Lomita For Ever

by Trevor Eve

  Ever being the only witness to her ease and efficiency.

  She interpreted his look, understanding his observation.

  ‘You don’t think I was married to Roberto without understanding how to use a gun, do you? Seriously? For my own protection, of course, but he taught me, it was an absolute necessity.’

  And then as an afterthought.

  ‘Or perhaps you missed that bit?’

  ‘What bit?’

  ‘Of my life story.’

  She said with more than a suggestion of mockery.

  ‘No, I was with that bit, I admit I was a bit drifty. But I was there for that.’

  And then as if he sensed her doubt he reconfirmed.

  ‘No, I remember that bit well. How could I not?’

  ‘A Beretta 70 he gave me, carried eight rounds in the magazine, and it was a close-range gun. But, hey, I figured any self-defence was going to be at close range. Don’t you think?’

  A question Ever had never been asked to consider before. Though he nodded, as if an expert.

  ‘This is a cumbersome gun though, heavy. Pack a punch. Where’s your ammunition?’

  He didn’t respond quickly enough for her.

  ‘Surely you didn’t just buy enough for the mag? That would have been stupid, and suspicious. A giveaway that you just wanted to kill someone. One person. No, always buy a stack. You know, convincing them it’s for the range, or hunting. That it has an ongoing usage.’

  He was mesmerised by her language for weaponry: the basic and innate understanding of the code – the code of guns.

  But he was stuck on the fact that murder of a person had been casually dropped into the conversation for the first time, there had been a specific, unequivocal mention. He didn’t know how to reply.

  ‘No, I bought a box of twenty-five rounds.’

  A pause, waiting for further potential criticism of his action.

  ‘It’s a 9 mm.’

  ‘I know,’

  She said incongruously.

  ‘Police use them. So, get the ammo.’

  The ammo, as she called it, was under the bed, upstairs; like a shamed dog with its ears back he went to retrieve it.

  On his way up, he turned to her.

  ‘I’m paid up for another week and then I’m out of here, so if it is OK with you, can I bring my stuff? You know, clear everything out. I only have a couple of bags.’

  ‘Oh, so I can house a murderer you mean?’

  The laugh came from the back of her throat.

  ‘That’s right.’

  Ever said, trying to lighten the tone.

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’

  She said for the second time.

  The laugh grew and lived with the words she spoke.

  He attempted to continue the joke element of the situation.

  ‘A man on the run.’

  But the stare and the pause suggested he had failed. The joke seemed to have been put to one side. Run its very short course.

  ‘I hope we don’t get to that, my sweet, with my help, I hope we don’t get to that.’

  That carried a finality that he made no attempt to question.

  She moved outside and sat by a table with two chairs that nestled in the courtyard, her legs were aching; she took in the Spanish architecture of the Mi Casa – the name in blue lettering on a patterned Mexican tile in the wall – the atmosphere of the place, with its little 1930s Hollywood separate apartment buildings; she wondered if, in her time, she had come here and sat with friends, all hopeful of turning their lives into the magic of silver.

  Each little casita housed one or two bedrooms. She got up and walked around; her legs were still aching, maybe a little stroll would help. If the people were of like mind, the intimacy of the community could be comforting, she thought. She went back to her time at the Hacienda; before her life had lost its sheen, and the shine was still there to be polished.

  Ever came down with a suitcase and a soft bag in under ten minutes. He was travelling with the lightness of a feather.

  ‘Ready?’

  He nodded his response, then realised he needed to put the trash out so that the smell didn’t build up. He packed up the trash bag and deposited it down the chute which took it to the underground parking and the garbage bins. He had bought no provisions to speak of, he decided to leave the nearly empty bottle of Patrón Silver, with a gratitude to its consumed contents and to the universe that had shared it with him.

  Those stars.

  He closed up the apartment and opened the front door, by which Lomita was already leaning, turned the lock and dropped the key back inside. He would inform the caretaker in a week of the fact. He was gone, starting his journey towards invisibility.

