by Jack Baran
“We were big fans of Nasty.”
“That Bobby Fields was terrific.”
“We saw every episode.”
“Have you read Pete’s novel?” Cleo gushes, “It’s fantastic.”
Pete changes the subject. “You guys own a dog?”
“Two Terriers. What’s it called?”
“Top of the World.” Cleo puts her arms possessively around Pete. “Two guys, a young daredevil and an ex-con, work on rooftop water tanks. Very dangerous. Daredevil has a dream to climb the steel cables to the top of the Brooklyn Bridge, wants the con to do it with him, says the stunt will make them famous. Con doesn’t want to be famous.”
“My novel was a long time ago.”
“Go on, go on.”
Cleo continues with intensity. “The con has a dark past, gets involved with the daredevil’s wife who reminds him of another woman. The story becomes a love triangle.”
Ingrid elbows Pete knowingly. “Very Icelandic.”
“Ends badly.” Pete says.
“I can’t wait to read it.”
“Long out of print.”
I’ll find it on the Internet. Maybe I’ll translate it into Icelandic.”
Back at the Streamside after exchanging email addresses and phone numbers and promising to stay in touch, Pete hugs Ingrid warmly.
“Christmas, we all go to Iceland for big family reunion. Bring your girlfriend.” More hugs all around.
Pete lets Dicey out to stretch her legs. The dog runs in wide happy circles, wants to play. Pete picks up a stick and throws it into the swimming hole. The dog jumps in after it. “You should do PR,” he says to Cleo. “The way you condensed the story was better than I ever could.”
“That’s why we’re a good team.” She kisses him. “Why do you think your book ends badly? The con finds salvation sacrificing his life so the daredevil can fulfill his dream.”
“I invented that, in real-life the daredevil threatened to kill the con because he thought the con fucked his wife. The con killed the daredevil first. He died in Sing Sing.”
“Your ending is way better.”
“Very Icelandic, right?” Dicey comes out of the water with the stick, drops it at Pete’s feet and shakes the water off her silky coat, drenching them.
The dog curls up on the floor. The recorder is on and there’s a pitcher of fresh squeezed lemonade. Cleo lies on the chaise as usual. “When I got out of rehab, Desirée went back to work for Roy. She was one of three girls who traveled to exotic places and had adventures. Supposedly they were looking for true love, but Desirée only found hard sex. Roy directed the films. His signature was acrobatic fucking in spectacular places. Occasionally he did a cameo but wouldn’t fuck Desirée on camera any more.”
Suddenly Cleo makes a shift, becomes petulant Desirée. “Roy only wanted Cleo, she’s the one he loved. What pissed me off was that all my scenes played in the worst locations. On End Of The World, we shot on the rim of a volcano. Sharp lava and sulfur fumes did not turn me on. Roy was a sadist.” She pulls down her shorts, shows Pete her thigh.
“That scar looks like an infinity sign.”
“Carlos loved my scar.”
“ Can I kiss it?”
“I want to work.” She’s back in Cleo mode, pulling up her shorts and pouring the lemonade. “Meyer lemons grew in Carlos’ backyard.”
“How did you meet him?”
“In Maui, Carlos was staying in a villa on the beach. He didn’t come on strong, he was very polite, cooked me dinner, his grandmother’s recipes.”
“You had no idea who he was?”
“There were bodyguards so I knew he was somebody important.”
“Did he know who you were?”
“Turns out it wasn’t a chance meeting. He had seen all of my films and hired a detective to find me.”
“Wasn’t that creepy?”
“Carlos always treated me with respect.”
“When did you become lovers?”
Another shift, Cleo becomes Desirée. “When I’m shooting, I don’t fuck offscreen. I save everything for the camera. Anyway, I was hardly speaking to Roy, Carlos was very angry about how he treated me. Roy is a very intimidating person, he’s been pumping iron since he was a teenager. Carlos put the muzzle of his gun in Roy’s ear. He pissed his pants.”
“You went off with a narco?”
“Desirée was a thrill seeker.” Cleo is back. “Mexico fascinated me.”
“Carlos Esparza was a stone cold killer.”
