I sprint from the stables into the field, the vast and haunting killing field of last night, but it looks simple and ordinary in the afternoon light. I tell myself it was all a dream, that it never happened and then I stumble on the mound of red earth, the new filled grave, and I drop to my knees and bury my hands in the dirt and scream—I scream until I can’t scream anymore and when I stop, my scream echoes back across the field.
I COME TO, my face planted in the dirt, a beetle crawling across my lip. I spew out the decaying soil and roll on my back. The sky is darker, a storm blowing in, white puffs of clouds fleeing like sheep across the pastel sky.
I hear the sound of women’s voices. Elbowing myself up, I peer over the grave. The breeze catches laughter and sends it rustling through the grass across the field. A red light glows from a dark grove of trees. The red light reminds me of summer camp when I was 10 and the bonfire and the prayer and the magic peaceful feeling and a sudden need to be back there again consumes me. I rise on wobbly legs and lock my eyes on the red light.
The horse drugs hitting, my feather hands lift, my concrete feet fall, and I wave and shuffle a lead-footed balloon-man floating toward the red light. Crossing the field is sleepwalking across the windy Sahara—heavy step after heavy step but no step brings me closer to the red light. No step will slake my dying thirst.
I see a tree stump. My goal. I measure my steps. When I reach the stump, I forget why and stand there in a daze. Then I hear the laughter, see the red light, and I set another goal, take another step.
At last, one more iron step and I lift my head and in front of me the grove of lashing trees, the red light shining through. A crack of blue lightening splits the sky, my arm hair rises transmitting invisible current. I measure my steps trunk to trunk through the whipping trees and when no more trees line the path, I stop and look up.
Rising against the dark dropping curtain sky, is a red Chinese pagoda with a black-copper roof—an exact replica of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. A long dragon stretches across the front and two Ming Heaven Dogs guard either side of the open door. The red light shines from inside.
I walk onto the wide forecourt and step on concrete squares imprinted with dates and names and shoes—dress shoes of the young men in the memory book. A dozen squares, a dozen names, a dozen pairs of shoes.
The red light from the open theatre door glistens on the dark surface of the last concrete square and when I step on it, my left boot sinks into the still wet concrete and there, scrawled next to an imprint of my size 12 Ferragamos are the words—
TREVOR ROBERTS, THE INNOCENT ONE.
I kick Paul’s boots across the square erasing my name, erasing my Ferragamos. When I’m done, the boots are heavy with concrete and I’m standing in the gusting wind looking at the muddled square.
I step past the Ming Heaven Dogs and walk through the open doors into the silence of the theatre.
A dragon-print rug covers the floor and runs the entire width of the building. Red-lacquered columns support a silver-and-gold ceiling and hanging from the ceiling center is a giant bronze Chinese incense lantern. The burning lantern casts a red glow on the walls. The walls are covered with prints of animals and people piled together in gardens and cities like an ancient world map of orgies. At the far end of the lobby, in front of the inner theatre doors, a black 10-foot Imperial Bösendorfer grand piano sprawls across the carpet reflecting the blood-red light.
The lobby feels as expansive as the field I just crossed but my feet are no longer as heavy. I pass the lacquered wood of the grand piano, place my hand on the inner theatre door, and with nothing driving me on except the detached and empty curiosity the drugs allow, I push the door open.
Inside the dark theatre, an aisle lined with red-velvet seats dips down to the stage and meets the projection screen. And there, running on the silver screen, is the video from the sex club on New Year’s Eve. I see myself lying naked on the red fur-covered bed, the models each projected twenty-feet long feasting on me, Tara on the bed kissing me.
I stand in the dark and watch.
The models finish and slither off the bed. Then a man’s voice mumbles off-camera and Tara gets up from the bed. She kisses me, pulls on a robe, and walks off the screen.
On the screen, I lie alone on the bed. My eyes close. As I fall asleep, the worry leaves my face and I could be any carefree young man napping on a picnic blanket after skinny-dipping in a country lake. I sink into a velvet seat and watch myself sleep. I wonder if I’m up there, or down here, or if I’m even anywhere. I can’t remember why I came here but now that I’m here, I’m exhausted.
