by Tim Dorsey
Rush week.
Ford wandered conversation to conversation until he was out back, leaning against the railing of a sun-bleached observation deck. To his left, a man in a white robe chanted and played the sitar. To his right, another robed man pumped a keg. The man skimmed the foam off the top of a plastic cup and handed it to Ford. Have you ever given any thought to joining a fraternal organization with strong community ties?
Im not joining any cult, said Ford.
Oh, no. Were not a cult.
I read about you guys in the paper. Mind control
Catholic Church started those rumors. They play hardball with upstarts. You want to talk about a cult.
What about the castration?
The man began pumping the keg again. Press always gets hung up on that, like its the only thing we do. Ever read about the stretch of highway we clean up every summer?
No.
Thats my point. You need to enroll in our trial plan. Two weeks, no strings. Judge for yourself.
How far in is the castration?
Youre fixating, said the man. Open your mind
Pedro walked by with his own cup of draft, talking to someone else in a white robe.
so the carpenter files down the bolts on the drawbridge
Ford looked over the brochures hed just been handed. The robed man began pumping the keg again. Its a tiered payment structure. You live in the house and get the meal plan, but theres a discount if you dont want breakfast. Some of the guys like to sleep in
Mark ran over with a cell phone. Dallas just called. We gotta go.
Holmby Hills.
Whats wrong with everyone at this party? asked Ford.
What do you mean? said Pedro.
Theyre all gloomy.
Thats because the host doesnt let anyone do drugs in his house.
Whys that?
Hes a dealer.
Wonderland Avenue.
Ford stuck his head through the twin front doors. Holy cow. Who lives here?
Professional stage parents, said Pedro. Two kids in prime time.
The place was the most jammin yet. Competing stereos on full volume in every room: Gwen Stefani bleeding into Chili Peppers. Open drug use. Casualties everywhere. A gun discharged into the ceiling.
Whats the party for? asked Ford.
Shes pregnant again. Baby shower.
Ford noticed something across the room: Mel Glick heading up the stairs with a blonde over his shoulders in a firemans carry. Ian was right behind, toting a medical bag and Polaroid camera.
Why doesnt anyone do anything?
Because they know whats going on, said Pedro.
Whats going on?
A transaction.
They went out on the balcony. Ford was struck again by the view.
The City of Angels, lonely as I am
He repeated his mistake of looking down over the railing. He stumbled back.
Whats the matter? asked Pedro.
Ford blinked a few times. I cant believe they build em like this. Each ones higher and scarier.
You should see the Chemosphere House around the corner. Not even attached to the mountain. On top of a single pole.
There was a place like that in Body Double, said Ford. Craig Wasson peeped on Melanie Griffith with a telescope.
Thats the same house.
A loud rumble shook the building.
Ford looked up at a blinking red light. The belly of a giant jetliner roared directly overhead on its final descent into LAX.
TWO THOUSAND FEET OVER LOS ANGELES
Serge was glued to the window. Singing.
Comin into Los Angel-eeeeeez
bringin in a couple of keeeeeez
He turned to the businessman. Dont worry. The only keys I carry fit in doorknobs.
The businessman tried to read a magazine.
Serge leaned over his tray table. A map of the United States lay across it. The map had a dotted red line across the country from Tampa to the Arizona-California border. Serge uncapped a Magic Marker and made sound effects as he added five more dashes to the coast. Almost there. He capped the pen. Remember me telling you over New Mexico about the wings that sheared off that cargo jet from rivet stress? I think well make it.
Coleman tapped the businessman on his left arm and held out a miniature bottle of vodka. Want some?
No thanks.
Serge tapped the businessman on the right arm. Just remembered: Most crashes occur within five minutes of takeoff and landing, so were not out of the woods yet. Best thing to do is get your mind off the smell of jet fuel. Remember that amateur video of the fiery, pinwheel crash down the runway in Sioux City? Dont picture it. Thats how I cope. Just keep telling myself: Think happy thoughts. Teddy bears, fairies, gumdrops
The businessman felt a tap on his left arm. Coleman pointed at a half-full vodka on the middle tray. Are you gonna finish yours?
Take it.
Thanks.
A tap on his right arm.
I can see the control tower! We just have to clear this last freeway
Three hundred feet, two hundred
You be Mozart. Im Joan of Arc
Holy shit, Mozart! Get me out of this fucking thing!
The jet touched down and taxied to the gate. Passengers got up en masse, unlatching overhead bins. Serge refilled his carry-on from the seat pockets.
The businessman wasnt moving.
Smart call, said Serge. Why compete with the insanity? Just relax till everyones off and stroll out at your leisure. I would, but we have appointments
The businessman remained still as the rest of the passengers emptied out the front of the plane, Serge and Coleman bringing up the rear. A receiving line of cheerful pilots and flight attendants thanked each of them. Coleman tripped over the lip of the pressure door and tumbled into the accordion arm. The staff winced. Then Serge came by, shaking hands hard, profusely thanking them for heroics in the face of the unthinkable.
