Hot Springs Eternal

by John M. Daniel

  Nqong shook his head. He was unable to say another word. What a lovely woman she was, still!

  “They seem like nice people, those folks down at the hotel. Karen’s friends, I gather, and they all wear yellow, because you told them to. Except Nellie, and that piano player chap. The little twins have grown up into striking women, both of them, in their separate ways. Haven’t they? Nqong, what’s the matter. Get rid of that silly grin, you wog, you. Say something, Nqong.”

  A yellow beetle chose this moment to light on Liv’s shoulder, which was still above water. “They’re still here, I see. You must be taking good care of them.”

  “I do. I didn’t know you were coming, Libby. I know you said you’d come back, but I didn’t know when. You left here almost fifty years ago.”

  “How have you been, friend? Brother? Lover, once upon a time? How have you been?” She squeezed his ankle, as if that would give him words.

  “Lonesome, Libby.”

  “Well, we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we? Now then, Nqong, what’s with all this ‘save Mathilda’ nonsense?”

  12. The Powers That Be

  Pacific Power’s stock tanked the first Wednesday in June, when a guest editorial by Livingston Pomeroy appeared in both the Los Angeles Times and the New York Times. Pomeroy, an Australian entomologist who had won a Nobel Prize for her battle with the mosquitoes of Indonesia, went on record in the American press, praising and defending an obscure insect whose existence was endangered by Pacific Power’s proposed expansion into the field of geothermal energy.

  “I’m not opposed to geothermal energy,” the editorial made clear. “I expect it’s all Pacific Power says it is: clean, safe, and affordable. But surely in this great land of yours, between sea and shining sea, there must be some other place to gather this energy, some place that isn’t the home of a noble earthling that can live nowhere else.”

  BFD, thought PP’s CEO J.G. Bradford. Pacific Power’s stock goes up and down all the time. Who gives a shit.

  But that evening, when he came home to his Wilshire Boulevard penthouse condo, he found his young wife Courtney sprawled on the sofa, chewing gum, reading People, and wearing a tee shirt with a cartoon of a bug on it. As he approached her, she stood up and handed him the magazine and said, “You’ve got some explaining to do, J.G.”

  There on the cover of People was film star and song stylist Sweet Lorraine Evans, Courtney Bradford’s role model, wearing the same shirt, with the same bug and the same slogan, “Save Mathilda!” The superstar held up a sign that said “Beetle Power,” and the look on her face meant business.

  That evening, after a late and frosty dinner, J.G. went into his den and telephoned Skipper Boyle, PP’s VP for PR.

  “Just a case of bad timing, J.G.,” Skipper told him. “We were all set to spray the whole hillside with malathion. If we’d done that last week, there wouldn’t be any sulfur beetles left, or hippies either, for that matter. But we can’t do it now, obviously.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Well, we can’t campaign against the sulfur beetle, that’s for sure. It would be nice to be able to say it carries syphilis or beriberi or something, but they’ve got that famous bug person on their side, so we can’t do that.”

  “God damn it, Skipper, I said what can we do?”

  “I’ll work on it, J.G. First thing in the morning.”

  “Yeah, Skipper, I think maybe you better. You might even think about working on it right now. Because Pacific Power isn’t in the business of exterminating insects. Our job is to make people happy. Warm their houses, turn on their lights. You understand that? You should. We rely on you for public relations, remember that? As long as people are happy with Pacific Power, you, Skipper Boyle, have a job. Malathion. Jesus.”

  J.G. found Courtney sitting up in bed, watching Johnny Carson. She was still wearing that tee shirt with the bug on it.

  “We’re working on it, sweetheart,” he told her. “We’re going to fix this thing.”

  “You’re going to leave that beetle alone,” she told him. “Is what you’re going to do. You’re going to leave those people alone, too, J.G.”

  ———

  Skipper Boyle’s ace was making people feel good about themselves. Ever since childhood, he’d had the magic ability to make other people feel powerful. In return, people tended to pay him back, electing him class president, or giving him good grades, or putting out for him, or hiring and promoting him. That’s how Skipper Boyle got to be a vice president of the largest private employer in the state of California: by making people feel good about themselves.

