A Postmodern Love

by Nick Totem

  “Ooh, you like it rough, baby.”

  He pushed her over the sofa and positioned her so that she was on her knees, with her face away from him.

  “You can spank me. I like it.”

  In one quick yank, he ripped off her panties. He looked down at her back arching smoothly, offering herself up to him. Silence intervened. Images of Lana’s back reflecting from the round mirror in the San Francisco hotel room, simmering and undulating, rushed into his mind uncontrollably and made him dizzy. He dropped down on the sofa, his head slumped forward.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Thomas didn’t answer. Closing his eyes tightly, he shook his head, and then he got up and went out.

  22

  No, there is nothing new, Lana told him a day later when he called. Her tone had taken on the Michigan winter, and so the phone call was brief. Hope was waxing high the next day, so he called her again. Yes, Bethany had the surgery, it was successful, she told him, and during the two-minute conversation hints were dropped that she might consider having the procedure in Michigan, since Bethany’s doctors were just wonderful, even though she had been seeing the doctors in Thomas’s building. His heart abandoned its regular beat as he listened.

  In the next few days, he forced himself not to call as a sort of test to see if she would call him. She did not. What resulted was a doubling of his mental activities, all revolving around her, but most acute was his conclusion that there was nothing that he could do and that everything he could do he had already done. And the thing that hurt him most was that his love had been unrequited, even when she had been most intimate with him and shown him ecstasy.

  A message of a few words did arrive two weeks later; it came through at five in the morning to inform him that she was boarding a plane for Brazil, and exactly where in Brazil it did not say. “I’m sorry,” was the last thing she said. When he woke up and looked at phone, it was an hour and a half later and the private jet, he assumed, had already left. He knew calling her was useless, but he did it all the same. This time there was a recorded message telling any would-be callers that she would be out of the country and would answer the message as soon as humanly possible. In agony, he listened not so much to the message but to her voice, the soft undulation full of haughtiness and nobility that had once filled his ears with such sweet whispering. With all his strength, his hand squeezed the phone, and in a quick flick the phone flew and smashed against the wall. He doubled over, almost crying.

  Despite his frustration and sadness, Thomas’s routine resumed its incorrigible way, spurred on by the need for money and the demands of life, but the past intruded once more. A couple of weeks later, after the last patient, Mike came to him.

  “Hey, bro. I need to talk to you,” Mike said with a serious frown. “I really don’t want to bring up unpleasant stuff for you. I know you’ve been through a lot lately.”

  “It’s okay. Let’s have it.”

  “Remember my detective friend,” Mike explained. “He used to be a cop. He still keeps in touch with some of his buddies. And his buddies have been keeping tabs on Chau the Dog. So now they see an angle to get this guy.”

  “What’s the angle?”

  “They told me that it’s a criminal offense to misrepresent yourself and take money from someone, which is what Chau the Dog did to you. Normally, the district attorney does not prosecute these crimes. They usually leave them to the civil court, but in this case they will. They want to get this guy in, put the squeeze on him.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s not him they’re after. It’s his boss and their shady business, money laundering and racketeering.”

  “Hmm. I see.”

  “It’s your chance to get back at this guy. Or to get him off the street, so he doesn’t do this to another doctor. It’s up to you. But if you don’t, I understand completely.”

  “What do you think? What would you do if you were in my shoes?”

  “Me? I would just forget the whole thing. You know the saying, violence begets violence . . . I mean I understand your anger. I understand you want to put this guy away. But that’s just my personal feeling.”

  Not caring about the religious reference, he said, “Tell your friend I’ll do it. This asshole fucked with the wrong guy. Payback is a bitch.”

  That Thomas agreed to cooperate with the police was not so much a decision but a reflex. He was still reacting as though he was being assaulted. Later it did occur to him that Chau the Dog might go after him in some way, but he would prepare himself for it, almost hoping for the chance to confront the culprit in court. The Beretta would have to come out of the safe, and there would be vigilance during his daily activities. So two days later, he went to the police station to file a report. The detective, Sam Mosqueda, a big, hard man with small, suspicious eyes, met Thomas and took his deposition. The photo of the truck’s license plate was taken as evidence, and Thomas instantly identified Chau the Dog among the hundreds of snapshots in a thick folder.

