He drove a half block east of the Marmont, leaving his car with the valet after parking out back in the shady spot, giving him a $20 bill. He entered the tower-dominated hotel proper, bought an LA Times and ordered a latté, taking a seat in the corner of the lobby, commanding a view of the doorway.
The newspaper was filled with junk. The police were in trouble again. The LA cops were always in trouble. There was another state fiscal crisis prompting another lawsuit. The Albanians were further bloodied but the Abkhazians proved victorious. The Lakers had lost to Golden State in double overtime.
José strolled through the double doors and Ram called out to him. Cifuentes took the chair opposite Ram and ordered a Corona.
“How’s it look, José?”
Cifuentes shook his head. He was wearing a tan cotton sports coat over a Hawaiian shirt, his hair pulled back in a ponytail, his mustache neatly trimmed. Then he removed his expensive sunglasses—Porsche, Ram noted—and placed them atop the newspaper. His eyes were red and watery.
“Not good,” he said. “Word’s out on the street you’re here in town, and when I was in Koreatown, I heard that Joe’s Boys were looking for you.”
“Dead?” asked Ram.
“Don’t know. Don’t think so, just a lot of rumbling so far.”
Ram sighed and rolled his eyes. “Who’s The Big E meeting?”
“A guy named Dick Madrone.”
“Oh no, this is not good.”
“You know him?”
“Yeah. He’s part of Louie’s gang, a big-time bagman, a lobbyist. We’ll have to wait here until their meeting is over before we approach him.”
“I’ll watch when they meet inside,” José said.
“I’ll wait outside in the car.”
“Not in your car, Ram. You’ll have to leave it and come in mine.”
“Okay,” Ram said. “Let’s get this over with.”
Exiting the lobby, Ram remembered that he had left the files. He told José to wait but they were running late and so he left without them.
At the Bel Age, José pulled around the side and said he’d send a signal when the meeting with Madrone ended. Ram stayed in the car, smoking and waiting for his signal. After a half hour, José walked in the hotel lobby and saw The Big E seated by himself at the bar drinking coffee. He went to the door and signaled Ram. Ram entered the hotel and slid onto the empty seat on the Big E’s left.
“Holy Christ! What are you doing here?” said ReEves when he saw who it was.
“You’re a hard man to reach,” Ram said to ReEves. He was all gray now with deep lines at the corners of his mouth beneath the full mustache. He raised his eyes to look at Ram. They were lusterless. He shook his head.
“What rock did you crawl out from?”
Ram ordered coffee.
“You told me to call you if there was something big that I couldn’t handle. So I did, and that’s why I’ve been trying to reach you. I’m in over my head on this, Mr. ReEves, and I could use your help.”
The man nodded slowly. “You’re talking about Louie, right?”
Ram nodded. The Big E looked Ram over. He considered his coffee, sipped it, and exhaled slowly.
“I don’t know if that’s possible now. You’re in pretty deep on this and you’ve made a lot of people pretty pissed off, including Emile Donner, not to mention Louie. Why didn’t you come to me earlier?”
“Because I didn’t know where this story would lead when I started it.”
“But you eventually did see it, right? And you knew what it really was and who was involved in the deal, because you pretty much told Louie so yourself, right?”
“I guess.”
“You guess? Well, I don’t know if there’s anything I can do for you now.”
“Nothing?”
The Big E shook his head. “That’s a stupid question and you know it, Le Doir. This is your doing. You’re the one who wouldn’t let go, and you were warned a long time ago, quite a few times the way I heard it, from Louie and Emile. What were you thinking?”
Ram fished for a response but could find none suitable.
“I really don’t know,” he finally said.
“Listen, I’ve been hearing about it for the better part of two years now, about all of it. You’ve been around long enough to know that when it’s big money like that with sums in the billions, that when it involves your friends, which was what you had, then you either side with them actively or you back off. You look away and swallow hard if you think you’re above it. That, or you figure out some way to get a slice of it for yourself. You took another path, and you did it on your own. You chose it and you’re going to have to live with it. You did a dumb thing. I don’t know what I can do to fix it or even if I want to.”
