THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE

by Mark Russell

  No, the general didn't want any of that. Accordingly he would let Artarmon sweat it out in a jail cell. Let the fool think he was going to trial – then in a last-minute citation of the National Security Act of 1947 – Turner would drop all charges. The young computer professional would most likely keep his mouth shut about the whole ignominious affair. Yes, Turner was sure of it.

  The general opened his eyes as the stewardess offered him a choice of coffee, tea or orange juice. He took a cup of juice, peeled off its plastic lid and looked out the cabin window. Ruffled banks of grey cloud stretched toward the horizon. He sipped the orange juice and sensed the striving populations far below the Delta liner.

  Having organized the most effective police action in the Western Hemisphere, Turner was confident Goldman and Haslow would soon be found. And from what he could unofficially organize, Turner was confident the chemists would come to a grizzly end once incarcerated in the remand section of Marion Prison, Illinois – the end of the line fortress for hardened criminals and political prisoners alike.

  Scott and Michelle fastened seat belts and clasped hands as their plane descended toward Oakland Airport. Before long the DC10 touched down with a faint squeal of tyres on the rubber-streaked tarmac. After a screaming stretch of de-acceleration, the jet taxied to its disembarkation gate at the main terminal building. The couple deplaned and collected their luggage from the designated carousel inside the terminal. At a car rental counter Michelle used her credit card to hire a Datsun Stanza sedan.

  Thirty minutes later, Goldman and Michelle drove along Telegraph Avenue, the car radio tuned to KFOG FM. The sun slipped behind the building-lined horizon and the avenue thickened with sluggish streams of peak-hour traffic. Brake lights flashed and horns honked as workers sporting varying degrees of Monday-itis commuted home.

  Michelle's eyes widened and moved this way and that from the excitement of being on the other side of the country. She'd never been to the Bay Area before, let alone Northern California. The university end of Telegraph Avenue was a hive of activity. Its frenetic energy buzzed shamelessly in the failing light. Shoppers, tourists, students and counterculture types crowded the footpaths and moved in and out of coffeehouses, low-priced eateries, bookstores, clothing boutiques and assorted other storefronts. Sidewalk vendors selling incense, jewellry, bumper stickers and T-shirt displays plied their trade in a colourful and garrulous manner. A disabled Vietnam war veteran in a motorized bed (replete with rubber wheels, steering, side mirrors, brakes and indicators) turned into Channing Way, hardly drawing attention from the sea of motorists and pedestrians about him. A long-haired acid-casualty in a flannel shirt and stained jeans muttered incoherently as he sauntered past Michelle's side of the car. A mangy dog scampered after him, looking none the better for its fealty.

  'Berkeley's a crazy place,' Goldman said. 'No wonder the locals call it Bezerkeley.' He turned left at the end of Telegraph Avenue and drove past the Berkeley campus of UC. Students milled about green lawns and strolled along campus footpaths. Michelle looked through her window. A clown busker juggled flaming batons. The entertainer balanced himself on a short wood plank atop a metal drum. A small audience had gathered before him.

  'That university has spawned the most violent student riots this nation has ever seen.'

  'Really?'

  'Uh-huh.' He became conscious of Michelle's disinterest in all things political, of the generational difference between them. He'd driven more or less on automatic pilot since the airport and had thought to dine at one of the budget-priced cafes he usually ate at when visiting the Bay Area.

  What was he thinking? He had a wad of cash in his pocket and a beautiful young woman beside him. A beautiful young woman who was the only positive to have come from the tragedy that had befallen him. In any case, now he faced an uncertain future, it made little sense not to squeeze as much as he could from any given moment. Time to impress Michelle with something finer than DC cafe food.

  'Hey Michelle.' He looked at her in a new light. 'Let's eat.' Then, more specifically: 'Let's dine.'

  'Okay.' Her beaming smile lifted his spirits no end, and he navigated with newfound purpose through the early-evening traffic. Before long they drove over the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. Michelle took in the city lights view and pointed with touristic excitement at the Transamerica Pyramid rising above the skyline of San Francisco's financial district.

