by Harry Bryant
"He can wear mine," a male voice said, and there was more laughter and playful shrieking from a couple of the women in the pool.
"You can wear his," Julia said, nodding toward the sodden lump.
"Well, when in Rome . . ." I said.
As I stood up, Julia lay back on her chair, adjusting her hat so she would have an unobstructed view of me as I took off my pants. A warm smile curled across her lips. I wasn't bothered with her attention. I had been naked in front of strangers before. But what made me pause, belt half-unbuckled, was the presence of the two men in white behind the row of lounge chairs. They hadn't been there moments before. They had broad shoulders and thick arms that strained their uniforms. Like two sausages stuffed into a single casing.
"You need to come with us," the one with the thicker eyebrows said.
"I guess I shouldn't have skipped orientation after all," I said to Julia.
She looked up at the musclebound pair. "You couldn't have waited five minutes?"
The silent one shook his head.
"They take all the fun out of things," she sighed.
I nudged the wet swimsuit with my foot. "There's a guy in the pool with no trunks on," I said, trying to be helpful.
"Charles?" She shook her head. "I've seen his penis. Plus, he's been in there for an hour. It'll be all shriveled and wrinkly."
The silent one of the pair came around the chairs and stood real close to me. "Let's go," his friend said.
I picked up my shirt. "Maybe next time," I said to Julia.
She gave me a smile that said she doubted there would be a next time, and judging by the tense scowl on the face of the dude in my personal space, she was probably right.
CHAPTER 5
We walked around the outside of the main building, heading for the wing that crooked at a right angle. The silent one walked ahead of me, and the other guy stayed real close on my heels. They set the pace, and we didn't walk fast, but we certainly weren't out for a leisurely stroll. I looked to my right, spotting a row of small structures out behind the trees and hedges, and for my curiosity, I got slapped on the back of the head.
"Eyes forward," the talkative one said, in case I hadn't figured out what the smack was for.
I complied. Mostly to not antagonize the pair. I matched the silent guy's stride without thinking—old muscle memory from years of shuffling in lines, trying to not stick out. I kept my head still, but my gaze flicked back and forth, trying to see as much as I could without being obvious.
The row of houses looked like tiny cabins, but they were neither fancy looking nor entirely utilitarian. Rustic, without being rough hewn.
And then we reached the end of the wing, where the silent dude opened a door and glowered at me as I went past him and into the building. I paused just beyond the doorway, not sure which of the half-dozen doors off this hallway was our destination, and I got a shove in the back for that stutter step. "Over there," the talkative one said, and I just kept walking.
He'd stop me when it was time.
Our destination was the third door on the right, and I got slapped again when I overshot. I gave the talkative guy a eyeful this time, letting him know I was keeping track. He glared back at me, the muscles tight in his neck. Daring me to do something. His right hand was already clenched.
I made fish lips at him, and then danced through the open door before he could do something he'd regret later.
The room was an administrator's office. Big desk by the window. Heavy carpet on the floor. A couple of chairs on this side of the desk. A walnut bookcase along the wall to my left, filled with serious-looking books that had long multi-syllabic titles. There was a sideboard on my right, and a large oil painting was centered on the wall over the table.
Seated in the leather executive chair behind the table was a thin man in a black suit. His shirt was the color of the staff uniforms, and his tie was the color of the guest clothing. Unfortunately he was enough of a ginger that his hair and goatee clashed slightly with the color combination, which is probably why he went with the black suit. To cut down on the color matching confusion.
The desk was clear but for a phone, a large leather notebook, a crystal glass filled with an inch or so of dark liquid, and a pad of lined paper.
Undirected, I sat in the chair farthest from the door. I hadn't bothered putting my shirt on yet, and the guy behind the desk noticed my physique with a wrinkle of his nose.
"Who is he?" Desk Guy asked the two security goons.
Silent guy shrugged.
"You didn't search him?"
I started to stand up.
"Sit down," Desk Guy snapped at me.
I sat.
"Stand up," the talkative goon said.
I looked at the guy behind the desk. "Which is it?" I asked.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," he said. He waved a hand in our general direction.
I figured he was giving us permission to do the dance, so I stood back up and stepped away from the chair so that one of the two security guys could check me out. The talkative one did the deed, slapping his hands along my pockets and pants. I made a little noise as he slapped my ass, and his face reddened as he pulled my wallet out of my back pocket. "Sit down," he said, shoving me toward the chair. He put my wallet, my money clip, and the remote fob for my car on the desk.
"Thank you, Terrance," Desk Guy said.
Terrance, heretofore so talkative, merely grunted in reply. He and his pal stood near the door, looking like the musclebound apes they were.
Desk Guy scooted his chair closer to the desk, and leaned forward to grab the contents of my pockets. It was a big desk, and Terrance had put them down close to the outside edge. I thought about getting my wallet for him, but figured that would only make things more awkward than they already were, and so I sat there and watched.
Desk Guy dismissed the remote control fob quickly. Not much to it. A couple of buttons, and there were only three keys on the ring. One was obviously for the car, and he didn't care about the other two.
