I walked out on them. I borrowed clean underwear and a starched Polo shirt from Em and shut myself in the bathroom for no more than twenty minutes. When I rejoined Mike and Max, they were pouring coffee and passing back and forth a basket of croissants.
I sat crosslegged on the floor, facing them across the low table. “Message from Mrs. Lim,” Mike said, handing me a steaming mug.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. It was delivered in Chinese. I think it had something to do with the way pigs live.”
“I’ll straighten up the place later.” I sipped the coffee grate-fully. We had had maybe four hours of sleep. It was four hours more than I’d had the night before, but I still felt grainy behind the eyes. I drained the mug and refilled it from the pot, took a croissant from the basket, broke it in half and devoured it.
Max’s eyes were riveted on the TV. Mike was watching Uncle Max with similar concentration.
“What do you think, Max?” I asked.
“Tell you what, kid, it hurts.” He glanced over at me. I watch Em and Jaime, and I see what I missed out on. I was in law school through all this, a real grind. Free love, peace, rock and roll — that whole scene just passed me by. I might as well be a Martian looking at these tapes.”
“You lie,” I said. “You know every person on that truck.”
“I met them.” He had his chin down on his starchy white shirtfront. “That’s not quite the same thing as knowing them.”
“I don’t get you,” Mike said.
“I used to spend holidays at my brother’s house. Emily ran the place like a two-bit hotel. I never knew who I’d be sharing my room with; the most bizarre collection of unshaven radicals passed across my sheets,” he said. “It was an old house. There weren’t enough bathrooms. I knew these people because we all spent a lot of time together in the hall, waiting our turn at the loo. Here’s the scoop on the exalted inner circle: Lucas took a shit after breakfast, so you had to get your shower before, or suffer. Emily and Jaime showered together and took three times as long as anyone else. While you waited, Celeste would lay down and spread her legs for you if asked real nice, even though she hated it. I doubt whether Rod Peebles did any of the above, shit, fuck or shower. He wasn’t a loner by choice.”
“Bathroom habits is all you learned?” I said, hoping my mouthful of croissant didn’t mask the skeptical tone I was trying for.
Max grew serious. At least, he knit his brows.
I reached across the table and touched his knee. “So?”
“Private stuff, kid. We should respect the secrets of the heart.”
“Jesus, Max,” I groaned. “So profound.”
“I’m not real big on hearts and flowers, counselor,” Mike said. “Especially when there’s attempted murder involved. Anyway, if you can’t trust your own niece, what’s the point of anything?”
Max glared at him.
“Come on, Max,” I said. “You can at least tell us whose secrets you’re talking about.”
Max took a breath. “Aleda and Marc.”
“This is news? For the last two days, I’ve been hearing that something was going on between Marc and Aleda,” I said. “So what. Name two people in the group who weren’t getting laid on a regular basis.”
Max sighed. “Me and Rod.”
I looked askance at him. “Remember the long walks we all used to take up Cyclotron Road? Everyone talking and getting stoned?”
“Sure.”
“One afternoon,” I said, I think it was after Thanksgiving dinner, we set off on the usual hike, the usual people, the usual arguments. I got really bored. No one was paying the right kind of attention to me. Celeste was teasing me. When I saw you head for home, I followed you. I saw Aleda go into the house. I saw you go into the house. I went up to her room to talk to her, but she wasn’t there.”
“So?” Max said.
“So, your bedroom door was locked.”
“You always were a snoop.”
“Marc was in Vietnam,” I said. “Tell me about Marc and Aleda.”
The tape of the November demonstration was still running in the VCR. Now and then I caught something out of the side of my eye more speeches, some singing. The sound was low, but I could hear what was happening.
The only response Max had given me was to pour me another cup of coffee.
“Max?” I said. “Tell me about Aleda.”
“I’m a lawyer. I deal in facts and evidence.”
“And?”
“I only know what Aleda told me. She thought she was pregnant.”
