Steve Miller came over the speakers with ‘Wild Mountain Honey,’ the dreamy melody filling the unpopulated bar with Miller’s Danelectro. Ram smiled, thinking of Phil Le Gris. It was one of Phil’s favorite tunes. When ‘Going to Mexico’ followed, the synchronicity resonated and Ram got up to call him. After two rings, Le Gris answered.
“Phil, it’s me.”
“Hey, man, I was thinking about you. Where are you now?”
“I’m here in town. Are you free sometime tomorrow evening?”
“I’ll be home around 7:30. What’s going on, man?”
“Tell you in person. You remember the last place we saw one another here in LA? That day with the Macarena thing?”
“Down at—”
“Don’t say it. Just be there at 8:30. I’ll fill you in.”
“It sounds mysterious, Ram. You’re not still—”
“I’ll know more tomorrow. See you then and I’ll tell you everything.”
Phil sighed audibly. Ram could sense his disapproval. He rarely called Ram anymore. He didn’t think that what Ram was doing was worth getting all that worked up over. “Okay, the Macarena place. 8:30.”
“So it is,” Ram replied and hung up.
Ram pushed through another Mai Tai without enthusiasm, listening to tunes and avoiding a conversation with the woman three stools down from him who wanted to engage him. He paid his bill, walked back to the motel, got in the car, and drove west down Pico, threading his way through an old neighborhood to a parking lot looking out on the ocean. He put Almost Blue in the player and looked out on the water and a cloudy sky still concealing the quarter moon. A sense of summation and something similar to peace that was not at all peaceful began to stir in him. As he looked out on the Pacific, Ram tried to unravel the mystery of how he had stumbled onto this mystery and why—despite all rational pleadings from himself, his friends, and family, he kept pushing himself on. It was his white whale. Would he ride it like Ahab or pass above its vengeful wake and float there on a coffin that would carry him to safety?
…At Santa Monica Beach, Ram looked out on the ocean, dumbfounded by exhaustion, listening to the waves spilling on the shore. On the horizon, there was a sign the weather was clearing, but no moonlight was visible in the sky. Ram looked at his watch. It was near 11.
When he pulled into The Quick Stop down the street, a couple in their thirties with hundred-dollar haircuts gelled up to attention and rouged like Indians, decked out in leather and chains, preceded him through the door. The security guard opened it for them, nodding at their boombox, calling out, “Hey, baby,” as they passed his station.
Ram headed for the magazine rack, picked up the new issue of Golden State, and turned to the features. There was something about a woman who was the horticulturalist to the stars, another feature story was about a teenage starlet in rehab; another was something else about hot new executive toys. Ram picked up a six-pack of Beck’s from the cooler, paid for it, and walked outside, the air sweet with bougainvillea and gasoline.
A large woman was waxing and polishing her black Mercedes. A junkie was giving obedience lessons to two Great Danes who seemed more interested in a snow-white poodle. The poodle’s owner was a middle-aged woman in a jogging suit, bruised about the face from cosmetic surgery. When Ram came out of the store, the woman asked him if he wanted a date. Ram declined.
Back at the motel, Ram wondered why those who actually lived here in LA so eagerly approximated the archetypes that you saw derided in East Coast publications. It was a chicken-and-the-egg question, he concluded. Maybe they’d been trivialized due to their association with LA. But perhaps the place attracted the trivial, asphyxiated by the native atmosphere itself. Five minutes later, he saw the lights of the Beamer signaling him. An arm came out of the tinted window, motioning him back toward the center of the court. Ram did as he was instructed, then opened the door to his room…
…Jose came in, twisted the blinds into the shut position, reached into his backpack and pulled out a marble slate and a baggy with white powder.
“No, man. This is business, no play. Here,” Ram said, peeling off a couple hundred-dollar bills and giving Cifuentes a piece of paper with the Big E’s office address and phone number. “I’ll need the works by tomorrow night. Same time, same channel.”
“I understand. Maybe after?” Jose asked, indicating the baggie and stone.
“I don’t think so, Juan.”
Cifuentes nodded and gave Ram a hug. “If there’s anything else, Ram.”