A door opens. I open my eyes but I’m still sleeping. Movement on the silvery screen. I raise my head. Paul walks in. He sits on the edge of the bed. He watches me sleep. Then he reaches out and runs his fingers through my hair and I remember the memory book, the photo, my ribbon-tied lock of hair, and then Paul leans down and kisses me. I jump from my seat, step into the theatre aisle, turn for the door, and run into Paul.
He grabs the back of my head and forces his mouth onto mine. I shake him off and thrust him away from me. He falls into a seat, bounces up, comes after me. I race for the theatre door and burst into the red light. Paul grabs me. I slip free and run around the piano. Paul and I face each other across 10 feet of black, red-glowing wood. We’re both panting like defeated boxers.
My eyes adjust to the red lobby light and I get a good look at Paul. His straggly wet hair hangs in his face. Puffy fat bags droop beneath his sleepless eyes. His skin is pale and waxy-white like someone who’s been out in the cold. And the drugs must be screwing with my head because he’s wearing my tuxedo—the made-to-measure tuxedo that Mr. Lussier cut for me. The jacket hangs on his smaller frame, sags open at the lapels. Then I see he is wearing my Ferragamos too and the Ferragamos have concrete on the edges of their soles. Paul stalks toward me. He says,
I said anything except fuck her.
I step away.
We circle each other around the Imperial Bösendorfer grand. Paul runs his hands through his hair, pulling it away from his face. You broke the rules, boy, he says. Now, I’m gonna break you.
Paul circles toward me. I circle away. I say,
Is that why you’re wearing my tux? My shoes? You wanna be me, Paul? You wanna be me so Tara won’t need other men? Well, it doesn’t fit. I’m too big for you.
Paul stops. A disarming smile appears on his face and for a second, I almost feel like we’re friends and this is all just another one of his jokes. Then he grabs his crotch and says,
I don’t wanna be you, sport. I wanna be inside you. Just like you got inside Tara. You owe me.
Paul lunges for me. I dodge away and we circle each other again. Then Paul switches gears. He strolls around the piano slower and he drops his voice to a soft-sell tone. He says,
What’s the matter, buddy, not attracted to me? You know, everyone’s a little bisexual. Even the green-neck mallards in my pool fuck other drakes when the hens run off to lay their eggs. I watched one daffy bastard fly into our glass doors and die and his buddy fucked his corpse right there on the pool patio. Now, I’m not ruling it out, but I’d rather fuck you alive. Come on, I know you’ve thought about it, sport. I think about it all the time. Think about me inside you. Think about nothing between us anymore. You might enjoy it. It’s just sex.
I shake my head and ball my fists. I say,
This isn’t about sex for you—it’s about power, Paul.
Yeah, well, look around yourself, pal, he says. I have all the fucking power here. I own you.
I’m not for sale.
I already bought your soul, slugger. I paid for it with my wife.
The drugs are taking hold, my feet are heavy, my fingers numb, I can’t hold a fist. As we circle the piano, Paul switches speeds again.
Listen, kid, he says. Let’s make a deal. CalTEARS is moving the first block of money over this week—five-hundred-million. I’ll pay you a half-point. That’s 2.5 million d
ollars, sport! You can buy your own yacht. Get rid of that ratty-old Porsche. Buy a new Porsche. Or how about a Ferrari? And you know what? We can both fuck Tara. I don’t mind sharing.
I’m getting dizzy. Paul’s words are smooth and soft and the sound of 2.5 million dollars charms me like those flutes they use on snakes. I’m tired of fighting, I’m tired of thinking, and I’m tired of circling this fucking piano. I just want to rest.
Besides, Paul says, nobody will love you like I do.
I stop and the room continues to spin. Paul pushes me against the piano and kisses me. I close my eyes letting the drugs take me.
I don’t know where I am anymore.
I don’t know who I am anymore.
I don’t know who Paul is anymore.
I don’t know anything anymore.
