya’s trial. And who knew if it ever was more than that? A story, a movie, a buried time capsule you’d unearth some future day and wonder why you’d ever thought it was worth saving in the first place.
“Yeah, I remember.”
“I once saw Bill and Emily Harris at the supermarket, but I didn’t recognize them, not until they caught them anyway,” John nodded.
They sat looking at the revolutionary’s last stronghold, the park, peaceful and quiet, an occasional bike whirring past, a mom pushing her infant in a pram.
“Come on, Dev. It’s getting late. I got an appointment.”
They took the 21 bus under the warm woolen sky, the sun flat and blood-orange as it sank toward the western horizon. Dusk had not fallen yet, and the streets were still filled with people. When they got off at 24th Street, they stopped at St. Clair’s, where John bought a six-pack of Heinekens and rolling papers. Then they mounted the hill to Miranda’s where the women were waiting for them, calling their names out from the balcony and waving to them.
When Ram got inside the apartment, Vera embraced him and kissed him long and tenderly, pulling back from him finally and twinkling her eyes.
“What’s all this? I thought I’d be on the enemies list by now.”
“Not at all. We’ve decided you’re a woman’s man, for the most part anyway. It’s John that the jury’s still out on,” she said slyly, looking at Devlin.
Devlin looked at Vera, nodded and laughed. “That jury never comes back in. It’s more or less permanently hung.”
Ram and Vera laughed with Devlin. Miranda laughed lighter, a half smile on her lips. John looked at her and was about to say something when she interrupted.
“Okay. What’s the plan, Ram?”
“I have to meet my friend at eight and then I’ll meet you guys wherever you say.”
“What about dinner?”
“I’ll probably eat where I’m meeting him. You guys are on your own.”
“Right,” Miranda said, blinking sternly as she took it in and mentally noted what she still had to do. “Okay, time to dress. Vera, you can help me. John, mix me a martini?”
John looked at Miranda open-mouthed. Something passed between them and Ram and Vera noticed it.
“Sure,” John said. “Sure, I’ll do that.”
Miranda retreated into the back room while Devlin stood motionless for a minute. Ram and Vera held one another, Ram looking toward Devlin, then back toward Miranda’s room.
“What else is going on here?” Ram whispered to Vera.
“It’s a long story, a bad story. I’ll tell you later.”
Ram sighed, uncomfortable with the energy seeping in. There was nothing to say for it now. He kissed Vera lightly, said goodbye, and left. When he found the Roacho, there was a parking ticket on the windshield. Ram folded it, ripped it to shreds, and threw it in the gutter. “File under car,” he said. He started up the car and turned right on Divisadero.
When he hit Union Street, the fog was smearing in, a light mist sprinkling the windshield and streaking the layer of ash. Ram put on the washer and wiper and it cleared off. He pulled into the parking garage by Fillmore, headed back up Union, and turned into McGreevey’s. Ram took a seat at the bar and waited for The Peach to arrive…
…Ram thought back to the first time he’d met George Forrest Rogers, a.k.a. The Dixie Peach. It was around the time of Tor and Suzie’s marriage, and Fran had made it clear to Ram that they wanted cocaine for the bachelor party and wedding. “I don’t know where to get cocaine,” Ram protested. Fran said he knew Ram could get some if he really wanted to, so he placed him in charge of this detail, the same kind of shit detail that often fell to Ram during the Endymion days. Fran figured that ex-junkies always knew where to find dope, which was, in fact, largely true: they seemed to have a built-in radar for it, borne from the base and simple hunger for what you needed that junkies had to operate by. As soon as Ram accepted the duty and set his mind on the mission, the source seemed almost to find him. During a conversation with Doc, the Endymion store manager in Refugio, Ram casually let slip he was looking for something.
“I need a favor, Doc,” Ram said.
“Name it.”
“Weight.”
Doc looked at Ram, sizing him up to see if this was real. It was. “What are we talking here, green or white?”
“White.” Ram said.
“Let’s go to the Elbo Room and have some face-to-face on this,” said Doc. “Besides, I could use a drink.”
“Let’s go.”
They drank for an hour, after which Doc told Ram, “I’m not sure if I like this, but I’ll make the call.”
The initial meeting between Ram and Rogers was on a Friday night at the San Francisco Endymion House on Baker Street. Tor, Fran, and Crash Hatter, another Mad Dog member, were out for dinner when the buzzer rang. Ram opened the door to a mustachioed man, with middle-length hair, in casual expensive clothes. He had on a tweed jacket, designer jeans, and hand-tooled cowboy boots. He wore round-shaped wire-rim glasses, like John Lennon’s, behind which were brown eyes. He smiled, nodded, and extended his hand. “I’m George Rogers,” he said. “Doc said you needed some assistance. That is, of course, if it is Ram Le Doir I happen to be addressing here.”
Ram took him in and nodded and smiled. “It is,” he said. “Come on in.”