  On the way back, he requested a stop at the Holloway cleaners, not really out of the way, and then his guardians drove him back to Oakhurst Drive. Manita, as usual, had no attitude, or comment to make, as she opened the tailgate where he had deposited his luggage.

  Ever’s life had taken a turn that was not only unexpected but had now implicated people. This was never his intention – yes it was – he remembered his desire to meet someone that day, that day an eternity ago in the public parking, for what, for support, did he know he was going to crash emotionally? Lomita had acknowledged, clearly, her awareness of his situation. But time was running out; his mind could never rest on the outcome – how could it?

  It would change everything in his life forever.

  His phone bird-chirped with the arrival of two emails, one from Miss Money-Root, who being the true professional, was dealing with the minion not the money; mind you, she had no choice. He had opened a special email account for her as well. She sent an electronic invitation, for two, named, at 6.30pm for the preview opening of the Jean-Michel Basquiat exhibition. The other was from a Bruce Wong. Perfect on both counts. Bruce Wong’s communication contained his phone number and a thanks for making contact and a please call to arrange inspection. Bruce Wong sounded perfect.

  *

  A strangeness hit him on his return to Lomita’s house.

  He had lost his independence but gained some sort of trust. He was now a house guest with a difference – one with a gun. He unloaded his bags into his room and acknowledged the need to reply to his two communications. He unpacked his suitcase, then took the plastic off the dry-cleaned suit, hanging it up, not bothering to transfer it from its wire hanger. He looked at it on the rail: he hated wire hangers. He withheld his number and dialled Bruce.

  ‘Hi. My name is Joe, Joe Smith,’

  He repeated, as much to convince himself as Mr Wong,

  ‘I sent you an email about the car you have for sale.’

  ‘Hi, thank you for getting back to me. This is me, Bruce. When you want to come and see?’

  Ever suffered a momentary loss of breath, he needed to take a gasp to restart the process, it was the realisation that he was continuing on this path. A path, certainly not to glory, but to completion and the defence of a life lost.

  Details taken, he was calming himself when his bit of peace was broken.

  ‘Miss L is resting, do you want anything to eat?’

  Asked Manita, following the door knock and entry.

  ‘No thank you, I’m fine, really, but would you mind telling Lomita that tomorrow’s exhibition, which she knows about, is quite a formal affair. She might like some advanced warning. Notice, you know, in terms of what she was going to wear.’

  Why he was carrying on explaining to the woman who ran Lomita’s life suddenly struck him as ridiculous, but it didn’t stop him. It was polite, guilt, overkill.

  ‘Sure.’

  Door closed.

  Shopping channel? No, he denied himself the agonising pleasure.

  Why was Lomita allowing all this to continue? The saviour, everybody wants to be a saviour. He felt tired by his day’s endeavours; lay down, hot and feeling weak, and closed his eyes. He had the dream of the pale blue hand and woke from the already-aw
ake sleep in a sweat.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The Same Old Shit was about to get under way.

  From SAMO to the biggest exhibition in town.

  The valet parking had quadrupled in size and the lines were endless. Fortunately for Ever and Lomita, Manita was driving them in the black Suburban and was able to drop off, wait, and find her own space, in her own time.

  Ever helped Lomita, resplendent Lomita, out of the car and waited while Manita extracted the wheelchair from the black mass. While standing, Lomita’s impact was evident and able to be fully appreciated.

  She was adorned in a flowing black A-line dress, pintucked at the waist, which caressed her black velvet low-heeled shoes, just avoiding the floor, with rhinestones covering the body and the full flow of the skirt. Her hair was pulled into a chignon, she wore a white orchid pinned to the fabric at her shoulder, her make-up was minimal, a necklace of white gold with a pear drop diamond circled her neck, with earrings to match. A ring of equal diamond size adorned her finger. She was, by any standards, and there were some standards there, absolutely unquestionably beautiful, delicate, with the effortless quality of the unashamedly rich.