  In an outside elevator, Goldman and Michelle ascended to a cocktail lounge on the thirtieth floor of the Fairburton Hotel. They'd had a memorable dinner at La Normande, a well-reviewed downtown theatre restaurant. Fortunately lack of reservation had proved no hindrance. They'd dined on pate de campagne appetizers, coq au vin rouge entrees, and steaks au poivre with orders of French string beans in butter for main course. Dessert had been souffle Grand Marniers, along with several glasses of Remy Martin brandy. Neither of them had had cause for complaint and the dining experience proved an agreeable reprieve from the ongoing pressures of being on the road.

  Below them, from the vantage of the Fairburton's outside elevator, city lights twinkled like a futuristic metropolis envisaged by Jules Verne at the turn of the twentieth century. Michelle, satiated and content, rested her head on Goldman's shoulder.

  'So this is San Francisco?'

  'Uh-huh,' he replied. 'At your feet.'

  The outside elevator came to a sudden, high halt. The panoramic nighttime view breathtaking. Goldman, Michelle and a handful of passengers made their way into a plush cocktail lounge.

  After several drinks and cigarettes, and tapping her feet to the more upbeat songs of the lounge's Billy Joel-like piano player, Michelle headed for the ladies' room. Goldman decided to call Carl Friedman. He found a payphone and confirmed his and Michelle's arrival the following morning. He stopped at an ornate walnut table that was home to a slender vase of orchids and a scatter of newspapers. He selected the afternoon edition of The Examiner and returned to his table.

  He read a third-page article about the British royal family. Apparently rumours were rife around Buckingham Palace that the thirty-two year old Prince of Wales would announce his engagement to Lady Diana Spencer, a nineteen year old sunny blonde often seen at the Prince's side. November the fourteenth the punters' favoured date.

  Hmm, bit of an age difference. Wonder if it'll work for them? Goldman turned to the entertainment pages and read a disparaging review of Mad Max, a futuristic-biker movie fresh from Australian director George Miller: “...senseless car-nage ... not a 'people picture' ... a b-grade destined for the grind houses”.

  The chemist flicked to the front of the paper. A fifth-page article caught his attention and shook him from his cocktail-induced complacency:

  MILITARY CONTRACTOR ARRESTED

  Washington DC, October 25 (AP).

  The FBI and the Defence Intelligence Agency (DIA) want to question two civilian workers from the Silverwood Chemical Centre in Maryland. The research chemists at the army facility have disappeared under mysterious circumstances, taking with them, the DIA believes, inestimable stores of classified data. Baltimore Police have confirmed a shootout outside one of the chemists' home on Friday night; though authorities are yet to arrest anyone over the incident.

  The chemists allegedly stole data from the army base's newly installed DEC VAX computer. Stephen Artarmon, an employee of Datacheck, a data management and security firm, was at the Maryland centre as part of a team to get the new computer up and running. Artarmon is alleged to have given the chemists access to the DEC VAX computer. He was arrested over the incident and could face treason charges carrying a maximum prison term of twenty years.

  However, Artarmon's lawyer, Robert Shapiro, announced this morning his client has not technically broken the law. As yet there is no state or federal legislation in place that outlaws the “electronic browsing” of stored material.

  With no present proof that "hard copies" of the classified data have been made, the charges against Artarmon could be droppe
d.

  Senator Cliff Moore (Dem, New Hampshire) will undoubtedly use the incident to bolster his campaign for the introduction of federal legislation to counter the nation's escalating trend of computer crime. Of course the ...

  Goldman tossed the paper aside and slumped back in his seat. 'Jesus, Steve!' He rubbed his thighs and looked toward the ceiling like a church-going supplicant. He could hardly believe what he'd read. A vortex opened up inside him and the cocktail lounge broke apart as if it were a computerized construct. He clamped his eyes shut and gripped the table for support. He swallowed hard and looked about the room. It was as before, though a nub of nausea had taken root in his stomach. He looked this way and that, groping for a modicum of stability, for a mental anchor to keep himself in check. So much had happened since Friday night and the fallout seemed unending. Of course he didn’t want anyone hurt by his actions (actions which in hindsight were patently reckless) and yet people had been hurt all the same. According to the newspaper article, Artarmon was now behind bars.

