by Bruce Wagner
He knocked the wood bench with his knuckles.
“How much time do you have left?”
“As consul? A year, maybe 14 months. Then: back to Delhi. I am afraid I will become Tony Bennett. I will leave my heart in San Francisco.” He put an amorous hand on the ridge of her hip. “I hope to leave my loins here.”
He winked and she groaned. He laughed.
“Then?” she asked.
“Then? Who knows. Maybe a desk job. I am a corps man to my core! Perhaps Sydney. Or Tanzania—Dar es Salaam is very close to Mauritius. We have to go, Joan; Flic en Flac. Iceland! We could have a frigid rendezvous and slowly melt away. I hear there’s an extraordinary B&B carved from ice, courtesy of your El Zorro, Queen Hadid!”
“That’s Finland, you ass.”
“We could have that special dish,” he said mischievously. “You know: rotting shark! This is the delicacy Björk’s husband told me of at the BAM dinner. You can be poisoned if you don’t let it rot long enough. Did you know this, Joan? But the same is true of anything, no? We could eat smoked puffin with skyr and fly back to Delhi for goat fetus.”
He could see she was in a mood. He laughed and did the diplomatic dance that came so naturally, stroking the nape of her neck, saying he was “just making jokes.” He “more than valued” their time together and said she shouldn’t worry about Lew Freiberg, “not at all,” and that he’d do his best to “counterspy and lobby” on her behalf. He was a sweet soul—the only man she’d ever been able to share bed and friendship with, which said more about him than her. She liked to tell Pradeep that she was a “tough nut.”
As they strolled to the car, past runaway mommies, nannies, and absurdly expensive perambulators, he spoke seriously of a “getaway.” They both knew it wouldn’t happen but his tones were so enticing, so dulcet as they say, so diplomatic, that she let hands and voice wash over her. He wanted to show her the ashram in Pondicherry, where Antonin Raymond and even Lew Freiberg’s favorite “interior decorator,” Nakashima, had practiced as devotees of the Hindu mystic Sri Aurobindo. She’d heard of the place and of course was interested—for professional reasons. You needed special permission to even visit Golconde, as it was called: never a problem for her “connected” friend. She’d seen pictures of it, filled with teak, walls of crushed-seashell plaster and burnished limestone. Pradeep was the consummate consul; he seduced by getting under the world’s pearlescent skin.
WHEN Joan got home, a couple of packages were waiting, one large, one small. The labels said GUERDON LLC. The part-time doorman brought them up.
The handwritten card said: “Let’s Get Lost (Coast).” A hastily scrawled PS asked if she’d be available to come up again next weekend for his birthday. His kids were going to be with him in Mendocino and he wanted to “show them off.” She opened up the boxes and here’s what was inside: a diamond Piaget watch on a knobby shagreen strap; a WW1 gold and ruby-studded powder case with her initials (it once belonged to Jean Harlow); a vast, silk-embroidered Nurata Suzani she had admired in his bedroom; and a crate of blood oranges.
She thought, I am in for some kind of ride.
XLII.
Ray
THE Friar came home.
The old man cut up tiny bits of filet and fed him from the end of a sharp plastic fork. He went to sleep beside his master, as Ray watched that Dog Whisperer fellow do a stint on Oprah. Then Ray popped in a Twilight Zone DVD.
The lawyer was stopping by in the morning to discuss the City of Industry’s offer. Ghulpa had a sleepless night. She’d been disturbed by some items in the Indian papers they’d picked up while in Artesia. One said that the number of Asiatic lions in the Gir Forest had risen in the past few years after a crackdown on poachers; another, that every single tiger in a Rajasthan sanctuary had been illegally slaughtered. The conflicting stories (Ray didn’t understand how they conflicted, because as far as he could gather they took place in different regions) had distressed BG immensely, and he could do nothing to assuage her. The dog snored at the foot of the bed, his dream state deep and placid. He was still under the influence of medication.
