Telling Lies

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Telling Lies Page 19

by Wendy Hornsby


  My parents, when I lived at home, used to restrict my television watching. And at school, we were allowed access only on the weekends. I grumbled about it as a matter of form. After seeing Emily take some good licks, I began to see their wisdom. As a teenager, I doubt I would have been able to handle the scope of both her struggle and her fame.

  Though her message was fairly consistent, Emily’s backdrop changed as she traveled back and forth across the country and to Hanoi, Paris, London, Frankfurt. I wondered who covered her travel expenses: Emily was a full-time student, and my parents couldn’t have helped her — they struggled along on a professor’s salary. She must have had enormous debts, financial and otherwise.

  As I watched her and her comrades, what began to emerge were patterns, certain consistencies in the interaction of the core group and the crowds, the FBI, the police, the camera. And certainly, with each other.

  I was reminded of dummy bumps. My own head hurt. The apartment was stuffy, and too small for Mrs. Lim, me, the TV, and the vacuum at the same time. I gave up and piled all the tapes back into the carton.

  I got up to search Emily’s medicine cabinet for some aspirin. She had a shitload of prescription drugs and pharmaceutical samples, but nothing that looked like ordinary aspirin. My days of chemical experimentation are long over, so I passed on it all.

  I put on my jacket and went to tell Mrs. Lim that I was going out. When I found her, she had her head in the oven.

  “I’m going over to Broadway,” I said. “Need anything?”

  Mrs. Lim sat back on her haunches and wiped her face on her sleeve. I make noodle for dinner. You just put in oven, ten minute, maybe fifteen minute.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been so wonderful. I could not have gotten through the last two days without you.”

  She dismissed the schmaltz with a wave of her hand and picked up her cleaning rag again. “You be one for dinner tonight, or two?”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “Michael Flint leaves his tie under living room chair,” she said, and winked lewdly. I press, you give it back to him.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said.

  She smiled up at me, showing the gaps among her front teeth. The smile was absolutely salacious. “Noodle for two?”

  “That would be perfect. I’ll get out of your way now.”

  It was pretty funny, thinking about Mrs. Lim taking someone to her bony breast. But at some point, she must have. The image was damned disconcerting.

  On my way out, I found Mike’s tie folded over a hanger by the front door. I ran the red and blue silk through my fingers and thought about Mike and wondered how he was. I really had nothing new to tell him—Mrs. Lim found your tie?

  I went into Emily’s study, anyway, and dialed the number on the card he had given me.

  “Robbery-Homicide. Pellegrino speaking.”

  “Is Detective Flint in?” I asked.

  “Sorry, he’s out in the field. Can I take a message?”

  “Just tell him Maggie called.”

  “Will do.”

  I felt vaguely disappointed, and I puzzled over why I felt as

  I did all the way downstairs and out across Hill Street. The sky was clearing, deep blue holes burned through gray clouds. It was still windy. My short jacket, the one Jaime had paid for, didn’t offer much warmth. But after the closeness of the apartment, the brisk air was a welcome slap.

  I cut through Gin Ling Way, giving Hop Louie’s wide berth, and headed for the shops on Broadway. There were at least a dozen Chinese apothecaries in the long block, but no occidental drugstores. Seeking at most directions to the nearest Thrifty, Jr., I stepped into Hong’s, an apothecary I had once visited with Emily.

  Hong’s had been around long enough for the oak cabinets that lined the walls to have acquired a soft, burnished patina. The cabinets had hundreds of tiny drawers, each drawer no more than six inches square on the front. It was the contents of the drawers that gave the place its delicious air of mystery—the ingredients of ancient folk remedies: magic cures for impotence, rashes on the liver, a runny nose. Emily told me that Mr. Hong once offered to mix her a tea that would attract a husband. She had turned him down.

  The shop was narrow. Much of the floor space was taken up by barrels and wooden crates filled with dried yellow fish and squid, cuttlebone, a variety of desiccated roots, herbs, preserved seaweed, and aromatic teas. Most of it looked fairly disgusting to the uninitiated eye. But the smell was wonderful, a combination of sharp spice and dry earth.

