A.D., on the other hand, was on a roll. He had moved around the room, stopping here and there, shooting a little craps, dropping a hundred, winning two, not doing anything at roulette, breaking even at blackjack. Then he got reckless and bored at roulette and hit a couple of straight numbers and he was a grand up. He changed from five- to twenty-five- to fifty-dollar chips and kept on playing. He lost and then he won and won again, big, twenty one-hundred-dollar chips on number twenty-three. It was as if the hand of God had reached down and dropped a gold chip on his lap. He was up fourteen grand. He decided to keep four for himself and give the rest to Walker as payment for the next installment of the script, making himself the producer. He would have Walker sign a paper saying all three of them owned the script equally. This was his move. He would have half a script credit along with the producer’s credit, and if Wesley pulled out they could take it to a younger director more able to deal with action. Because if there was one thing A.D. felt the script needed it was action. Or another character. If there was another person along, another girl perhaps, a friend of Lacey’s that Jim could fall in love with, then sex would be better and more complicated and there would be more angles. Later he would deal with all of that. For now he would just shine it on.
He cashed in his chips, except for a hundred dollars’ worth of ones, and put Walker’s ten grand into a separate pocket in a sealed envelope. Then he went over to the blackjack table and spent the next several hours neither winning nor losing.
Meanwhile, Walker, who hadn’t been able to sleep, was trying to wear himself out by returning to the script. He had been working off and on, occasionally watching the action in the casino for a few minutes, but mostly hanging around the desk while the scene built up inside him and he felt himself pulled back to that long traumatic journey by train up the length of India to New Delhi. It was the smoky evening light in the Madras train station that he remembered first and then the babble of thousands of voices. . . .
EXTERIOR — MIDDAY . . . Coming in over the scene with a crane shot of Jim and Lacey following two porters bent double under twelve pieces of luggage as they make their way through a chaos of travelers, beggars, and food vendors. The exotic anarchy of the scene has drawn them closer together. They certainly look more cooled out than they did a few days ago, wearing white cotton kurtas that hang loosely over their waists and newly bought leather sandals. As the porters place their luggage in their first-class compartment, Jim whispers to Lacey in a broad imitation of an Indian accent, “It doesn’t matter if all of India is outside wanting to come in. I mean, does it now? We are inside and being inside is all that matters when one experiences the outside in such an aggressive worldly manner. I don’t know if that is properly philosophical, young lady, but I’m very much fatigued, not just physically, but in my own spiritual body as well and as we know, weariness admits to its own demands.” . . . This while sliding a hand under her flowing kurta . . . the porters have laid out their bedrolls, accepted a tip, and left. The train picks up speed as it pulls out of the station. Through the window scenes of rural India: endlessly parched fields, smoke from a thousand cooking fires, cardboard and tin shacks outside of ancient mud villages where oxen push waterwheels and hollow-eyed children stare blankly at the passing train. . . .
THESE SCENES INTERCUT . . . with Jim and Lacey cozy and intimate inside their protective cocoon, playing cassettes on their tape deck, drinking wine and eating sandwiches from a straw basket the hotel provided, making love. . . . Within the rhythm of the montage night arrives, then the first streaks of morning light across the flat dusty landscape. . . . The train stops at the crowded station of a small city. It’s hot. They have an hour’s wait and decide to stretch their legs on the platform outside where entire families live and sleep in the midst of the usual food vendors and comings and goings. . . .
