I strolled casually around the building’s parking lot, looking for suitable wheels. Almost everybody was at work, but a few drug dealers were still at home.96 The problem was that most of these types have a lot of money and a lot of flash, so they prefer sports cars. There were four of us, so we needed a sedan, preferably a four-door (better for bolting from the vehicle). I finally found a Mercedes 280 SEL tucked away in a corner. Rafer’s expertise in breaking-and-entering and hot-wiring landed him the job.
José was concerned about Tom’s condition, but there was little we could do. The plan was to make him as comfortable as possible and call the paramedics as soon as we were safely out of the neighborhood. I taped a note to Tom’s forehead suggesting that what Tom needed was not medical or psychiatric care, but a down-to-earth Subatomic Physicist who could give him some insight into the Underlying Nature of Reality, thereby putting Tom’s problems in their proper perspective. I’m certain that someday this type of therapy will be commonplace. The teachings of Bohr, Lorenz and Planck will soon supplant the foolishness of Freud, Jung and Fromm. There is no doubt about it.
Sausalito Banditos
PART VII
The UCB physics department was a disappointment architecturally, having neither a Subatomic nor Macrocosmic look. It just looked like an old building. José didn’t consider this important, and I supposed he’s right, but I was hoping I’d have some kind of déjà vu experience when I got that close to a major seat of Subatomic Learning (not to mention Tina’s father). Life is full of this sort of disappointment.
I left José, Rafer and High Pockets outside (instructing them to look casual) while I scouted the inside of the building. I was the only one of us who looked anything like a student, and I was slightly concerned that the Feds might’ve set up ambushes in all the Subatomic Hangouts in the area. The building looked clean, so I inquired about the lecture schedule. I was pleased to learn that Tina’s father was, at that very moment, teaching a graduate course in Theoretical Physics at the main lecture hall.
The four of us entered the hall as unobtrusively as possible. Luckily it was a huge amphitheater and was only half full, so we were able to slip unnoticed into back row seats.
It was pretty dark in the back, but since José and I were nevertheless afraid that Tina’s father might recognize him from the mugging in Colombia, José sat low in his seat and pulled the brim of his sombrero down over his eyes. I sat between Rafer and José, where I could do a running translation of the lecture for José and answer any simpleminded questions Rafer might have. High Pockets stretched out in the aisle and seemed to doze off.
Tina’s father was a tall, lanky, big-boned man with distinguished gray hair. He was the epitome of the Subatomic Kind of Guy. You were sure he was going to light a pipe any second, then say something profound. I was in awe of the man. His lecture was full of insight and pregnant pauses. Rafer, God bless him, was dumbstruck. He sat quiet and wide-eyed as Tina’s father probed beneath the Molecular to the Atomic, then, inevitably, to the Subatomic.
“And when we get to the subatomic level,” Tina’s father’s voice echoed eerily, “what do we find? Nothing!”
Pregnant pause.
“Wee-oow,” Rafer whispered.
“Ahhh,” José responded to my translation. This was, of course, old hat for José and me, but hearing it from Tina’s father made our neck hairs prickle.
“That’s right. Nothing.” His voice was very soft, very theatrical. “Subatomic particles are merely concepts constructed by the human mind to explain experience. They do not ‘exist in reality’ but are statistical tendencies to exist .... The problem for the physicist, among others, is that it is difficult if not impossible, to explain or predict their movements, their behavior. They are very disconcerting phenomena. To a classical physicist, their behavior is abominable. Unacceptable, even. Throw in a dose of Quantum Theory...”
A short, feral cry rose involuntarily from my throat at the mention of Quantum Theory, interrupting the lecture. Tina’s father paused and squinted up in our direction. José slid further down in his seat. High Pockets woke up and started sneezing—easily the worst attack he’d ever had. His sneezes were short and very close together, three per second, I estimated, and very loud. Everyone in the hall turned to look back at us.
“Shit,” I said. There is no known cure for High Pockets’ attacks, so I usually just let them run their course, but this was an emergency. I threw myself over Rafer’s legs and grabbed High Pockets’ collar. With my other hand I covered his nose. He struggled and continued to sneeze, but nothing came out since I had plugged up his sneezing orifice. This apparently triggered some kind of doggy adrenaline reaction. He pulled me over Rafer, into the aisle, then proceeded to drag me down the stairs toward the podium.
My hand was caught under High Pockets’ collar, so I let go of his nose and tried to free it. This released several horrendous sneezes (there had been a pressure buildup), forcing High Pockets to stop and steady himself. I wrenched my hand loose from his collar, but unfortunately lost my balance in the process. I fell over backward and continued to tumble down toward the podium. And Tina’s father. This was upsetting. I didn’t want our first meeting to be precipitated by Gravitational Theory, so I flailed my arms, searching for something to stop my descent. I found it in the form of someone’s leg.
I thudded to a stop and looked around, dazed. The room began to spin. Someone nearby was screaming.
High Pockets was still sneezing.