The deal went down in minutes, a quarter ounce for $500. Ram tested a sample from the package. It was strong and pure, Peruvian flake. He was in the process of shaking some out on the table when Rogers stopped him.
“This time’s my treat.”
Rogers produced a small vial whose size belied its capacity. When he finished chopping it on the mirror, it covered a space about three-inches-square. He then removed a small amber-colored necklace, trimmed in silver ropes, from around his neck. One end of it screwed off and a small silver implement inside it telescoped out into an inch-and-a-half-long tooter. Rogers cut six lines off both sides of the white square, telescoped the rig, and handed the tooter to Ram. “Take as much as you’d like,” Rogers said smiling. “Any friend of Doc Nicholson’s is a friend of mine. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
For the next four hours, they enjoyed one another’s company, snorting coke and drinking cognac from snifters. Although their backgrounds and professions were different—Rogers, a Southern aristocrat, well-educated with a master’s degree in English from the University of Virginia, and a well-paid editorial position with the New American Library; Ram, a college dropout from a once aristocratic family who had lost their money and social standing some time back, now, an itinerant carpenter—they found they had much in common during the course of that first evening together. They were both passionate abo
ut their interests in literature and film and music and they were both raconteurs who spun elaborate yarns filled with minutely observed details that others ignored or deemed unimportant. And during that first meeting, they alternated tales of their respective lives and favorite books and films, gesticulating and pacing the wood floor in front of the fireplace as they traded places and told their respective yarns, recommending books and films to one another, becoming fast friends and instant partners, a characteristic of that time if you were young and intrinsically, if only obliquely, connected to that time as both Ram and Rogers emphatically were. Near midnight, they parted, agreeing to get together with their women the next time they met. “You’ve got to meet my wife, Ram. Marcia would love you,” said Rogers. Ram said he was sure that the Rogers’ would like Vera too. “Well, I commend her on her taste,” said Rogers. “You’re a mensch.” Ram laughed, confessing finally that he didn’t know what the term meant. “A man,” said Rogers. “It means a man, a real man, a human being.”
They were at the door shaking hands, bro’mine style, when the rest of the crew arrived. Ram introduced them to Rogers and they asked him to stay and hang out and party for a while. “I’m afraid I can’t. I’m done for this evening, gentlemen,” Rogers said, his eyes twinkling. He stroked his mustache then paused. “Well, then again, maybe I can stay for a while.”
It was dawn when the party ended, finishing at the Buena Vista with Bloody Marys and Eggs Benedict, courtesy of Tor…
…The door to McGreevey’s opened, and George Rogers strode into the darkened bar. Ram rose up and called to him, and Rogers took the seat beside him. “Guinness and Jameson’s back, Hank,” Rogers called to the bartender. “Two Jameson’s,” he amended. When the drinks arrived, they toasted and knocked back the whiskeys.
“Everything alright?” Ram asked.
“Right as rain,” Rogers assured. “You hungry?”
“I could eat,” Ram replied. “It’s either now or never, I guess.”
“That’s probably correct. This stuff is prime.”
“Let’s get something then.”
“Bowl of steamers, bowl of mussels,” Rogers called out to the bartender.
“Anything else?”
Rogers cocked his eyebrow at Ram, who shook his head no.
“That’ll do, Hank.”
They sipped their beers, waiting for the food to arrive. “See that albino guy down there at the end of the bar?” Rogers gestured with his chin. Ram nodded. “That’s Tom Pinder, he’s an editor at Rolling Stone. Would you like me to introduce you?”
“Another time,” Ram said. “I’m not interested in meeting anyone new right now.”
“Well, you’ve got no choice tonight. A friend of mine’s coming down and I told him about you.” Rogers said. “He’s a former All-Pro with the Dallas Cowboys. Samuels is his name.”
“The Irvine Inquisition Paul Samuels?”
“The same, a great guy. I’m handling publicity for him.”
As the food was arriving, Samuels walked in. He was thinner now that his playing days were over, dressed in urban cowboy fashion with hand-tooled boots and a straw cowboy hat adding another three inches to his height. Rogers introduced him to Ram and they shook hands and acknowledged one another. Samuels ordered another round of drinks, sending one down to Pinder, who came over and joined them. They mowed through the drinks and food; scarfing another bowl each of clams and mussels, swapping yarns and tales of the writer’s trade, which Ram listened to raptly. Rogers noticed that Ram was not adding much to the conversation. He mentioned that Ram was also a writer but that he hadn’t published anything other than two poems in an expatriate magazine called Pax Humanican in Canada some years ago.
“Really?” said Pinder. “What are you working on?”
“A couple different things,” Ram replied. “I’m writing a poem and a short story.”
“Ever consider journalism?” Pinder asked.
“I wouldn’t know where to begin; never had any training or any courses in it.”