Finally, they were gone.
The businessman flipped open a cell phone and hit some numbers. Hello?
Yes, we just landed
No, dont intercept. Fall back to loose surveillance
Because I saw the first page of the letter
Hold on to your hat youre not going to believe this
** Chapter 16
LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
Avis rental lot. Recent coat of shiny black tar and highly reflective orange markings. Just after two A.M. Inside: a single reservationist with no work and someone mopping outside the restrooms.
A courtesy bus pulled up. Two red-eye clients went inside. The empty bus headed back to the terminal.
It was dead again. The lot was in the landing pattern. These were the strange hours that were totally silent or deafening. Serge unfolded the first page of his grandfathers letter. There were ten digits in a different-color ink across the bottom. He placed the page on top of a pay phone next to the bus shelter.
Across the street sat a Ramada Inn. Each floor above the first had a balcony. On the top floor, a tall woman in a blue windbreaker stood at a railing with high-power binoculars, overlooking rental car row. She observed someone in a bright tropical shirt next to the Avis shelter, sticking coins in a pay phone.
Serge held the receiver to his head and punched numbers. He watched the two people at the reservation counter, an exhausted business traveler who couldnt get an upgrade and some idiot with a surfboard. The phone began ringing. Serge covered one ear as a 747 roared overhead.
O
n the Ramada balcony, a cell phone began ringing. The woman with binoculars answered. Hello?
Serge?
Yeah, were still on. A half hour
You got something to write with?
Nineteen-eleven West Olive
Therell be a message waiting for you at the counter
Turbine thrust drowned out the conversation. Serge covered his ear again and looked up at a DC-9 clearing the lot and touching down on the other side of the fence.
See you there.
The woman hung up and raised her binoculars again, following Serge across the parking lot to rental slot 28.
Serge threw his bags in the trunk of a red Chrysler Sebring convertible with fifty-two miles on the odometer. Coleman was already in the passenger seat. Another roar overhead.
The woman on the Ramada balcony followed the Chrysler as it drove across the lot.
Another balcony two floors below, another set of binoculars. They belonged to a man in a dark suit and thin, dark tie. He was on the phone. Unit two, youre on
Were rolling.
The balcony man watched the convertible race out the Avis gate and into traffic. His binoculars panned back to the rental lot, picking up a black Grand Marquis going the same direction. The Marquis made a left and caught the Chrysler at a red light.
The woman on the top floor of the Ramada dialed her phone again. Just spotted a black Grand Marquis. Looks like they brought backup
. Thats right, a double cross
Go to Plan B.
A balmy wind blew through Serges hair as he turned east on Manchester Avenue. Coleman was bent down, trying to light a joint. Serge bent down with him, sticking his iPod in a special cradle to transmit through the car radio.
One block back, the Grand Marquis followed in the same lane at the same speed. What the hells he doing? said the driver. Theyre all over the road.
Serges head popped back up. And now the moment weve waited for all our lives!
Coleman exhaled a big hit. What?
My Los Angeles soundtrack. Serge turned the iPods click-wheel to the desired position. Spent weeks selecting the perfect tunes to give us special powers. He hit play and maxed out the volume. The Chrysler turned left on Osage.
I wonder why in L.A
.
The Grand Marquis followed. The passenger keyed his microphone.
Still got him
Were making another left on Eighty-third
The Chryslers occupants bobbed their heads to the music.
I havent heard this song in forever, said Coleman.
Its what were all about, said Serge.
To Live and Die in L.A.!
The passenger in the Grand Marquis raised his microphone again. Just made another left on Handley. It doesnt make sense. Were heading back to the airport.
Countersurveillance shake, checking for tails, said the radio. Fall back. This guys a pro
Where are we going? asked Coleman.
I dont know. I think I just made a bunch of wrong turns
Wait. Heres Manchester again
They turned east for the freeway. Serge pointed out the left side of the car. Landmark alert. Randys Doughnuts. Featured prominently as Jeff Goldblum drives to the airport at the beginning of Into the Night.
Coleman held a big hit. Theres a giant doughnut on top of the building.
Its Randys.
Thats fucked up.
The Chrysler approached a red light. At the last second, Serge cut over to the turn lane.
What is it? asked Coleman.
Theres a twenty-four-hour Home Warehouse. The light turned green. Serge drove a block and pulled into the parking lot. Ill be right back.
Ten minutes later he trotted out of the store with a clear gallon jug. It had a red warning label, skull and crossbones. Pop the front hood.
Coleman reached under the dash and pulled a lever. The trunk sprang open.
Hang tight with that joint, said Serge. He came around and reached in the car for another lever.
A black Grand Marquis sat on the other side of the parking lot. Whats he doing?
The driver shrugged and kept watching with binoculars.
