Blood is Pretty

by Steven Paul Leiva

  “How did you know about Trosper?”

  “That quirky memory training they gave me. ”

  “Oh. ”

  “Lot of e-mails here. He must save them all. ”

  “A young man looking out for his own legend. Open one up, let’s read it. ”

  It was a diatribe against a Jim Cameron film, scolding the poor bastard at the other end of the correspondence for having given it a good review. “And I thought the Jewish God was a vengeful god,” Roee said as he closed out of the document.

  “Look. ” I said, noticing a statistical fact. A majority of the correspondence was to and from the e-mail address yorkport@aol. com. We started opening them up by chronological order, the first one having been written about a year back. They were correspondence with a Craig York. We could quickly gather that York and Finch were old friends who had gone to high school together in Portland, Oregon. It was chitchat, philosophical discussions on film, and bitching about Hollywood and it’s lack of ethics, fair play, and purity. Finally the pertinent one showed itself. It was from York, dated about eight months previous. It read:

  Dave—

  Here’s the treatment I told you about over the phone. I call it “V. ” I think it’s pretty good. It just suddenly flooded into me. You’ll see that it’s sort of based on my work with Jim. Why didn’t I think of it before? Guess I needed some time back here to wash the L. A. shit off me with clean air, clean water, and clean minds. Anyway, read it and see what you think. And do me a favor, don’t show it to Jim or tell him about it. He’ll just go all nuclear again, so, Buck’em—

  “What is that do you think? A Typo?” Roee asked.

  “What?”

  “‘Buck’em,’” Roee said pointing the word on the screen.

  I had automatically read it as the more obvious. “A typo or a euphemism. He seems to be a ‘clean’ person. ”

  “Maybe it’s an Oregon thing. ”

  “Maybe. ” We continued to read.

  If there is anyway you can get it to any “powers that be” like you offered, feel free to do so. You can kind of be like my manager I guess, so I’ll pay you a percentage if anything happens. Guess who I may get to show it to? Andy Rand. He’s going to be up here for the Creativity Conference. Of course Johnny doesn’t want people bugging the rich and famous with scripts and such, but I read in Premiere that Rand is a fishing nut, so I figured I could offer him a fishing trip on the houseboat and get some time alone with him. Way cool, huh? We’ll see what happens. Ran into your Mom. Will you please write her? She just winds up bugging me.

  Craig

  “What a schmuck this Finch is!” Roee said. “He plagiarizes his best friend while worrying about the lack of purity in Hollywood. ”

  “‘No one knows the ease of the blade between the shoulders, as the man with his hand on the hilt. ’”

  Roee looked at me with questioning admiration. “Did you just make that up?”

  I had, but: “It’s a well known literary reference. Look it up. ”

  “Seneca?”

  “Nope. ”

  “But one of the ancients?”

  “I have far too much admiration for your intelligence to give you a hint. ”

  “I know I know it. ”

  “I’ll tell you if you can tell me where Mae West lived. The El Royale or the Ravenswood?”

  “Oh damn! I know I know that too. Uh… Damn! Well, it’s one or the other. ”

  “Not good enough. Anyway, listen, check for two things. See if Finch has addresses in here. If so get Craig York’s in Portland. If there is none we’ll trace it later through our contacts at AOL. Then look for any other reference to this Jim, especially any letters and an address. ”

  Roee found everything. Jim turned out to be Jim Skinner, another Portland buddy, now a graduate student at Caltech in Pasadena. Finch and he e-mailed a lot, mainly debates about film and Science Fiction, plus near pornographic renditions of what they called “Dream Dates” with various women of celebrity status. Strange what technology can bring. Two high school buddies living 20 miles apart, they could be talking on the phone, they could jump on the freeway and visit each other. Instead they choose the near extinct, almost atavistic form of personal written correspondence. Why, an inordinate love of the missive? I doubt it. It was probably more the case that it was “way cool” to communicate in this new, high tech manner. It will be a boon for academics in the 21st century. THE PERSONAL E-MAIL OF BILL GATES: CHARACTER REVEALED IN CYBERSPACE. I can’t wait for the audio chip version.

