No longer even tasting the whiskey, Marcus parted the third curtain and saw a bare stage lit in a harsh white light, illuminating nothing but emptiness. It was devoid of anything. A repository of NOTHING.
“Refill, honey?”
Marcus glanced up from his stygian gloom and saw the lipstick-smeared face of the bartender looking at him. Her fake eyelashes reminded Marcus of the little hairs you could see on flies through a microscope. He tapped the rim of the glass with his forefinger.
The second whiskey unleashed the howling dogs, and he found himself starting to wrestle with this stasis, to bang against it, to see if he could jar something loose besides one of his teeth. Recently he had become cognizant of his gums for the first time in his life, after having eaten a piece of steak Jan had bought on sale. Soreness had developed along the gum line on the lower right side of his mouth. What was that about? Aging? Disintegration? What had he wanted to do when he was younger, before he had become a slave to his quotidian life? Surely that would provide some indication of the areas he should be considering now, the fields of endeavor that would benefit from his new enthusiasm. But he couldn’t think of anything.
What opportunities were there for someone his age with a degree in philosophy and a singularly unimpressive list of contacts? His months of unemployment had provided a vivid answer. He gazed down at the bartender sipping gin and watching a bloviating television psychologist on the wall-mounted screen. What would this well-lit mental health professional tell him if he was seated onstage in the bright studio? This: With all the reading he’d done, with all the time and energy he’d spent examining esoteric belief systems, he should have chosen one by now.
Perhaps he could finally bring his collegiate philosophical rigor to bear on his own life. Marcus knew he didn’t want to be a dry cleaner; knew that he’d leapt at the idea because it had taken form in the vacuum of depression, because at least it represented something real. But could he be Julian?
Nursing his drink, feeling its sting against his tongue, he thought: Why can’t I be a pimp? It’s lucrative, it doesn’t seem to involve much work, and the tax bite is nil. Here’s why, his superego said: It’s illegal, for starters. Highly illegal. If you’re busted, jail looms, and all that implies for a soft fishbelly like you. You’d be processed in the morning, then gutted and boned, devoured by dinnertime, hard men picking your bits from between their bad teeth. The ignominy attached, impossible to underestimate, would make it necessary for you to conceal this activity from everyone you know, not to mention the IRS, who like to send people to a federal address for nonpayment of society’s dues. When someone turns your way at a neighborhood party and asks, innocently enough, “what do you do?” you’ll have to lie, which is what your whole life will become—a huge, fetid lie.
Then why not the dry cleaner? The dry cleaner was a lifeline.
That thought was quickly swamped by further ruminations. There was the question of ethics. But they were bendable and widely open to interpretation. Marcus began to consider Immanuel Kant and the categorical imperative. If faced with this situation, one must choose to … Then, suddenly, his mind swerved and he thought Oh, forget Kant and his categorical imperative although I have to admit it’s not entirely irrelevant to this but thinking about Kant is one more excuse not to do anything. And blow off Hegel and Nietzsche while we’re at it, and the Stoics, and let’s cut to the chase, draw some conclusions. What does this situation boil down to? What’s the essence here? No, the quintessence! What is this about? Do I have a moral code? Should I? Is that even a relevant question? Do I care if I’m breaking the law? What kind of example will I be setting for Nathan? What happens if I get caught? Is anything more moral than taking care of my family? Can I get hurt, beaten, bloodied, shot? Shot! What would that be like? Could I wind up dead? Of course I could. You can get killed crossing Wilshire Boulevard. This has to be more dangerous than that. And if I’m dead, what happens then? Do I take that risk? Do I have enough insurance? Did my life insurance lapse? Shit! Did it? Am I tough enough to do this? Can I corral a bunch of prostitutes and make them listen? What would I say? How do you talk to that kind of group? Will they see right through me, or can I fake it? What if they laugh? Prostitutes laughing at me! Could anything be more humiliating? I could think of a few things, but that’s right up there. Could I ever get over that, being laughed at by a roomful of prostitutes? Is prostitution a bad thing? I know everyone says it is, but is it? Could I have sex with the women? My wife has no interest, so