I could hear José yelling in Spanish that we’d better go. At this point I must have lost consciousness because the next thing I remember is waking up in the backseat of our stolen Mercedes. We were doing well over a hundred miles per hour and police sirens were wailing everywhere.
Sausalito Banditos
PART VIII
Rafer led the cops on a wild chase through Berkeley, then headed north on a winding rural blacktop road. He dropped off the rest of us after executing a flawless four-wheel drift around a sharp curve. He said he’d lose the cops, steal another car and be back in time to get to our dinner engagement. We hid in the woods and waited.
He showed up at six-thirty with a new Coupe de Ville. Brand-new. He had nailed it right out of a showroom in downtown Berkeley. It was all scratched up from plowing through the front window of the dealership, but it was still an impressive heist. We celebrated his return by smoking several joints and drinking a considerable amount of tequila.
We hadn’t eaten since we’d left Tom’s, so the tequila and marijuana made us very high and very hungry. I hoped Tina’s mother had the foresight to cook up extras. I hadn’t mentioned anything about High Pockets or José, never mind Rafer. I’ll tell you something about Rafer: That boy could flat eat.
At any rate, by seven o’clock we were good and fucked up and ready to cruise back over to Sausalito and get on with this crucial matter of Tina’s father.
After a couple of tries we got off the freeway at the correct exit and commenced our search for Tina’s father’s house, which was on Birdbath Lane. As expected, Rafer’s driving ability was severely affected by what we’d consumed in the woods. Birdbath Lane eluded him for quite some time.
It was a little after eight when we careened into their drive-way and ran over a white Persian cat asleep on the pavement. Being animal lovers, José and I were upset by this development, but Rafer and High Pockets didn’t even acknowledge the feline fatality. They were crazed with hunger and the smell of barbecuing steaks made them both grunt and whine. José wrapped the flattened Persian in one of his buckskin vests (he wore several layers) and put it aside for future burial.
I was trembling slightly when we reached the front porch, so I had a couple quick belts of tequila to calm my nerves. José was jumpy, too, which I’d never seen before. For some reason, his being nervous calmed me down a little.
“Open de goddamn door! We hungry!” Rafer called out, slurring badly. High Pockets offered one of his whines that turns into a bark.
<
br /> “Ssshh!” I said.
“Sí.” José agreed. “Silencio.”
I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell three times.
Sausalito Banditos
PART IX
The door swung open. Tina’s father squinted out at us, an unlit pipe in his mouth. (I knew it.) He blinked a few times at the sight of me and my motley crew of Bandito Truth Seekers. He seemed at a complete loss for words. I stared back in genuine shock: Electrons were circling Tina’s father’s head at near the speed of light. I wondered briefly whether anyone else noticed this phenomenon.
No one spoke for several seconds. I figured we were involved in some kind of weird Subatomic Standoff. Then it happened. He spoke. I searched his words for their Underlying Meaning, but I couldn’t come up with anything. This is what he said:
“Can I help you?”
Eventually it occurred to me that there was no Underlying Meaning. He was just being polite. He was being... civil.
Here was this guy I had been sending weird messages to, potentially Worldview-shattering messages (remember what happened to Tom and Gary), for months. He had answered me, encouraged me, asked me to dinner, for God’s sake, through clandestine ads in the International Trib and the San Francisco Chronicle.
I had risked life and limb in a death-defying trek through war-torn Bandito Strongholds and predator-infested jungles to confront this man, to probe his intellect for a clue or even a vague metaphor that might assuage my torn and bleeding vision of What It All Means. Tina’s father was staring at a severely angst-ridden guy and all he could come up with was “Can I help you?”
“Fucking-A Right you can!” I roared.
Sausalito Banditos
PART X
There was a mad scramble. Tina’s father slammed the door and bolted it before we could drive through. I was slightly dazed. Things were not working out as I had planned.
Subatomic Particles were zipping through the Continuum all around me, some colliding with others to form new and more colorful Subatomic Particles. Some released energy, others absorbed it. I briefly sensed a kind of balance. They were, I knew, obeying some Subatomic Code of Conduct beyond the scope of human understanding. A Code of Conduct that transcended the absurd moralistic and logic-ridden human Worldview. A Code of Conduct that incorporated randomness and chaos into an intrinsically paradoxical nonphilosophy. Their ability to approach the speed of light and thereby tinker with time travel made me fleetingly envious.
I looked at José. I could see a Bandito Temper Flare-Up coming on so I dove for cover, yelling to Rafer and High Pockets to do the same.
“Ai-ee-ah!” This was José’s Bandito Yell, which he reserved for those occasions that required superhuman strength or courage.
José went through the door like an X ray through molybdenum. The bolt disintegrated and one hinge flew off. Rafer, High Pockets and I entered. José put the door back into its frame and followed us into the living room.
Next to Tina’s father, Tina and Tina’s mother were standing together, looking very much alike. Tina’s father didn’t look as Subatomic as he had when lecturing earlier at UCB. He just looked scared.