  “So, anything else?” Roee asked. “Should we riffle his drawers?”

  “I wouldn’t advise it. Not without rubber gloves. ”

  “To prevent fingerprints?”

  “To prevent contagion. ”

  *

  As we were leaving Roee hesitated. “Forget something?” I asked.

  “Is there any chance you would let me have a little fun here?”

  “I can’t imagine how you could have fun here. ”

  “The door’s got an inside chain lock. ”

  “So?”

  “I could use the Henson and—. ”

  “Roee, that is just plain mean spirited. ”

  “No, no! I would call it being no more than charmingly impish. ”

  “Churlishly childish, more like it. ”

  “Oh, come on! You know this guy. Don’t you want to contemplate the look on his face when he unlocks his door?”

  It was an appealing idea. And no harm would be done. Except maybe to the door. “Okay. I suppose one has to be sophomoric on occasion. ”

  “Great!”

  Roee took out the Henson. A device of his own invention, the Henson is a collapsible armature with an articulated metal hand electronically connected to an arm length glove. The armature rests at the end of a telescoping pole. Built into the palm of the “hand” is a miniature snorkel video camera. Roee put on the glove. He then closed the door to where there was just a crack left and slid the armature through the crack, snapping it once to connect its joints. He turned the device on, then holding the armature by the pole in his left hand, and watching a small video display screen, he manipulated his gloved right hand, which in turn manipulated the armature, which then, very simply, latched the chain. He withdrew the Henson, and then closed the door.

  “I hope he likes mysteries,” I said.

  “Who doesn’t like mysteries?” Roee replied as he replaced the Henson into the Bag o’ Tricks.

  The next morning I took the Alaska Airlines 6:55 flight to Portland. I traveled under the name of Bob Hopkins, one of 52 identities I can assume by simply going into a special file room I have and pulling out the required documents, whether something as simple as a driver’s license—all I would need on this trip,—or something more elaborate such as a passport, birth certificate, government agent identification, or even diplomatic credentials. Of the 52 identities, 16 are of foreign nationals. The rest declare me to be a U. S. citizen, although not always one who could run for the presidency. I even have several histories that peg me as an ex-con of rather dangerous leanings. Those are often the most fun. One of the 52 is actually who I really am. Although I’m not sure I can remember who that is.

  The plane landed on time at 9:08 AM, and I quickly rented a car and headed towards downtown Portland.

  Nice city, Portland, a dash of sophistication among the basically redneck wilds of the rest of the state. Like Seattle and Canada’s Vancouver, a desirable place to live. Except for the gray skies and rain. You have to like that. But the weather is never as bad as outsiders think it is. Nor as good as the natives would pray for if they thought there was a hope in hell their prayers would be answered. On this day it was not bad. It had obviously rained in the early morning, but as I drove from the airport the sky was featuring huge cumulus clouds, broken by patches of the most intense blue. They were still rain-filled black at their bottoms, but white and sun catching as they towered up high—mountains on the wind. It p
rovided a dramatic backdrop for the compact group of skyscrapers that marked downtown Portland, a manageable downtown exuding a pleasant, non-threatening urban feel.

  According to his address, Craig York lived at the marina on the Willamette River, which cuts through Portland and connects with the larger Columbia River. He mentioned a houseboat in the e-mail, so this did not surprise me. I was, though, surprised by the houseboat itself, it was obviously not commercially built. It was a huge, gorgeous craft, with spacious decking at the stern, and large living quarters in the center that, I assumed, extended below deck, and which was topped off with a wheel cabin. The bow had the mock look of an 18th Century British Man-O-War, complete with a figurehead of a woman well endowed and fair of face. The name of the boat was Buck’em, although the B was suspiciously square in its graphic rendition.

  I could see all this from an area above the marina, which was surrounded by a chain link fence. There was only one access to the rows of slips housing mainly pleasure crafts of various sizes from the practical to the ostentatious. It was a gangway leading down to the docking. It was gated and locked. I was about ready to call York on my cell phone when I saw a young man come out of the cabin of the Buck’em.