“He was brutally honest about himself. Drugs were his business and in his business people got killed. But Carlos wanted to end the drug wars. He had a plan to organize the cartels into a syndicate, make a deal with the government. ‘Killing is bad for business,’ he said, ‘especially when there’s a simple solution.’”
“Seems to have eluded the powers that be.”
“Legalize the product. It’s a huge industry, a vital part of the economy and it produces no revenue. ‘Legalize Marijuana,’ he said, ‘and the syndicate will pay taxes like any other legitimate business. Killings will stop and tourism flourish.’”
Pete is amazed. “I never read a word about Carlos Esparza renouncing violence in favor of legalizing drugs.”
“He was very smart, self taught, especially in economics.”
Pete wants to believe her. “How did you survive his assassination?”
“His people saved me, got me out of the country.”
“I read that a rival element in his own cartel killed him.”
“You read the story they want you to believe. The US government didn’t want Carlos to organize a syndicate to legalize marijuana. CIA contractors took him out, made it look like a gang execution.”
“Fascinating hypothesis.”
“In a weird way you remind me of him. He never stopped asking questions until he understood how things worked.”
“Carlos was a murderer, I don’t even own a gun.”
“Your violence is suppressed.”
“How was he in bed?”
“We didn’t sleep together until Mexico. They had an ancient Mayan ceremony, old women rolling tortillas, a pig roasting in an open pit, drums, and everyone dressed in white, dancing. He carried me up the mountain to a thatched hut. It was incredibly romantic. Three guitars serenaded us as we made love for the first time. He was incredibly gentle.”
Pete’s not buying that. “You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”
“I loved Carlos and he loved me.”
Pete goes to the window, listens to the insects singing. “I’m jealous.”
“He’s dead.” She turns off the recorder. “That’s enough.”
“Okay.”
“Do you mind if I sleep with you, sex not included?”
“You sound like my ex-wives.” Actually he’s relieved that he doesn’t have to take another blue pill because the headache from the first one is finally gone.
“Can I borrow a T?”
“Dresser, top drawer.”
An archive of faded cotton to choose from. “I’m sure they all have special meaning.” She holds up a worn yellow shirt with a Hopi design.
“Taos, New Mexico. Fathers Day. My daughter gave it to me before she had a melt down with her mother and ran off. We spent the afternoon looking for her. The police found Bethy in the park hanging out with a gang of Chicano skateboarders like nothing happened.”
Cleo puts the shirt on, curls up, closes her eyes and falls instantly asleep. It’s been a long time since a woman shared Pete’s bed. Samantha liked to watch telly while he read. In summer they slept naked wrapped in each other’s arms. In winter she preferred a hot water bottle to warm her tummy, a major insult. Heidi spent an inordinate amount of time preparing, using rare and expensive creams on her delicate skin. She also spent astronomical sums on sexy lingerie that Pete rarely had the pleasure of removing. By the time she lay down beside him he was asleep. Barbara and he had the most adventurous approach to bed, in th
eir case a queen, which kept them in close proximity. No designated side was her innovation, sleeping in the nude preferable, a hot water bottle unnecessary because they generated so much heat they were never cold. Never.
Pete spoons into Cleo’s back. She moves away. When he rests his hand on the slope of her thigh, she pushes it off. Fine, no touching. He rolls over and stares at the familiar shadows on the ceiling. The sound of Cleo’s steady breathing lulls him to sleep.
Mary Ann’s attic bedroom shimmers in the moonlight. Pete, naked, lies on the hardwood floor. When he looks up he is outside on the ground under a Meyer lemon tree in the backyard of Carlos, the man who would unite the drug cartels of Mexico. The narco sits on a limb watching Desirée straddle Pete in tantric bliss.
CHAPTER 11
Beads of sweat glisten on Jackson’s hairless chest as he works alongside José, blowing the Streamside’s landscape clean of fallen leaves. Only Jamie’s family name, Hightower, appears on his birth certificate. At sixteen she finally told him about his dad, Sonny Jackson, murdered so the story goes in Las Vegas. He’s trying to not let the record his father made in Woodstock - funky, far out stuff - influence him.