I hear the clink of Paul’s belt buckle. His hands on my head push me down. I smell his sweat. Instinct straightens my legs, but they wobble and I sink to my knees in front of Paul. He grips the back of my head and pulls me to him and my father’s face flashes before me—my father’s drunk and sloppy face, his hands pulling me beneath the covers, pulling me down, again and again, night after night, and now I’m back in that dark room and a terrible taste fills my mouth and then the key turns, the lock opens, and a flood of fury rises from the hollowed hole in my gut—No!
I grab Paul’s bowed head with both hands, snag his hanging hair, and hoist myself up and, cupping a hand behind his head, I smash his face into the edge of the piano.
Paul slaps at the piano. He raises his face. Blood trickles from his nose to his lips. He kisses me again. His blood tastes like metallic rot. I jerk him away by his hair and drive his face into the piano—his nose cracks, the piano twangs, and Paul falls limp to his knees.
I stand over him holding a handful of black hair ripped from his head. I press the hair into his bloody face. I say,
Press this in your book of memories!
His head lolls forward. He kneels like a head-bowed supplicant in front of the piano, his black hair hanging, my tuxedo pants around his ankles. The theatre is silent. I stand still wondering if I killed him.
I see my Porsche keys peeking out from his tuxedo trouser pocket. I reach down and grab the keys. As I pull my hand back, Paul grips my arm. He raises his face. His dead, black eyes look up at me through the hair and the blood. His red tongue darts from his mouth, licks the gushing blood, and he smiles at me and says,
Do it again!
I PLUNGE FROM the theatre into pouring rain. The rain rages down and I rush through it running for my life. I run a straight shot across the field without looking back and I can feel the dirt and the blood washing away.
I jump in my Porsche, fumble my keys, and turn the ignition—it starts. Reverse, clutch, gas—the tires spin in the grass, the car is stuck against the oak tree I hit last night.
I get out and look at the bumper jammed up on a thick vein of tree trunk. I squat, grab the bumper, and with a bone-breaking shrug, muscle my car free.
I fall behind the wheel panting.
Backing the Porsche from the lawn, I turn onto the gravel drive. I look in the rearview mirror expecting to see Paul limping after me, but the stable and the mansion sit quiet in the peaceful twilight rain. Searching the shadows at the far end of the empty field, I see the red light shining out from the dark grove of trees.
I ease down the drive. My wipers squeal, my tires rub against the fender. As I approach the broken gates hanging from their hinges, my one working headlight illuminates the bent and twisted golden V.
I pass through the open gates and the red light and Valombrosa mansion fade in my rearview mirror.
40 For the Road
Looking in my rearview mirror, I don’t know whether to expect police cars, or Paul barreling down on me in his bus, or Conan’s ghost galloping after me. My legs and arms are shaking and I can’t keep a straight line on the road. Even horse tranquilizers are no match for the adrenalin pumping through my veins.
I drive down off Atlas Peak Road and watch the pulsing storm fade in the distance behind me where it clings to the top of the dark mountain. I drive into the soft orange light of the sun already slipped below the horizon. I drive in a trance, numb, and when I pull into the yacht club parking lot, the sky is ebony dark.
I trot across the parking lot, rush down the dock. I need to get my money, my clothes, and then get the hell away from here. I race past the yachts and at the end of the dock, I stop. The Valombrosa II is gone—black water—an empty slip.
I pull my BlackBerry from my pocket, turn it on—NO SERVICE. No service, no message. No message, no Ponzi-scheme proof. I pitch the BlackBerry in the water.
I storm into the yacht club. Francis leans back in his office chair facing away from the door and talking on the phone. He sips his brandy. He says,
I’ve been to Yugoslavia. Now that the bastards cut it into seven pieces, I don’t know where I’ve been.
I twist my Porsche key off the ring and tuck it in my pocket. Then I throw the yacht keys on the desk. Francis jumps, sets down his brandy, hangs up the phone without saying goodbye. He looks at the keys on his desk. I say,
Where’s the yacht?
I couldn’t say, mate.
I pound my fist on the desk. How many times, Francis? How many times has Paul used you as his pimp desk clerk to lock out guys like me?