ANOTHER ANGLE . . . From inside a nearly empty restaurant an American couple, whom we know by their adopted Indian names of Sita and Bodhi, sip tea and silently watch Jim and Lacey as they stroll down the platform. They have been on the trail for a very long time and look utterly wasted in their torn and grease-stained lungis and kurtas, faded prayer beads made of tulsi wood draped around their necks, their jaundiced faces sunken and empty-eyed. As Jim and Lacey reach the end of the platform and turn back toward the train, three lepers appear like apparitions from a grotesque dream, waving their open sores as they ask for alms. An old woman with half her nose missing tries to rub a hideous dripping arm across Lacey’s shoulder. Lacey screams. Reaching into her purse, she throws a handful of bills at the lepers, who crawl on their hands and knees after more money than they’ve ever seen. . . . As they make their way back to the train, Bodhi steps outside the restaurant and intercepts them. He is a dark-haired young man with a long matted beard and small oval eyes that seem too slow and controlled. “Those were lepers,” he says to Lacey. “You’ll have to get rid of your shirt.” Lacey, on the edge of hysteria, starts to cry but Bodhi puts his hand gently on her arm. “Don’t worry. Happens all the time. Come on in and have a cup of tea.”. . . Numbly they follow him inside, sitting down next to Sita, who is blond and perilously thin. “Put this on,” she says to Lacey, taking a wadded-up orange kurta out of her handbag and handing it to her. . . . “They never actually touched me,” Lacey says. . . . “I know what I’m talking about,” Sita says, her pale blue eyes insistent. . . . Obediently Lacey changes into the torn and soiled kurta that makes her look as freaked as she feels. “I have been inside that rag a long long time,” Sita says softly. “It carries my vibrations, and if you open up to them you’ll relax.” Lacey nods, not wanting to pursue it any further. On the platform in front of them an old man in a dhoti starts to play a srangi (Indian violin). He is blind, and is helped by a young girl, who sings along in a high tender voice. A few people drop coins in front of him. . . . “Going north, are you?” Bodhi asks. . . . “New Delhi,” Jim answers and then Bodhi gets right to it. “Listen, brother, can you spare enough change for two poor pilgrims to get on the train? We’re going up to Rishikesh and we sort of lost it. I picked up malaria in Cochin and both of us went through the hepatitis trip. Any way you cut it, we’re busted.”. . . Jim offers him a wad of rupees. With great deliberation, Bodhi counts out what is needed and hands the rest to him. “Blessings on you for a pure and compassionate act.” He calls out for two orders of dumplings and kurds, then turns to stare at a young boy in a white Rolling Stones T-shirt trying to hustle a pack of Camels. “Hold on. Just wait right there. I see an old friend.” He turns to Jim. “If you can front me three hundred more rups I can absolutely guarantee you a serene and expansive ride all the way up to the city of your choice, Nue-va Del-hi.”. . . Jim hands him the rupees and he walks quickly outside where he and the boy begin a transaction, obviously not for cigarettes. . . . Sita sighs. “He was beautiful in Mysore. He was very open, like a baby when we saw the Puri Baba. He cried and kissed his feet. It was a holy moment.” She stares off across the tracks as they sit in the hot oppressive silence waiting for the train. . . .
CUT TO . . . four small black balls of opium in the palm of Bodhi’s hand; in the background, through the train window, the setting sun sinks over bleak rolling hills. Bodhi passes everyone a ball. “The best, most efficient way is to shove it up your ass. But if you can’t handle that you can swallow it.”. . . He and Sita proceed to execute the first option. Jim swallows his but Lacey hesitates. “I’ve never done anything like this,” she says with an awkward giggle. . . . “No one’s forcing you,” Bodhi says. “It just smooths and grooves a boring trip. Takes you off the clock.”. . . Jim puts an arm around Lacey, pulls her to him. “C’mon, sweetheart, it’s like a Perc or Valium.”. . . Closing her eyes, she swallows the opium with a sip of wine. . . . Sita pours more wine into a copper offering bowl that rests on a makeshift altar set up underneath the train window; it’s created from a yellow silk cloth laid cross the width of one of Jim’s suitcases. She and Bodhi have made themselves at home, having claimed
