by Layla Wolfe
She took so long that Knoxie said into his cell, “I’ll text you the answer, bro,” and hung up on Ford. He took a seat next to Slushy, earnestly confronting the confused girl.
Slushy had her by the necklace, so Knoxie covered her hand with his. “It’s cool,” he said, starting to get into the swing of things with the hippie lingo. “Your birth name was part of you back then, too. It’s like an orange. There are many segments of the whole.” Or some such thing. He’d briefly studied Buddhism when Nicole had gotten into it for a while. The chanting part was fun, but the actual practice just didn’t fit into an American lifestyle.
This seemed to work. She sniffed as though about to cry, and her eyes brimmed with tears, but she said, “Bellamy. Bellamy Jager. I used to live on Broken Saddle Drive. I have a little sister named Virginia.”
Knoxie squeezed her hand, and Slushy let go of the photo of her stupid master. “Good. Good girl. That’ll help a lot. Eat your eggs. Then I’ll take you to see Maddy. Más café negro, por favor,” he told the waitress, then texted Ford. “What a beautiful name. Bellamy.”
Slushy pointed at Bellamy with a fork full of potatoes. “Jager. Do I detect a bit of the old homeland?”
Knoxie drew away from the money man. “‘The old homeland’? Your last name is McGill.”
Slushy drew himself up, too. “That’s just a minor affectation I employ to soothe investors. Gives them financial confidence if they think I’m of the potato-eating tribe. My folks actually hailed from Heidelberg. And you?”
Bellamy was so ladylike, all rounded edges, with a voice like velvet. Knoxie had to harden his heart. Bellamy was a project, not a twat. She was a tool for The Bare Bones to achieve their ends—not a back warmer. “My grandparents lived in Berlin before the Great War. Luckily they got out in time and came through Ellis Island.”
“Ah,” said Slushy knowingly. “A Bible shortener.”
Knoxie hit the lawyer with the back of his hand. “What the fuck, Slushy? You were in the joint. I thought you were more sensitive to racial slurs.” Still, Knoxie was burning with curiosity, so he asked Bellamy, “You’re Jewish, then? I’m just surprised you turned your back on all that rich heritage to join up with a…different group.” He knew the girl would just crawl back into her shell if he pushed his luck, so he was making a strong effort to be cool, casual. To operate with a light touch, when really he wanted to yank that fucking wooden necklace from her throat and cover her with something respectable, like a black leather jacket.
She shrugged. “No big loss. All that hoo-haw meant nothing to me. I’ve finally come home, finally found meaning in my life. I barely knew my grandparents. That was their religion, not mine.”
Knoxie could say the same thing about Catholicism. That was his parents’ bag, not his. He owed no allegiance to it, had no obligation to believe any of its tenets. “You shouldn’t dismiss it so easily, Bellamy. You can reject the parts you don’t agree with deep down, but some of it might still be useful, or soothing in some way.”
Bellamy stuck out her lower lip. “Nothing about it is soothing to me. I barely remember any of the tenets. My life is my master and his powerful vibrations, his aura, his electromagnetic energy. Truth is what works.”
When Mann Montana walked into the biker grill, Slushy just about lost his shit. Montana was The Bare Bones’ choice for mayor during the November election. A tall, gangly guy with a protruding Adam’s apple and a ten gallon hat, he seemed an all right sort. Bikers fell over themselves to congratulate Montana on his latest success in some speech or other.
A giant of an Aztec named Tuzigoot did the soul shake with the politician. An Al Pacino lookalike named Duji congratulated the guy, too. Bobo Segrist, who ran The Bum Steer, was a newly inducted Prospect for the club. If he joined, Knoxie would be stuck running errands and doing grunt work with that clown. They’d be on the same level, with the same standing in the club. That alone was enough to give Knoxie pause for thought. He was ten years older than Bobo Segrist. But then maybe Bobo hadn’t wasted most of his life, like Knoxie had, in doing stupid shit.
No doubt Montana would turn a blind eye to many of the Boners’ doings in his own backyard. He’d probably push referendums that were favorable to their business. Frankly, Knoxie paid little to no attention to politics. He wasn’t a brother in the club—yet. But he was a businessman. So maybe he should start caring.