Ram smiled and shrugged. “We’re in the middle of the play now, Jose. Let’s see what happens first. Then we’ll know the next move.”
Jose nodded and parted without saying goodbye. Ram took a shower before going to bed, drinking most of the beer while watching “Nightline.”
…He picked up the phone on the fourth ring and said hello.
“I hear you’ve been trying to reach me.”
“…yes, I have,” Ram stammered. Vera always had that effect on him when she caught him by surprise.
“What’s this about?”
“I’d rather tell you in person whenever you’re going to be in LA.”
“I’m here right now. Not far from where you are. What is it?”
“Can I see you in person? I’m not too keen on telling you over the phone.”
Vera sighed and paused.
“If we can be cordial and civilized about it, okay, but if it gets out of hand, I’ll have you thrown in jail.”
“Fine,” Ram said, lighting a cigarette. “You remember the museum we went to where we saw the FB? They have a show there you’d like. I’ll meet you tomorrow at three.”
“FB? Okay, I get it, the estimable Mr. Bacon. I’ll see you then. I have a present for you.”
“That’s nice,” Ram said exhaling. “I’ll bring my party hat.”
“Good. We’ll make a picnic out of it. Go to Will Rogers and watch the sunset.”
“I’ll see you then. I’ve got to get back to sleep.”
“Maybe I should just come now.”
“Not a good idea. Too much up in the air now and I need some sleep.”
“You never used to object to these offers.”
“That was before Paris.”
She was silent.
“See you at three then?” Ram asked.
“Until then,” Vera said and hung up.
…Ram got up to finish a cigarette in the chair alongside the front window. It was still dark but the moon had risen and cats were calling to one another…
The next morning when he woke up, Ram showered, shaved, and went out into the court where a pot of coffee was set up alongside his patio table. He drank three cups, scanning the papers for news of an investigation into the bank stock bond schemes. There wasn’t. A flock of pigeons fought over doughnut crumbs a couple of tables away. Sparrows came and picked up what they’d left behind. He thought to himself: ‘maybe this is all wrong, maybe this is a bad idea.’ The radio brought him back into the now and the day’s responsibilities summoned him back. ‘Who knows?’ Ram thought. He thought of calling some of his friends in the media, but what was the point? None of them would touch this, and besides, it wasn’t a smart idea to try and flog the story if Ram wanted The Big E’s help in getting it off of him.
…It was another story that involved Emile Donner, a construction issue way back when, the plastic pipe thing, as Ram remembered. That was how he came to meet The Big E. Ram had known about him for years, almost from the beginning of his days as a journalist. The Big E was legendary, one of the biggest and toughest and wealthiest hired guns in the third house, although those days were nearly gone now. The Big E was from Mormon country—Utah or Idaho or Illinois, Ram forgot which—and he’d risen to power in the time before Ram arrived at the legislature to cover it. He did work for Howard Hughes, the CIA, big insurance companies, land development firms, plastic pipe manufacturers, you name it; if there was a juice bill up and running, The Big E was som
ewhere in the battle, although it was hard to tell where because he was so silky at covering his tracks and wanted nothing to do with the press. The only reason he had deigned to speak to Ram was due to Emile Donner’s intercession. Ram was working on the pipe story and getting nowhere and called Emile to tell him that. Emile said that, in that case, he had somebody they needed to see.
Marlon ReEves’ office was in the old 11th Street Building where the lesser lobbyists still dwelt. Ram and Emile got off the elevator at the 9th floor and walked up to a small reception area where an elderly woman ran a phone bank. She announced them over the intercom and they were escorted into a chamber decorated with overstuffed green leather chairs and heavy furniture. At the end of the room was a battered desk with three phones on it. There wasn’t a computer in sight. After a while, Jim Campbell, The Big E’s press officer, came in and asked Ram and Emile if they wanted anything to drink. Ram remembered Campbell from his days as a local TV newsman when Ram was a kid. They asked for coffee and Campbell went and fetched some. The Big E entered a couple of minutes later and took up his seat behind the desk.