When Tina’s mother saw José she fainted on the spot.97 Tina screamed, then picked up a large glass ashtray and hurled it at me, which was pretty insightful. She somehow sensed that I had been responsible for exposing, as it were, her Nympho-maniacal Worldview. When I ducked the airborne ashtray, she snatched some other knickknack with more violent intentions, but Rafer grabbed and subdued her. She was so crazed with pent-up anger and sexual frustration that Rafer was forced to bind and gag her.98
Rafer and High Pockets then bolted for the kitchen, where it soon sounded like feeding time at the zoo. José put his .45 to Tina’s father’s head and guided him to the dining room table, where he motioned for him to sit. José placed his piece on the table, then put a dent in our last bottle of tequila and offered Tina’s father a belt. The man was too petrified to respond.
I sat across from him and stared at the electrons buzzing around his head like busy little Subatomic Bees.
“I’m Mr. Quark,” I said.
“I have money,” he said breathlessly. “Please don’t hurt my family.”
“I am Mr. Quark,” I repeated patiently. “My associates and I are here by your invitation.”
“There—there must be some mistake.”
“There’s no mistake.”
I extracted a wad of paper from my pants pocket and began to sort it out. One by one I placed the classified ads he’d written in front of him.
“Uh. I... I don’t know... anything about these,” he said.
José wanted to know what was going on. As I filled him in, Rafer and High Pockets came in from the kitchen, both with steak bones in their mouths. Rafer had a handful of salad in one hand and a fresh steak in the other. He addressed Tina’s father. “ ‘Killya. Mo’ ‘killya.”
“Oh, God... Please don’t kill me,” he begged, but my mind was elsewhere and racing.
“What happened to my messages?” I demanded, trying to ignore the spectacular Subatomic Particle Display that had erupted all around.
“Wait a minute,” Tina’s father said, having just had an “Aha!” experience. “Are you the lunatic from South America?” He blanched in fear. “I mean, uh, the person from South America?”
“Yes,” I said. “I am.”
I was starting to feel nauseous. Something was seriously amiss here.
“I put an ad in the International Herald Tribune months ago, as you instructed. I asked you to leave me and my family alone.”
He was saying this as if it would calm me down. All it did, as a matter of fact, was increase the intensity of the Subatomic Particle Bombardment I was experiencing. He continued his devastating tirade. “I instructed the post office not to deliver any more letters with South American stamps on them. They were upsetting my wife. It’s been at least six months since I received any, uh, messages.99 I’m sorry if—”
“Quiet, please,” I mumbled. “I have to think.” I was perspiring freely now.
“Mo’ ‘killya,” Rafer wheezed, then had a belt from the bottle on the table.
“Que pasó?” José inquired. I told him what had happened. His face turned white. I’d never seen this before either. Then I noticed something else: Electrons were circling José’s head as well as Tina’s father’s. One electron jumped from Tina’s father’s head to José’s. In theory, this would change the elemental properties of both their heads, but I was unable to pursue this train of thought any further. These new developments were too upsetting.
In desperation I addressed Rafer, hoping he would come up with something I could relate to. “If Tina’s father didn’t write those ads, who did?”
The answer came in the form of a wild pounding on the front door.
José cocked his piece.
High Pockets growled.
Tina’s father whimpered.
Rafer said, “Wee-oow.”
I was struck by several million Subatomic Particles.
The front door burst open, then fell off its remaining hinge and crashed to the floor.
Jim, Robert, Flash and Aileron staggered in. They were about as fucked up as I’d ever seen them.
Sausalito Banditos
PART XI
High Pockets and Aileron enjoyed another doggy reunion. José was so surprised and pleased that he forgot all about Tina’s father. He rushed into the living room, letting loose his second Bandito Yell of the evening.
Tina’s mother briefly regained consciousness, took a good look at her new guests, then returned to la-la land.
Tina was giving me the evil eye from the couch. I was glad she was tied up. Someday I would have to explain all this to her.
Rafer, God bless him, had passed out, his head resting on the dining room table, his hand outstretched toward the tequila.
Tina’s father was hyperventilating. He had failed miserably when it came to putting any
thing in its proper perspective. I would do better, I promised myself.
I squinted through the Subatomic Particle Shower toward the living room. I was too disoriented to react to the sudden appearance of Jim, Robert, Flash and Aileron. did sense, however, that another bombshell was about to be dropped.
I looked at Robert. The first thing I noticed was that he was wearing a tuxedo. This I hadn’t seen before. He had a grenade in one hand and a bottle of Grand Marnier in the other. He had lost his faculty of coherent speech but was attempting to carry on a conversation with José anyway.
Flash was romping with High Pockets and Aileron. I couldn’t tell what he or Jim were wearing because of the amount and nature of the stains and holes in their clothes. Jim was approaching me through the multicolored Subatomic Haze. Smiling from behind a vibrating Electron Aura, he sat down across from me.
“Hi, Sport,” he said, “or should I call you ‘Mr. Quark?’”
“It was you guys all the time,” I managed to say.
“We found your shack a week or so after you and José left. From the notes and stuff you left around, we figured you were heading here. That was sloppy, leaving that stuff lying around. Excuse me.”
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