Jackson doesn’t like physical labor, even if it makes Pete and Jamie feel good to see him working his ass off. Healthy and honest they call it. Dealing weed was so much easier and way more profitable. Unfortunately, getting busted in a speed trap while making a local delivery was not cool. Pete says he subconsciously wanted to be caught, but Jackson knows it was stupidity.
A Dodge Charger pulls into the parking area and a tan blond with a dazzling California girl smile springs out of the car, iPhone in hand. Charmed by the setting, she captures a panorama of images, ending with an angle on the two story wood frame house. She’s the same age as the sweaty, skinny boy who steps into her frame, his long hair tied back with a colorful bandana. He’s cute.
Jackson misdirects the blower, covers California girl with leaves. Another flustered young man succumbs to her charms.
Pete’s daughter Annabeth is running away from UC Santa Cruz intending to never go back. Feeling guilty about not visiting her father, she decided to surprise Pete in his new life. Her mother thought dad had an unacknowledged breakdown but there was no actual confirmation. “Hi,” she says to the young man who covered her with leaves.
“Sorry.” He starts blowing them off her.
“I always wanted an authentic fall experience.”
Jackson kills the blower. “Indian Summer, it’ll be warm enough to swim later, cold tonight. Perfect time to be here.”
Steadily acquiring boyfriends since she was twelve, Annabeth lost her virginity in middle school because all the cool girls were having sex. Always open with her parents, she liked to shock them but wasn’t as promiscuous as she led them to believe. Pete was hypocritically uptight, while Barbara listened and wrote everything down in her journal. Her parents real concern was that she had no goals. Annabeth made a show of not caring but secretly obsessed about her lack of direction.
“Checking in?”
“One night. I’m on my way to Paris.”
“Paris, France. Wow, I never been further than Brooklyn.”
“Ever drink absinthe? They say it’s hallucinogenic. Gaugin was addicted, killed him. They outlawed it, like grass, but you can get absinthe in Czechoslovakia. That’s really where I’m going, Prague. You know where Pete Stevens lives?”
“In the house. You can call from the office.”
“No, I want to surprise him. I’m Annabeth, his daughter.”
Jackson resumes bagging leaves. Pete hardly ever talked about her and the only picture he’d seen was of a sassy eleven year old dressed in some wild costume. He watches her knock on the front door staring brazenly back at him. She impatiently turns the handle and enters.
Cleo, wearing the Hopi T-shirt over red panties, is at the stove clumsily pouring a huge amount of oats into a pot of boiling water.
Dicey barks and wags her tail when the girl enters. The familiar T stuns Annabeth. “I’m looking for my father,” she stammers.
Cleo stares at the girl petting the dog. “He’s still asleep.”
The shirt really irritates Annabeth. “You live here?”
“I work with Pete.”
“Work?”
“We’re writing together.”
Annabeth is incredulous. “You and my father are writing the new TV series?” The oatmeal starts to boil over. “Let me do that.” She covers her agitation with oatmeal preparation.
Cleo, happy to give up the wooden spoon, sits at the table and studies Pete’s daughter, the dog flops down at her feet. “My name is Cleo.”
“I’m Annabeth. Nice puppy.”
“She was abandoned. What kind of person would do that?” Cleo scratches the dog behind the ear. “We call her Dicey.”
That’s the name of the main character in Annabeth’s favorite book. She can’t believe her father has a dog with this woman. “The trick with oatmeal is not to cook it too long or it becomes sludge.” She manages to sound casual. “My dad likes raisins and bananas in his oatmeal.” Sure enough a half filled jar of raisins and a very ripe banana stand at the ready. “Put them in after the oatmeal is cooked.”
“That banana is rotten.”
“Not to Dad.” There’s a competitive edge to her voice as she turns off the burner, adds raisins, sprinkles in some salt and stirs the pot.
The scream of the coffee grinder wakes Pete upstairs. Could that be oatmeal he smells?
Cleo sits at the table reading yesterday’s New York Times while Annabeth slices banana into the oatmeal. Coffee brews on the sideboard. Dicey barks and wags her tail when she sees Pete come down the stairs.
