She moved closer, murmuring, “We could be here together.”
Playing against her temptation, he leaned forward, his mouth smiling, “I thought you’d taken the brahmacharya vow of celibacy?”
“I would renounce it if I were a householder,” she whispered, her lips moving shamelessly closer to his, her breath shallow, heart pounding.
A long moment passed, until Christian leaned back, shaking his head. “The real world needs people of action. Come with me, Lisa. Be my life partner. There’s a lot we could do together.”
“I can’t,” she whispered miserably.
With a heavy sigh, he passed her the piece of paper from his pocket. “Here. My phone number. If you ever need anything … anything … call me.”
A few moments ago, she had promised herself she wouldn’t take that number, but now she reached for it, not quite ready to let go of him entirely.
“I have some money for you,” he added. “Your share off the top of my work with Bob. Three thousand dollars for the connection. I’ve kept it for you as I said I would. I thought you might leave the ashram and need it. Apparently, I thought wrong.”
“I don’t need the money, Christian. The ashram’s my home.”
“It’s there when you want it.”
Abruptly, he stood to go.
“Are you leaving so soon?” she cried, bewildered, standing with him.
“Is there any reason to stay?”
“I … I just thought to talk to you about the Master.”
“Talk? No, Lisa, I don’t think that’s why you really want me to stay.”
He stood over her, near, so close she could smell the scent of his skin, feel the heat of his body, and she thought she might scream for the wanting, for the courage to give in to the erotic pull of him. His arms were ready for her, strong and warm. She willed herself to step into them but could not move. Instead, she found that she swam effortlessly in his eyes, speaking silently to him of months of longing. One word, one gesture, and tonight, she could be with him, and for a long time after, all her vows forgotten.
Reading her thoughts, his arms went around her, pressing her close against him, his mouth on hers, kissing her hungrily, feeling her respond with the same longing.
From inside, a bell rang at the altar and floated through an open window, the sound carrying in the still afternoon. Once again, Lisa remembered the light that surrounded the man she called Master, a love from him so complete that a voice rose from inside to whisper that God’s love was more complete than man’s. A love she still had to explore.
“Sister, is everything all right?”
Christian turned abruptly to find Krishna standing not ten feet away.
Lisa lowered her head, shamed and shaking visibly, passion a sweet, sick ball in her stomach and throat.
“Christian,” she whispered, stepping back from him. “Can you find your way out? I’d like to sit here for a while.”
He waited for a long moment, but when she did not lift her face, he turned and, once again, walked away down the path.
LANCE
BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA
SEPTEMBER 1967
Lance Bormann knew himself to be an attorney of some importance, and these days, he wasn’t used to waiting for anyone. His schedule was such that people waited for him, sometimes for hours. If clients felt that Lance’s time was very valuable, perhaps they wouldn’t mind paying a very high price for that time. Even someone as famous as Max Jackson had been made to wait.
Only with Joe O’Brian, the investigator, did Lance forego the game. He had a feeling Joe wouldn’t buy it. And Joe, he needed.
Again, he checked his watch.
Forty minutes late. Why weren’t planes ever on time?
From where he sat at the bar watching the gate, he noticed the flight agent pull the time card that had been posted and replace it with new numbers. Lance groaned. Another twenty minutes. For a moment, he wished he’d smoked the roach in the ashtray of his car on the way to the airport, then he thought better about it.
Patience, he told himself. Bert will be here soon. Have another scotch instead.
He lifted his finger to the bartender.
Bert Parker was one of the numerous colleagues who had entertained Lance on a well-needed week’s vacation in New York six months ago. Lance had already heard about Bert before that meeting. Feature news stories had given Bert the same reputation in New York that Lance held in the Bay Area, but at second glance, Lance clearly recognized the differences. He was a laid-back Californian; Bert, a tough, aggressive, no-nonsense New Yorker, who had worked with labor parties, conscientious objectors, and drug cases. In fact, Lance was a little jealous at the breadth of Bert’s law and trial experience.
On his last night in New York, Lance and Bert had talked their way through a bottle of scotch. During that evening, Lance’s college ideas were dug from slumber and met with equal enthusiasm. A quarter of a bottle down and Lance had not only eagerly described his views on human rights and tyranny but also had whispered his secrets about his secretary and her friends. Bert responded with intimacies of a labor strike and details of his recent divorce. Half a bottle down, and they had worked their way through a long discussion of the Selective Service Act, the draft, and the historical roots of pacifism, and each knew the other’s drug preferences—alcohol, pot, and cocaine. Three-quarters of a bottle and Lance got loose-lipped about the fees he asked and the quantities of money to which his clients had access. Bert enlivened his imagination with the cost of living in New York City and what could be had at a price. By the bottle’s inevitable end, both men had sloppily pontificated on the question of the legality of war and the criminalization of large segments of an otherwise moral population because of the marijuana laws. At sunrise, they had stood watching the brightening sky on Bert’s balcony, arms around each other’s shoulders, glasses raised high, exclaiming to the world in loud voices, eternal friendship.
Despite a two-day hangover, the initial spirit of goodwill carried itself. Long distance conferences on tough cases, as well as three further trips to New York, had solidified the relationship.