“Can you at least talk to them? I can shitcan my documents like Louie did or give them to you.”
“What keeps you alive then?” sneered Marlon ReEves. “Those documents are the only life-preserver you have, and maybe I shouldn’t even be telling you this, but I’ll tell you what, I’ll make a few calls this afternoon and see if there’s anything I can do. Call me in a day at this number,” The Big E said, pulling out a business card with only a phone number printed on it. “Lose it after you call me. Now leave me alone. I have work to do.”
Ram stood up and dropped some money for coffee. The Big E looked up and sighed.
“You know it’s over for you don’t you, Le Doir? At least as far as your career goes. You’ll never be able to show your face around The Building again. You can’t be trusted. You betrayed your friends and patrons and that’s an unforgivable sin around there, no matter what you think is right. This is the way politics is, and you fucked up big time.”
Ram thought of saying something but reconsidered and said nothing. As Ram exited the hotel lobby, Cifuentes was standing alongside the Beamer, cleaning his fingernails with a buck knife.
“How’d it go?”
“Still twisting. Probably know in a few days or so,” Ram shrugged, pausing to light a cigarette.
They drove back to the Marmont in silence. When they arrived, Ram gave his ticket to the valet. The valet returned with a light green Celica. “Where’s my Beamer?” Ram asked, and then turned to Cifuentes, knowing what happened. “Where is it, José?”
“It’ll be safe with me, Ram, but for now, drive this instead. Why advertise when you’re in the position you’re in? Don’t worry. She’ll be safe with me.”
Cifuentes went over some details with Ram. They arranged to talk later and see each other before Ram left town. Ram nodded and responded to José’s questions and directions but hardly knew what he was saying. He felt numb, the exhaustion overtaking him. He got in the Toyota and drove mechanically west to the motel. He parked the car, went next door to The Speakeasy, drained two double Mai Tai and then returned to his room, passing out with his clothes on.
When he awoke, it was just this side of nightfall. The air was sweet with night-blooming jasmine, and he wasn’t surprised when the phone rang and found Vera at the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make our rendezvous. We looped until five… Anyway, what’s this all about? I really don’t have the time. I thought we were through anyway. That’s what you said in Hungary.”
“I did, and now I’d like a divorce.”
“Not now, not until after this film premieres. What is it that’s so urgent?”
“It’s a line in the sand, Vera. I want to move on.”
“Is there someone new?”
“That’s more your number, isn’t it?”
“Fuck you, Ram.”
“I don’t want to get in the ditch with you.”
“Fine. What are you doing here anyway?”
“I’m trying to wrap up a story.”
“Oh yes, I heard about what you’re working on from Jill. We’ve become best friends. By the way, she thinks you’re totally nuts and so does Phil. It all sounds very hush-hush and dramatic. But then again, you al
ways did like drama, Ram, didn’t you? You’re such a drama queen. Maybe you should have been an actor. Maybe you still can be.”
“All I wanted to do was see you once more, say some things I needed to say, find out when we can divorce, and let it go and move on.”
“You? Let something go? That’s a laugh. You’d suck on a bone until you got dust.”
“Just let me go and we can move on and let time do the rest. I’d like my freedom and I’d really like to do what I can to forget you.”
“You’ll never be free, Ram. You’ll always be a slave—whether it’s work, drugs, or me. You’re always going to be chained, you’ll never be free and you’ll never forget me. I was the best thing that ever happened to you. You owe your whole fucking writing career to me, or have you forgotten?”
A montage of scenes smash-cut through the projector: The Hungary tavern scene, the lightning night on his return from Paris; the burning trailer at Z’alls, the spaghetti plate intended for Devlin with the crushed and stained gardenia sliding down the wall, the fistfights in front of The Oak Room, The Savoy Tivoli, and others, many others.
