by Grant Mccrea
I loved her for that. Not that kind of love, mind you. Don’t get me wrong.
If you abuse alcohol long enough, she said, the blackouts will start. Maybe without warning.
Sure, I said. But that extreme? All of a sudden? One night, memory as clear as a—let’s be honest—clear as a frog pond, anyway, once you pushed away the lily pads? And then, the next night, nothing? All night, nothing? Blackness? That’s never happened to me before. Nothing even close.
Not to mention, she said sympathetically, that whatever happened, it appears, must have been rather … memorable.
There’s that too. Jesus Christ on a stick.
I haven’t heard that one before.
I just made it up. Pretty good, no?
I’ll reserve judgement on that one, she said.
I expected you would.
Let’s get back on topic.
Okay. I’m easy.
Frankly, from everything you told me, it sounds very much like someone might have slipped you some benzodiazepines.
What’s that?
What they call the date rape drug. It’s a family of drugs, actually. They incapacitate you, and often affect your memory.
Yeah, I’ve read about it. But it could have been other things, no? I mean, I don’t know anything about all this …
Well of course, we don’t know. But whether it was that or something else, trauma, alcohol, autonomic repression, there are techniques for recovering lost memory. I assume you want to know what happened?
Damn straight I do.
That’s another new expression. For me.
Your sheltered life. It’s kind of a common phrase amongst certain denizens of the more cretinous dark corners of society. Places you haven’t been to.
I’ll let that one go by too, then. Have you spoken to the police about this?
The police? Christ, no. Why would I want to call the police?
It appears that something criminal might have taken place.
Let’s just say that if criminal acts took place, I’m not entirely sure I didn’t commit one or two myself.
I see. Well, I guess I’m out of my territory there. So, let’s get back to the memory loss.
That might be helpful.
Okay, let’s try a little exercise.
Fine with me.
Close your eyes.
I closed my eyes.
Picture the last thing you remember of that night.
I tried to picture the last thing I remembered.
I’m not sure, I said, that I consciously, let alone subconsciously, want to remember anything about it. Now that I think about it.
I understand. But shame is not appropriate here. I’m your therapist, not your mother.
Yeah, but aren’t I supposed to be confusing the two, or something? Isn’t that what that transference thing is supposed to be all about?
Now I know you’re joking. Let’s get back to the memory, shall we? It’s not about what it is. It’s about the details. Focusing on the details may bring the memories back. The picture will fill in. If you prefer not to know—
No, no, I said. Let’s go on.
Keep going.
There’s something about a door.
What about a door?
I don’t know. I just know it’s … a very important … thing. Door.
Is it red?
Is it red, did you say?
Yes.
It is, actually. Why would you ask that?
Silence.
Oh, I said.
Yes, she replied.
The Case of the Red Car Door.
We’d talked about it.
The subconscious works in mysterious ways, she said.
Almost as much as you do, I replied.
She laughed. Think about it, she said. Is there a connection?
I’ll think about it, I said. Well, actually.
Yes?
The door really was red. The door in the club. I saw it this morning. When I came to.
I see.
Actually, let’s go back to this last-night thing.
Okay.
I’m not really sure it was last night.
You’re not.
No. I’ve been sleeping. On and off. And what with that, and the discombobulation and all, I really don’t even know. What day it is.
Wednesday.
I see. I’m not sure that helps me.
It will come back to you.
I hope so. You know, this memory stuff, it reminds me.
Of?
Back in the hippie days, when I was homeless and all? Living in a tent in northern Alberta?
Yes?
We had this thing. I don’t know where it came from. There was this schizophrenic guy in the group, very nice, very entertaining guy, we didn’t know he was psychotic then, he didn’t know it, I mean, he knew there was something wrong with him, or maybe he didn’t, I don’t know, he knew he was different, I mean, he even looked different, he was one of those skinny, ropy muscular guys, with a skeleton head and those awful pustular acne scars, and he knew all sorts of shit that seemed fascinating back then, Zen stuff, and theosophy, and gestalt, and all those wonderful words, and he had this trick.
Yes?
You would be falling asleep, and you would see your hands. Best would be if you put them together, prayer-like, and stared at them as you fell asleep. And then, later, in your dreams, you would glimpse your hands and, poof, like some fairy tale, really, I’m not making this up, you’d be there, in your dream. I mean, you’re always in your dreams, in a way, but you have no control over them. They go off in their crazy dream directions and you can’t do anything about it, you don’t even think about doing anything about it. You’re at the mercy of that dream logic. But if you do it this way, you’re suddenly in control. You’re there. You can decide things. You can turn left, instead of right. You can say, Around the bend there’ll be a castle, and in the castle … Well, I never got to the point that I could control everything—the dream logic resists you—but I could do a lot. Damn. It’s funny to think about. It was so cool. Why did I stop doing it? It just went away. Never thought about it. Years ago. Decades. It just faded away. I wonder if I could do it again, now?
What happened to your friend?
Oh, he’s still around. I haven’t talked to him in ages. But then they came up with the new drugs. Stuff that makes him more normal. He’s not nearly as interesting. I sort of lost touch with him. He got married, even. I don’t know if he had kids. I hope not.
I put the cell phone on speaker. Went to get some water. I was still thirsty. A thirst that showed no signs of going away.
That’s really interesting, she said. I mean that. I’d like to explore that some more, sometime. But right now I think the agenda is to get your memory of that night back.
Last night.
I’m sorry?
I realized that I was at least fifty feet from the phone. There was no way she could hear me. Unless I shouted. Which, I was fairly certain, was not a therapeutically useful act.