During the last months, Lance’s caseload had increased dramatically. Several cases had been refused, some of them with substantial sums involved. Frustration and lack of time had prompted Lance to approach Bert with the proposition of a partnership. Confiding in him the amount of his yearly income, he gave Bert proposed estimates of his projected income over the next five years. With a raised eyebrow and a smile, Bert agreed to an equal partnership.
But money, Bert had said, was not the deciding factor for him. What really decided him was the challenge of the job. Working as a team, he and Lance would be a two-sided sword that could cut away the bullshit, a new act that would leave audiences spellbound.
Turning in his resignation at the law firm where he was an associate, Bert completed his pending cases, packed and shipped his belongings, and boarded a plane for California.
“TWA Flight 467, now arriving from New York City, Gate 6.”
Lance glanced down at his watch and quickly downed the third double scotch in time to see Bert emerge from the gangway.
“Thanks for meeting me,” Bert called. “Sorry we’re late. Some instrument wasn’t working, and we sat on the ground for an hour in New York.”
“Welcome to California! Let’s get your luggage. I’ve a lot to tell you.”
Settling into Lance’s Porsche, Bert caressed the armrest as though he wouldn’t mind owning one either. Then Lance began to brief him.
“You’ll love the office building. Old brick, lots of ivy covering the walls. Both offices have a view of the bay and the Golden Gate.”
“Have any of my boxes arrived?”
“Plenty. I didn’t know if you wanted my secretary to start unpacking for you.”
“I can do it. Thanks for putting me up until I find a place to rent.”
“Rent? This is California. What you want to do is buy. Prices just keep
going up. You can’t lose. A friend of mine offered to hold a special house until today. We’re going there now. The biggest news is the case I just took. Max Jackson. Ever hear the name?”
“Max Jackson?” Bert pronounced the name slowly, running it over in his mind. “Isn’t he a rock promoter who branched out? Owns a few restaurants, theatres—one here, one in L.A., one in New York. If I recall, there’s a recording studio too. Just started pressing his own releases.”
“Yeah. He has a big house worth about half a mil in Marin County. Sausalito. Anyway, last week, Jackson got popped. He had almost a kilo of pot in his basement, some smaller quantities of stash, a little acid, some mescaline, MDA, coke, bits of hash. There was some money in the house—a few grand.”
“Just a few things,” Bert grinned.
“Personal stash. But the interesting thing is that Jackson never sold to anyone. Doesn’t need to make money that way. The state boys showed up at his place with a warrant and found everything after going in. When I asked on what evidence the warrant had been issued, I was told ‘information based on a confidential reliable informant.’ Those words rang a bell. I started reviewing old cases. In each instance, the arresting officer is a man named Dolph Bremer, top honcho for the northern part of the state. Mostly Humboldt County and the Bay Area.”
“Did you ask Jackson if he’d admitted anyone to his house he didn’t know?”
“Yes. He couldn’t remember anyone. He went through agonizing days of trying to figure out which one of his friends might have screwed him. I asked him to think of the anomalies—repairmen, meter readers, neighbors. Then he remembered a young kid whose car had broken down. He’d asked to use the phone. All he could remember was that the kid was tall and skinny.”
“You think that’s it?”
“It’s a stab in the dark. I’m hiring an investigator to look into it. His name’s Joe O’Brian.”
“O’Brian. A nice Irish name.”
“You’ll meet him soon. He’s good. If there’s a connection, Joe will find it.”
“What do you know about this man Bremer?”
“Very little. He’s been in the Bay Area for maybe eight months. He’s dedicated, tough. The work is personal with him.”
“What’s the rest of the Berkeley squad like?”
“Lieutenant Hanson’s in charge of the narcotics department. He’s not a bad guy, as cops go. But the state boys have the power, especially two of Bremer’s protégés—Wilson and Phillips. And Bremer’s the boss. Believe me, he lets no one have any doubt about that.”
Lance drove his car around the Arlington Circle and up Marin Street, where the road climbed at a forty-five degree angle. He could feel Bert squirm on the incline.
“You’ll get used to the hills,” he told him, turning down a side street and onto a narrow lane. “Here we are.”
They stood beside the car and looked over the Berkeley campus with the Campanile gleaming white in the sunlight. For as far as they could see, there were residential areas—north to Richmond, south to Oakland and San Jose. A brisk breeze had cleared the air to crystal sharpness, highlighting the shape of the Bay and its islands. Three bridges connecting the Bay Area were arched high above sapphire-colored water. In the west, the city of San Francisco sat on its peninsula, crowded with tall skyscrapers. Beyond the city lay the ocean and the Farallon Islands.
“Not bad, huh?” Lance pronounced. “And that’s just the view. Come and see the house.”