Francis plucks the yacht keys off his desk. He holds up the black dik-dik charm in its silver setting. I tried to warn you, kid, he says, but a dik-dik ain’t no match for a lion.
Everything I have is on that boat, I say. My clothes. My wallet. My money. Everything!
Francis stands. Stuffs the keys in his pocket. He says,
I’m so, so sorry. My dad used to tell me just because there’s a crack, doesn’t mean you’ve got to put your finger in it.
What the fuck does that have to do with anything?
You know what, he says, I still don’t know. Just something to say, I guess.
What am I supposed to do, Francis?
I don’t know that either. I do know that hunters kill those little dik-diks just to silence them from warning bigger prey.
I’m lost.
You look like it, mate.
Francis grabs his jacket. He says,
It’s late. I have to go home now. Let me have Charlie order you dinner and a drink on me. You look like you could use a drink.
Francis walks me to the bar. He whispers to Charlie, points to me, and then smiles and waves on his way out the door.
Charlie slides over. He sets a glass in front of me, pours me a stiff Jack and Coke. He says,
Hey, fella. What’ll it be for dinner?
I don’t care, I say, surprise me.
Charlie nods and walks off. I drain my Jack and Coke. My jaw loosens a little. I think over my situation. I remember rushing out stoned last night, leaving everything on the yacht—my money spread on the coffee table next to a pile of cocaine, my clothes in the stateroom closet, my jacket on the floor. All I have now is what I’m wearing, the clothes I put on the morning I left Tara on the yacht two days ago—no, it just seems like it—yesterday morning. A torn dress shirt, dirt-covered Armani slacks, and Paul’s boots that are pinching my feet. I’m soggy, washed out, and back where I started—sleeping in my car. At least I have that.
A plate lands on the bar in front of me. That was fast. Prime rib, mashed potatoes, and wilted spinach. The potatoes are burnt around the edges from a heat lamp and the prime rib looks undercooked. Charlie refills my drink, but with straight Jack this time. He says,
You look like you need to relax a little, fella.
I cut a bite of prime rib. Blood oozes onto the plate. The meat is gristly. I’m coming down from the drugs. My teeth hurt. I look down at the prime rib and see Paul’s bloody face. I see him grinning up at me through the blood. I see him mouthing, Do it again. I spit the half-chewed meat onto the plate and push it away. Charlie says,
Not hungry?
> Nah, I gotta get goin’ anyway.
Charlie grabs a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He stuffs it in a brown-paper sack. He hands the sack to me. He says,
This is for the road.
I thank Charlie and head for the exit. There’s no reason for me to come back here and it’s strange walking to the doors for the last time. I remember walking in these doors that afternoon Paul took me to meet Benny for lunch, that afternoon he gave me the keys to the yacht. I wonder if I’ll miss this place.
I clutch the whiskey bag, push through the doors, and descend the steps. My Porsche is on the back of a flatbed tow truck heading for the street. I run after it—run with everything I have. The tow truck slows before pulling onto the main drag and I get close enough to see the license plate frame that reads SECOND CHANCES.
The driver guns it and tears off down the street. I bend over my knees to catch my breath. I watch my car disappear.
I trudge back to the yacht club. As I climb the entry stairs, Charlie locks the doors from inside. I grab the handle and rattle the doors. Charlie shakes his head from behind the glass. He turns and walks back to the bar. I watch him clear my plate and glass and wipe the counter with a rag.
41 Ferried Across
It takes 30 minutes to jog to the Tiburon Tennis Club, past its MEMBERS ONLY signs, and down to Pier 41. I’m rushing to make the last ferry of the night, the 7:45. I step on the boat just as a worker is pulling the dock plate.
The small ferry carries a sprinkling of quiet passengers. A red-headed 20-something girl with her arm sleeved in tattoos caresses the head of her sleeping boyfriend, a businessman plays solitaire on his cell phone, an old lady on the edge of her seat stares straight ahead with her hands folded in her lap. I walk past them to the farthest empty seat, slump down, and lean against the dripping window.
South of Bixby Bridge Page 21