A Postmodern Love

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A Postmodern Love Page 28

by Nick Totem


  “Yeah, did that.”

  “Were you heading to the gallery? I was just there to see what the situation is now. Dominic always knows about stuff,” Dietrich said.

  “What did he say?”

  “The same rumor I’ve been hearing. She’s helping with the liquidation of their positions, you know, and returning the money to the clients. Which is a smart thing to do. In a situation like this, you don’t want any complaints, lawsuits, and the last thing you want are the Feds on your ass, or worse, the cartels. And there is a lot of temptation to do unsavory things.”

  “Cartels? What are you talking about?” he said.

  “Lloyd was in business with a lot of dangerous people.”

  “Why would Lana involve herself in any of this now?”

  “Apparently, her name is still on the incorporation as a junior partner. And since he’s dead, she has control of the whole thing.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before? I asked you.”

  “Honestly, I was afraid of Lloyd. What he would do to people saying stuff about him, especially after Chau the Dog shot at you. He tried to destroy me once before. He was a vindictive son of a bitch. I didn’t want to end up dead.”

  Thomas couldn’t blame Dietrich.

  “You don’t know this, but the thing is all the people in the financial industry have a stash off shore somewhere. It’s when-the-shit-hits-the fan money. It’s well known. Ask anyone if you don’t believe me,” he said grimly and seemed to gauge Thomas’s reaction. “Especially Lloyd, with his shady businesses, money laundering, what not. You never know when the Fed will swoop down and freeze all your assets. You never know when you’ll be accused of insider trading, or, in his case money laundering. Then you’ll have to have a lot of money to pay the goddamn lawyers, money that you can get your hands on ASAP, that the Fed can’t get to. You know what I mean. So, in all probability Lana can now assess these funds. Many many millions. She’ll know where they are, accounts numbers and all. In all probability, Lloyd probably designated her as the beneficiary if anything were to happen to him. He trusted her. It’s all about money. That was why he could never let her go, not in a million years.”

  “You’re just guessing from that article I showed you,” Thomas said dismissively.

  “Oh yeah. I was there when it happened. You know that Lana left the country three years ago, right? Actually, she didn’t run off to Asia. You know why? Lloyd was being investigated by the FBI for money laundering. They swooped down and froze everything. He sent Lana abroad so that she could wire him money to fight them off. She didn’t run off.” Dietrich bobbed his head knowingly. “And she did exactly as he wanted. She wired him money to pay the lawyers, from the Cayman Islands, Singapore, Switzerland, all over the world. Then the investigation stopped suddenly, just like that. The rumor was that the CIA, the FBI, and Lloyd and the cartels came to an agreement. Part of the laundered money would go to the CIA. So not only did the investigation stop, Lloyd suddenly got much more powerful. He was untouchable now. Everyone knew it. They all begged him for a piece of the pie.”

  “CIA? Stop making stuff up.”

  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough. But let me tell you, even me, a nobody programmer. I got a stash, too, in the Bahamas. You never know in life.”

  “So she’s got millions in hidden accounts?” His breathing became erratic. Thomas fixed his eyes on Dietrich. “Where is she?”

  “Haven’t got a clue. I know how you feel. Once she gets under your skin, it’s heaven and hell.” He shook his head. “I’m glad I got over her. But I do miss the poems. Has she ever written a poem for you? She wrote me several . . . And what of my heart . . . Of flesh and mortal . . .”

  Thomas jumped up and leaned right into Dietrich’s face. “What did you say?”

  “Easy there, man. I said she wrote me this poem just before I proposed to her.”

  Abruptly Thomas, at last seeing the truth, ran to his car.

  45

  Thomas saw clearly that he had been played, but he could perceive this truth only partially, like seeing the claws of a predator while the rest of its body is hidden. Lana’s sudden change in demeanor, her past, and her lies confirmed this scenario, but most painfully of all, the sweet things that she had whispered in his ears were now tinged with a bewitching deception, similar to a demon whispering promises into the ear of the damned, whose smiling face and thus folly can only seen by passersby. Try as he may, he couldn’t follow the threads of logic, it was too heart-wrenching, and soon a mental immobility set in, refusing to go any further. There was only one thing left in his heart; he wanted to hurt her.