RICHARD
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
OCTOBER 1967
At the end of August and the beginning of September, the thousands of young people who had made their way to San Francisco for the summer began to leave. Many were hitching back to college; others headed to home cities prepared to start new businesses—head shops, natural foods, vegetarian restaurants, music stores; still others were focused on creating new political organizations and publications. With them, they carried the flowers, bells, beads, and feathers of the street, along with small stashes of pot and acid and the name of a connection. In their hometowns, they turned on the people around them to acid and smoke, but more importantly, to the ideas that went with them. As they dispersed across the country, the movement grew, swelling the ranks of civil rights workers, antiwar protestors, disarmament organizations, and the new environmental groups. For many, the essence of the experience in the Haight was spiritual. They had lived with love and communalism and passed the acid test. They had stood before the White Light and touched the face of God. The music of the Fillmore rang in their ears, and they knew it was true that they held the key to love and peace within their own hands.
But for those who remained on the street, the initial cool days of approaching winter were a sign, a premonition that things were changing. Days of warm weather were replaced by the first rains. In summer, people could sleep in the park, or even walk the streets, but now, lower temperatures and wet weather were driving them inside, and finding a place inside meant rent money. The street became a harder hustle. The pot harvest of last year had been smoked away, and everyone waited for the fall Mexican crop. Acid drops were taking longer to come down, because the Heat was on a paranoid Owsley. Without psychedelics to sell, methamphetamine and heroin became major commodities. Speed freaks walked briskly with agitated energy and shifting glances, trying to unload their bindles. Junkies nodded in doorways, their faces covered with bright acne, their sleeping bags in dirty rolls beside them. Hundreds of people passively awaited their turn at the Haight Ashbury Free Medical Clinic, most jaundiced yellow by hepatitis passed by contaminated needles—so many, that the clinic, already strained in time and reserves, could do nothing but offer the advice of bed rest and no more drugs.
To make matters worse, word had passed through the city that there was money in the Haight. Any person on the street could be a dealer, with big bucks in his pocket. Armed robbery became a nightly occurrence.
Garbage lined the gutters.
Lots of bikers stumbled on the sidewalks now—not the Angels, but others in leather jackets, drinking alcohol wrapped in paper bags and looking for any excuse to start a fight. The flower children began to disappear. Tour buses stopped arriving.
The street sweeps picked up again. The blue-helmeted officers tore into apartments, looking for runaways and drugs. The cops took the easy way, concentrating on peaceful, unarmed juveniles and hippies, while openly drunk motorcyclists roared through the streets, harassing people. No cop wanted to come up against a boozed-up biker, nor did they want to antagonize the small army the leather jackets had become.
What surprised many was the quickness with which it occurred. For those who loved the Haight and thought of it as home, the new atmosphere became one of fear and anxiety. The Bill of Rights allows freedom of assembly, many insisted. There are no exceptions as to age or hair length. People can’t be arrested because they walk the streets without identification. They demanded cops show search warrants before entering their homes. Angry, frustrated, the community gathered at public meetings, unsure, asking each other what could be done.
Richard opened the door to the Ashbury flat, glad to see that Alex was there.
“Hey, Alex. Let’s talk,” and he strode quickly down the hallway to his room.
“What’s up?” Alex asked, following him. “Where have you been for the last couple of days? Man, I’ve been in and out of here at all hours and you’re never around. You need to stay in touch.”
“Being impulsive. I got a phone call from Kathy about four days ago.”
Alex sat down on the floor rug, pulled a joint from his shirt pocket, and found his lighter. Smoke curled out across the room.
“So what’d Kathy have to say? When’s she coming in?”
“She’s not. Not for a while. She’s stuck in some small hospital near Larry’s ranch in Tucson.”
“Larry? That her connection?”
“Yeah. She has hep.”
“Figures.” Alex blew a perfect smoke ring, pu
shing his finger through the center. “The chick’s too loose, man. Coming and going on her own. She never really attached herself to this family. God, you never know when she’s going to bring the Man in the back door.”
“Her comings and goings helped put us where we are today. And she didn’t do anything that the rest of us haven’t tried at one time or another. She just ran into a dirty needle.”
“Stupid.”
“Yeah, but lucky. If she had gotten sick here, they would have given her a couple of aspirin and sent her home, but out there, where there’s no epidemic, she’s getting the full treatment. They’re being so cautious with her that they won’t let her out of bed to pee. I just got back from seeing her.”
Alex’s face turned sharply, his eyes open, clear of smoke. “You went without telling me?”
“Like I said, it was an impulse. Kathy’s out for six to eight weeks.”
“Six weeks! At this time of year! We need that load!”
“That’s why I went. I needed to see the scene, especially since hep was involved.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“There wasn’t time and I had to catch a plane. I told Marcie to tell you.”
“I haven’t seen Marcie. She’s been hanging out over at Debbie’s. And besides,” Alex told him testily, “it’s not Marcie’s place to tell me what’s up with our business.”
Richard ignored his tone. “I figured Larry has to be plugged into a big scene if he’s doing fifty-key lots bimonthly to Kathy. And for sure, she’s only one of his customers. He must have access to a large warehouse.”
At this, Alex’s eyes brightened. “That’s just what we need—a constant source. We can sell as much as they have.”
“I thought if I went down there, I’d have a better idea of where Larry fit into the puzzle. And where the warehouse is located.”
“And?”
“Larry’s far out. His partner’s cool too. They’re cautious on the phone. Vegetarians. Pacifists. His old lady—Carolyn—she’s a knockout.”
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