  “Hello! Craig York!”

  The man was somewhat startled, but began to look for the source of the shout. We made eye contact.

  “Ye - yes?”

  “Mr. York, can I speak with you? I have something for you!”

  ‘Uh—well, yeah, sure, I guess. ”

  York walked off the houseboat and headed towards me. Like Dave Finch, he was a skinny individual, but he had none of Finch’s nervous, ferret qualities. He moved, though, with hesitation, as if never sure of his next step. He was about 5’9” and wore old, faded blue jeans, white deck shoes, and a green pullover shirt. The straw blond hair on top of his long, oval head was cut short and brushed straight forward. His complexion was basically pale with a tinge of red, as if he was permanently embarrassed. His eyes were the faded match of his jeans.

  He reached the gate and stopped. He made no move to open it.

  “Can we go to your boat?”

  “Oh—uh, yeah, sure. I’m sorry. ”

  He opened the gate and let me through. Then, with hesitation, he took the lead and we made our way to the Buck’em and boarded.

  “Fascinating craft. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it. ”

  “Oh—uh—thanks. My dad built it. When I was about ten. I helped him, you know, but, uh—yeah it was his—it was his dream. He designed it—uh—”

  “Unique bow. ”

  “Uh, yeah. He was a great fan of the Hornblower novels. Uh, we should go in maybe. ” He gestured to the inside of the cabin.

  “Thank you. ” I said and entered. The inside of the cabin featured an incredible economy of design that led to a very comfortable, settled-in feel. The furniture was all built-ins, and although the upholstery was well worn, the woodwork that shaped the furniture, all obviously hand worked, had the lush look of constant care and seemed to have suffered no weathering. The one odd piece was a metal unit bolted to the floor that held a rather impressive computer set up. Not a basic Performa like Finch’s Mac, but the newer and far more elaborate 8100 Power PC with two color monitors, one of which I was sure was high definition. It was more of a professional set-up than personal one.

  “I see you live on the boat?”

  “Yeah, uh, li—like I said, since he built it, Dad and I lived on it. My mother died when I was young. ”

  “And your dad?”

  “Oh, he died a little over a year ago. ”

  I allowed a quite space to replace any false statement of compassion normally expected. “Generous quarter deck. Fish off of it?”

  “Uh, yeah, Dad, actually built it so we could take fishing parties out. That’s how he earned his living. That—that’s kinda what I do now. ”

  “Interesting name, Buck’em. ”

  York laughed just slightly. “Well, uh, yeah, Dad was, uh, he was, uh, well, not really a very social guy. Didn’t get along with most people. His basic attitude towards everybody was, you know, sort of Buck’em with an F. So that’s what he wanted to name the boat. And he did! That was the first name he put on the boat. But everybody, you know, everybody at the marina and everywhere got kinda upset over it. So, we changed it to Buck’em. And he started using that, in fact, and it sort of became—sort of became his catch phrase. So - so you said you—you had something for me?”

  “Yeah. Actually I have something for you from Paul Hinckley. ”

  “The—the film director?”

  “That’s right. But I need some answers from you first to certify that I can give you what Mr. Hinckley has for you. ”

  “Wel—well what would a Paul Hinckley have for me?”

  “Did you write a film treatment called, ‘V’?”

  There was that instant I was looking for. Was he surprised to hear me mention ‘V’? Or was he, once I had mentioned Hinckley, anticipating it – or dreading it—as logical? But the instant was just that. It passed before I could read it to my satisfaction.

  “How did you know about that?”

  “Mr. Hinckley has a copy of it. He likes it very much. He would like to purchase it from you. ”

  “Uh—oh—gee I, um, I don’t know how he could have gotten that. ”

  “It seems your friend, Dave Finch, gave it to him. ”

  “Dave? Oh…”

  “And the thing is, Mr. York, Dave Finch told Paul Hinckley that he wrote it. ”

  “Oh. Uh—he—he shouldn’t have done that. ”

  “No, obviously not. It’s called plagiarism. Not a nice thing for a friend to do. Assuming you are friends?”

