Memorial

by Bruce Wagner

  Gehry was the only one who got away untainted—that was the true Bilbao Effect, in action!

  SEX with Pradeep had a quality of innocence, something lacking in her connection to Barbet. The counsel was all feeling; with Barbet, she was always being hustled or hustling. That was exciting too, though not in the long run.

  “Tell me what you know about Lew,” she said after room service came. She tore into her veal as he spoke.

  “An unusual man.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “He would have to be. A bit. No?”

  “Did he beat up his wives?”

  “Not that I know of!”

  “How close was he to his brother?”

  “Very.”

  “What exactly were they doing in India? The brother and wife?”

  “Bumming around, in their fashion. On the way to Sri Lanka. The Maldives. They weren’t the Phi Phi-Phuket sort. They’d have been better off if they’d wound up in the Maldives during the Wave. They found them both in a tree, you know—a sundari. The water pushed them up. It was a ‘spirit’ tree, with a beautiful yellow sash around the trunk. I have a digital photo.”

  “What is that? A spirit tree.”

  “It’s special. It’s ‘recognized’ by the villagers. The monks leave offerings for it, you know, food and water. This tree took the Freibergs in its arms, so to speak. They just hung there. Esther was still wearing her jewels. No one would go near them; they did not retrieve the bodies. It’s actually quite beautiful. In its fashion.”

  “What happened?”

  “Relief workers finally got them down. There were elephants all around, clearing debris. Even the elephants stopped what they were doing to gather there! Around the spirit tree. Amazing. I was told this story by a very straight-arrow guy who works for Guerdon, so no one made it up. It is not an urban legend. Did you know Lew wanted to cut the tree down and bring it to Napa to replant? I think he wanted it for the Memorial. The government hasn’t allowed it (so far!) because those kind of trees are nearly extinct. He asked me to intervene—I made a few inquiries, but they won’t. They never will. Which is good for you, my Miss Joan, because if they’d allowed it, poof! There goes your Mem. But maybe Mr Koolhaas, with his delinquent Dutch charm, will convince them yet!”

  XVIII.

  Ray

  BIG Gulp drove Ray to the West Side to see the Friar. It took almost 2 hours through late-afternoon traffic. Ray kept talking about monorails.

  He tired easily and didn’t like to admit that he wasn’t up to driving yet. It was a big car, a Monte Carlo that pulled a bit to the right. BG said he should get something new if the city gave him money but Ray was sentimentally attached. He’d give it a bath and a major tune-up, put on some new radials, patch up the upholstery. No need to trade her in.

  Ghulpa looked fine in her royal-blue sari. They parked and she walked him to the entrance. His woman was kind and solicitous. He was proud to have her on his arm.

  The hospital was like nothing he’d ever seen. The animals were called “patients” and waiting rooms were segregated for cats and dogs. The facility had an ER yet also treated cancers and genetic conditions. While Ray and Ghulpa waited, someone brought in a sick parrot; a few minutes later came a rabbit in its death throes. He wanted to laugh, but these were the folks who saved his dog’s life.

  The plant manager gave them a VIP tour (Nip/Tuck’s shooting had garnered lots of press) of the pristine radiology suite, CT scanners and ultrasound, the ICU, incubators with nebulizers, blood and plasma banks. A dozen fully accredited surgeons were on call 24 hours a day. The manager said he had just come from tending a snake with pneumonia. Ray, dumbfounded and impressed, said, “Well, now I’ve heard everything.”

  Friar Tuck wasn’t well enough to be brought out to a visiting room, so Ray said, “Let’s bring the mountain to Mohammed.” He was in a cage and squealed and shook when he saw his master. The old man’s eyes moistened at the reunion. BG stood back with a toothy, lip-sheathed smile. Ray talked to him through the wire, saying “Don’t you worry. You’ll be home in no time.” The doctor said “Friar” was doing real well but Ray winced at the long railroad-track-stitched scar where he had been shaved. They’d put a titanium pin in his hip, and Ray joked he might want to come in for one of those himself. The doctor played along and said he’d do just as good a job as they would at Cedars or UCLA. Ghulpa brought sandesh wrapped in aluminum foil, Nip/Tuck’s favorite. The medical men said that would be OK and the dog took a nibble, almost out of politeness, before spitting most of it out. Then he puked and one of the aides took over and told them not to worry, that it was the taste and smell that “set him off,” and there were lots of things he would need to get “acclimatized” to.

  The ACLU attorney met them at the appointed time. He gave the dog a friendly, cursory wave—just another client who stood to benefit from pending litigation. Before they left, standing in the lobby, the lawyer asked the plant manager to “ballpark” what the hospitalization was going to cost, “in toto.” Ray goofed on him. “Now, there he goes—are you talking about Toto again from The Wizard of Oz? Cause that is one expensive pooch.” The manager was hesitant to commit to a hard figure but said “probably in the neighborhood of 15,000.” The Friar would have to go to rehab after being discharged—hopefully someplace close to Industry—for aquatic therapy. All at additional cost.