  Goldman chewed his thumbnail and felt irretrievably damned, as if never able to right the wrong that had crashed into his life like the ravaging waters of a collapsed weir. Knowing General Turner's corruptness was behind what had taken place did little to assuage the chemist's growing sense of guilt. He was nothing if not blameworthy. He gazed about the cocktail lounge and could only pray the charges against Artarmon would be dropped.

  An attractive Mulatto woman with close-cropped blond hair sat at a nearby table. She winked suggestively at Goldman before lighting a cigarette. A balding man in his fifties, a crumpled beige suit clinging to his dumpy frame, dropped into a seat beside her. The woman pulled away from him as he caressed her chin with the familiarity of recent intimacy. She shot a pleading glance at Goldman as if wanting to be rescued from the mauling advances of the older man.

  'I feel wonderful,' Michelle said tipsily. She made to sit down and nearly lost balance. Once seated, she lit a Salem and ordered another round of Orange Orgasms from the tight-skirted waitress who'd appeared at the table. 'Scott, I love it over here. I really do.' She cast him a playful look and rubbed her foot against his leg. 'If everything works out, we can go to LA soon, right? I can't wait to see my friend Sandy. She says we can stay any time we want.'

  Goldman favoured her with a “of course you can, babe, you're with me” look. From the corner of his eye he saw the Mulatto woman look resentfully at Michelle. A moment later the woman scanned the lounge as if looking for a single man. She butted her cigarette in an ashtray, all the while her older companion whispered in her ear.

  Michelle bobbed her head and whistled gaily to the piano player's song. Goldman found it difficult to share her heightened mood, haunted as he was by the newspaper article. General Turner had put a whole new spin on the affair. Most likely he would use every law enforcement and intelligence agency at his disposal. Goldman tensed from the enormity of his enemy's stores. He couldn't tell Michelle what he'd just read in the newspaper. Again he didn't have it in him to be completely honest.

  A disheartening confusion threatened to derail him. He didn't know which way to turn. All roads led to the troubled core of his hurting. Like a long-time substance abuser, he wanted nothing more than to block out the insufferable pain coursing through his veins like corrosive acid. Consequently he was driven to drink more than his usual when out on the town.

  He polished off his Orange Orgasm before Michelle finished hers. Hardly a drinker, he nevertheless kept pace with Michelle who seemed more adept at late-night drinking.

  And so the couple made a night of it.

  After the Nightline Lounge, they went to the Top of the Mark, and from there on to the Starlight Roof. They ended up at Mabuhay Gardens where some up-and-coming punk band smashed beer bottles on stage. In the early hours they checked into Hotel Misaki, and once bedded in their room made love with the reckless abandon alcohol afforded. No sooner had they pulled apart than sleep overcame them. The much-needed end to another day on the road.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Tuesday, 28th October 1980.

  Goldman woke early with less of a hangover than expected. Even so he was disorientated by his surroundings. He rubbed his eyes and took in the room's cane walls, shoji screens and indoor rock-garden. The rock-garden's niches were home to delicate flowers, tiny jade statues and ceramic bowls painted with Asian calligraphy. He focused on a sunken Japanese-style furo bath. Neatly folded kimonos and a selection of bath salts in slender glass bottles were carefully arranged along the bath's rocked-in edge. The careful positioning of the room's objects reminded him of the mind-calming effect of a Zen pebble garden at a Los Angeles Buddhist Temple he'd once visited with Rachel (not that his alcohol-clouded mind this morning was a willing repository for anything aesthetic). Still, he was happy to have woke in the room.

  He got up from the tatami-mat bed in which Michelle still slept. He looked down at her and admired her graceful repose on the pillow. He walked onto the balcony outside and greeted the waking day. Seagulls wheeled across a gray featureless sky and his future seemed as defined as the early-morning mists cloaking the city.

  Michelle drove across the Golden Gate Bridge and glanced unknowingly at Alcatrez Island. 'That's Alcatrez Island Prison,' Goldman said. 'In its heyday it catered for some of America's finest: Machine Gun Kelly, Al Capone – '

  'So where's Carl's place,' she asked from behind the wheel, keen to change the subject.