“Yours?” I asked.
“Don’t I wish.” Max started to say something more, but a whummp from the television made us all turn.
The speakers on the flatbed truck, Emily and Jaime, Lucas and Aleda, et al., stood frozen.
Mike picked up the remote and rewound the tape.
When he hit play again, some man I didn’t recognize was standing next to Lucas and pontificating about the genocide rained on the unsuspecting Vietnamese by chemicals and weapons developed in university laboratories. He wasn’t a very good speaker, rather nasal and whiney. He was tremendously intense. Just as he arrived at his climax about children being incinerated by the liquid fire of napalm falling from American military helicopters, we heard it again: whummp!
“What happened?” I asked.
Max had blanched. “Lab explosion. If I’m right, what you heard was young Tom Potts shaking hands with his maker.”
“Damn,” Mike sighed. He reached for my hand across the table. I went over and sat beside him.
We watched at least a full minute of confusion. No one seemed to know either what had happened or what to do next. Even the leaders on the flatbed scurried around, impotently searching for an answer. There was some panic among the crowd. Someone knocked against the cameraman and we were treated to a dizzying panoramic sweep of the sky until he righted himself and his equipment. In the background, we heard approaching sirens, many of them.
The tape was twenty-two years old, but it still had the power to evoke vivid memories, painful emotions intact. I was thinking, as I watched the screen, that after Tom Potts was burned, both he and Marc had another whole month to live. Tom had spent that month in unspeakable pain, dying a little every day. Marc had had a full share of robust health and a quick, relatively painless death. Or, at least, that was the official version. I wished I knew how Marc had spent the last of his share. What really hurt was not having him around to ask.
I glanced over at Max. “What do you remember about Tom Potts?”
“I never met him. I understand he was a grind, like me. Max thought for a moment. “I did some work for Em and Jaime on the civil suit the Potts family filed against them. It was the summer I crammed for the California bar exam.”
This was a new bit. “Why did the Pottses sue Jaime and Emily?”
“For depriving Tom of his civil rights. His parents filed against everyone who spoke at the demonstration, the city of Berkeley for issuing a parade permit, the regents of the university, Tom’s research director for keeping him tied to his lab. None of it came to anything. There was no way to know who had set the fire. Nothing came of it: the Potts family didn’t have the where-withal to pursue the suit.”
I was watching the people on the truck, Emily, Jaime, Lucas, Aleda, the speaker I didn’t recognize, and, at the rear, Rod Peebles. Rod was very quiet, considering the level of turmoil around him. Finally, Celeste appeared and climbed up onto the truck bed with the others.
“So where did Celeste go?” I asked. “From the time we heard the explosion, do you think she had time to run from the labs on North Campus to the demonstration on Telegraph?”
Mike squeezed my hand. “Unless the arsonist was suicidal, he would have used a timer device on a charge of that magnitude. Could have been any of them. Or none of them.”
“Enough,” I said. I went over and turned off the VCR and the television.
Mike looked at his watch.
I hate to walk out on you, but I have to go to work.”
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Almost nine. I’m only two hours late.” He stood up and stretched. “I’ll call you later, Maggie. Where will you be?”
“I don’t know. Max?”
“What?” he said. “I only came over here looking for my car.”
I had a sudden sinking feeling; for a moment I couldn’t remember where I had left his Beemer. The expression on my face must have cued Mike.
“We left the car up at the Police Academy last night. Come with me, counselor. I’ll drop you.”
Max turned a dark glare on me. “You left my car where?”
“What could be safer?” I said. “Who would break into a car at the Police Academy?”
“How many love-besotted drunks rolled out of that lot past my car last night? Maggie, I swear, if anything has happened to my car …”
“Max,” I said, “get a grip on yourself. It is only a fucking car.”
“The things that come out of your mouth.” Mike laughed. He kissed me. “I’ll call you. Counselor? Are you coming?”