At 3 in the morning, she riffled papers on her nightstand to show Ray a clipping about attacks on human beings in Bombay. (Funny how the Indians lumped lions, tigers, and leopards all together—they seemed to mean the same thing.) The cats came at dusk and crept into tin shanties and orphanages to steal their prey, just like in the stories her parents told her. 14 people had been killed since the beginning of the year. Ghulpa was particularly bothered by the fact that some fatalities were the result of leopards leaping onto victims from their perch in trees. It made her shudder. That detail wasn’t particularly alarming to the old man; what got him was the part about folks being snatched while they “squatted outside, answering nature’s call.”
A well-to-do lawyer had been half-eaten while jogging near Film City, where the Bollywood movies were made. Evidently, the pitiless beasts liked hanging around the backlots. Big Gulp looked toward the poster in the living room, as if suddenly worrying about the safety of the famous “Mr B,” her supercoiffed matinee idol. (She sometimes called Ray “Mr B” too, but the B was for “Bapu.”) Ghulpa spoke of their child, averring she would never “show it” India. “Either you are eaten by devil-tigers or washed away by monsoon,” she said, and Ray wasn’t sure if she was altogether joking.
He almost told her that cougars ate people right here in LA, then thought better. The bones of a boy had just been found in Big Bear, a 9 year old presumed killed by a mountain lion; they could tell by the bite marks on the skeleton. The theory was he’d been attacked in the woods then dragged to an isolated area. In fact, Ray had just read about some rangers who were monitoring pumas not so far away—about a hundred miles. They heard pitched cries for 3 hours but couldn’t tell if it was fighting or breeding. (The rule is they’re not supposed to interfere.) “The mortality beep” came at dusk—the collar around the animal’s neck emits a sound when there’s been no movement for 8 hours. The rangers hiked over and discovered that the male had killed his mate, who was in heat; she was probably just protecting her kitties. He weighed almost twice as much but she put up a helluva battle. Sometimes, the rangers said, males kill their own sons, just because they consider the turf—all hundred-and-35,000 acres of it—to be theirs alone.
Finally, Ghulpa slept. He padded to the kitchen with the offending India Post and fetched some cold filet from the fridge. He sat at the small Formica table and got carnivorous, throwing some of his favorite ruffled potato chips and Heinz 57 into the mix, washing everything down with a can of Coke. He felt good—like a big old mangy cat himself. His dog was back, his woman had the seed of life in her, and the city was going to make him rich. Raymond Rausch had his hundred-and-35,000 acres but was in no mood for a kill.
What did it matter that he was a lion in winter?
It’s good to be the king.
He flipped through the paper, ending at the classifieds.
BRIDES WANTED
JAT SIKH PARENTS
Invite correspondence for their handsome son.
Seek U.S. citizen, family oriented bride
For their 28 yrs, 5′9″ son, family well settled
In California.
Son is working on H1.
Please reply with biodata
And photo must
Caste no bar
Contact P.O. Box No. 79-M-145
c/o India Pacific
Caste no bar—neither cast ye your pearls before swine…
The winds were at it again, and the trees outside, such as they were, shook like false prophets. He fell into troubled dreams himself—he’d placed an ad for a bride and felt guilty to be disrespecting Big Gulp. She was his partner, had been loyal, selflessly nursing him through hard times, she’d pressed his feet and laughed at his bad jokes. So why was he advertising for a bride? And why was one of the candidates already sitting in a new home he’d bought with their settlement, high in the hills where the puma
s keened? He had used the City of Industry monies to acquire land, behind her back, and a ranch house up in Angeles Forest—knowing Ghulpa was terrified of wildcats, and knowing that was where they grabbed kids off their Schwinns. What had she done to deserve this? Why had he treated her this way? The doorbell rang. Another bride arrived. Ghulpa belligerently served lukewarm tea to the growing crowd. This time, the bride was a man, and Ray had mixed emotions. He got queasy and tried to remind himself he was dreaming. Then the old man felt better for BG’s sake, because her mood lightened. She was jealous no more. But Ray was bewildered: the white-veiled newcomer was his own son—the bride was Chester—and that made him cry softly in his sleep, tears keeping him in the shadowland of awareness, as a febrile knight held hostage by a moat. He was worried about waking Ghulpa though not actually awake himself.