  'In Mill Valley, not that far.'

  They exited the sweeping span of the Golden Gate Bridge and made their way into Marin County. Before long they followed leisurely traffic through Sausalito. Michelle was taken by the town's idyllic setting. Sailboats dotted a shimmering bay and tourists and shoppers milled about colourful souvenir shops, pricey art galleries and factory-cost clothing boutiques. Tall pines and verdant foliage greeted the couple as they motored through Tamalpais Valley. They had little cause for complaint (apart from mild hangovers) and all up thought it a wonderful day to be alive. Amidst a redwood forest outside Mill Valley, they turned off a two-lane blacktop and drove down a narrow, twisting road. Before long they engaged a rutted dirt road, and the rented Datsun held its own on the two-kilometre stretch.

  'Just here,' Goldman said.

  Michelle braked before a wood-shingle letterbox. She gunned the car up a short steep drive before parking under a large sycamore tree. They climbed out of the ticking sedan and straightened hair and clothes. Before them was a split-level mud brick house, its covered walkways leading to several detached dwellings. To the left of the slate-roofed house was a three-walled aluminum shed. A flourish of green sleeper lined its facing end wall. The long metal shed housed a new-model Chrysler, a Chevrolet pickup, a Massey Ferguson tractor, forty-four gallon drums of petrol and diesel, and a wooden workbench which was home to a variety of electrical and mechanical tools. Close by the bench, horse saddles were perched on a holding rail. In the dimness of a nearby pottery studio, Goldman made out a makeshift kiln, a pair of potter's wheels, and a number of unglazed pots and vases on wood and steel holding racks.

  'Scott, old buddy.' Carl Friedman strolled towards his visitors, his rustic home behind him, his bearded face creased from a welcoming smile. Though broad-shouldered and fit from maintaining his rural acreage, he carried a tired expression that unflatteringly belied his thirty-eight years, even as his restless eyes spoke of mental acuity. The two men hugged. Goldman introduced Michelle. Friedman brightened upon saying her name and accepted her offered hand, and Michelle seemed to take comfort from his genuine manner.

  Slanting beams of forest light played across the trio as they walked towards Friedman's mud brick home, the men loud and lively from meeting again. Goldman glanced at Michelle as she made a playful face at an inquisitive brown squirrel peering down at her from a nearby beech tree.

  A stand of pines silhouetted against a swath of twinkling stars was the nighttime view presented to Goldman as he pressed against the pentagonal window in
Carl Friedman's dining room. He sensed the stillness of the woods outside and couldn't recall when he'd last spent a night in the country. The sound of his name broke his reverie. He turned towards the candle-lit table behind him and took his place alongside Michelle, Carl Friedman, Carl's wife Marlene and the Friedmans' eight year old daughter Tandy.

  A dinner of chilly-bean lasagne, home garden salad and sticks of garlic bread was readily consumed – much to Tandy's dismay, as she was of late a voraciously hungry girl invariably keen for more than her share.

  'So,' Friedman said, 'the debate's on tonight, for what it's worth.' He picked at a tooth with his thumbnail. 'Should be good for a laugh.' He poured himself more wine. 'I dare say Reagan's used to acting. Certainly made enough B-grades in his time.'

  'Give the man some credit,' Marlene said, brushing aside a stray lock of auburn hair.

  'Why?' Friedman asked with a testy undertow. Marlene picked at specks of dried food on the tablecloth. The thirty-nine year old had aged well, in spite of being a prolific artist perennially frustrated by her work. Her abstract canvasses were a particular source of consternation, but nonetheless fetched handsome prices in a string of North Californian galleries.

  She sighed and answered her husband's blunt query with the factual terseness she felt it deserved. 'Because any half-wit knows Reagan's anti-inflationary policies, his promises to relieve taxes and regulation, are sorely needed after the economic blundering of the Carter administration ...'

  Friedman looked down and mumbled unintelligibly at his dinner plate. Marlene stopped her economic homily and gave her husband a frosty look that spoke of later bedside dispute. Goldman sensed the tension between the couple ran far deeper than the politics voiced.