  Mr. Hong, in a white pharmacy coat, stood behind the long glass counter. He was mixing a potion for an ancient man who sat on a high stool at the far end.

  I walked over to watch, fascinated. Maybe a little magic was what I needed, too.

  Suspended by a cord from Mr. Hong’s forefinger was a scale, a salad-plate-size copper disk. He opened drawers and measured out ingredients, weighed each carefully on his scale, then poured it all into a stone mortar: white beetle carapaces, a length of dry snakeskin, thick black threads of something, a thumb-size bit of a hairy red root. All of this he ground in the mortar. Finally, he poured the powder onto a square of pink paper and twisted the corners.

  The old man waiting for this concoction had no teeth and one eye had a milky cloud. He put some money on the counter, tucked the twist of pink paper into his shirt pocket, and shuffled with difficulty toward the door. I hoped the powder had the right magic. I hoped he lived long enough to get home and brew it up. Or whatever he was supposed to do with it.

  Mr. Hong smiled at me. “May I help you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I have a headache.”

  He bowed, reached under the counter and brought out two large glass bottles filled with white tablets. “Bayer or Tylenol?” he asked.

  “Bayer, please,” I said, smiling to myself.

  As I searched my pockets for money, he poured me a glass of water and opened the aspirin. He counted two onto a square of the pink paper and put the paper in front of me.

  “It is the change in the weather that makes your head hurt,” he said.

  “Is it?” I swallowed the tablets and decided against countering his theory with my own: too many late nights, a bit of booze, a good thumping, hours of old videotapes. Emily. I put the water glass down on the paper and set a dollar next to it. “Thank you.”

  He counted out some change and bowed when he handed it to me. “Have a nice day.”

  I walked out laughing. Even in Chinatown, weren’t we to be spared? The prospects for the day I faced could hardly qualify for “nice.”

  My head began to clear a little. The back of my neck still felt stiff from the blow I had taken at La Placita church, but it was better, too. Maybe “nice” was relative.

  I decided to take the bus downtown rather than hassle with Max’s car in traffic. I could get the car anytime. I went down to the Dash stop across from Saigon Plaza and waited in the queue.

  Caesar came shambling down the street and saw me before I could decide whether I wanted to speak with him or not. “Hey, pretty lady,” he said. “How you doin’ this fine day?”

  “Okay,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Not so good, but thanks for asking. You find that dude you was lookin’ for?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  I appreciate it.” That should have been good-bye, but he just stood there.

  “So?” I said.

  “Like I say, I’m not doin’ so good. Don’ know how long I can keep my eyes open.”

  I found a couple of singles in my pocket. “Maybe a little pick-me-up would help?”

  “Thank you, pretty lady.” He scooted off at a good clip, going a whole lot faster than he had come.

  I caught the Dash and took it to Sixth Street, then walked the two and a half blocks down Flower to Rod Peebles’s district office in the Broadway Plaza. When I had called earlier, I hadn’t asked if I could join the party nor even left my name.
I thought surprise might be the best approach.

  Rod was an enigma to me. After spending a good part of the last twelve hours watching Emily’s core group in action, I still hadn’t figured out how, where, perhaps if, Rod Peebles fit in. He wasn’t quite what he seemed to be.

  At every demonstration I had seen on Garth’s tapes, Rod arrived early with the vanguard of people who set up the platform and sound system, got out the propaganda, tacked up the banners, piled picket signs, set up the legal table. They were a very efficient group: each had a task and performed it. But Rod was a floater. He hung around the sound man, though I never saw tools or electrical tape in his hands. He hovered near the boxes of printed matter while others took handfuls and headed off to enlighten passersby. Rod never picked up a flyer, tacked up a banner, touched a picket sign. During speeches, he stood on the platform with the others, but always at the rear. Rod was background noise; he didn’t give speeches.