  “So this gal that the Dog was stalking. Where do I find her?” Sam asked after Thomas had signed the papers.

  “I don’t know. She went to Brazil a few weeks ago.”

  “So you thought you paid the debt for a girl you hardly knew.”

  “A fool or a saint. Take your pick.”

  Sam chuckled. “Thank you all the same, Doctor. We’ll get the arrest warrant out today. We’ll keep you in the loop. Call me if you see anything. And if the girl ever shows up again. I’d like to have a chat with her.”

  Thomas knew he would never get Lana involved. “Do you think it will hold up in court?”

  “Of course. Your word against his. You’re a doctor and he’s a criminal. We’ll put the squeeze on him way before his appearance in court. He is a flight risk, a criminal with a record. A few months in maximum security will convince him to squeal a little. We’ll see how far we can get.”

  23

  Then the season changed. Spring came to Southern California subtly, the sky a bit brighter, the day a little longer, like the subtle transformation of a smile a woman gives when she becomes a lover. With signs of life returning everywhere, Thomas yearned for what he had had with Lana, one of the few times in his life when he had truly lived. During his short time with her, he had found peace, the Iraqi boy had not haunted him, and his sleep had been restful. Now alone again, his conviction that a man should be able to create his own salvation became stronger than ever; he vowed to himself that once Iraq had peace again, he would go back and do surgeries for the boys and girls there, just as some Vietnam Veterans were doing in Vietnam. Part of his quest for salvation made him more determined than ever to find Lana again.

  Sometimes, he found himself driving aimlessly at first, but eventually he recognized that he was once again heading to Dominic Savoir’s Gallery, or cruising Fifth Street, looking out for her. One day it occurred to him that he might be looking in the wrong place; he googled Quattleberns and found his office in a high-rise in the middle of the Financial District. The office occupied the entire top floor. The elevator opened to a lobby with a counter with a vase of mixed flowers, and a pretty receptionist looked on. Thomas never left the elevator, afraid to run into Lloyd; instead, he sometimes sat in his car across the street and watched, a couple of times seeing a Rolls-Royce picking Lloyd up at the front. A few times, he went as far as following the Rolls-Royce, which seemed to follow a fixed course to deliver Lloyd to the Biltmore Hotel. Then one day, Thomas went into the Biltmore Hotel and sat the bar.

  Harkening back to the golden age of Hollywood, the hotel’s décor, ornate and opulent, shimmered in the low light with a forgotten luxury and mystique; during its heyday the royalty of Hollywood could be seen sipping cocktails here, and in the late hours retiring to their rooms, many floors up, with their newfound affairs. Now, the tourists regularly flowed through, but also a clique of businessmen, hedge fund managers, and workers from the Financial District filed in to the reserved section for drinks an
d dinner after work. From the far end of the bar, he saw Martin coming, glancing here and there, making a safe passage for Lloyd, whose towering frame in a nicely tailored suit followed. Of all the times he spied on Lloyd, there had been no sign of Lana; even so, he didn’t give up, and sometimes after work he would go to the Biltmore hotel or sit in the park across from the hotel and watch for the black Rolls-Royce. And despite doing what amounted to stalking Lloyd, he never acknowledged it as such.

  During one such occasion, when Thomas was sipping rum and Coke at the bar in the Biltmore Hotel, a man sitting next to him said, “Once a pathway is established, it’s nearly impossible to get rid of.”

  “Pardon me.” He recognized the man’s face right away, though he couldn’t recall the name.

  “The pathway of human behavior. It’s no different than a computer program. Once it’s set, you can’t do anything about it. No, no, you could do something to change it, but whatever it is, it’d better be violent, or it doesn’t work. You’ve gotta reboot the whole system, you’ve gotta replace the motherboard and RAM if you want the system to function normally again.” The man’s voice slurred, and his breath reeked of alcohol.