  That night, he drifted about his house, walking on cinders, here and there, into a room where things appeared new, nothing matching up with his memory, or in the backyard, feeling the grass on his bare feet. He felt no hunger, and in fact all the needs of his body seemed to have vanished.

  At last, in semi-consciousness, he found himself lying in bed and saw very clearly Cristiano sitting at the corner of the bed playing a violin, playing only one sound, a monotone of high pitched buzzing, and standing next to the bed was Lloyd, bleeding over his suit, waving his arm in an arc to deflect the gun, the same motion over and over and over. In the far corner, the Iraqi boy kept falling down. Jeffrey Marshal’s naked corpse floated in the air, and at intervals it jerked to the rhythm of a defibrillator. “Stop that fuckin’ violin, already,” he said to Cristiano and then turning to Lloyd, “Tell me something useful, won’t you?”

  The next day, sky was bright when he woke up. Hurriedly, he cleaned himself, but in front of the bathroom mirror, he was startled by his own reflection, haggard, aged beyond his own recollection. He got dressed and rushed out the door. The traffic was light and soon he arrived at Lloyd’s office building. He pulled over and parked right in front. He raised his eyes to the familiar highrise, remembering the hours he had parked just across the street, spying on Lloyd. The sun was rising in a cloudless, blue sky. Ignoring the pleas from the parking attendants, he ran to the elevator and headed up.

  Margo, the pretty receptionist, was behind the counter, toying with her phone. Thomas came up to her, and as she saw him, her eyes widened with alarm. His eyes were red and squinting menacingly.

  “Where is she?” he shouted.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is she in there?” he said and headed to a double door, leading to Lloyd’s office. The plaque bearing his name was still on the door.

  “You’re not allowed in there,” Margo yelled after him.

  Thomas went through the double door; beyond it was a waiting area with couches, a coffee table, and even an espresso machine on the far counter. In the middle of the room, Martin was standing with his arms crossed.

  “Out of my way,” Thomas growled.

  “Or what. You’re going to shoot me?” Martin said.

  Hearing that his anger burst; he took off running, charging straight into Martin, and, once collided, grabbed his arms around Martin. Martin couldn’t do much, and they crashed against the wall. Thomas anticipated a head butt from Martin and cocked his head in preparation, but instead a scream stopped them.

  “Stop it,” Lana screamed. She was standing at the door to Lloyd’s office.

  The men turned to her and disentangled themselves.

  “Please let him in, Martin, and give us a few minutes,” she said, as if she was the boss.

  “Ain’t no way you’re talking to her without me frisking you first,” Martin said angrily. His voice sounded short and brutish. It was the first time that Thomas had ever heard his voice. “Take off your jacket. Put your phone on the table.”

  “Please, Thomas. Do as he asks,” Lana said. “Of course, you’re not working for the police but since Lloyd’s death, he’s been a stickler for protocol. He’s just protecting his own interests.”

  Grudgingly, Thomas did so, throwing his jacket and phone on the coffee table. Martin then frisked him, feeling the inner side of his waist, the
inside of his collar, and even his socks.

  At last, the door to Lloyd’s office closed behind them.

  “Will you have a seat, Thomas?” Lana went behind the desk and finished putting some papers into a briefcase. The office appeared stripped of furnishings; the Picasso had been removed. Pieces of papers were strewn haphazardly on the carpet. Behind Lana spanned a vista of downtown Los Angeles, and it couldn’t seem more fitting, as she looked stunning with her short hair combed slickly, a black satin blouse over blue stripe trousers, red lipstick as always, though her face wore an obvious fatigue.

  He staggered a few steps forward and stared at her in disbelief.

  “What did you hope to find here, Thomas?” she asked matter-of-factly.