  As far as I could see, Rod’s single function was to keep track of the suits—FBI, campus administration types, I don’t know who else. Lester Rowland seemed to be around a lot. And Rod was always at his elbow.

  Within the core group, there was an obvious power elite—Emily, Jaime, Aleda. The others were satellites whose focus was primarily on the Big Three rather than each other. Taken as a whole, they all seemed to be good and affectionate friends, more extended family than comrades in arms. There was always a lot of hugging, supportive cheering, appreciative feedback. Rod was never in the clinches. I never saw him take a lick.

  Though they appeared very cohesive in public, I had overheard many bitter arguments among the core group at my parents’ house. I could not remember ever hearing Rod’s voice amid the shouting.

  What had Max said about Rod? He didn’t seem to shit, shower, or fuck. He wasn’t a loner by choice. What was his function?

  Rod Peebles might have been a walk-on player during the sixties, but in his own seventeenth floor office in the Broadway Towers, he was a star. Billboard art left over from his last campaign plastered an entire wall of the reception area: RE-ELECT ROD PEEBLES, and an eight-foot high air-brushed impression of his face. I don’t know how his staffers could have worked everyday under the gaze of his hand-painted azure eyes.

  Except for the poster, the furnishings were very subdued, if a bit posh for a government office. There was a Christmas tree in one corner, a menorah in another; all bases covered. A caterer was setting out trays of pastries and fruit on fold-up tables covered with neutral-colored cloths. I could smell coffee brewing in the big silver urns. The four or five staffers helping with last-minute preparations for the open house were young, well-trimmed and neatly turned out. Rod, at their age, would never have fit in among them.

  A bright-looking young man in shirtsleeves and a modified Kennedy haircut walked over to greet me.

  “Hi,” he said. “We aren’t quite ready, but welcome.”

  “I’m not here for the party,” I said. “I want to speak with the Assemblyman for a moment.”

  “Rod’s expecting you?”

  “My name is Maggie MacGowen.”

  The blank expression behind his smile was filled in by a rush of recognition. “Emily Duchamps?”

  “Yes. My sister.”

  As I said, he was bright-looking. He took my hand and held it perhaps longer than was necessary, maybe mulling through some possibilities.

  “May I see the Assemblyman?” I asked again.

  “Have a seat,” he said. “I’ll check.”

  The young man went through the heavy mahogany doors that led to the inner office.

  Rod Peebles came right out, flushed, showing a lot of capped teeth.

  “Maggie,” he crooned, smothering me in an embrace. “Gosh, what a nice surprise.”

  “Can we talk somewhere?” I asked.

  “Come on inside.”

  He ushered me through to an impressive office with a magnificent view of the city. I was hoping for someplace private, but I seemed to have interrupted a meeting. There were half a dozen men and women in intense discussion around the massive granite conference table. They didn’t look like a party crowd. No one even looked up as we walked in. I counted six chairs pulled up to the table, all of them occupied. Rod and I went to a leather sofa against the near wall and found space to sit among a clutter of crossword puzzles and sunflower seed shells.

  “What can I do for you, Maggie?” he asked.

  “Where is Aleda?”

  He threw up his hands. “Damned if I know. I walked on water to get her out—in my custody—but she took off for parts unknown.”

  “Am I supposed to believe you?”

  “What choice do you have?” he laughed. “What choice do any of us have? Aleda has always done exactly what she wanted, and the rest of us be damned. My neck is really on the chopping block on this, Maggot. She’s called in a couple of times, but she won’t say where she is.”

  “Maybe that’s smart, after what happened to Emily,” I said. “But I really want to talk to her.”

  “Next time she calls, I’ll tell her.”

  The discussion at the conference table grew very loud, seemed to crescendo; then there was a thoughtful silence. Rod seemed oblivious to it. One of the conferees, a tall, thirtyish woman with a well-cut, East Coast suit picked up a thick appointment book and walked over to us.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Rod said, looking up at her.