“It’ll be tough, but I’ll manage.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll crack up, break down, and crawl into a bottle.”
“I already did that.”
“Look, is there anything you really need?” sighed Vera, her tone softer and conciliatory.
Ram thought for a minute. “I don’t know. What I said I needed, you won’t give me. That’s all I could think of.”
“You’re so full of shit, Ram. I know you’re dead broke, that you shot your whole wad on the story, that you’re trying to be noble and all that crap, now you play this long-suffering shit with me. I’ll wire $30,000 to your account. It’ll be there soon. Where are you going next on your crusade?”
“I don’t know, maybe Canada.”
“Not The Arbor?”
“Not if I want to forget you.”
“Good. You work on that, Ram, and don’t call Molly Dobbs looking for me. Take the money and run. Do what you have to do. Goodbye,” she said, hanging up before Ram could respond.
He went to the bathroom, peeled off his clothes and took a shower, trying not to think about all that Vera had said. She’d been drinking, that much was obvious, but Ram knew she felt all those things just the same and frankly he didn’t care anymore, or so he told himself. When he got out, he put on his robe and sat on the patio. Scattered clouds filled the sky interspersed by patches of blue. It was getting toward sunset and Ram thought of heading down to the beach. But he was tired of looking at things as terminal as oceans. He wanted a respite from terminal things. He went back inside and called Sara. She picked up on the first ring.
“I know it’s you.”
“How do you know that?”
“Caller ID, you ditz.”
“Oh yeah, you’d have something like that, being a realtor and all.”
“Real estate has nothing to do with it. LA is reason enough. What are you doing now?”
“Not much.”
“Are you alone?”
“Alone as the Lone Ranger.”
She laughed. “Okay, would you like to spend some time together? Go to a movie or dinner, or come up here? What? Which? Where?”
“Not a movie. And I’m not up for a dinner out. I don’t feel like being in public just now. If it’s okay, I’ll come up.”
“Of course, it’s okay. Shall I come get you or give you directions and let you do the driving?”
He let the innuendo pass.
Ram took the Santa Monica Freeway, exited on La Brea, and drove into the Hollywood Hills. The sun was setting over the Pacific now, the cirrus-streaked sky above it tinged with orange, rose and lime. He followed the directions Sara gave him, turning right on Prospect, then left on Hercules, until he came to the corner of Venus. He laughed, then saw Sara’s Lexus parked in the drive of a large rock-and-timber home on the north side of the street. He rang the bell and she answered the door in jeans and a t-shirt. She was barefoot, her hair loose, and wore no makeup except lipstick. Her green eyes were glistening and a smile played lightly on her lips.
“Do come in,” she said, salaaming him across the threshold. “Welcome to my not too humble but, hopefully, not too ostentatious abode.”
Ram entered the house. It was quiet, clean, and tasteful, decorated in earth tones and furnished in California Mission. Three steps led down into the living room where a small fire burned in the fireplace. Off to the left was the dining room with sliding glass doors opening onto a cedar deck. Ram went out and looked over the railing to the San Fernando Valley below. The freeway was streaming with cars. He lit a cigarette and inhaled. The hiss of the distant traffic gave off a sound not unlike insects—cicadas or crickets, Ram thought—then he heard a lower sound below it. He followed it to its source. It was a hot tub hidden behind a latticework fenced area. Ram felt the water. It was perfect. 107° the gauge read. He stubbed his cigarette out in an abalone ashtray and turned back to the house. Sara stood in the glass door, a pair of champagne flutes in one hand, a dewy bottle of Crystal in the other. She poured the glasses perfectly and handed one to Ram. Then she moved her head toward him, opening her mouth for him to kiss. Ram raised his hand to stop her, turned her face in his hands, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and said, “Not yet. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“So tell me.”
“In due time,” Ram said. “It’s a long and complicated tale and I have to figure out where to begin.”