  “You lied to me.”

  She returned his gaze, lifting her chin slightly, with unwavering directness, but said nothing.

  “You used me. You lied to me about telling Hugo Figueroa fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh, yes. I couldn’t tell him any definitive amount of time. Something could come up later and contradict me. Best to leave a lot of doubt. So I told him I couldn’t remember, what with pain pills and what not. And those little theatrics in the car, that was to scare you off. I didn’t think it would keep you away for so long, and of course it didn’t. Here you are.”

  He bent over and had to lean on the desk, feeling like throwing up. It was true, all of it. He felt a loud scream wanting to escape from his lungs, but he let out only a wispy gasp and fixated on her. Then, as if he had nothing better, he said, “You didn’t write that poem for me.”

  “No, I wrote it for Cristiano. I used to be able to jot them off, like a regular Emily Dickinson, but after his disappearance, I couldn’t put two words together. But enough of this. Do you want to spend the little time left going over each thing that may or may not be true? All of it or none of it, you must see that it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “It matters to me. What about the Chau the dog? You framed him. You’re going to let an innocent man rot in jail.”

  “Do you want to take his place?” she smirked. “You aren’t foolish enough to keep the watch? I was afraid the police would find something when they searched your house. I had to act right away. Martin paid the Dog off and promptly tipped off the detectives, anonymously of course. They found a bag of money and a watch, a gold Patek Philip that belonged Lloyd. It’s easily traceable. Lloyd had bought all his watches in Switzerland. Anyhow given his history as a criminal, you’re free.”

  “You’ve always known I was going to do something crazy. I know that now. You’ve always known and you led me on. You made me believe that without Lloyd we could be together.”

  Her lips squeezed tightly, and her eyes were suddenly full of softness. “I did know. When you paid the Dog the money. Your impulsiveness. When I saw you shooting in the street. You didn’t know I saw you, but it was then I knew you could be coaxed into doing something. The great thing about it was that it depended so much on chance, but later, when I realized that you were ghosting Cristiano, I knew that it was much more definite, that you would do something. If not that night, then some other nights. In the end, it was always going to be the same.”

  “Ghosting? What are you talking about?” As soon as he had said it, he understood what it was and how true it was.

  “Before the Internet and social media appropriated its meaning,” she explained, “when someone takes the identity of a dead person, it’s called ghosting. Usual to perpetrate some scams. Though in your case it’s more of a psychological nature, psychological ghosting. All that classical music you’ve been listening to, and the philosophy, the theory about the money-cocks. Headless chickens and money-cocks aren’t so different after all. You wanted to take Cristiano’s place, to become him.”

  He said nothing, only looked on with pain.

  “When did you decide? When did you plan all this?” he said at last.

  “When I came back from Argentina. I lied to you about not meeting Cristiano’s mother. I met her. She showed me his letter, the last letter he sent. It detailed everything, the things Lloyd told him: our affair during my engagement to Cristiano, how Lloyd said he didn’t have enough money to take care of me, how he was not good enough for me. He wrote it in English. He had written the letter as if he had meant it for me. He knew eventually I would come to find him . . . Cristiano killed himself. He jumped off the Golden Gate. His body was never found. For the first time, I really wanted Lloyd dead, I knew I must break from him, from the past. I’m done bending to men.”

  “So you’re saying it’s not all about money?” he said bitterly.

  “Lloyd often said: of love, beauty, and wealth, always choose the thing that lasts.” There was a touch of coldness in her voice. “Of course, it’s about the money, the root of it. I chose it years ago. I should have stuck with philosophy. There is no transcendence for me now.” She smiled, a bitter estranged smile. “You can have a share of it if you like. Just like Martin. He became very cooperative after I promised him a sum, sizable for him.”

  “Is he in it, too?”

  “No, of course not. He knows nothing. He failed to protect Lloyd and he’s out of a job. No one will hire him again. Now, he’s just grateful. What about you? Do you want a share of the money?”

  “Don’t even . . .” Thomas uttered. So, everything Dietrich had told him was true.