that sounds pretty good, actually. I wouldn’t mind having more sex. More sex would definitely be a good thing. Amstel was hot. I’d like to have sex with her. I wonder if she’s gay? I’ve heard a lot of prostitutes are lesbians and hate men. She didn’t seem to hate me, but maybe she was faking. I’m not a saint, although I try to pretend I’m one. I wouldn’t even think about sex with Amstel if Jan would stop acting like sex was one more thing on her to-do list. Prostitution has always existed, hasn’t it? There’s obviously a reason for that. Why can’t you give the people what they want? That’s what free markets are for. Isn’t that the whole idea America is built on? Isn’t that why we’re fighting wars? To keep markets open? For McDonald’s? For Coke? What’s the difference between Coke and pussy, anyway? At least pussy doesn’t rot your teeth. Why do some people find the word pussy offensive? Cunt—now that’s a bad word. I would never say cunt. It’s disrespectful. I’m a feminist. I believe in equal pay for equal work, and access to abortion, but I still hold doors open. Would I be exploiting women? Aren’t the prostitutes in Los Angeles doing it voluntarily? I know it’s a whole other story in the third world, I’ve seen documentaries, the horrible lives, fifty cents for sex, and AIDS, and early death, but I’m talking about women who are making hundreds of dollars an hour in fancy hotels having sex with customers who probably put it on their expense accounts. Is what they’re doing inherently bad? Who says it’s bad? That’s some Judeo-Christian nonsense that takes Eros and makes it a sin and these Puritans have gotten it wrong for two millennia and it’s the reason people stay married and masturbate into their golden years because instead of everyone running around and humping everyone which people would do if they were true to their natures they stay in artificial relationships and pretend that’s normal when their deepest, innermost biological nature, their very DNA is telling them to fuck who they want to fuck when they want to fuck them but they’re not allowed to because the holy books say it’s bad, God says it’s bad, it’s on the record, look it up, and this causes so much tension to build that prostitutes have been around forever to relieve it so actually it’s a kind of social work only everyone is too hypocritical to see it that way. I need to calm down. Take a deep breath. Relax. Should I have gone to China?
Removing Julian’s cell phone from his pocket, Marcus placed it on the bar. He hadn’t turned it on since Dominic Festa had given it to him earlier in the day. Now he looked at it lying harmlessly next to a cocktail napkin on the bar, the dim lights softly reflected on its brushed silver surface. He opened the phone and placed the tip of his index finger against the ON button. But he didn’t exert any pressure. He was suddenly exhausted.
I’m not Julian.
That evening, Marcus talked about his day, which, in his telling, consisted of the uneventful meeting with Julian’s attorney and his inspection of the Shining City premises. He sensibly left out his encounter with Amstel. All during dinner, he longed to pull Julian’s cell phone out of his pocket and with a little deft button-pushing begin to divine its contents. It wasn’t as if he intended to do anything with this knowledge. He was simply curious. Marcus had never gone to a hooker, nor was he one of those men fascinated by them and the twilight world in which they plied their trade. They played no role in his dark dreams, and he didn’t believe that would change. But their mysterious pageant had been rudely thrust upon him, and he found his interest piqued. When Lenore retired to her lair to smoke her third joint of the day, Nathan was in his room grappling with the concept of
the dangling participle, and Jan was making calls for a Winthrop Hall canned-food drive, he slipped out to the home office.
The rain had been gaining in intensity over the last couple of hours, and now it was lashing the roof of the garage, a sound that comforted Marcus, creating a sonic buffer against the riot in his head. He had been seated at his desk overlooking the gloomy backyard for half an hour, randomly pressing buttons on the phone. Although he had managed to accidentally photograph every object on his desk with the tiny built-in camera, he was unable to figure out how to play back any of the seventeen messages or access the telephone numbers of the people who had called. This was a source of some frustration to Marcus, for without these numbers he could not learn the names of either Julian’s customers or employees. He wasn’t sure what he’d do with them once he found them, assuming he did. Perhaps he’d call and tell them Julian had passed away, and in lieu of flowers they might consider contributing to his nephew’s bar mitzvah fund.