Max sighed heavily. “Maggot, this is L.A. Without a car, how will you get around town?”
“Emily’s Volvo.”
“That heap is a menace.”
“So if it will make you feel better, I’ll hang on to your Beemer. But I need a gas company card. The tank is empty, and I’m broke.”
“Shit,” he grumped, reaching for his wallet. “You damn kids always wrapped me around your fingers.”
I took the Arco card he held out, and the five twenties. I love you, Uncle Max.”
“You hear that, Detective? I’m doomed.” Max grabbed me and held me in a bear hug. “You will call me before you leave town, won’t you, Maggie? Let me know where to send the wreckers for my car?”
“Count on it. Hang on for a minute, will you? I want to talk to you. Let me walk Mike out.”
I helped Mike push the dresser back into Em’s dressing room. Then I walked with him to the stairs.
Mike put his arms around my waist and pulled me against him. “Last night was incredible.”
I wanted to keep things light, at least until I got them sorted through. “You’re sweet,” I said.
“Sweet? I can put a choke hold on a man until he’s dancing like Howdy Doody, and you call me sweet?”
I didn’t have anything to say, so I just kissed him. His mouth was warm from the coffee, all the way down as far as my tongue could reach. Mike knew how to kiss. I could have stripped right there and taken him on the stairs.
He drew back and pulled in a deep breath. “That’s no way to say good-bye.”
I laughed. “I like to leave them with their eyes rolled back in their heads.”
“God, I guess you do. Call me.”
“Yes.”
I waited on the landing until I heard the front door close behind him. I think my own eyes were still rolled back in my head when I went back inside. At least, Max gave me a very long look.
“He’s a cop, Maggie,” Max said.
“So what? John Kennedy was a bootlegger’s son. You have a point to make?”
“At least Kennedy was a democrat.”
“Don’t worry about me, Max.” I tugged on his coat sleeve. “Come give me a hand.”
He followed me into Emily’s study and stood in the middle of the room looking at the stacks of files and the drawers hanging open, clucking his tongue. “What were you looking for?”
“Not me,” I said. “It was Em’s burglar.”
“Goddamn sonofabitch,” he stormed.
“Don’t get started with that crap,” I said. “Are you going to help me or are you going to have a tantrum?”
He stooped to pick up a stack of files. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just feed me some truth, Max. What did Emily tell you to get you to come down to L.A.?”
“Not much. She called the day before, demanded that I fly down. Said she had some legal problems I would enjoy. That’s about it.”
Max was on the floor, gathering together bundles of papers and handing them up to me. I took a stack from him and laid it in the top drawer.
I talked to Lester Rowland at the jail two nights ago,” I said. “He helped bring in Aleda.”
“Rowland is, and was, a horse’s twat.”
“Is and was.” I reached for more papers. “He’s a scary character. He has a special beef, I think, with rich kids who knocked the system and who got away with murder. He’s like something feral, stalking them after all this time, waiting for his moment of payback.”
“It’s been a long time, kiddo. How much payback can he expect? Even if he could somehow prove who set the bomb, other than the Potts family, who really gives a fuck anymore? There’s nothing that he can do.”
“Not legally, maybe. But he could spread more than a little grief with a well-placed accusation.”
“Rowland or anyone else could.” Max was on his hands and knees, gathering in the last of the papers, sorting to the side personal documents and putting them into logical groups: taxes, insurance, rent receipts, and so on. And dumping the esoterica randomly into folders and handing them up to me. We were nearly finished. It hadn’t been much of a job, though it seemed to have fatigued him.
He stood and picked rug lint from his dark trousers. “Wonder if your burglar found what he was looking for.”
“Wish I knew. As far as I can tell, a picture of Marc is all that’s missing.”
“No shit?” Max’s brows met in the center when he frowned really deeply. At that moment, his brows seemed to overlap. He handed me an empty manila folder.