  She floated through as Ever pushed her along in the wheelchair, which diminished none of her magnificence, and showed his e-ticket to one of the many security guards. They joined a gaggle of famous faces, many of whom had been early purchasers of Basquiat’s work before the record was set by Yusaku Maezawa, the Japanese billionaire, who set an auction record of $57.3 million for one of the artist’s series of ten ‘Untitled’ works, then the following year broke his own record, purchasing another Basquiat – Untitled (1982) – for $110 million including the buyer’s premium. Fair warning… fair warning, rang out twice, at Sotheby’s New York, before the gavel came down and his telephone bid was secured. The hope was that this piece would travel here, to the Lorken gallery to take pride of place at what was considered to be the most comprehensive collection of Basquiat’s work ever.

  To see one or two – Ever had been fortunate enough to have seen ten in a previous exhibition at the Gagosian – was an extraordinary experience. But he was trepidatious at seeing this many, the emotional overload that possibly upwards of eighty pieces, almost two thirds of his catalogue, would carry.

  At first there were drinks, Krug of course, served by an identically-dressed team of men and women with perfect diversity, in the lobby of this architectural monument that had a cold but dramatic metallic feel, softened by giant curls of shining steel. Natural materials represented by wood and grey slate, slate that glistened, as if permanently wet and continually moving. The whole space had the feel of an endless churn of energy on the move; though it was obviously going nowhere.

  Ever could see Miss Money-Root, who was far too busy to make any efforts at communication at this stage, dealing, most likely, with those who had donated their works. There were also, apparently, a few pieces that were available for sale, but with a history of his works not dropping below the 30 million mark, Ever didn’t anticipate too much movement in that area this evening. Lomita attracted an enormous amount of attention that went beyond the conscious, sentimental sympathy usually afforded to the wheelchair-bound: she was truly breathtaking. Ever felt it a privilege to be associated with her, albeit in his capacity this evening as Mr Jacob. He should think up a first name, he thought, as her supposed business representative, then dismissed the distraction. She was in conversation, displaying her surprising knowledge, with three people, already reflecting on the validity of Basquiat as a graffiti artist, on his collaboration with Warhol and his addiction, his statement of his desire to be a star. He certainly was burnt and gone before attention was fully paid. So there was no personality to confuse the issue, he was purely a commodity, he had become what he never wanted to be – a gallery mascot.

  He would probably have hated this evening.

  Then the man of the moment, Ingmar Lorken, Ever prayed that a moment was all the time he was going to command, stepped onto the platform at the end of the lobby. The platform looked like a piece of curved aluminium foil. It was the approach to the gallery holding the paintings. He made a brief, eloquent speech thanking all who had enabled this exhibition, to those who had travelled far and wide to be here: Madonna, John McEnroe, Leonardo DiCaprio, Jay-Z and Beyoncé. It was Madonna who had been there at the beginning, before the fire had truly became an inferno, even though the paintings he gave her were destroyed after their break-up. Suzanne Mallouk was there but no Alexis Adler. Debbie Harry was there, and a special reference was made to her contribution to the exhibition – the first painting that Basquiat ever sold.

  Ever was humming the telephone hanging song and staring. It was a memory plucked from his childhood. It carried a little sadness.

  There was no more speech for him, only Blondie. His father had loved Blondie.

  The time arrived for the doors to be opened, the aluminium stage moved aside unaided, and there was a reverent silence of anticipation. Lomita requested not to rush, or push, or to go in early, stating she was happy to sit, observe and engage in conversation with whoever was passing and seemed of interest to her – they were on her terms, these conversations.

  She was, quite simply, charismatic. Ever felt comfortably insignificant in her presence. She was shining – she had been polished to a brilliance like the diamonds around her neck and the ones dropping from her ears like a goddess’s tears. The diamond, clear, pure, with nothing to hide: transparent, adored by all. The honest jewel. No flies to be found on a diamond.