the upper two bunks for themselves. At the rear of the altar, on either side of a burning candle, are a smoking incense stick and an ancient skull bowl. A many-colored paper cutout of a mandala rests in front of the altar next to a bell and a sickle-shaped bone knife. On the window they’ve taped two photographs: a reproduction of the goddess Kali, her blue four-armed body standing triumphant over two headless corpses, and a black-and-white photograph of a ferocious smooth-skinned yogi covered with ash sitting naked underneath a banyan tree, his pupils raised upward so that only the whites of his eyes are visible. . . . Bodhi lies back on a lower bunk, his hands locked behind his neck, very relaxed and satisfied with the way things are going. “Sita and I might do a little puja. Jump the energy level. Sanctify the space and pacify the demons.”. . .“Well sure,” Jim says. “Whatever it takes.”. . . Sita, seated in a half lotus in front of the altar, nods and clasps the palms of her hands together, bowing slightly. Then she touches the top of her head and intones: “Om Hum Hrim Siva Saktibyham Svaha.” . . . Lacey curls up inside Jim’s embrace as they lie on the opposite bunk. She can’t stop giggling. “This is all a little theatrical, don’t you think? A little bit hippie-dippy.”. . . Sita turns to stare at her, a slow sad smile on her thin lips. . . . “I didn’t mean anything,” Lacey says. “I just don’t know what’s going on.”. . . After a long pause, Bodhi says: “It’s theatrical, all right. If you know that, you’ll come through the dreams okay.”. . .“Come through what dreams?” Jim asks, struggling to make sense through faculties that are spinning away from him. . . .“Whatever dreams Mother India has in store for you,” Bodhi replies. “This country doesn’t work, you understand. It doesn’t want to work. It’s in a time switch. Everything that’s repressed back home is on the street here. The outside becomes the inside or is it the other way around? Certain things become available. Our guru teaches us not to shrink from the senses but to conquer them through experience. He says perfection can be attained by satisfying all desires. Take it right to the street, he says. Every event is sacred. That’s our Baba’s special message for you this evening. Just watch and accept. Every rip-off, betrayal, slimy surprise; they’re all opportunities to jump your level.”. . .“What’s he saying?” Lacey whispers to Jim. She is beginning to feel stoned and paranoid. . . .“Something occult, no doubt,” he says. As if from a great distance they watch Sita ring a little brass bell, softly repeating a mantra: “Om Jaya vijaya vijaya.”. . . Lacey tries to sit up but falls back on the bunk. “Oh, God,” she moans. “What’s happening to me?”. . .“You’re on hold,” Bodhi explains, standing up and smiling down at them. “We dipped your opium into a little elixir of snake juice. Copped it from an old jungle Baba back at Goa. You’ll be paralyzed for a few hours, nothing more than that.” They watch him, unable to move or speak as he systematically goes through their luggage, emptying out Lacey’s purse and Jim’s wallet and trying on Jim’s clothes. Sita remains absorbed in meditation, her eyes half closed, the mantra a whisper through her lips. . . .“You’re observers now,” Bodhi goes on. “Tantric TV watchers. Pranayama is a great yoga. Very pure. Watching your breath and your thoughts and your money and possessions come and go.”. . . He tries on one of Jim’s white linen jackets, admiring himself in a hand-held mirror. Impatiently, Sita tells him to get on with it. . . . Bodhi sighs, folding up the jacket and putting it with the rest of his chosen wardrobe. “We have to complete the puja. We’re on the sixth day of a seven-day puja devoted to getting Sita knocked up. We’re neophytes, you understand, and a lot can go wrong when you’re working the kundalini up the spinal column and touching base with all the chakras. That old inner woman can cause you grief if you don’t stay on the point. So we have to perform when the moon tells us to perform. Tomorrow will be the fertile time for a god-child to be conceived. Now we store the energy, hold back the sperm until the auspicious moment, and then let the saki unite with Siva.”. . .“Please,” Sita implores. . . . “All right then,” Bodhi says, turning back to Jim and Lacey for one final word. “Don’t worry about your passports. We just want to meet our needs, nothing more. A few clothes, your money, tape deck, stuff you can easily replace. You’re loaded, after all. Hey, we’re not out to do anyone in. Although, as our Baba says, we occupy the places of the gross. But in his infinite compassion he gave us the tools to process it.”