THE lawyer arrived and Ray was surprised when the Friar bared his teeth. He was ready to be called Nip again, adjusting to being back home. (Come morning, he vomited, peed, and trembled nonstop. Thank the Lord he would soon begin rehab.) Ghulpa had to put him in the bedroom behind closed doors, because it looked like he was about to attack between fits.
The meeting was short. Mr ACLU was upbeat. The city’s offer had “bumped” to 375,000 but he still felt they could do better. Ray turned to Ghulpa and she grew morose, the way she did while contemplating matters of a serious nature, such as monthly budgetary concerns or the troubles of a cousin, be they astrological, physical, or romantic. She asked the attorney if any harm could be done by “going back on the table.” He seemed happy with the query and said, “Absolutely not. If you’re asking if we’re in danger of them rescinding the current offer, I can tell you the answer right now: No. They will either agree to pay more, or stay at the same place. I think they’ll go up. It may take a few weeks, but things are moving pretty quickly—that’s indicative of the open-and-shut nature of this case. So even if they say they won’t pay more, my hunch is it’ll be a bluff. Let’s keep our poker face awhile. Trust me, they will not want this in a courtroom.”
Ray cut the folderol.
He asked the gentleman what he recommended.
“I recommend that we do as Miss Ghulpa suggested. You are wise beyond your years,” he said, in a complimentary aside. “I recommend we go back to the table. We have nothing to lose and everything to gain. It is my asseveration they’ll step up. This isn’t about being aggressive. This isn’t about greed. The issue at hand is the city making right a rather reprehensible wrong. They have the resources for this sort of thing, Mr Rausch—you won’t be picking anyone’s pockets! If you like, we can even designate some of the monies to a charity, say, an animal fund. The Friar Fund—how does that sound?” he said, with a wink. “A scholarship for veterinary students…it’s win-win. Everyone can win, and that means the city as well, because they are admitting to a large mistake, and in this country, people need to be accountable. We seem to have strayed from that notion—accountability has become a dirty word. In some circles. My own personal feeling is that mistakes need to be admitted to, corrected, and compensated for. That’s democracy. We concede culpability, then move on. That’s the moral imperative. That’s the high ground.
“So: how’s everyone feeling? Do I have your permission to return to the table?”
XLIII.
Chester
THE chick from “My Favorite Weekend” called, right while he was sitting on the couch trying not to panic about the spastic bundle-bolt of electricity shooting from his elbow to the middle of his biceps. Also, he’d taken 3 Percocets and was just starting to get a buzz, but hadn’t eaten anything, so there was nausea attached.
He popped 2 Compazines. She asked if he got the email and fax she sent. Chess told her his computer crashed, and he never got a fax. (Both of which were true.) The thought occurred that he might have blown it. She said she would fax him again. He wondered if she was hot. Maybe I should ask her out. Maybe she’s the type who likes to blow stoned, crippled location scouts.
Did he mind if they did some of the column as “a phoner”? Not at all. We could do it as a boner. Where did he like to eat? Caught off guard Chess said JAR for brunch (he’d only been once, with Levin and Laxmi) and that he loved the way it looked since it was redone. (That’s what Maurie said, anyway—Chess hadn’t been there since.) The chick responded with something that implied too many people liked JAR for brunch and he kicked himself. OK. He liked L’Ermitage—“always lots of rappers”—and the new Ivy at the Shore. Even though it wasn’t as great as the old Ivy at the Shore. The little breakfast place across the street from the Viceroy. Blah. He was rambling. She asked if, being a scout and all, he’d discovered any new or far-flung places (translation: funky/interesting), still within city limits of course. Dipshit! You forgot the angle—the below-the-line location scout angle. Why the fuck else would they care about how you spent your shitty, pain-ridden weekends? Do you want to be in the Times or not? He managed to dredge up The Bucket, in Eagle Rock—a burgerstand “classic.” (Thank God it came to him.) And Clifton’s, downtown (a genuine fave). She loved all that. Just what the bitch wanted to hear. He began talking about Laughlin Park, the grand but little-known gated hood in Los Feliz where he sometimes scouted commercials. He told her that’s where David Fincher and his wife lived, in the old Lily Pons house. (He forgot exactly who Lily Pons was. Maybe he never really knew. The chick didn’t ask.) Chess wondered if she thought he was a loser and a name-dropper, but figured the Times liked that sort of anecdotal embroidery. Besides, now he was really feeling the Percocets and chattily segued into Guide to Forgotten LA mode. She seemed to warm to the new tack—Jesus, you couldn’t talk restaurants forever. He even mentioned the old train store on Sepulveda his dad used to take him to when he was kid; the place was actually still there. She thanked him and said she had to run.
