The Big Bamboo

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?”

  “I’m not joining any cult,” said Ford.

  “Oh, no. We’re 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 it’s the only thing we do. Ever read about the stretch of highway we clean up every summer?”

  “No.”

  “That’s my point. You need to enroll in our trial plan. Two weeks, no strings. Judge for yourself.”

  “How far in is the castration?”

  “You’re 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 he’d just been handed. The robed man began pumping the keg again. “It’s a tiered payment structure. You live in the house and get the meal plan, but there’s a discount if you don’t 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.

  “What’s wrong with everyone at this party?” asked Ford.

  “What do you mean?” said Pedro.

  “They’re all gloomy.”

  “That’s because the host doesn’t let anyone do drugs in his house.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s 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.

  “What’s the party for?” asked Ford.

  “She’s pregnant again. Baby shower.”

  Ford noticed something across the room: Mel Glick heading up the stairs with a blonde over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Ian was right behind, toting a medical bag and Polaroid camera.

  “Why doesn’t anyone do anything?”

  “Because they know what’s going on,” said Pedro.

  “What’s 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.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Pedro.

  Ford blinked a few times. “I can’t believe they build ’em like this. Each one’s 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.”

  “That’s 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. “Don’t 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 we’ll 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 we’re 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? Don’t picture it. That’s 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. I’m 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 wasn’t moving.

  “Smart call,” said Serge. “Why compete with the insanity? Just relax till everyone’s 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, don’t intercept. Fall back to loose surveillance

  Because I saw the first page of the letter

  Hold on to your hat— you’re 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 grandfather’s 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 couldn’t 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, we’re still on. A half hour

  You got something to write with?

  Nineteen-eleven West Olive

  There’ll 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, you’re on

  ”

  “We’re 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

  . That’s right, a double cross

  Go to Plan B.”

  A balmy wind blew through Serge’s 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 hell’s he doing?” said the driver. “They’re all over the road.”

  Serge’s head popped back up. “And now the moment we’ve waited for all our lives!”

  Coleman exhaled a big hit. “What?”

  “My Los Angeles soundtrack.” Serge turned the iPod’s 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

  We’re making another left on Eighty-third

  ”

  The Chrysler’s occupants bobbed their heads to the music.

  “I haven’t heard this song in forever,” said Coleman.

  “It’s what we’re 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 doesn’t make sense. We’re heading back to the airport.”

  “Countersurveillance shake, checking for tails,” said the radio. “Fall back. This guy’s a pro

  ”

  “Where are we going?” asked Coleman.

  “I don’t know. I think I just made a bunch of wrong turns

  Wait. Here’s Manchester again

  ”

  They turned east for the freeway. Serge pointed out the left side of the car. “Landmark alert. Randy’s Doughnuts. Featured prominently as Jeff Goldblum drives to the airport at the beginning of Into the Night.”

  Coleman held a big hit. “There’s a giant doughnut on top of the building.”

  “It’s Randy’s.”

  “That’s fucked up.”

  The Chrysler approached a red light. At the last second, Serge cut over to the turn lane.

  “What is it?” asked Coleman.

  “There’s a twenty-four-hour Home Warehouse.” The light turned green. Serge drove a block and pulled into the parking lot. “I’ll 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. “What’s he doing?”

  The driver shrugged and kept watching with binoculars.

  “What are you doing?” asked Coleman.

  Serge uncapped a plastic tank near the Chrysler’s battery and began topping it off with his jug. “Serge’s Super Washer Fluid.”

  “What’s 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. What’s the matter with regular washer fluid?”

  “Leaves a film,” said Serge. “Barely perceptible fog that most people can’t detect. But I pick it up with my polarized fishing glasses. And once I see it, it’s 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 there’ll still be specks, which always show up on the photos I take while driving.”

  Coleman leaned forward. “You’re 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 stuff’s incredible. They usually use it to dissolve concrete. That’s why I have to be careful with the ratio to water or it’ll etch the glass.”

  “There’s a whole page of warnings here on this jug.”

  “That’s just for morons. Like the people who spray Lemon Pledge on food.”

  “Ow,” said Coleman, rubbing his arm. “A drop splashed on me. It’s burning!”

  “Don’t rub it,” said Serge, turning off the jets. “It’ll make it worse. And definitely don’t spit. Apply some vinegar to neutralize the pH.”

  “I don’t have any vinegar.”

  “I know. I hope you weren’t 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, it’s night.”

  “It’s 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.”

  “It’s 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 they’re really the mess chucked out the window after dye packs exploded in bank robbers’ getaway cars.”

  “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “Shit you not. Statistics show bandits prefer branch offices near highway interchanges for quick escape. Like other Floridians, I’d 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 heck’s going on out here when I’m not around? Is it just pure chance we’re not crossing paths?’ The answer, of course, is yes.”

  “It’s 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 don’t know,” said Coleman. “Maybe move here. The weather’s 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 who’ve had all the moisture sucked out of their heads.”

  “But at least there’s no crime.”

  “Oh, there’s crime all right,” said Serge. “It’s just more glamorous. Sure, celebrities say they’re liberal and want peace. Then they crash their cars drunk and slap each other stupid at the spa. If that’s not enough, come to find out, they all secretly have guns! Which you’d misguidedly think is a contradiction because they’re for gun control, except they explain they have additional safety concerns that regular people don’t face. They’re right: other stars.”

  “Remember when Grace Slick pointed a shotgun at those deputies?”

  “Exactly what I’m talking about,” said Serge. “All the newspeople were reporting how high she was, and I’m thinking, So? That’s her job. My big question was, what’s 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 we’re being followed.”

  “You’re paranoid.”

  “No, really. That Grand Marquis. See how he’s weaving through traffic trying to catch up?”

  Serge glanced in the rearview. “I see him. Probably another lunatic left-coast driver. I’ll speed up and try to lose him.”

  He stomped on the gas. Eighty, ninety

  The passenger in the Marquis pointed with his radio mike. “They’ve made us.”

  “No they haven’t.”

  “Look. That one guy’s staring back here. And now they’re speeding up.”

  “Then we’ll speed up.”

  “Won’t 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 you’re a speeder and drop their guard. After a while, you slow down and let them pass, and you’re back in the chase.”