. . . All this while he’s quickly removing his clothes and joining Sita, who is sitting naked on a bedroll in front of the altar. They stare into each other’s eyes with great seriousness, intoning “Hrim, Shrim, Kleem,” as Lacey and Jim lie pinned to the bunk unable not to look . . . . Sita’s fingers slowly circle the tip of his cock . His breathing becomes rapid as he squeezes Sita’s nipples. For a moment they have to pull back, shutting their eyes as they regain control. . . .“We need music,” he suggests. . . . Sita looks at him impatiently. “Don’t be an asshole. Concentrate on the gap between breaths. Abandon yourself to those gaps. You remember what Baba says.”. . .“I’m not keeping the Atma in mind,” Bodhi says. “All I feel like doing is fucking your brains out. . . .” She looks at him with disgust. “If you shoot your filthy load into me I’ll never forgive you.”. . .“No danger in that,” he says, looking at his wilted cock. . . .“It’s five minutes to twelve,” Sita reminds him. “We’ve come too far to throw it away. . . .” She bends down to give him an efficient blow job. As he becomes erect she pulls away and slowly lowers herself toward him. But before she can settle herself over him, he ejaculates in short spasmodic bursts. “You creep,” she cries out. “You’ve ruined everything.” She turns away and bursts into tears. . . . A few hours later the train pulls into a dark and nearly deserted station. Jim and Lacey sleep the dreamless sleep of the drugged while Sita and Bodhi prepare to leave the compartment, looking resplendent in white linen suit and clinging silk dress, a gang of porters carrying all their bags except two, which they have left behind as a gesture of goodwill.
After A.D. went through his stack of one-dollar chips he went back to the room and found Walker asleep. The pages were on the floor beside the bed. After A.D. read them, he wrote out a rough contract establishing that he had paid Walker ten thousand dollars and therefore was part owner of the script, along with Wesley, who up until then had paid out seventy-five hundred. Before he went to sleep he found a secretary in the casino’s office to type up the contract in legalized English.
When Walker and A.D. found themselves awake at the same time, they ate, gambled for a few minutes, and drove down the road toward Las Vegas. It was night and the road was empty with calm humpbacked mountains on either side of them. After fifty miles of driving A.D. said, “I read the pages. Your old man is never going to go for that blow job. He’s had John Wayne and those other righteous old dudes riding through his flicks.”
“I owe him a blow job. He can do what he wants with it.”
“Well, that’s a family problem,” A.D. said. “And I never mess with family problems, not even my own.”
“We’ll red line the scene,” Walker said. “His films never get that close to sex, at least not the explicit kind.”
“Whatever you say, partner,” A.D. said, trying to promote his new image as skillful producer. “I don’t want to turn off your flow. I’m just telling you that the script doesn’t altogether play for me. If Jim and Lacey could take up with one of those weird hippies in the train and get themselves into a steamy triangle, then you’d have yourself a hook. I’d follow a hook like that into deep water, especially if you had two women on either side of the sandwich. And I’m not a deepwater man.”
“The main characters are pretty well set.”
“Does that mean you’re sticking to what went down over there? Because if you are, we might have trouble moving this one off the lot.”
“The facts have to be somewhere in the room or the old man won’t pay attention.”
“Herd them into the corner,” A.D. said. “Out of the story’s way.”
They stopped at a small hotel-casino in Ely, a run-down mining town halfway to Las
Vegas. Over apple pie and coffee A.D. produced the contract for Walker to sign.
“You’re making your move,” Walker said, looking over the contract.
“It’s now or never,” A.D. said. “And I’m taking my inspiration from the now jar.”
“Who do you see in the middle of this triangle you’ve set up?” Walker asked. “Me, you, or the old man?”
“In a triangle there’s only a middle if you start to lose,” said A.D., who had no idea what he was really saying. “And that won’t happen.”
“I assume you’ve contacted a top lawyer?”
“Out of L.A. and on the case. The same one that’s suing your old man and the entire State of New Mexico. And you, too, now that I think of it.”
“I admire your gusto,” Walker said. “You might even make an acceptable producer. You’re certainly desperate and greedy enough. Of course, India will test you. India has been known to eat producers alive.”
“Finish the script and I’ll hire a rewrite man to switch it to Brazil.”
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