What are you doing? asked Coleman.
Serge uncapped a plastic tank near the Chryslers battery and began topping it off with his jug. Serges Super Washer Fluid.
Whats that?
Serge capped the plastic tank and slammed the hood. He climbed back in the car and showed Coleman the jug.
Muriatic acid?
To clean the windshield, said Serge. I have to have perfect visibility.
Coleman toked his roach. Looks fine to me. Whats the matter with regular washer fluid?
Leaves a film, said Serge. Barely perceptible fog that most people cant detect. But I pick it up with my polarized fishing glasses. And once I see it, its all I see. Not to mention bugs. If they get baked on, forget it. You can spray a whole tank of the regular blue shit and therell still be specks, which always show up on the photos I take while driving.
Coleman leaned forward. Youre right. I see specks.
Fuck specks. Serge activated the windshield washer. Twin jets squirted the glass, wipers sweeping.
The specks are gone, said Coleman.
This stuffs incredible. They usually use it to dissolve concrete. Thats why I have to be careful with the ratio to water or itll etch the glass.
Theres a whole page of warnings here on this jug.
Thats just for morons. Like the people who spray Lemon Pledge on food.
Ow, said Coleman, rubbing his arm. A drop splashed on me. Its burning!
Dont rub it, said Serge, turning off the jets. Itll make it worse. And definitely dont spit. Apply some vinegar to neutralize the pH.
I dont have any vinegar.
I know. I hope you werent fond of that spot on your arm.
Is it going to leave a permanent mark?
Unfortunately.
Serge!
I hear long sleeves are coming back. They began driving again, and Serge slipped on his polarized fishing glasses. There we go.
Serge, its night.
Its L.A. Everyone wears sunglasses at night.
The Chrysler made a pair of lefts. The black Grand Marquis remained a half-dozen lengths back. Serge raced up an entrance ramp to the freeway. He slammed to a stop.
Coleman grabbed the dash. What happened?
Serge pointed up beside the car. Ramps in California have traffic lights.
Far out.
Its a completely different culture. Their freeways have stoplights, ours have dye-pack stains.
Stains?
The light turned green. Serge accelerated. Everywhere you drive in Florida, interstate ramps have all these splatter marks that look like people were throwing balloons filled with powder-blue paint. Except theyre really the mess chucked out the window after dye packs exploded in bank robbers getaway cars.
Youre pulling my leg.
Shit you not. Statistics show bandits prefer branch offices near highway interchanges for quick escape. Like other Floridians, Id been seeing these blue skid marks for years and never knew what they were. But after the first time you figure it out, you start seeing them everywhere Miami to Jacksonville to Pensacola so many you begin wondering, What the hecks going on out here when Im not around? Is it just pure chance were not crossing paths? The answer, of course, is yes.
Its creepy knowing those people are sharing our roads, said Coleman. Maybe we should move to a safer place.
>
Like where?
Back at the entrance ramp, the light turned green again. A Grand Marquis pulled onto the freeway.
I dont know, said Coleman. Maybe move here. The weathers nice. Kind of pretty
You nuts? said Serge. Our crime might be unnerving, but in California everything else is insane. Earthquakes, mud slides, forest fires, primal scream, laws requiring signs that say everything will kill you, rogue sea lions taking over coastal towns, attack dogs bred to the size of bison, strip malls with designer enemas, a power grid that makes my train set look like Con Edison, and a governor and first lady whove had all the moisture sucked out of their heads.
But at least theres no crime.
Oh, theres crime all right, said Serge. Its just more glamorous. Sure, celebrities say theyre liberal and want peace. Then they crash their cars drunk and slap each other stupid at the spa. If thats not enough, come to find out, they all secretly have guns! Which youd misguidedly think is a contradiction because theyre for gun control, except they explain they have additional safety concerns that regular people dont face. Theyre right: other stars.
Remember when Grace Slick pointed a shotgun at those deputies?
Exactly what Im talking about, said Serge. All the newspeople were reporting how high she was, and Im thinking, So? Thats her job. My big question was, whats Grace Slick doing with a gauge in her crib? Have I been listening to Surrealistic Pillow on the wrong speed all these years?
Coleman was turned around in his seat. Serge
What?
I think were being followed.
Youre paranoid.
No, really. That Grand Marquis. See how hes weaving through traffic trying to catch up?
Serge glanced in the rearview. I see him. Probably another lunatic left-coast driver. Ill speed up and try to lose him.
He stomped on the gas. Eighty, ninety
The passenger in the Marquis pointed with his radio mike. Theyve made us.
No they havent.
Look. That one guys staring back here. And now theyre speeding up.
Then well speed up.
Wont that make them more suspicious?
No. On freeways, what you want to do is get over in the next lane and pass them. Then they just think youre a speeder and drop their guard. After a while, you slow down and let them pass, and youre back in the chase.