He was tall and heavy, mustached with curly gray hair, dressed in an off-the-rack suit and striped tie. He wore no jewelry other than a cheap watch and made no small talk, just sat there, nodding and listening as Emile explained the situation. When Emile finished, The Big E excused himself and made two calls on one phone and one on another, speaking quietly to the parties at the other end while Emile showed Ram around the office, explaining who was who in the photos lining the shelves in the bookcase at the other end of the room.
“Here’s Marlon and the first Governor Bailey,” Donner said, indicating. “This is really old. And here, Marlon is with his son, right after his inauguration. Look at the disdain on his face,” Donner laughed. “But Barry learned. He did during the Southwestern takeover when he had to call on E to take the heat and bail him out.”
Ram remembered that battle from what he read in the press and heard from his peers. It happened just months before Ram started working as the capitol beat reporter for Golden State. It was a colorful tale, indicative of the way ReEves operated at the height of the clout-and-muscle days.
“Come on back over here,” ReEves called to Ram and Emile.
“You won’t have any problems with sources anymore, Le Doir,” he said, handing Ram a paper with five names and their phone numbers printed on it. “Wait a minute,” he said, taking the paper back and calling his secretary to come in. “Here, Phyllis,” he said. “Would you please type this up and give it to Mr. Le Doir, then shred the original,” he said. “You can never be too cautious,” he said, smiling. Ram asked the lobbyist something about the bill, referring to it by the bill number. The Big E looked back at Ram, his heavy face bearing an expression of irritation and confusion.
“What’s he talking about, Emile?” ReEves asked.
“He’s talking about the Flores bill, the plastic pipe bill,” Donner offered.
“Then why doesn’t he say so?” ReEves asked, looking at Ram.
“Look,” he said, finally. “Ram—it is Ram isn’t it? I see thousands of bills move through these halls and I’ve worked most of the big ones. In that time, I’ve never known a bill by its number—just the reference name. Plastic pipe bill, I know. Southwestern, I know. Sierra Shores too. I can tell you the vote counts on them and how we got them through conference committee if I wanted to—which I don’t.” Donner sniggered and smiled. The receptionist stepped in with the typed page. The lobbyist grabbed it from her and pushed it across the desk to Ram. “Here,” he said. “Take this and make those calls and get your story finished and into print. Emile and I will take it from there. I’m sure you’ll do a good job,” he said, his intent made clear to Ram. “Don’t call back here for confirmation on anything I said or if you need further information. These guys will give you all you need,” he said, gesturing toward the page. “What I am is a problem solver,” he said, shaking Ram’s hand at the door. “Call here if you have a problem that you can’t handle. Otherwise, talk to Emile,” he said, nodding at Donner and making a gesture as if he were wiping a table and finishing with an okay hand signal.
“You’re in,” Emile said as he and Ram waited for the elevator. “He likes you. He only gives that signal to those he gives access to, and now you’ve got access.”
…A breeze picked up, scattering the morning papers, and Ram scooped down to collect them. It was going on 10 now and he had business before his meetings with Vera and Phil and Juan. He gathered his things, left the key at the desk, and gave Paul directions on what to do in case anyone called for him.
Ram climbed into his car and pointed west on Pico, heading to Santa Monica. The fog still clung to the streets as he drove. He stopped at the pedestrian mall on Third Street and window-shopped, looking for a store selling micro-cassettes. Young men and women in god-awful ugly outfits with bad haircuts, tattoos, and piercings—nose, ear, cheek, tongue, belly button, wherever with whatever—chains, bones, hoops, and studs—milled about the sidewalk like voodoo dolls.
And what this culture was, what it represented or stood for, was a mystery Ram had no interest in unraveling. Surely, it, and they, signified something, and there was surely something—an aesthetic, an operative philosophy—that was meant to be told by their body metal, inked flesh, and robotic bearing. What that was exactly, Ram couldn’t say. He’d been too long in isolation, too long out of the loop, and too unconnected to the culture that now surrounded him to truly understand it. He looked at them passing, as they did him as he passed, as though each were altogether alien to each other.