  “You up for one more assembly run before we try state senate?”

  “You tell me. Am I?”

  She grimaced. “That’s the consensus. We’ll make the announcement in April, when you get back from Washington.”

  “When do I go to Washington?”

  “Rod, did you look over the calendar I gave you?” She could have been speaking to an idiot child. She held her hand out to me.

  “Lena Hilgard,” she said. I did my master’s thesis at Columbia on Emily Duchamps and the political ramifications of the Peace Movement.”

  “Did you really?” I said. “Why does that make me feel old?”

  She finally smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss MacGowen. I admire your films.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ve thought for a long time that it would be interesting to do something about political staffers, what their function is within the system.”

  “Good idea,” Rod said brightly. “Lena, see if you can work something out with Maggie to coincide with the campaign.”

  Lena gave Rod a dubious glance. “Trust me, Miss MacGowen. There are some aspects of politics the public would rather not know about.”

  I glanced at Rod and thought she might be right.

  “Nice to meet you, Miss MacGowen,” she said, offering her hand again. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  Rod passed me a bowl of sunflower seeds. I have a good team,” he said. “Top credentials, everyone.”

  I refrained from asking him why they hadn’t saved a seat at the table for him.

  “I’ve taken enough of your time,” I said. “If Aleda should call, tell her how much I want to talk to her. I’ll probably be out the rest of the day, but tell her I expect to be at Emily’s all evening.”

  “If she calls, I’ll tell her.” He stood up with me and walked me to the door. He stretched. “It’s about lunch time. Want to go out with me for a bite?”

  “What about your party?”

  I forgot,” he chuckled. “They won’t miss me.”

  “Maybe another time,” I said. “I left Max’s Beemer up at the Police Academy last night and I need to go fetch it.”

  “Police Academy?” he repeated, as if he hadn’t a clue. Then suddenly he flashed me his poster smile and squeezed my hand. “Always good to see you. Drop in again.”

  “Thanks for your time.” Thinking again that Rod wasn’t a loner by choice, I turned and walked out, leaving him to his sunflower seeds and crossword puzzles.

  I was in the hall, waiting for the elevator down, when Lena Hilgard slid out of Rod’s office. The
edgy way she kept looking over her shoulder toward the office, I knew she had something to tell me. When the elevator came, I held the door for her, ignoring the collective glares of the people inside who were thus forced to wait.

  “Looking for me?” I asked.

  She nodded, checked the hall a last time, and ducked into the elevator in front of me. There were maybe eight or nine people going down with us. She kept her eyes forward, and her mouth shut, until we came out in the basement shopping mall.

  When the other passengers had moved along, she finally spoke: “Don’t worry about Aleda. She’s with friends. When it’s safe, she’ll call you.”

  I was dumbstruck for a moment. “Did Rod send you?”

  “Good Lord, no.”

  Lena was maybe twenty-five or twenty-six. Too young to have known Aleda before she went underground, and too mainstream to have known her after.

  I took her by the arm and quick-stepped her into a vacant public telephone alcove. “You talked to Aleda?”

  “Not directly. Only to an old friend of hers.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “I think you’d better.”

  “I can’t take that responsibility.” She looked around nervously. I know it seems melodramatic, but honestly, it’s too dangerous to say anything. My only motive was to reassure you.”

  “Okay.” I leaned against the cold wall and took a few deep breaths. When I felt calmer, I tried again.

  “How do you know this friend?” I asked.

  “We became acquainted during the course of my research on Emily Duchamps and the Peace Movement. We’ve stayed in touch. This friend helped me get my job with Rod. And I returned the favor by using Rod’s office to arrange for Aleda’s release.”

  “You did?” I asked, leery. “Not Rod?”

  She chuckled sardonically. “Rod couldn’t release a fly from a glass of lemonade unless he had a committee to vote on it.”

  “You keep saying Aleda’s friend. If this is someone from the old movement, someone with enough pull to get you a job, he or she should be Rod’s friend, too?”

 

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