  After talking with J.G. Bradford, Skipper phoned Louise Bishop at home and left a message on her answering machine. “Looks like you really blew it this time, Louise. Nice going. God. I want you in my office at nine-thirty tomorrow morning, and bring some answers with you. Answer number one? Why you decided to locate our first expansion into the field of geothermal energy right in the middle of an ecologically sensitive area. Answer number two? What are you going to do about it. Answer three? Does an MBA and a geological engineering degree really qualify a woman to be a project manager at the executive level? We’re talking serious money here, Louise. Grown-up stuff. See you tomorrow. Sleep well.”

  ———

  The next afternoon Louise Bishop was in the Key Western Inn of Port Malone, in the suite that served as temporary regional headquarters of SoCal Development, sitting across a desk from Jeff Cushman.

  “We have a good case here for a lawsuit, Jeff,” she said. “Where’s the mention of this sulfur beetle in your environmental impact report? That’s not what I call full disclosure. Would you call that full disclosure?”

  “Look, Louise, nobody knew anything about that stupid little bug. Give me a break.”

  “Nobody knew about the bug, Jeff?” she asked. “Get real. Wake up. They know about the bug in Australia, for Christ sake. You knew enough about the bug to plan an aerial assault on it. Of course you didn’t tell us about that, either. We have to find that out from People magazine.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  “Yeah, well,” Louise Bishop shot back. “That’s not the way I do business. The whole point of geothermal energy is that it’s environmentally sensitive. I thought you understood that. Do you think killing off all the insects with malathion is environmentally sensitive? Huh?”

  “Look,” Jeff said. His face was the color of raw salmon. Good. Let the fucker squirm. “We weren’t going after the bugs per se. We were going after the people.”

  “Oh, that’s terrific,” Louise responded. “Just great. You’re a public relations genius, you know that?”

  “What you don’t seem to understand,” Jeff shouted back, “is that we need the signatures of two stubborn sisters on paper before we can break ground. We’ve tried offering a lot of money, and they’re not interested. So now we’re trying other methods. That’s all. Eventually they’ll crack. They’ve got to.”

  “Yes,” Louise Bishop agreed. “They’ve got to. And they better do it soon, my friend, because I have backup plans ready and waiting. This state is full of geothermal hotspots, and they don’t have sulfur beetles. And they don’t have you. We’re already talking to Butte Springs—”

  “Louise, listen. I have this under control. Okay?”

  “Let’s see what you can do.” She scooped her papers up from her side of the desk and stuffed them into her briefcase. “I want a full report on my desk in forty-eight hours.”

  Jeff Cushman nodded. “How about a drink? Let me call room service. What will you have?”

  Louise snapped her briefcase closed. She checked her watch, then looked him in the eye. “Johnny Walker Black,” she said. “On the rocks,” she added. “Double.”

  ———

  “Frankly, Howie, I’m a little bit disappointed,” Jeff said Friday morning. “Pissed off is more like it. You’ve been on the board for three months now, haven’t even been to a single board meeting yet
, and already you’ve cost us the biggest development project in the history of our company. Your serve.” Jeff bounced the black racquet ball to Howie Ralston, president of the Tecolote Chamber of Commerce and the Anacapa County Historical Society and the newest member of the SoCal Board of Directors. Howie also served on the Anacapa County Planning Commission and belonged to Rotary, sang barbershop harmony, and played racquet ball every day. No wonder he never got anything done.

  Ralston bounced the ball back and twirled his racquet. “No it’s not. It’s your serve. And you’re making too big a deal of this. Don’t worry, okay? I’ll take care of it.”

  Jeff caught the ball and tossed it back. “You better, pal. This is not looking good.”

  “No problem.”

  “Howie, babes, I can’t tell you how sick I get whenever I hear those two words used together in that order, especially by some candy-ass fuckup who’s just caused a huge mess. You’ve just laid a turd on the floor here, and you’re going to clean it up. Now come on. It’s your serve.”