“Bethy?”
Annabeth has her back to him. “I wanted to wish you happy Father’s Day.”
“That was in June, this is October.” She turns. His beautiful daughter is thinner than he remembers.
“Is it too late?” She stares at her father: his gray hair, what he calls salt and pepper, is longer then she’s ever seen and he hasn’t shaved in days. In LA, this seedy guise would mark him as unemployable, possibly indigent.
“No honey, it’s never too late to say happy Father’s Day.” They hug awkwardly.
“I made you oatmeal.”
“Can’t wait to try it,” Cleo says brightly.
“Met the new writing partner,” Annabeth cracks as she serves three steaming bowls.
“Cleo is working on a novel.”
“Your father is helping me. This is delicious.”
Annabeth stares daggers at her. “Mom’s recipe, she puts brown sugar on top, but I make it my own way.” She lights a cigarette.
“Bethy!”
“No smoking in the house, like back home? Grass excluded of course.” She goes outside to finish her cigarette.
“Your oatmeal will…. “ He doesn’t finish the sentence, eats in silence. Cleo pours coffee, resists commenting.
Outside, Jackson watches California girl cross the parking area and stop on Sully’s Bridge. She looks upset.
Annabeth stares down at the stream unable to hold back angry tears. She can’t believe her father has a live-in girlfriend who could be her older sister. He told mom he was celibate.
Jackson’s van rolls out of the motel and pulls alongside. “You okay?” She ignores him. “Want to take a ride to the recycling center, chill?”
Her eyes follow Cleo in the Hopi T back to Unit 15.
“Got some great weed.”
Annabeth hops in the van.
Pete sits at the table enjoying the oatmeal. The recipe was originally Samantha’s. He had made it for Heidi, but Barbara altered it, so did Bethy. Hers is best. His daughter deliberately provoked him and he overreacted. Smoking was prohibited in the Pali house, but that didn’t stop Pete from lighting up in his office. “Why is it so hard not to be a hypocrite?” he asks Dicey. The dog wags her tail and goes to stand by the front door.
Walking t
he dog is Pete’s new favorite thing and Dicey is an eager explorer. He keeps her on a short leash while she sniffs her way through town. When he reaches the Comeau trail he sets her free, breaking a recently passed leash ordinance. First thing Dicey likes to do is roll in deer shit.
Autumn is the season Pete loves best, leaves on fire raining down from the trees. He and Annabeth used to enjoy nature together, hiking the Backbone Trail out of Will Rogers State Park, turning over rocks and logs to find creatures underneath. The cell phone rings. Kurt Van Dusan.
Pete feels disrespectful using the cell on the trail, but this is very important. “Good morning counselor.”
“I love the speech, love it. Maybe you went too far with some of the wisecracks, for instance that joke about hands in the till. The guests could misconstrue allusions of that sort, but overall it’s very funny. I’m working on my delivery, making the words my own.”
The old Pete would have overreacted to “went too far” and popped off. The new Pete swallows the impulse. “I’ll clean up some of the jokes, no problem. How is the other matter shaping up?”
“Best not to call attention to a case that’s going to be dismissed for lack of evidence.”
“Try this for a closer. From now on, I’ll try to see issues Congressman Denby’s way, what I don’t know is, can I get my head that far up his ass?”
“So there’s no misunderstanding, Pete, end the speech on a more praiseworthy note.”
“Just kidding, Kurt.” Pete finds Dicey waiting for him at his regular spot by the stream. He settles in to half lotus, concentrating on his breathing, slowly bringing his focus to the first chakra centered at his perineum. As usual his mind rambles.
In the ’70s, Black Elk Speaks inspired Pete to take a spiritual journey out west. Samantha wanted to go to Sag Harbor but he convinced her that they needed to get away from the comforts of city life.
They flew to Great Falls, Montana and bought a used International Travel All, planning to drive north and camp along the Two Medicine River on the eastern shelf of the Rockies. The landscape was spectacular, high plains stretching to the horizon, jagged mountains piercing the western sky, easy to imagine a sea of buffalo grazing on sweet prairie grass.