  They followed Mr ACLU to Spago. Big Gulp had trouble keeping up with the silver Mercedes, whose driver yapped away on his cellphone instead of keeping tabs on her in his rearview. Ray slept and snored.

  The beautiful Asian hostess greeted counsel like an old acquaintance. She sat them in the bright and leafy garden. The old man thought it an awfully fancy place for an ACLU fellow—weren’t they supposed to be defenders of the poor? He wondered who was footing the bill. They were being treated like they’d won the lottery and Ray wasn’t sure he liked that. After a glass of red, he loosened up and enjoyed the moment. Ghulpa excused herself and the lawyer began to speak of a case—“another break-in”—that had come to his attention. A man was bludgeoning and killing old women, then “having his way” with the bodies, after death. The police interrogated him and asked how the sex was, “on a scale of one to 10.” The murderer said, “A 14. Your eyes would have rolled back in your head.” Ray wondered why he was telling him this, as if it somehow related to his own case. Mr ACLU was probably going to represent that monster. Hadn’t been read his Miranda’s, or whatnot. Luckily, Big Gulp returned before any further history could be provided; the lawyer nodded gravely, summarizing a tacit gentleman’s agreement that she would not be brought up to speed on the details of their mantalk. Instead, he embroidered, saying everyone had a destiny that couldn’t be changed. He directed his words at Ghulpa, because of her Indian provenance. “Karma,” he added. Implicit in the remark was that it was those old women’s destiny to be slaughtered and raped, it was the old man’s destiny to have his door broke down and his dog shot, and the lawyer’s destiny to collect untold shitloads of $$$ for the inconvenience. He’s a slick, lowlife shyster but it’s too late to change horses. Who has the strength. Anyhow, Big Gulp seems to approve, and right now she’s running the show.

  He said his work for the ACLU was “mostly pro bono.” Ghulpa didn’t know what that meant but this time didn’t ask. His main practice was libel and defamation and he taught at Loyola one night a week. Ray wanted to make sure the lawyer was aware that he hadn’t yet agreed to sue the police. He said that he was. And he knew Ray liked cops. He told the couple “the action” wasn’t personal, everyone made mistakes, he wasn’t an enemy of the men in blue, on the contrary, he was a big supporter (Who does he think he’s kidding?) but in this case a lawsuit could very well make another wrong-door break-in less likely to happen. He made it sound like suing the police was Ray’s civic duty. The next time, there might be kids in there, he said. Children could get killed. It was all about forcing cops to be more “fastidious” with their intelligence.
Ray wasn’t the 1st person to have his door busted in by mistake. It happened mostly to inner-city families—to moms and babies—and was often “racial.” Again, he looked toward Ghulpa. The police (in this case, “the LAPD, with an assist from the Sheriff’s Department, Industry Station”) needed to be held accountable. With an increasing sense that the Indian wore the pants and was on the money trail, he was careful to remain inclusive as he spoke, head oscillating between the 2 like a space heater. The attorney clearly couldn’t have cared less about the details of their living arrangement but intuition told him that the woman in the sari would be his best advocate.

  BY the time they got home, it was 9 o’clock. Ray said he was “toast.” Ghulpa made sure he took his vitamins and medication; he’d inadvertently skipped the afternoon dose. She fed him dal soup and tea with basil and cloves, then “pressed” his feet. A cultural thing. Boy, it felt good. She rubbed cinnamon oil on his calluses and gave him powdered seed of bastard teak with gooseberry juice. It will make you young again.

  The landlord knocked, apologizing for the lateness of the hour. A man in a suit had stopped by earlier with a note; she didn’t feel safe leaving it at their door. BG grabbed the envelope and smiled, waving the woman away. After the landlord left, she accused her of intercepting a private “communiqué.” She held it to the light to see if it had been “tampered with.” Watching her, he smiled. “That’s a busy body,” said Ghulpa, carefully separating the words.

  Ray settled into the easy chair and opened the handwritten letter. It was from Detective Lake, who said he was “at the scene” shortly after the “incident” occurred. He was sorry for everything that happened, and he’d dropped by the hospital a few times to visit, but Ray was with his doctor or asleep, and he “didn’t want to disturb you any more than we already have.” A business card with a gold shield was stapled to the watermarked stationery—classy. He wrote that Ray should call any of the numbers if he wanted to talk, including the cell (he’d used a pen to add his home phone). The old man thought it a kind gesture; nothing suggested ulterior motive. Strictly mano a mano. The detective added that he was a dog lover, and even asked after the Friar.

  “If there’s anything I can do for you,” he reiterated, “please don’t hesitate to call.”

  XIX.

  Chester

  THE chiropractor said he might very well have nerve damage and referred him to an orthopedist. Which freaked him out because he’d never had pain like this, pain that migrated and stabbed, pulsed and tingled, and didn’t relent. It actually kept him up at night—definitely not a good sign. Plus he was narco-constipated.