  “It is not my fucking serve,” Howie insisted. He placed the ball on his racquet strings and walked it over to Jeff and said, “Yours.”

  Jeff did not take the ball from Howie’s racquet. “So what do you plan on doing?” he asked. “Any ideas? Any great ideas? Any more great ideas?”

  Howie let the ball drop and bounced it with his racquet, rapid-fire, on the hardwood floor. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “What do I want you to do? I want you to get those Hope sisters, those rich-bitch hippies, to sell their property to SoCal Development. That’s all. Simple. How are you going to do that? Any ideas?”

  “I’ll think of something,” Howie said. “Give me a few days.”

  “You think of something today,” Jeff told him. “Shit. Your serve.”

  ———

  Howie Ralston drove back to his office at the Tecolote Chamber of Commerce and dialed 911. When he got through to the sheriff, he said, “Darrell, we got a problem.”

  ———

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Sheriff Darrell Higgins said on Saturday morning to the news hawks from Anacapa and Los Angeles assembled in the Sheriff’s Department lobby, “what we got here is a simple procedural-type situation. So bear with me if you will, and I’ll brief you on our game plan. Okay. Okay. Basically.…”

  This was great, the sheriff thought. They even had the bright lights on and their cameras rolling.

  You work and you work, and nobody notices. You give your life to the idea of law and order, and maybe it does some good and maybe it doesn’t; sometimes you wonder. You get your plaques from the Chamber of Commerce and you get written up in the paper once in a while, but basically it’s just a job. Which is fine. We’re not looking to be a hero, just keep the peace, just try to help America hang onto what America’s all about. Just do your part is what it’s all about. It all boils down to a matter of responsibility. You just do your part.

  But every now and then a little public recognition is a good thing. Not for yourself personally, of course. Lord knows that’s the last thing Darrell would want. But for the department, and for the standards we’re trying to uphold here.

  “This isn’t technically a sting-type operation,” Sheriff Higgins continued. They were taking notes. They were recording this. A news team for the Los Angeles Times and three LA TV stations, and it would probably be picked up nationwide, they said. “You should be prepared for just about anything. A raid of this sort can run all gamuts. I’ve seen everything from a simple cockfight party with a bunch of drunken Mexicans to a Symbionese Liberation Army–type situation. All gamuts. Yes sir, you in the back?”

  “Sheriff, what do you hope to accomplish by raiding a hotel that’s been so much in the news?”

  “That’s an excellent question, and I’ll try to address it in such a way as to make you fully cognizant of the entire situation we’re up against,” Sheriff Higgins said. “To begin with, let me stress that the establishment we’ll be visiting this morning is not a hotel per se. Not yet, anyway, and we hope that won’t come to fruition. As of now, the owners of Hope Springs, Karen and Nellie Hope, do have all the valid permits necessary to operate a hotel. However they don’t yet have a business license for same. That’s being held in abeyance for the interim. The Tecolote City Council still has some issues with some of the practices involved in their operations.”

  “Could you be a little more specific?”

  The sheriff grinned. “Well, this may not be a family-friendly answer, exactly, but let me put it this way. The residents that currently inhabit and maintain this facility have what’s called a clothing-optional philosophy, and for those who don’t know what that means, it means basically a nudist camp–type deal. So I’m going to have to ask you to be discreet with those cameras, okay?”

  “Are they breaking any laws, exactly? Is nudism illegal in Anacapa County?”

  “No, ma’am, not that I’m aware of. But you could say it’s frowned on. Listen, people, I don’t want to turn this into a media circus, no offense. We’re simply going over there this morning to investigate what we’ve been led to believe is an illegal activity. Just doing our job.”

  “Exactly what illegal activity do you expect to find?”

  “In a nutshell,” the sheriff said, “we have it on good authority—please don’t ask me to name our sources, because that’s a matter of court confidentiality—that the owners of Hope Springs are operating a marijuana plantation on the premises. In other words, they’re growing pot, which they then sell to dealers, and which eventually gets sold to children on the city streets. Our tactic today, ladies and gentlemen, will be to go directly to the plantation itself, accompanied by yourselves as witnesses, so to speak, to gather evidence. My understanding is the illegal plants should be waist-high or taller by now. We will then proceed to the hotel building and arrest the owners and managers of Hope Springs and take them into custody. It’s as simple as that. We’ll allow the suspects to put on clothes, as necessary. Any other questions before we get started? Sir?”