When Slushy stood to thump the future mayor on the back, it gave Knoxie the opening he’d been waiting for. Again touching his fingers to Bellamy’s, he leaned forward so far his forehead nearly touched hers. “Bellamy. Yesterday when I found you on the mesa, you said something…strange. The last thing you said before you passed out was, ‘Oh, Master. Is it time to be penetrated?’ Not to be overly idiotic, but…is that something you normally ask?”
To Knoxie’s surprise, Bellamy didn’t appear embarrassed. “Yes, it happens quite often. It’s my master’s way of bonding with us chosen ones.”
Knoxie rolled his eyes. “I’ll bet.” He had to take her seriously, though. “Listen, Bellamy. I know you’re over eighteen and all, but did it ever occur to you this ‘master’ is just using you? That you deserve so much better?” He knew he was yammering hollow, empty shit, and Bellamy picked up on it.
“No. How can it get any better than what I have? I’m allowed to ride my own bike. I’ve got a beautiful vintage Sporty 883 bobber with a three point three gallon tank, no front fender, mini apes. It’s purple, Voodoo Purple Flake, which I know you bikers wouldn’t appreciate, but I don’t care. I did all the work myself.”
“I’ve got a Softail, blacked out.” Knoxie would have loved to see her ride. More than that, he’d kill to see her scooting in some fringed leathers, maybe flying a PROPERTY OF patch. But he had more important things to address. “You just don’t know any better, Bellamy. You haven’t been living in the real world. Do you still think it was an accident that you were bused out to the mesa with all those bums? Doesn’t your master see all, know all? Then he must’ve known what was happening to you. Has he called you looking for you? No?”
She pouted and seemed less sure of herself. “I don’t have a cell. How could he call? No, listen, why are you trying to downtalk my faith, my life? After I say hi to Madison I’ll get her to give me a ride back up the mountain.”
Knoxie wasn’t about to give up. He squeezed her fingers. “Bellamy. Sorry, sorry. That’s what I’m going to call you since I’m not currently in Merry-go-round Canyon wearing a purple toga. Listen, Bellamy. There’s a whole world out here with a wide range of people. Very few of them are going to hurt you the way your so-called master just did. He threw you out like a used condom, just slapped you right up against that wall, yes he did! I don’t want you going back there, Bellamy. Look at it from my point of view. I saved you from certain death. Would I want to see all my hard work go into the shitter?”
“What hard work? You picked me up off the ground.”
“Oh, so you’re an ingrate now? You would’ve frozen to death. It gets down to forty degrees up there in late October. As passed out as you were, you would’ve gone into hypothermia, the way you were knocked out. You didn’t stop to wonder why you were drugged?”
“Who said anything about being drugged?” Bellamy yanked her hands from Knoxie’s and pinned them under her underarms. “Sounds like you’re living in La-la-land the way you assume all of this whacked-out shit. What do I know about you? You took off my skirt and put me into your bed.”
Knoxie snorted. “Saved your ass, is more like it. Do I even get a fucking word of thanks?”
Bellamy made a lip fart now. “Ppp. Thanks. I guess. But I don’t think I needed any damned saving. I was out there with Ted, a ski instructor from Aspen. I was hardly in any gutter snorting cheese heroin.”
“Cheese heroin? What makes you say cheese heroin?” As the father of a couple of teens, Knoxie was particularly sensitive to this trendy drug, a mixture of heroin, Tylenol PM, and additives such as sugary strawberry
flavoring to make it attractive to kids. It was called “cheese” for its resemblance to grated parmesan. Knoxie had never busted Sage and Cameron dabbling in that crap, but he’d sure as hell lectured them anyway. “Did you hear someone talking about cheese heroin?”
“Now why would I tell you? You’re just pumping me for—oh!” Bellamy gasped and jumped when someone wearing a lavender T-shirt walked by. Of course it was only a regular civilian—the grill didn’t cater solely to bikers—but her reaction was very telling.
She was petrified.
Again, Knoxie took her hand. She had made a fist, and he covered it with both his palms. He whispered, “They threw you under the bus, Bellamy. Literally. Let me help.”
She said quietly, “I don’t need your help.” She wasn’t too convincing.
Knoxie fixed her with his gaze. He could practically see her resolve crumble beneath his piercing stare. He used this method on his kids, as he used to use it on Nicole and other women. Once he was sure he had her attention, he whispered, “I think you do need my help.”