  York did not answer right away. It may have been shock, but there seemed to be too much activity behind his pale blue eyes for that. “Yes. Yes, best friends, kind of. We grew up together. Went through high school together. Gee—I don’t—I don’t know what to say, because I’m not sure—uh…”

  “You’re not sure of what?”

  “Well…”

  Another silence. York seemed to have fallen in on himself, thinking very hard. Finally I had to break it. “Let me show you how much Mr. Hinckley wants to pay you. ” I stuck the check under his nose It had the desired effect.

  “Oh—oh my god! Gee, this is, you know, this is a quarter of a million dollars!”

  “Yes. And this is a cashier’s check. You can put it in your bank today and draw on it immediately. There are, though, certain stipulations. You better read this. ”

  I handed him the agreement drafted by Hinckley, redone by myself to reflect York’s name. The other agreement, the one I had drafted, I felt wasn’t necessary just yet. He read it over. But his mind seemed stuck on something else as well, not that he wasn’t taking in the information in the document, but I could perceive that there was another line of thought his mind was following. I assumed that the two lines intersected. But I couldn’t begin to guess where. Finally, without taking his eyes away from the document, he spoke up.

  “Well—this—I would have no problem signing this. ”

  He did so, quickly grabbing a pen and signing in rush. He left the document on the table and stood up, leaving me to retrieve it. “If that’s—uh—all you need. I need to take the boat out and meet some guys. ”

  “Do you have a moment to satisfy a little curiosity?”

  “Uh—well…”

  “Don’t you have any Hollywood ambitions? Credit is often as important as money. You just signed yours away. ”

  “Oh—well—no, not really. I—I hate it down there. I lived there while at Caltech. ”

  “You went to Caltech?”

  “Uh - yeah. But—um—I came back little over a year ago. ”

  “When your Dad died?”

  “Uh, yes. ”

  “Why didn’t you return to Caltech?”

  “Why? Uh—well—I guess I’m a little bit like my dad. I’m not—I’m not
very social, and I found that, you know, in the science world there it’s all politics. I—I don’t have a mind for that kind of thinking, but—but that kind of thinking gets you your grants so you can, you know, do the kind of thinking you thought you were trained for. ”

  “Practical or theoretical?”

  “A little bit of both. Theoretical can be more reclusive. But practical can be more—well—practical. ”

  “So you’ve given up science?”

  “Well—the boat was being left unattended. I hated L. A. Noisy; dirty; crowded. I mean, I graduated, it was just, getting into the whole graduate studies thing—and—and I just thought, hell—I like to fish. ”

  “Awfully elaborate computer set up just to do a little fishing. ” He looked over to his computer, shocked, as if he had forgotten it was there. I decided to give him some rope. “I suppose it’s for soundings to find schools of salmon?” But he did not take it.

  “Oh no. I use this for graphics. Computer animation stuff. ”

  Guileless? Was it real or practiced? “What kind of animation? Talking mice or something?”

  “Depends. I freelance for a computer film company.

  “So you are an artist as well?”

  “Well…”

  “What was your field in science?”

  “Oh—uh—how do I explain it? Physics. I mean broadly. But also—well—brain function, kind of, on a molecular level, and—and information processing. ”

  “Sounds esoteric?”

  “Well… ”

  “Do you know Jim Skinner?”

  He seemed surprise. “Yeah—uh—sure. Jim—I went to high school with Jim too. Jim, Dave and I, we were sort of—uh—inseparable. ”

  “Did Jim have anything to do with ‘V’?”

  “Uh, no, not at all. I wrote it after I returned home. ”

  “But I assume it has something to do with your science?”

  “Oh, only in a—a minimal way. ”

  “Nothing to do with Jim’s work at Caltech?”

  “No, nothing. ”

  “So you can assure me that you are the sole author of ‘V’ and that you did not just commit fraud by signing this document?”