  The entire culture was geared toward intractable pain: every magazine, every paper and electronic news show featured chronicles of incurable, idiopathic, undiagnosable agony. There was a lot Chess was suddenly learning about, and none of it was wonderful: like how a body in constant anguish somehow rewired itself neurologically, becoming addicted to the pain itself, which made the cycle nearly impossible to break. The field of pain management had become sexy, like software in the early 90s. Tekkies and pharmacologists were all over it—the eroticized iPain index was riding high. Paintients were being treated with off-label potpourris of antidepressants, antipsychos, and antiseizure meds, which alchemized to fake out the nervous system, convincing it that everything was copacetic. Now here he was, one of the gang. The gang that couldn’t shit straight. That’s how fucked up his karma was.

  For now, Chess was in Hydrocodone World—the muscle relaxants and anti-inflammatories didn’t really count. It was Vicodin Nation: you could download Vike (swoosh!) RAPsodies to your Nano or have the dope FedEx’d with Vi@gr and V@1ium from weirdass gray zone Internet pharmacies impossible to call back—impenetrably virtual. Flip on the tube and watch real-life addicts score Vs off dying cancer dads on Intervention, or firemen boosting Vs on Rescue Me, or a chick who feeds her habit by multiple pharmacy/doctor-shopping for Vs on DVDs of Six Feet Under. It bled from cable to network: a cancelled NBC meller featured a pill-popping priest (Episcopal—Vicodin, 500 mg), and Fox had an Emmy juggernaut about a cranky, genius MD (Brit playing American—Vicodin ES, 750 mg), each with backstories justifying their reasons to indulge. Like you needed one. It was enough that the key grips, writers, producers, and directors were users, making 10s of millions, buzzed out of their skulls! Well, maybe the grips weren’t making millions but they sure were fuckin happy. Just like the good old coke days. Only now it was legal.

  Chronic pain was a serious mindfuck. Chess had panic attacks during the day and broke sweat, claustrophobic in his own body. It’d been less than 2 weeks but already he understood why people killed themselves—nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Weed didn’t even help (maybe a little) and that spooked him because he’d always heard that maryjane killed pain, that’s what the old-time lymphoma Brigadoon hospice brigade was into. It made sense that people turned to magnets and biofeedback and guided-imagery and all manner of fool’s gold voodootoxins but he definitely didn’t want to die like Coretta Scott King in some beachy New Age Tijuana hellhole. Chester Scott King! He watched a segment on 60 Minutes about a lawyer—an attorney!—in New Jersey, an affable dude who’d undergone futile back surgery. The guy wound up moving to Florida and was so wigged about keeping an emergency stash that he took extraordinary measures (who wouldn’t?) but the Feds accused him of hoarding pills with counterfeit subscriptions—and gave him 20 years for trafficking! Where’s Limbaugh’s lawyer when you need him! He refused to plea bargain because it would have been tantamount to a criminal confession plus it’d be harder for him to get meds on the street. The motherfucker was already in a wheelchair, aside from additionally being diagnosed with MS! The irony was that upon incarceration the state had been forced to provide the martyred, hapless junkie with a morphine patch. At least now he was chill, though Chess wondered why the street docs hadn’t done that in the 1st place. (The report didn’t touch on that.) The new prisoner could not believe he had been taken away from his family; his old lady couldn’t even bear to tell their kids that Daddy’d been jailed. 60 Minutes interviewed one of the men who locked him up and it was so scarily obvious the guy didn’t have a clue—he seriously thought that the fucker was dealing! He said there was no way a person could be taking 25 painkillers a day, and Chess knew that was total bullshit. The more he thought about it, the more pissed he became at his “friend.” He was in a hallucinatorture tailspin, all because of Maurice the Jew’s fucked up little stunt.

  A lawyer phoned who’d heard about his case. Chess didn’t ask but figured someone on FNF had tipped the guy in exchange for a kickback. (Pretty much how the world worked.) The timing was good because he’d been thinking about getting some advice—giving Marj a jingle to find out who handled his stepdad’s legal shit (he didn’t want to bother Karen Knotts again)—so that was fine and dandy. Actually better, because when he called his mom he didn’t want to be coming from a needy place. Didn’t want her to worry. Just keep it simple and ask for bread. Though maybe now he wouldn’t have to. Maybe he wouldn’t but would anyway.

  Chess was surprised when the caller said he had successfully represented “other folks” who’d been cavalierly mistreated (translation: grievously injured) by the unsolicited intrusion of reality shows. “I ain’t talking American Idol either.” He said they were “lower than the lowest tabloids,” and nobody ever had to have PSS therapy or surgery because of something written about them on Page Six. At least not that he knew of. It hadn’t occurred to Chess that an army of maimed, humiliated “contestants” was out there but when he listened to the guy, of course it made total sense. The litigator ran down some of the cases: the guy who was told by bogus airport security that he’d have to lie on the conveyor and pass through the tube along with his briefcase and computer (he got whacked by something inside); the honeymooners in Vegas who checked into their room only to discover a “dead prostitute” in the bathtub. “The newlyweds didn’t think it was so funny. Nor did I.” He went on to insinuate
that these people were lavishly compensated for their physical and emotional stress, “made whole, and more so,” and for the 1st time since the Night of the Living Pantwet, Chess began to feel better.