  “What are you talking about?” Thomas remembered the man from the art gallery—the brownish red hair, the slightly saddled nose, the vividly red cheeks, and the eyes glazed over from drunkenness adding a touch of innocence to his face. The man must have come from work, wearing a brown suit and a loose dark tie.

  “Take people, for instance. Faith, addiction, obsession, love. They’re all about the same. Now there are tracts in the brain for each of these, like computer programs. That’s why some people are more inclined to some of these things than others. Don’t you agree?”

  “Where do I know you from?”

  The man swayed a little on his seat and went on in an exaggerated voice, “Of these, love is the most insidious. Once love has established itself in your brain, like a computer virus with its own set of destructive codes, it controls your life. It runs things, shuts down other things, makes fine wine taste bad, makes other beautiful women look ugly. You know what I mean or don’t ya?”

  Thomas couldn’t help laughing and nodded.

  “Chuck,” he waved to the bartender. “Another. And one for him, whatever he’s drinking.”

  “Thanks, but I’m okay.”

  “C’mon, buddy. I know you. I never forget a face, like a digital camera. Snap and you’re in the cloud forever. Facebook friends, right?”

  “Sure. I remember seeing you, too, but what’s your name? Hmm. Anyhow, I’m Thomas Wilde, nice to meet you.” He extended his hand.

  With a slow, wavering motion, the man slapped his hand and put up a fist. They fist-bumped.

  “Dietrich . . .” the man said, and his mouth hung open as if unable to say his last name.

  “Oh, yeah, yeah. I remember now. Dietrich Gasseous,” he nodded with relief; maybe he could mine information about Lana from a drunken Dietrich.

  Just then, Dietrich’s glazed eyes looked past Thomas toward the entrance.

  “Just on time, here comes the procession of the nobles. Or is it the march of trolls?” Dietrich said and erupted in a hackling laugh.

  Thomas turned to the entrance and saw Martin marching in, clearing the way for Lloyd and an entourage of four men following closely behind. They were all in suits and wearing a serious business look; they headed toward the restaurant. Thomas turned back, not wanting to be seen or recognized.

  “The great man and his band of kiss-asses,” Dietrich said, slurring.

  The bartender set down a shot of vodka, and Dietrich snatched it up and gulped it down.

  “You know the drill. Put it on my tab, Chuck.” Dietrich slipped off the stool and then jumped up, as if he had fallen down. Holding on to the bar, he steadied himself. He blew a long breath saturated with alcoholic fumes. “Gotta go home now. Don’t worry. I won’t drive. You know that there is a network of, ahhhh. Sorry, didn’t mean to burp in your face. Where was I? Oh, yeah, a network of cars circling this place. Artificial intelligence. The computer tells all the Uber cars to be hovering around watering holes at certain hours. You’ll see. One will appear in thirty seconds flat.”

  “Let me help you out.” Thomas took hold of his arm and walked to the front of the hotel. Thinking that he should leave as well, Thomas handed over the valet ticket.

  “Do you remember the art show?” Thomas attempted questioning him.

  Dietrich seemed not to hear; instead he began to search all his pockets. He mumbled, “Where is my phone?”

  “Do you want me to call an Uber for you.”

  “Nope. I got it.”

  Thomas’s BMW pulled up.

  “All right, Dietrich. Take care,” Thomas said.

  Dietrich waved at him.

  The BMW shot up to the curb, and as he waited to go onto the street, he looked in rearview mirror and saw Dietrich leaning back against the wall with his eyes closed.

  “Ahh, damn it,” Thomas muttered. He backed the car and got out. He went to Dietrich and grabbed his arm. “I’m taking you home.”

  Dietrich opened his eyes. “Oh, hey. Is the Uber here? Thirty seconds flat, right? Told you.”

  “C’mon on.” Thomas dragged him along and deposited him in the passenger seat.

  At the curb he turned to Dietrich, “Where do you live?” Dietrich had his eyes closed and was breathing loudly. Thomas shook him and asked again.

  “Wilshire,” Dietrich murmured.

  “Wilshire and what? What’s the cross street?”

  “Ahhh . . . Beverly,” he said and fell asleep.