My wallet was almost as minimalist. Desk Guy looked at my license, and then thumbed through the cards I had: Ralph's customer card, video store punch card, library card, proof of insurance. A couple of receipts. He dropped my wallet on the desk with the same dismissiveness as the set of keys.
He wrinkled his nose slightly as he picked up the money clip. The clip itself was silver, finished with a textured pattern of fish and birds. He slid the money out of the clip, and idly thumbed through the wad. He put both down on the desk, but not back the way they had been.
"So, Mr. Bliss, I have a bit of a quandary," he said, leaning back in his chair. He steepled his fingers on his stomach. "Perhaps you can help me."
"I'd be happy to," I said.
"The Hidden Palms Spiritual Center is a private facility," he said. "Our guests come here because they want to get away from the noise and headache of . . . wherever they come from. They want to be forgotten. Anonymous. Invisible. And they pay quite readily for that service."
"I imagine they do," I said.
"My job"—he indicated the pair by the door—"our job is to make sure they get what they pay for. Do you follow?"
"I do. It's not that complicated."
"But you"—he leaned forward to look at my license—"Mr. Robert Bliss, of Venice, California, are not a paying guest at the Center. Nor are you employed here."
"I would agree with both those statements," I said.
He sat, staring at me. I stared back. Near the door, one of the terror twins cleared his throat. The office had air conditioning. Even without my shirt, I was happy to sit there all morning. Even with a desk as clean as his, Desk Guy looked like a busy man. I could wait him out. I had lots of practice.
There were a number of parallels between shooting porn and sitting in prison. Some more evident than others.
The real conversation happens in the silences. I learned that in Tehachapi. No one ever shoots for subtlety in a dick flick. Not even the French at their New Wave avant-gardest.
Still, this guy could use a nudge. I was, after all, here to find Gloria.
"That lady by the pool," I said. "Julia? Was that her name? Anyway, she was real nice. She asked me to join her and her friends in the pool." I indicated the shirt in my lap. "That's why I'm not wearing my shirt. Your friends here didn't give me a chance to put it back on."
"I see," Desk Guy said.
"Should I put it on now?"
"Whatever makes you most comfortable, Mr. Bliss."
"I appreciate that, Mr.—?"
"Wilson," he said. "And it's ‘Doctor' Wilson."
"Oh, my apologies." I looked at the walls again, making sure I hadn't missed the ubiquitous set of diplomas. "Doctor of what?" I asked.
"Psychology," he said. His shoulders lifted slightly. "And Philosophy."
"Really?" I lifted my shirt and slid it back over my head. "That's impressive."
He made a tiny gesture as if all the work had been a mere trifle of time and effort.
"And you're the man in charge around here?" I put my arms through the sleeves of my shirt.
"I ensure the smooth operation of the Center and the continued comfort of our guests, yes."
"That's a lot for one guy to manage," I said. I indicated the pair by the door. "What about these guys? GEDs? Or do they have advanced degrees too?"
"Mr. Bliss—"
"Me? I took a couple of classes at community college. After high school, of course. But I could never sit still long enough for all those lectures. And then, you know, later, the opportunities were more, shall we say? remedial."
"Mr. Bliss," Wilson interrupted me. "I really don't care about your education. Or lack thereof." He leaned forward, and put his hands on the desk. "What are you doing here?"
"I was making new friends," I said.
He glanced at the pair, and nodded slightly.
Terrance stepped forward, and clouted me on the ear with one of his ham-sized fists.
"Ow. Son of a bitch." I wiggled in the chair, rubbing at my ear. The chair hopped on the carpet, changing my angle to both the desk and the door.
Terrance didn't return to the door. He stayed close. In case Mr.—sorry, Doctor—Wilson gave him the nod again.
"As you noted, I am a busy man," Wilson said. "I really don't have time for shenanigans. And so, I'm going to ask just one more time: what are you doing here?"
"Visiting friends," I said.
And when Wilson's eyes flicked toward Terrance, I moved first.
I pushed out of the chair, driving my right fist straight at Terrance's groin. My fist wasn't as big as his, but my knuckles were a lot harder. And he wasn't wearing a cup. He let out a whoof of air and bent over, which put him right in line with my knee. His head snapped back, and his body went stiff. Then he collapsed like a tree falling in the woods.
Silent Dude was a faster thinker than he was a talker, and he had already processed what was happening. I kicked the other chair in his path as he charged at me, and he stumbled over it. I kicked him once in the ribs to suggest he stay down, and when that didn't seem to convince him, I kicked him in the head.
I fussed with the bottom of my shirt for a second, giving everyone a moment to adjust their expectations to the changed situation.
Wilson hadn't moved from his chair. When I looked at him, he leaned back and let the chair swivel a bit from side to side.
"You're a busy man," I said. "I shouldn't keep you from whatever it is that you need to be doing."
He didn't say anything, but the hint of a smile worked at the corner of his mouth.