He was sure he’d missed his chance but an hour or so later, the fax machine rang while he was sitting in the can. Did its whole antiquated spewing-forth number.
The weird thing was that his pain had dissipated during their chat—a kind of epiphany because at the moment “My Favorite Weekend” called, Chess was in a world of hurt. Lately, the prescribed witches’ brew hadn’t been too effective. Karen Knotts told him about a friend with some kind of arthritic deal going on in her back; the docs slapped on a time-release drug patch that was supposedly stronger than heroin. (Sounded like the same thing that poor bastard attorney from New Jersey finally got from his jailers—the so-called trafficker on 60 Minutes.) Chester had actually begun to think along those lines, almost the way depressed people start fantasizing about suicide. As relief. The stuff that scared him most was reading about pain that couldn’t be touched by any narcotic, organic or synthetic. The cases where snipping off nerves didn’t even do it, the “phantom” shit. There was a big ol blogworld out there about victims of Ménière’s—ringing in the ears—who eventually offed themselves. The lucky ones were research freaks who stumbled on the perfect guy at whatever obscure hospital who turned out to be the Ménière’s Muffler King. But if you didn’t go that extra distance, you could wind up on the end of a rope or an exhaust pipe.
You could wind up on the bike path of the Golden Gate.
There was this girl who was driving along the freeway minding her own business when something fell off the pickup in front of her. A scumbag with his Best Buy home entertainment center lassoed to the truck bed. Piece of debris went through the windshield and took out half the chick’s face. Guy never even stopped. Her optic nerve was obliterated and now she couldn’t taste or smell and peed all the time and the MDs were fuckin helpless. A permanent throbbing in her head that all the fentanyl in the world couldn’t patch. Refuses to learn Braille because she thinks one day she’ll be able to see. Oh God. Chess thought maybe he was like that, delusional in thinking one day he’d be pain-free even though the shortlived diminution epiphany had given him a ray of hope. Still, that was the saddest part: Halfhead didn’t want to learn Braille. Her “My Fa
vorite Weekends” were dead and gone.
Maybe it was all about being distracted. Could it really be that simple? It made him wonder if the mind-body stuff Laxmi had been hyping had some truth in it. Maybe he would hit Remar up for bread (he didn’t want to waste the money Marj had given him on anything medical). It was probably a good idea to go see some of the practitioners his fake girlfriend recommended: hypnoshrinks, biofeedbackers, Feldenkreisers, whatever. It couldn’t hurt—not any more than it did at the moment. He didn’t want to become addicted to pain or the idea of being in pain. He had to nip that in the bud before it was too late.
LAXMI came over, crying.
He put her on the sofa, lit a joint, and put the kettle on.
“Chester, I really need your advice about something!”
“Anything.”
Maybe she was finally breaking up with Maurie and wanted to talk about it. Far out.
“I got a job offer—and I really don’t want to take it, but I really need the money.”
“OK. So what’s the problem?”
He put on his neutral, “mentor” uniform as he grabbed some teacups from the cupboard.
She took a deep breath. “Here’s what’s happening: those people from Friday Night Frights called to ask if I’d be one of the actors who set people up. I mean, it didn’t even come through Maurie, as far as I know. And it’s like kind of a regular gig. And I said no…I just felt so creepy about what happened to you—but then they called back—and it pays really good! And I just needed—I just wanted to ask you—your advice—because I definitely don’t want to hide something like that if I make that decision…”