  After twenty minutes of driving, Thomas turned on Beverly and, after a hundred yards, pulled over. He shook Dietrich again. “Hey, Dietrich. We’re here.”

  Dietrich opened his eyes and looked around. Suddenly his body convulsed upward; he opened the door, jumped out, took a few steps, and keeled over, vomitting on a manicured lawn.

  Leaving the car running Thomas went up to him. “Are you all right? Darn, you exploded on the lawn. You sure live up to your name, Gasseous.”

  “It’s G-A-S-S-I-O-T,” Dietrich said loudly, emphasizing the “t.”

  “I’m sorry, man. It’s a bad joke.”

  Dietrich wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve. He breathed heavily and then sprung up. “Good as new, my friend.”

  “Where is your house?”

  Dietrich looked around the street and pointed. “Down there.”

  They got back in the car, and a foul, sour smell followed them. Thomas rolled down the window.

  “You went to art show with her, Lana. I remember you. That horrible malware probably got into your CPU as well,” Dietrich said with a firmer voice.

  Thomas knew exactly what he was referring to; he said, “So you’re a computer guy.”

  “Yeah, I write codes for a quant fund. Anyway, in all that virtualness, I guess I wanted something real,” he said with a touch of melancholy.

  Thomas agreed silently.

  “Stop here,” Dietrich said and got out, but then he turned back to Thomas. “Thank you. How do I get in touch with you? To properly thank you.”

  Thomas gave him a business card and said, “Are you sure you can get inside the house?”

  “No key needed. It’s all biometrics,” he said. He turned and went to a house that looked grand and modern with angular lines, tall windows, but was completely dark inside.

  Thomas watched until Dietrich went through the front gate. A strange sensation of empathy and comaraderie suddenly took hold of him, as if he and Dietrich were the sole survivors of a bloody massacre and only the two of them could understand one another.

  Two weeks later, they met again. Dietrich Gassiot invited Thomas for a drink to properly thank him. A drive to North Hollywood took them to The Room, a members-only bar, harkening back to the 1930s, where the subdued air swayed to the jazzy Frank Sinastra, Ellington, and other greats. Photos of Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn gazed down at the
m as they sat in front of a fireplace. Thomas saw a curious cocktail on the menu, a Doctor’s Orders, a delicious drink with a tone of ginger, honey, and sourness. Dietrich went for a single malt scotch.

  “I guess you want to know about Lana,” Dietrich said as last. During the drive, he hadn’t spoken a word about Lana, and instead he had been loquacious about the weather, the economy, and of course robots, who would inevitably replace women in the future.

  “Sure. I’m all ears,” Thomas said, no use pretending.

  “I don’t know what you know. But the fact that you were milling around the Biltmore tells me that you still got the malware in your hardware, same as me. I heard from Dominic that you saw her off to Brazil. He talks to her frequently, you know.”

  “Yeah, I took her to the airport for a flight to Michigan. After that she went to Brazil. How do you know her?”

  “All right.” Dietrich inhaled deeply and spoke more evenly. “I met Lana over six years ago. I fell in love with her instantly. I had just come out of the graduate program and got a job at a quant fund in Pershing Square. She was working with Lloyd then.”

  Thomas couldn’t help frowning; he felt awkward listening to Dietrich speaking of falling in love with Lana and getting a job in a single breath.

  “. . . Anyway, boy met girl. Boy went after girl. The typical story, you know how it is. And I was making a lot of progress. She went out with me. We had a great time. She’s the smartest woman I’ve known. She knew her stuff, she knew all about hedge funds, currencies, and quants as good as any man.” His face beamed with sincerity.

  “Hmm,” Thomas said and picked up the Doctor’s Orders, sniffing the aroma and tasting it slowly. Lana had worked with Lloyd’s hedge fund? It was a surprising piece of information to him.

  “This is the part you’d want to hear. One day I got beaten up.”

  “What?” Thomas put down the cup and stared at him. “Lloyd?”

  “Yup. One day as I was heading to the gallery, this thug stopped me on the street. He was Asian, spoke broken English. A real brute. Every time I saw him he was wearing a baseball cap.”