I gathered my belongings from the desk, and then I picked up the glass that had been sitting next to the leather notebook. I sniffed its contents. Scotch. At this time of day?
"I'll let myself out," I said, putting the glass back down on the desk. "Just out there, and to the right?"
He nodded, and watched me step carefully around the two goons who were groaning about their oncoming headaches. I had to shove Silent Dude's legs out of the way to get the door open, and Wilson called my name as I was about to leave.
"If you walk straight out of this building and go directly to the gate, I'll have someone open it for you. Otherwise . . ."
I got the hint. There were more dudes like the pair on the floor, and now they'd know I wasn't as much of a pussy cat as I let on. "Straight on through, and then out," I said. "I can manage that."
"Very well," Wilson said. He gestured toward the glass on his desk. "Not a fan of fifteen-year-old Scotch?"
"I have simpler tastes," I said.
CHAPTER 6
Back at the car, I had a conversation with myself.
"Shit. Shit. Shit shit double shit."
Not my best conversation with myself, but it hit all the highlights.
Since there wasn't much else to say in that regard, I started up the car and drove away from the Hidden Palms Spiritual Center. Drumming my hands on the steering wheel as I sped along the dusty road. Angry at myself for letting things get out of hand. Angrier still that I hadn't expected something like that to happen. Had I actually thought I could waltz in and wander around without someone noticing?
Well, I had, I guess. But the situation had gone sour awfully fast. At Tehachapi, there was more posturing, more dancing around the act of violence. Everyone talked about doing it, but you didn't, really. And if it did happen, you didn't see it coming, and it was brutal and final. Outside, people laid hands on each other without any respect for personal space. Behind bars, your space was the only thing that remained yours. You encroached on someone else with care.
Which is to say that Terrance should have seen the dick punch coming. It wasn't my fault that he wasn't wearing protection or that he was an idiot. I couldn't be blamed for those things.
But it shouldn't have gotten that far. Something felt off, and I didn't think it was entirely my fault.
I was still replaying the last few minutes in Wilson's office when I reached the main road. I glanced in both directions, checking for cars, and then let my gaze come back to center again.
The old dude at the store had said to make the first right, and he hadn't bothered to tell me that I could have also made a left off the paved road. Which wasn't a big deal at the time, because I was looking for Hidden Palms. Now, though, I was interested in the road opposite the one that led to the walled retreat center.
The road itself wasn't any different than the one I sat on now, but sitting on the shoulder were a pair of bikes. Two burly-looking dudes with leather vests, sunburned arms, and dark glasses were sitting on the bikes. Calm as you please, like they were waiting for a delivery van to trundle by with parcels or something.
I clicked on the turn signal, checked once more for other cars, and then pulled out onto the main road. I kept an eye on the pair of bikers in my rearview mirror until a curve of the road hid them from view, and I kept thinking about them all the way back down to the main road that ran across the valley.
There was no reason to go back to Sisquoc, and so I turned left at the bottom of the hill, and headed back to Los Alamos.
I drove past the Los Alamos exit with the bar and the winery tasting room. The tasting room was open, and the bar was not. I kept on, blinked as I passed through Los Alamos, and then I took the first exit on the other side of the small town. I worked my way back along the frontage road, where I learned there weren't any other hotels, and so I ended up at the same place I had stayed at last night.
The same clerk was still working the des
k, and she recognized me. "Good afternoon, sir," she said cheerfully as I came into the air conditioned lobby. "Is there something more I can help you with?"
"Is there a phone I can use?" I asked. "Do you mind if I call LA?"
"Well, I will have to charge you for long-distance services," she started.
I pulled out my money clip and peeled off a twenty. "How's this?" I asked, putting it on the counter.
"That works," she chirped. "Would you like change?"
I shook my head. "Just let me know if I run over, okay?"
She nodded and pointed me toward a black phone over by the coffee urn and breakfast station.
I dialed Matesson's number, and while I waited for someone to answer, I looked over the table. The number of plastic-covered danishes looked about the same as this morning. Either she was an efficient restocker or the other guests shared the same opinion of plastic-wrapped cheese goo as I did.
A woman answered the phone, drawing my attention away from the mystery of the danishes. "Hey, it's Bliss. Is the man of the house around?"
"Hi, Butch. It's Babs."
"Hi, Babs. Is he there?"
"Oh, Matty? Gosh no. He's at the studio."
I knew what "at the studio" meant back in the old days. Was that still the case, or was there an actual lot somewhere now? It didn't really matter, did it?
"Can you give me the number over there?"
"I can, but it probably won't help you," Babs said. "It's just the main number."
"What about a cellphone?"
"He never has it on when he's working" she said. "It's so annoying." She stretched the ‘o' out into something resembling a purr. I wondered if she was even aware that she was doing it, and then I realized I didn't care if she did know. I was just glad she was.
And that thought was getting away from the reason I called . . .
"So, uh, maybe you could tell him I called," I said. "He can . . . never mind. Just tell him I called."
"Okay," she said. "I'll tell him."
"Maybe I'll try again tonight."
"I don't know if that'll be a good idea," she said.