It seemed to sink in. Knoxie didn’t mind so much when Slushy came staggering back over, laughing like a goon as he dropped several bills on the table. “Well, the thing is, she really believed I was Jude Law! Anything works if you believe in it hard enough.”
“Ain’t that the truth!” guffawed Mann Montana. “Do you mind if I use that tagline for my campaign? Sounds trendy and optimistic.”
Knoxie then saw the source of the hilarity. A newspaper photographer was following Montana around, snapping away. Knoxie had been the subject of several of these human interest stories. No doubt they were displaying how much of an Everyman Montana was, getting along with people from all walks of life. Duji, Tuzigoot, and the Prospect Bobo Segrist were all posing behind the politician, their mouths frozen open with glee. Tuzigoot cheerfully hoisted a can of beer even though it was eleven in the morning. This would show that Montana was a man of the people. Knoxie didn’t knock Montana. He just didn’t know him.
Rising, Knoxie told Bellamy, “Since you’re used to bikes, ride out with me to Madison’s, two up. My ride’s just basic black, but I think you’ll appreciate it from the pussy pad.” He’d banged a lot of cunts since Nicole had left, but he’d never had a back warmer.
Knoxie bumped into Kneecap as he left the grill. That was the Ronald McDonald buffoon. It all happened so fast, the way Knoxie truly accidentally bumped him. When he realized who the asshat was, though, Knoxie shouldered him so violently the guy went flying into the glass, all smashed against it with his mouth open aghast like some kind of road kill. But Knoxie had to follow Bellamy, so he didn’t want to create a scene. He sure wished he knew why Nicole had spread her legs for that mascot clone. He would’ve felt better if it had been someone stunningly handsome, like one of the Illuminati brothers.
Out on the sidewalk, Slushy took him aside. “Now, don’t go all cowboy on us, hot stuff. Just keep your eyes on the prize. Maddy’s been briefed, so she knows what to do. She’s going to try and convince Bellamy to see her shrink. In the meantime, she’s certifiably cuckoo, Knox. Good luck with that. You might try googling ‘deprogramming.’” He thumped Knoxie on the back and went back to his glad-handing. “Hey, did you know I ran into this doofis Montana at the improv club the other night?”
“You go to improv?” Duji asked.
“Sure, doesn’t everyone? Anyway, we were standing in line…”
Knoxie carefully eyeballed Bellamy as she turned down the side alley that led to the lot where his ride was parked. She was definitely waifish from this point of view, underfed, underloved. The thought of that fake swami playing Hide the All-Beef Thermometer with this innocent, impressionable young woman made him sick.
She had told him she was seventeen when she joined the cult. That was much too young to know what one wanted. Hell, at seventeen Knoxie had thought he’d travel the world as a SEAL, taking out bad guys, planting incendiary devices. Which was pretty much what he’d done until an injury had sidelined him from active duty. But the point was, even if he hadn’t been discharged into the world, being a badass mercenary was hardly a fucking lifetime career choice.
Just as marrying Nicole hadn’t lasted as long as he’d imagined it would. Shit happened, things changed, and Bellamy was going to find that out either way. Knoxie was determined. She was not returning to that goddamned prison camp.
CHAPTER FIVE
BELLAMY
It was wonderful to catch up with Maddy.
I was blown away by her house. There were three levels, and almost all the rooms looked out onto some red sandstone spires, the Red Rocks of Pure and Easy fame. Their master bedroom had one of those heavy wooden beds, an oval ceiling, and curved glass windows separated by columns. Oh, and a fucking fireplace in the bedroom. There was a chandelier in the bathroom, and those neat glass blocks created the shower enclosure. The kitchen, though, the kitchen looked like a library with rich cabinets smelling of linseed oil. All the food was carefully hidden away, and just a few shelves with cookbooks.
I was eaten through with jealousy. I know jealousy was wrong. Jealousy was society’s way of dividing and ruling us, and we couldn’t fall prey to it. But…but…how had Maddy lucked out so heavily? We were both from the same downtrodden part of Cottonwood. We had both smoked Lytton Driving Hawk’s Young Man Blue pot up there in Coyote Buttes. We had slept in the same clothes that we wore to school during the day. We stole steaks from the supermarket, cans of beef jerky, oranges. Maddy’s mother was arguably a bigger witch than mine—we used to fight over that, comparing witches. “Well my mother said Led Zeppelin is supernatural music.” “Well mine smashed a clothes iron over my head.” “Okay, you win.” Maddy’s iron would always win out over paranormal music any day.