“Do you know how to work one of these things?”
Nathan glanced up from his desk, where he was reading a homework assignment, to see his father standing in the doorway of his bedroom, brandishing a cell phone. Although he was tired after his day at school and then his afternoon at the temple, he was always keen to help on those rare occasions when Marcus required his assistance.
“I need to figure out who called the phone and what numbers the phone was used to call.”
“Isn’t it your phone?”
“It’s your uncle’s.”
“What are you doing with it?”
“He left it to me. Would you have a look, please?” Marcus handed Nathan the phone and glanced around the room. The walls were decorated with posters of science fiction and fantasy movies. These were accompanied by several certificates attesting to participation in various sports leagues. A shelf was stuffed with books for young readers that had been given to Nathan in the so-far vain hope that he would read on his own. A beloved stuffed monkey occupied the foot of the bed, where Bertrand Russell was curled up sleeping peacefully. Nathan examined the phone for a moment, pressed a button twice, and held it up to his father.
“Just scroll down. That’s who called in. It probably stores, like, fifty numbers,” he said with the insouciance of someone who had grown up in a techno-intensive world. Then he pointed to a button and said “See the arrow thingy? Press that and you’ll see the list of the numbers called from the phone, okay?”
“Nato, you’re a genius.”
The boy beamed as his father kissed him on his head, a hasty blessing. The dog awoke and jumped off the bed. He sniffed Marcus’s leg before shuffling out of the room. Marcus wanted to go to his office immediately, but he caught himself.
“What are you reading?”
“Prometheus Bound. It’s about some guy who gets tied to a rock and birds come and peck at his liver all day.”
“Prometheus Bound?”
“Yeah. Zeus keeps him there. What’s up with that?”
“Zeus wanted to punish Prometheus for giving people fire, right? But if Prometheus hadn’t done that, humankind would have died out. So here’s this guy, he either has to go against the gods or against man. Whatever decision he makes is tricky.”
Nathan seemed to understand. It pleased Marcus to be able to discourse on Greek mythology. He believed it was important that Nathan view him as a role model. Perhaps his breadth of arcane knowledge would inspire his son. But he had done enough inspiring for tonight. This brief foray into the classical world felt a little too close to 112 Magdalene Lane.
Marcus returned to his office and furtively transcribed every telephone number banked in Julian’s cell phone onto a yellow legal pad, all the while rehearsing what he would say to Jan should she walk in on him (“These are Julian’s customers and suppliers at the dry cleaners. They all need to be told what happened, since his business was about personal service”). He looked at the pad when he was finished—it had nearly a hundred phone numbers on it—and felt he had begun to establish a modicum of control. Then he remembered that the disembodied digits on the cell phone represented hookers and johns and wondered over what, exactly, he was hoping to assert control. Certainly not his libido, because in the charged hours since he had discerned the true nature of his brother’s life and had been granted putative access to its shadowy hallways, he had not once had a specific sexual urge involving Julian’s employees, if that’s even what they were. Were they employees? Associates? Subcontractors? What exactly was the worker/management relationship? He was curious to know. Alas, there was no trade journal, no American Pimp in whose pages he could immerse himself to glean the whys and wherefores. Although he had allowed himself a stray sexual thought about Amstel, he was not viewing these women as a carnal cornucopia. Rather, he was pondering their nature as cogs in an enterprise currently engaged in what appeared to be a lucrative trade in the Greater Los Angeles area, and that was far more than could be said for China-bound Wazoo Toys.
The rains had ceased, and the moon loomed in the sky above the backyard, an all-seeing eye, lidded by gray clouds. He turned off the lights in his office and regarded the pale shadows. The question of why Julian had named him in the will remained unanswered. His business had no inherent value save for the clothes hanging from the racks, which were clearly there as window dressing. They probably weren’t sellable and would at best represent a tax deduction should Marcus donate them to charity. The property was rented, there was no office equipment save for the clothing rack, and the human resources, such as they were, looked to be highly unpredictable. Marcus concluded that the entire episode was a postmortem tribute to his brother’s malicious sense of humor, a final tweak from the next dimension—a cosmic raspberry.