“Okay,” she said. “Relax. Take your time and I’ll finish cooking dinner. Crab salad and blackened halibut filets. You do like fish, don’t you?” she cooed inquisitively, although it seemed more a statement than a question. “Go watch the traffic or whatever it is you do out there. When you start to tell me—if you do start to tell me—tell me all of it and start at the beginning. I want to hear all of it—the story, Vera, Paris, the works.”
Ram looked down at the ground a moment. Then he looked up into Sara’s eyes. “Can I trust you?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Ram. Can you?”
Ram thought about her question for the hour or so that he sat on the deck, watching her and listening to the hissing traffic below. How many times had he told the story over the past few years? To family, friends, colleagues in the press corps, and to investigative agencies. Traipsing up and down the state, hiding in cheap motels, eating in greasy diners and local bars, repeating the details to all who would listen. And what had it netted him? Nothing. Now, with his exhaustion and nervous disintegration at their most acute, he wondered why he still did it. Was there a point? No one seemed to care. Nobody would do anything to stop the crooked process, and nobody would stop the predators that were doing it, picking the body politic clean. And now, he was about to tell this woman—Sara Dutra, she said, who said that she knew Ram when, and once had a crush on him from way back when; from when he was the Ram Le Doir, who spooned his goods from a pulpy spoon to a rapt audience and adoring public—who was now? What? Whom? Which? A desperate animal guarding a box of papers and fighting for a set of principles that were now passé? And who was she anyway—this Sara Dutra? Was she truly who she portrayed herself to be? An old employee of Jill’s and Donna’s who parlayed her savings into a successful career in real estate? Or was she just another actor playing a part? One of Big Louie’s minions or an informant for The Big E? Certainly, that possibility was there. Ram turned to watch her inside the kitchen from where he stood on the deck in the dusk. She sprinkled some spices over the open pan, then tossed in some liquid from a bottle. A blue flame ignited, making her jump back. She turned to look at Ram and found him staring at her from the deck. He walked inside to where she was, held her face, and examined her eyes. They were startled and wondering.
“No damage,” Ram said, “just a little singe on your left eyebrow.”
“Oh, God! Wait here while I fix myself,” she said. Ram wouldn’t let go of her face and rema
ined standing there looking into her.
“What is it? What is it?” she asked him.
“Nothing. At least as far as I can see,” he said.
A quizzical look held on her face a moment, and then she saw Ram smiling and let go of it. Her eyes were merry again. She put her arm around Ram’s neck. He let her move in and kissed her willingly. Her kiss felt impassioned, unquestioningly warm, and cautiously exploratory. Ram savored it for a moment and pressed her to him so he could feel her heartbeat. It was racing, the sweat standing on her upper lip, salty and sweet. She broke off, remembering she still had to fix herself. She smiled when she returned to the stove, directing Ram to finish setting the table.
They made small talk over dinner. People they had known, places they’d been, books they had read, movies they’d seen. The ritual courtship dance of discovering mutual interests and affinities; the personality particulars that all people shared in common; the philosophies, beliefs, and aesthetic predilections where they differed or agreed. It seemed so simple again, thought Ram. It was almost too easy, Ram thought, and then he remembered that it wasn’t. It wasn’t easy; it was just simple. But with Sara, it was easy, and it thrilled him until he remembered that he still had to tell her. The evil familiars climbed back onto his shoulders again, rendering the simple equation complex again.
“Look, there are some things I have to tell you,” he said finally. “But not in here. Let’s go out and get in the tub. Get yourself ready for that—however you do it,” said Ram, going to the kitchen and retrieving a fresh bottle of champagne.
When he returned, Sara stood facing him in the open doorway, naked. “I’m ready,” she said.
He walked across the deck, slipped behind the latticework screen and made a slight guttural noise. Watching him as he was about to put his foot in the tub, she saw he was about to speak and stopped him.
“Wait a second,” she said.
“For what?”
“For me. I want to look at you naked. I want to take all of you in,” she said. Her eyes scanned Ram slowly up and down, from head to foot and back again. “That’ll do for a start,” she purred.
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