But while Maddy had gone onto the straight and narrow nursing path, I had continued to lose my way. She had yanked herself up by her boot strings, vanishing mysteriously when she was about seventeen. I still had four more years, now without my mentor Madison Shellmound, and you know, the fact is…I didn’t make it. I never graduated from high school. It’s embarrassing to admit, but the pressure was just too much, the classes too hard. I was seventeen and a senior—just nominally, I barely attended, mostly just to get warm in the winter—when I bumped into Bulsara and Mandinga selling peanut butter near City Hall. They convinced me of the warm, loving arms of the master, and sold me when they said the master is a boat. “Once the disciple crosses the river, the boat becomes unnecessary.” I was excited and thrilled like I hadn’t been in years. I was beyond sick of sleeping in the same clothes, in the moldy sleeping bag, feeling obligated to make out with any boy with a rice rocket, long hair, and a six of beer.
They took me up to the ashram that night where I could see with my own eyes the enthusiasm, confidence, and the riches being spread around. I didn’t need any of my own money to join. Immediately I was put into a plush mobile home and helped plant fruit trees. On the ranch I flourished, soon being assigned to repair motorcycles, becoming one of the Master’s chosen ones, living at Wang Cho house. He decided I had surrendered to him and given up my old methods of doing things.
I told Maddy as we sat on her enormous verandah sipping drinks with little umbrellas, “Shakti says marriage is for idiots. It’s slavery, prostitution. However, to help the community, I agreed to be engaged to Bodhisattva.”
“An Indian?” I could tell Maddy was doing her damned best to keep the humor from her voice. It was so wonderful to see her again, I actually was able to put Bihari out of my mind for minutes at a time.
“No, a white guy, but he’s illegal here after spending too many years in India. He gave up his citizenship. He’s a doctor—or was. He needs his green card if he’s to vote.” I shrugged. “He’s all right, I suppose.”
“Bodhisattva? He sounds like a Steely Dan song. So you don’t have to actually…do it with him?”
I tilted my head. Good question. “Technically, no. Shakti isn’t big on children. H
e says they distract us from the important work we need to do on ourselves. But penetration is a part of our daily therapy. Shakti told me I was psychically damaged by my father leaving. In order to heal this wound, we had to reenact the abandonment drama.”
“Your father…abused you? I don’t remember that.”
“No. But Shakti says his abandonment was a spiritual rape, and we have to get close to it, down to the bare bones, to strip everything away to get to the true emotion, the core trauma that was left in me when he vanished.”
“Wow. So you have to be penetrated by this Bodhisattva doctor guy?”
“Sometimes him. Sometimes Shakti. It doesn’t really matter who’s doing it. Sometimes a stranger, if that’s what I need at the moment. Shakti decides, because he knows all, sees all.” Speaking this stuff aloud, it did sound odd. I’d been around only fellow disciples for so long, it never struck me how this would all sound to an outsider.
Maddy was silent for a few seconds before saying, “Well, Bella. I’m sure you know that this seems all weirdly strange. As a nurse, I’ve taken a few of those therapeutic encounter group classes in my time, and I’ve never once heard that reenactment of a trauma is the best way to move on. Why keep peeling the scab off the old wound? That sounds like some sixties sort of gestalt crap. Do you know how many couples wound up divorcing behind that shit? Who the hell wants to hear how fucked they allegedly are, while their spouse hits a couch with a tennis racket screaming about their mother?”
I had to chuckle at that. I guess it might seem to a “white party member” as though we “hit couches with tennis rackets,” and the image was a funny one. Then I became serious again when I realized we sometimes did stuff like that. To me, it was all so normal. The ashramites were my family, plain and simple. My father had vanished into the wilds of Los Angeles, my mother had become an even bigger nasty shrew who could care less about her children, and everything had basically collapsed. No wonder I was ripe for the pickings. No wonder I had embraced the citizens of Bihari. “Well, we don’t have couples in that sense up at Merry-go-Round Canyon. If someone accidentally has a child, the child is put into a sort of daycare, so the parents aren’t distracted.”