  Ever could never have anticipated what was about to happen to him. They were amongst the last to enter, but the crowd was not too large ­– select, he thought, so that it would not inhibit an intimate and individual appreciation of the works.

  He wheeled Lomita into the centre of the marble cavern, white-floored, white-walled, white-ceilinged; it had an unusual lack of complication for Gehry, with lighting that had a focus, but was invisible.

  There she sat and he stood.

  *

  The mental disturbance from the paintings went straight into his cerebrum.

  The distortion of image and the misrepresentation or reinterpretation of natural images felt like they were coming from his own head. He had no distance from them, no objectivity. No clarity, no separation, they became one mass of pain and chaos and his brain told him he looked like the faces, that it was his way of seeing the world, that he had had a hand in these creations. That he was responsible for the distortion, the ugliness, it had become revolting to him, what everyone else was interpreting as having captured a magical beauty and magnificence and a fresh view of the world. For Ever, it was like he had always lived like this, there were too many in the one space, as big as it was, he felt the sweat soak the back of his shirt, hoping it didn’t pierce through his jacket, he was glad to have the wheelchair to support him, he searched for Lomita’s hand, she had already sensed his turbulence, transferring comfort with both hands. He wanted to rip all the shit off the walls. How could anyone else see the world like he did? He understood the artist should be dead, you couldn’t paint like this and be alive, you couldn’t come this close to infantilising the world into sub-primitive form and get away with it. It was genius all wrong, they shouldn’t be here, these people, he shouldn’t be here, this was wrong. He left Lomita and went outside to breathe the air, look at the normal, and make sure his brain hadn’t left him for good. He wanted the world back, not the one according to Basquiat, but according to God, or to anyone who didn’t see it as he knew it to be, like this man had shown it. This was insane, hell on a wall. He knew, in that moment, as yet more vomit left his mouth and hit the pavement, missing his aim for the gutter, that there had been something seriously wrong with this man, that no one should paint like that, and if they did they should keep it to themselves. He was gone to the best place, this artist, the only place he could be in comfort, the only place anyone who saw the world like that could be. They had to be dead.
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  That was it.

  Death.

  And Ever, in his subsequent thought, understood he saw the world like that too.

  Ever was, of course, being taken for a stupid idiot who had pigged himself on the free champagne and was having a chunder.

  The security guards were casting a disdainful glance and obviously his return was going to be tricky. A very considerate valet attendant came over with a bottle of water, which was used in a semi-successful attempt to get the rest of the vomit that hadn’t made it into the gutter slushed off the pavement. He was grateful for some compassion, even if directed towards the pavement.

  On his way past the glare of the security guards, he muttered the words bad and fish in vague connection, a weak attempt in paranoid thought to dispel their conviction that it was the alcohol. He was allowed back in, his exit having been well noticed; he saw Lomita, now outside the gallery space in the slowly-emptying lobby, talking to Miss Money-Root and Mr Lorken.

  Obviously the ever-professional Miss Money-Root had made the introduction and he could already read on his approach that Lomita had charmed her two companions.

  ‘Hello. Mr Jacob.’

  Ever said by way of introduction, and in a spur-of-the-moment thought that would avoid any online checking:

  ‘But everyone just calls me Jacob. I guess I have the status of a one-name guy. Or Just Jacob, if you must.’

  His attempt at the icebreaker joke, always a risky strategy, fell slowly to the floor and no attempt was made to salvage the minimal mess.

  ‘Of course, you know Mr Lorken.’

  A calmly cruel Miss Money-Root, putting air back into the vacuum.

  ‘And you remember, of course—’

  These ‘of courses’ almost presupposed he was incapable of compiling thought and putting it into the form of memory. She continued:

  ‘Our meeting, when you came with your initial inquiry.’

  That word pronounced again with the American intonation.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’