The deep notes of a bass guitar playing a sinuous hip-hop beat boomed through the office, startling him out of his reverie. Marcus looked around, trying to determine where this unsettling tune was coming from. His eyes veered to a radio on a bookshelf, but that hadn’t been on in months. He looked at his laptop, expecting the AOL home page to have morphed into the haunting visage of some dead rapper, but the speaker wasn’t on. The ominous rise and fall of the dark melody was playing for the third time when Marcus realized it was the ring tone from Julian’s cell phone. He stared at it a moment, uncertain what to do.
“Is this Juice?” The voice on the other end of the line was male. It had a mellifluous quality, as if it liked its own sound.
“This is his brother.”
“Are you working with him?”
“Who is this?”
“Gary in Studio City. Is Mariah available tomorrow at eight o’clock?”
“I’ll find out.” I’ll find out?
“Call and let me know, okay?”
Beset with a trembling he had not expected as a result of his conversation with Gary from Studio City, Marcus calmed himself and set about calling the numbers he had transcribed, telling people his name was Roon (a dig he could not resist) and he was working for Julian. He left out the part about Julian having died, not wanting to get into dealing with reactions to the news. He found “Mariah” (who had a slight Spanish accent) eventually and told her about Gary, then he told her he was taking over for Julian, and that she should bring him his share of the bill at Shining City. When he hung up, he assured himself this was a one-time thing he was doing only for the sheer perverse thrill, and no one would ever know.
He suddenly realized that eyes were watching him now, causing his adrenal glands to surge in panic. The coyote was standing less than ten feet from his window and staring at him, its snout dipped slightly, looking up at Marcus, casually feral. Although he quickly realized the eyes were not human, the tension remained for several moments after he banged on the window and the creature ran off. Then panic shot through him. Where was Bertrand Russell? Marcus had seen the dog when he walked through the kitchen on his way to the office. Had he let him out? He couldn’t remember. Marcus ran out of his office and into the kitchen then heav
ed a sigh of relief when he saw the dog curled up on his bed, oblivious to the danger lurking just beyond the door.
Chapter 10
It was raining again when Marcus climbed into bed next to his wife, hoping she was asleep. He had not settled anything in his mind and he expected to examine the ceiling for a while before he was able to drift off. This was something he wanted to do in silence.
“Marcus?”
“Hmm?” Marcus hoped a sleepily murmured monosyllabic response would send an unmistakable message.
“You didn’t really tell me … what happened at the dry cleaner.”
What happened at the dry cleaner? Ordinarily an innocuous question, but now fraught with peril. To Marcus’s vexation, Jan seemed entirely awake. Not only awake, but chatty. Retaining the sleepy quality in his voice, he said “Nothing happened. What could happen at a dry cleaner?” He paused a moment, hoping this would slow her down, that the very dullness of the word combination dry cleaner would lull her into quiescence. “Can we go to sleep now? I’m really tired.”
“Were there employees?” Marcus’s mind immediately leapt to: Employees? Does she know something? Is this just an oblique way of getting me to admit that my last response didn’t contain the entire truth? Then he realized that she had asked a logical question, that it could not possibly bespeak any ill-gotten knowledge of the actual situation. He knew his paranoid reaction did not bode well if he had information he did not intend to disclose. And why was he feeling paranoid anyway? It wasn’t as if he intended to do anything other than … he actually had no idea what he intended to do. Even if he wanted to close the operation down—how is that done? By putting an announcement in the company newsletter? “Marcus? Did you hear me? I asked if anyone worked for your brother.”
“Rashid. I think he’s from Pakistan.” Rashid from Pakistan? Where did that come from? Marcus could feel his heart race and knew he would have to immediately come up with a brief, convincing story, then plead exhaustion before dropping into a sleep that would have to be feigned at this point. “He lives in El Monte. There’s a whole Pakistani community there.” El Monte? Excellent detail!
Shining City Page 10