“There’s nothing much to it if you can write, which Rogers seems to think you can. Here,” he said, reaching in his wallet and producing a card. “Give me a call if you’re interested. I’ll take you to lunch and we can talk about it.”
“Thanks,” said Ram. He looked at Rogers, who nodded and gave him a thumbs-up.
An hour later, Rogers, Samuels, and Ram were sitting in the Roacho, swapping more stories and passing a plate between them. Two full bindles of cocaine were in Ram’s Camel Filters pack. The coke was primo. Ram looked down at his watch and noted that the hour for the rendezvous with Vera, John, and Miranda was quickly approaching.
“Sorry, guys, but I got to break this party up.”
“What do you mean?” Rogers asked.
“I have to meet some friends down in North Beach. We’ve got tickets for Lou Reed.”
“Too bad,” said Samuels. “We were gonna ask you to come with us to Warren Zevon at The Great American.”
“Warren Zevon? Really?”
“He’s a friend of mine,” Samuels said.
Ram laughed and shook his head. “Small world,” he said. “He used to hang out at the same bar I did when I lived in Spain, a place called The Kentucky Bar in a little fishing village called Sitges. We played on the same soccer team.”
“Come to the show then,” Rogers said. “We’ve got passes and we can get you and your friends in.”
“No, they’re all set on Lou Reed. But thanks though. I’d love to see Warren again.”
“We’ll leave your name at the door if you change your mind,” said Samuels.
As they were parting Rogers asked Ram what his plans were for the weekend.
“I’m not really sure,” Ram said. “I haven’t talked with Vera much about it so I really don’t know.”
“Well, if you’re free at all, call me and we can do something. I’ll be at my house and you and my wife should get to know one another—bring Vera too.”
“Soon as I know something, I’ll call you,” Ram said. “Pleasure meeting you, Paul.”
“Likewise. Give us a call and we’ll cut it up some more.”
“I’ll do that,” Ram said.
They shook hands and parted in the parking lot. Ram lit up the Roacho, putting it in gear, and drove down the ramp toward the exit, Rogers and Samuels watching him as he receded from view.
“Interesting guy,” Samuels said as he waved goodbye. “Can he really write?”
“Oh yeah,” said Rogers. “His poetry’s strong, his prose very lyrical. Only, he’s not convinced of it yet. Maybe he’s hiding. Either that, or he’s waiting.”
Ram drove the short distance from Union to Columbus through the thickening fog and fading twilight. He circled the block a couple of times, looking for a place where he could leave the car safely until the concert was over, finally finding a spot on Green, a block above Grant. He walked back down the hill to Columbus and turned right. When he got to Mario’s, the place was jam-packed and it took him a minute to find his party. Vera and Miranda were deep in conversation. The table was littered with Heineken bottles and wine glasses. “Hey,” said John, sliding over to the empty chair next to the window that he’d been guarding, leaving his vacated chair for Ram. Vera and Miranda broke off their confab and looked up as he sat down.
“Did you get it?” Miranda asked eagerly, her brown eyes brightening.
Ram held his finger to his lips and nodded in assent. Vera knocked back the last of her Dubonnet and looked over the glass at Ram. He could tell she wasn’t pleased and was already half drunk. She called out to the waiter for another round, quickly drained hers when it arrived, then stood up and pulled her long black cape over her shoulders, signaling to everyone that she was ready to go; their exit had been decreed. Miranda followed Vera, leaving Ram and John to settle the bill. The waiter took the money, which included a healthy tip. He didn’t say thank you and gave the men a cold look.
“What happened before I
got here?” asked Ram.
John gave a soft hiss and shook his head. “The waiter and Vera got into it,” he said. “I think she called him a sexist pig in French. The waiter happens to be French. Then there were more words in French. Then it got louder. He said something, she said something back,” said John, waving his finger to and fro as though indicating a ball crossing a tennis net.
“This could be a long night,” said Ram. “How many Dubonnets did she have?”
“Four, I think.”
“This could get ugly. Two’s her usual limit.”
When they got outside on the sidewalk, they turned left on Columbus, heading toward Broadway. John and Miranda were in the lead. Vera still hadn’t said a word to Ram and continued her conversation with Miranda, talking about the coming special screening of Robert Frank’s Cocksucker Blues. Miranda had John by the arm and marched them forward at a brisk pace, her head down as if her direction was dictated by some magnetic force pushing her from behind. When they reached the line outside the concert hall, Miranda finally looked up. “Here we are,” she said. “Let’s get ready to party,” laughing that clotted laugh of hers which seemed to intimate something other than gaiety. Her smile was wooden, her eyes darting. “Give me the coke,” she said. “Vera and I will get us to the front of the line.”
Ram thought about arguing the point but decided against it when Vera shot him a cold stare. He reached inside the cigarette pack, pulled one bindle out, put it in his vest pocket, and handed the pack to Miranda. “Just get yourselves in,” Ram said. “John and I will find you inside. Here’s your tickets.”
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