Ram found the micro-cassettes at a Walmart, bought them, and drove through Santa Monica to Beverly Hills. At the Big E’s office on Little Santa Monica, Ram turned in the parking lot and saw the Big E’s trademark dark-blue Lincoln Town Car. He jotted down the license plate number and the street address of the office, then called José and left them on his machine. When he got to Crescent Heights, Ram turned and headed into the canyon.
He wound through the narrow streets of Laurel Canyon, looking for places he remembered from years before but couldn’t find now. Where was Houdini’s castle? Where were the foundations of Huntington Hartford’s mansion? He was sure it was at the entrance to Nichols Canyon, but Ram couldn’t find it. Where were his friends’ old houses? He drove through the area around Woodrow Wilson a couple times but couldn’t find them. They were here, he was sure, but they’d probably changed by now—torn down to make way for something newer or grander or remodeled entirely in a different style or fashion. Finally, he found Dixon and Donna’s house where he used to spend time with Vera and Phil and Jill. The windows were shuttered; a “For Sale” sign on the front lawn. Ram got out of the car and wandered the grounds, seating himself on the back deck overlooking the San Fernando Valley. ‘Life and times,’ Ram thought, ‘things pass, things change.’ He sat on the deck smoking as images floated by—Christmas parties at Dixon and Donna’s; Dodger games with Phil and his friends; the whole crew on day trips to Disneyland, weekends with Phil, Jill, Vera, and Ram, the nights at the China Club with all of them dressed to the nines, dancing and drinking Crystal. Life and Times, Ram said to himself aloud.
The hard thing was figuring out where this new thing was heading. There didn’t seem to be a force that welded the emerging culture together except for its fascination and veneration of all things visceral and sensational. Sex practiced openly at parties; violence and mayhem at concerts and public gatherings; ritual rites, anger and violence and anarchic yearnings; designer drugs, drooling oblivion and all night raves; the two-week Haj of these and other excesses celebrated at Burning Man. And all this as the Republic corroded and burned. This wasn’t just a new culture with different morals and ideals than the previous one that Ram didn’t understand because he was too old and not a part of it. ‘This was decline,’ Ram thought. This was death’s head veneration; a bath in excess, cruelty and cynicism, and in one sense, what Ram was trying
to do with the Louie Verde affair was expose how rotten the body politic had become and hopefully prompt a public call to action to repair the rotten structure. From the look of things, that battle was losing or lost. The loneliness and enervation he felt from fighting it alone was overwhelming. He lay down on the deck, closed his eyes and drifted.
…He thought: ‘this has been my trade, my craft, and my flame for almost as long as I have been living. All that I ever wanted to do was write—no, all I ever wanted to do was be a writer. Cartesian or Sartrian, whichever way you chose to look at the equation; my doing and being has all revolved around the transformative power and magic of words.’
‘Perhaps it’s some flaw in the makeup of my personality,’ thought Ram, ’for my ability to exist in the world, uneasy as it has been, and as particularly trying as it is now, has only been made possible, is only rendered tolerable, by sorting out who and what I am in it through the printed word. And given this precondition, however precipitous its logic, the very idea, not to say the reality of my remaining mute for such an attenuated period of time as this has been since I began working the story is death by degrees; day by day by day…’
…It was during that last night in Budapest that Ram first began awakening to the reality of what had happened to him in a broader sense. He remembered wandering through the train station, listening to the polyglot tongues of natives on the run from nearby Slovenia when the thought occurred to him that perhaps he too had become a refugee, on the run from that which had so long sustained him, and just as abruptly, abandoned him.
Or had he it? For that’s also what it was. Ram hit the wall in Vienna, and lack of faith, loss of confidence, and crippling of will were the casualties of this collision. And though he made it to Sopron and through the assignment as best he could, it was more the ghost of him that did it; the core of him was gone. And when Ram straggled back to Paris, the shell of him that was left—beaten, vacant, blinking dumbly in the winter light of a snowy morning—he saw one part of himself vanish, watched it recede from view like the dead horse in the landscape that Jaime and he had long ago seen from their train window just south of Sitges, now replicated by a dead stiff horse lying in a ditch beside the tracks that his train passed near Poitiers.
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