  “Sheriff, what connection is there between today’s operation and the controversy involving SoCal Development and Pacific Power?”

  The sheriff smiled. “That, sir, I’m not at liberty to conjecture. As far as my department is concerned, we’re simply putting an end to an illegal drug operation. I think all of you ladies and gentlemen will agree with me that a drug-free America comes first. Now, if you’ll please follow me out to the parking lot.”

  ———

  Sheriff Higgins climbed into the driver’s seat and turned to check on his prisoner, who was in the back seat, handcuffed to the bar. “You doing all right back there, Mr. Renner?”

  “This is so fucked,” Nick Renner answered. “You’re such an asshole, Darrell.”

  “Don’t call me an asshole,” Higgins said. “You cut the deal. I’m just the chauffeur here. Just give me the directions, identify the crime site, then identify the criminals involved, and that’s it. You walk. Suspended sentence. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me, and if I were you I wouldn’t complain.

  “Fuck you.”

  “I assume I have your complete cooperation?

  “This is so fucked.”

  “Do I have your complete cooperation, Mr. Renner? Frankly, I’m not in favor of cutting deals with criminals, especially drug pushers, but that’s out of my jurisdiction. I’ve been given an assignment, and you have agreed to lead me to the marijuana plantation. Are you ready to cooperate, or do we call the operation off and let the judge take that into consideration when he decides your sentence?”

  “This is fucked.”

  “Mr. Renner?”

  “Drive, asshole. And quit calling me Mr. Renner. Shit, Darrell, we went to high school together.”

  ———

  “J.G., come here!” Courtney Bradford called from the living room that evening. “Come here right now!”

  Bradford lumbered into the living room, where
he found his wife kneeling on the coffee table, her face three feet from the television screen. The screen held the image of a grinning celebrity wearing a Mathilda tee shirt.

  “Look!” she told him. “It’s Sweet Lorraine!”

  “Oh God,” he moaned. “Spare me.”

  Courtney moved back onto the sofa and patted the cushion beside her. “Sit down, honey,” she said. “I want you to see this.”

  J.G. did as he was told, and the six-o’clock news began.

  “The sheriff’s department of Anacapa County got a surprise today when they raided what they thought was a marijuana crop and found instead a famous pop singer, a Nobel prize winner, and a clown weeding a garden of zucchini plants. Yep. Zucchini.”

  In a film clip, Sweet Lorraine Evans herself, Courtney’s favorite star, smiled at the camera and said, “Hey! All right! Come on, I want you to meet some friends of mine. This is Dr. Livingston Pomeroy, the famous entomologist from Australia. And this—Baxter, stop that!—this is my pal Baxter.”

  Sweet Lorraine and Dr. Pomeroy wore jeans and tee shirts. Baxter was dressed in baggy overalls, with no shirt under his suspenders. He wore a goofy grin and a curly wig and was mugging for the camera, juggling a half a dozen young zucchinis the size of hot dogs.

  “And best of all,” Lorraine continued, “I want you to meet my friend Mathilda. Can you boys get a good shot of this?”

  The camera zoomed in on the zucchini that Sweet Lorraine held pressed between her breasts. Crawling up the green surface of the vegetable was a lustrous yellow beetle. “Here she is, folks. What can I say? She makes these zucchinis grow nice and big, that much I can say on television.”

  The broadcast continued from the anchor’s desk: “Needless to say, the raid was called off. Turns out, whether you like zucchini or not, you’re still allowed to grow it in the state of California. Later today Pacific Power announced that it had canceled its plans for a geothermal residential community in Anacapa County. Sweet Lorraine Evans, by the way, will be guest-hosting the Johnny Carson program next Wednesday. Should be quite a show. In other news.…”