“I’ve been rooting around for something to put in there, but there’s nothing left. Take a look,” he said. The label on the tab read, “Marc Duchamps. Birth Certificate and School Records. 1970-1987.”
Chapter Eighteen
“I clean now,” Mrs. Lim said, struggling behind a cart stocked with enough cleaning equipment to put any hotel maid to shame. “You don’t look so good. You go rest.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I think I will.”
I had a lot to think about. Somewhere in the back of my mind, it was all beginning to gel—old mayhem, fresh mayhem. The possible connections between what had happened to Emily and events from twenty-something years before were both legion and intriguing. I could think of a variety of reasons why someone might want to keep those connections buried. Many of us live, work, on a keen edge that can be easily shattered, each of us perhaps with a different vulnerability.
I was thinking about what Celeste had said. If rumor got out that I was a drunk, perverse, belonged to the KKK, had AIDS, I would have major trouble getting project funding—a big chunk of arts donations comes from rich folks who are politically and socially sensitive themselves. If the charge is set in the right place it doesn’t take much to blast most of us out of the water.
Some people are better survivors than others. My father had avoided being blacklisted during the fifties only by waiting out the craziness by taking a research position with a European university. Many of his colleagues hadn’t been as prescient and had disappeared from academia.
I thought I was getting closer to the answer, but there were still many missing pieces.
I called my mother, but got the answering machine. The message, typical of Mother’s efficiency, said, “Emily tolerated the move to Palo Alto very well. Her condition remains stable. The rest of the family is fine. We hold our friends so dear and thank you for caring.” That was that.
Another call netted me the information that Rod Peebles was hosting a holiday open house for his major supporters in his district offices later in the morning. I was told he was due to show in an hour or so, the variable there depending, I suspected, on how late his night before had been. For at least an hour, then, I was a bit at loose ends. So, while Mrs. Lim attacked what was left of the fingerprint technician’s spotty mess, I turned on the television and tri
ed to get through a few more of the videotapes.
It was tough going, watching Emily and her group perform at demonstrations around the county: at a massed rally on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, marches on college campuses, speeches given in auditoriums, in city parks, in front of various federal buildings and induction centers.
I heard their cant over and over, heard their blueprint for a perfect world. It sounded so young, so impossibly utopian. It was a beautiful dream, the world they were fighting to create. Peace and love, equality for all, government of the people and by the people. It was also a seductive dream, and I suspect that’s what made the message seem so dangerous. Someone in high places was afraid of them: the official response to their challenge was generally armed troops or squads of itchy-looking police.
Emily and her comrades preached passive resistance, but they were not creampuffs. As often as not, the demonstrations ended in violent routs. Sometimes before they even got underway they were cut off by a furious storm of nightsticks and rifle butts. I watched, with the ache of fear and dread, my knees pulled up to my chest and my hands clenched, as men in riot gear poured into the crowds of unarmed protesters.
Sometimes the men with batons swung their sticks like machetes to cut through the mass of demonstrators. Other times, they seemed to pick a target, always a long-haired kid. They would swarm over the kid, hold on to his arms so he couldn’t cover his head, and beat him, their sticks swinging again and again like spokes on a broken windmill. I don’t understand how anyone survived. When it was over, the men in uniform, smiling, spent, would drag the longhair away. Sometimes there would be a closeup of a bloody face, a semi-conscious kid suspended between two men in uniform, blood pouring into his beard.
On several tapes, I saw Jaime go down into that windmill. Once, Lucas was pulled off a park bandstand and submerged into the netherworld of batons and combat boots. He came up flashing a peace sign with bloodied fingers.
When Garth put together the tapes for me, he had intercut the scenes of violence at peace demonstrations with bits of Vietnam war footage, other young men being brutalized in a very different way. It was a matter of news chronology, I knew, and not an artistic or political device. But juxtaposed in this way, the two parts of those war years — the homefront and the war zone looked strangely similar. Where was the war? It was a lot to absorb.
Telling Lies Page 18