  “I have to break from the past, Thomas. The choice between killing oneself and killing another is always easy, too easy, if one is ever honest with oneself. Now we must live our lives.”

  “What if I never did anything?”

  “Then I would have had to find another way. Perhaps I would have just left and never come back. I have no choice but to break with the past.”

  “Chau the Dog. You got to him too. If I hadn’t done it, you’d have gotten him to . . . That day when I saw you walking, talking with him, I really saw it. I didn’t imagine it.”

  “I do what I must.”

  “Did you fuck him too?”

  Her face was expressionless.

  “It was an accident,” he said.

  “Do you really believe that?”

  Just then there was a knock on the door and Martin entered; he said loudly, “We have to go. The plane is waiting.”

  “I did it for us.”

  She picked up the briefcase, came around the desk up to him, and said very softly, “Go live your life now, Thomas. Live bravely. I’m sorry . . . I promised once to make you whole, but I never succeeded.” Then incredibly, she kissed him on the lips, passionately, as if to retain his taste for a future memory. And he saw the little mole on her face but couldn’t get himself to touch it, standing very still. “I was in some ways ghosting Cristiano, too, that was why I couldn’t stop you. I tried. I really did,” she said, almost whispering. “This is how the dead take revenge on us.”

  Against the clear sky above and the bustling downtown below, she was silhouetted brilliantly, and he wanted to remember that always, every little detail of her.

  46

  Some men, if they live long enough, will eventually know many, many things but believe in nothing. Thomas was well on his way to becoming one of these men after Lana’s departure. There was no regret so sharp, no deceit so tortuous, no love so vast that he could not imagine. It seemed that he could now know all of the human heart, especially his own. To his shock, he discovered that Lana had already been there. Dominic had been right; Lana had a mind of a very old person, a mind belonging to the time when the modern once again becomes the ancient.

  And he could at will rewind every gesture, word, and kiss, and could at last know her grand motive. He saw it so clearly now; she had faked her visit to the emergency room so she could get to him again; she had asked him to help with the surgery to put herself under his care, to lure him into a false sense of control and of a happy future with her, so that she could ultimately orchestrate his actions; slowly, she had stoked his anger toward Lloyd by telling him about t
he sex clubs, the orgies, and how Lloyd had hurt her; she had placed the letter to him so conveniently in the Proust novel with green cover so he could easily find it, and on and on.

  Lastly, the one thing he needed to believe in, that the killing had been an accident, Lana had carelessly shattered with just one question, “Do you really believe that?” He couldn’t lie to himself anymore; that night when Lloyd jumped at him and swept his arm in an arc to defect the gun, Thomas had been too fast and had leaped back out of Lloyd’s reach, and a second passed before he pulled the trigger. It had been no accident. In that second, he had decided to do what he had wanted all along: to kill Lloyd.

  Never once, though, had she said, “I love you,” and he had been submerged in his own intoxication to notice that; strangely, he now took comfort in this, that she hadn’t invoked the sanctity of love to achieve her ends. Stranger still, he couldn’t place blame on her, and during quiet moments, he could understand why she had done it. Now that he could put every little piece of the puzzle together, paradoxically he came to the conclusion that he still loved her, as though the fire of love had incinerated him, blown his ashes high, and shown him that nothing else even came close. It was a terminal and unrequited love—a postmodern love.

  Now Thomas had nothing left to believe in, nothing that was worth a damn.

  In those final minutes, he didn’t say he loved her, but that was all he had left now. Aside from his love, the only thing she could not touch, only death remained, and Lloyd’s death was the consummation of her love for Cristiano, just much as it was Thomas’s love for her. Around death, he had gone full circle and been welcomed back, as if having clearly seen it in all its gory he had tried to run away from it, only to find himself living another version more bloody and savage. Now he knew death like a simple truth. He went on, thinking so in the days after she left. There was nothing else he could do, but then the idea that he had merely been a useful idiot came swiftly and made him breathless.

 

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