I scurried back to the phone. Took it off speaker.
Last night, I repeated. It was just last night. There’s something strange about referring to last night as ‘that night,’ is what I meant.
Um, okay. Yes. We’ll call it last night.
Anyway, yeah, I know, get those memories back. But I did have one last confession to make.
Go ahead.
I spent most of those dream episodes looking for girls.
Sheila laughed. Dream girls? she said.
I was way ahead of my time, I smiled.
Sheila got it.
I loved her for that.
Okay, she said. Let’s get back to the point.
Yes?
Can we get back to the point?
Oh, yeah. Well. I kind of thought that was on point.
It wasn’t. And I’m afraid I have to go now.
Okay.
Actually, I was kind of relieved.
We’ll have to get back to retrieving those memories next time.
Maybe I can try on my own.
You can certainly try. Anyway, from everything you’ve told me, I’m fairly certain that you were dosed with one of the benzodiazepines, or something similar. If that’s the case, this technique can be effective.
God, I thought, this is so clinical. I got dosed. I got abused. I got naked-ized. I had to steal a poor debased fucker’s overalls and life’s savings. Why wasn’t I angry? Full of revenge? Heading back there with pistols drawn? And why wasn’t Sheila angry? Or at least asking me why I wasn’t angry, full of revenge, and heading back there with pistols drawn?
Good, I said. I’ll work on the technique.
I paused. I had a thought.
It’s weird, I said. Who would have wanted to do that to me?
It sounds like there are a number of candidates.
Yeah. Just kidding. Of course there are.
We’ll get back to work as soon as I have an opening.
Thank you, I said.
I paused.
It makes me feel kind of funny, I said.
Of course it does. It’s a powerful drug.
No, that’s not what I mean.
What do you mean?
Well, I mean, they give that to girls, right?
Usually.
So it makes me feel kind of, I don’t know, not gay, exactly. Emasculated, I guess.
We’ll discuss that next time, too.
Okay, I said.
I looked at the clock. Actually, we had five minutes left.
We have five minutes left, I said. Actually.
Oh, she said. I’m sorry. You’re right.
I could feel her discomfort again. I left it like that.
There was a long silence.
There are a few other things you can do, she said.
Yes?
One thing I didn’t mention before. Because I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it.
There’s only one way to find out.
Yes. Well, as you’re probably aware, if you have a damaged, a repressed memory, it’s often very useful to return to the physical location. Where the event occurred. That you can’t remember.
Fuck, I said.
What’s wrong? she asked quietly, as though afraid of what I was going to say.
Why didn’t I think of that before? I asked.
She laughed, a small, discreet laugh. I don’t know, she said. But it makes perfect sense that you didn’t.
How so?
I think we can assume that something traumatic occurred there.
I’m with you so far.
You would hesitate, your subconscious would hesitate, to go back to the scene of the trauma. Lest it happen again. Or at best, that you be reminded of it.
Of course, I said. I knew that.
I heard her smile.
I smiled in return.
Yes. We understood each other.
55.
WHEN I GOT OFF THE PHONE WITH SHEILA, I took an hour to stare at the wall. Clear my head as best I could. I could try some memory exercises. Find some nerve. Somewhere. I tried my nerves. No nerve there. I inspected my spine. No spine. Spineless. I looked for moxie, balls, chutzpah. None in the vicinity.
I tried the memory tricks. They didn’t work. Except. It seemed to me, vaguely but quite certainly, that something had happened behind that red door. But this, of course, was highly suspect. Sheila had planted the idea. She was a great shrink. A forensics expert she wasn’t.
I decided to organize what I did remember. Figure out what I had to do.
First thing, I told myself, you have to talk to the client. Keep the client up-to-date. Jesus. We’d had an appointment, hadn’t we? And Madeleine? And Kelley. Jesus on a stick. I’d stood them all up. Every one of them. And where the hell was Butch? He was supposed to find Brendan. Had Butch vanished too?
Things were even worse than I thought.
It was almost beyond my ability to deal. But somehow, somewhere, I found a small mother lode of will. Determination. Moxie, even.
I heard the voice of my father. I knew it wasn’t his real voice. Even if I’d heard it, at the age of eight, I knew enough to know that I couldn’t reproduce it now. But the message? Yes. The message was not only possible, but true. Resonant.
A man does not give up.
That was his truth. Also true, he died with his face in a bowl of minestrone. But that didn’t detract from the power of the message. Much.
True to the fiber of my bones, it was.
Do bones have fiber?
I asked myself. I made a note to look it up.
Meanwhile, I made a list.
Call Louise.
Apologize.
Reschedule the meeting.
Call Madeleine.
Apologize.
Reschedule the dinner.
Call Kelley, apologize.
Reschedule.
Call Butch.
Apologize.
No. I didn’t have anything to apologize to Butch for.
Call Butch. Find out what’s up with Brendan.
I got to work.
I called Louise. She didn’t sound pleased.
I didn’t blame her. I don’t blame you, I said.
I need to see you immediately, she said.
I’ll be right over, I replied.
I grabbed a cab to the Wynn. It smelled of cleaning fluid, and unfinished business.
56.
YOU TOLD HER I WAS ASKING AFTER VLADIMIR? Louise shouted. Are you even more of a moron than you act?
She seemed a little upset.
I was a tad surprised hearing this language from the decorous mouth of Ms. Chandler. On the other hand, I was beginning to realize that the Chandler sisters were full of surprises.
I felt like saying, Hummina hummina. But I thought that might give away my dismay.
I’m sorry, I said. I must have misunderstood.
I guess you did, she said, turning her back and walking to the window. She stood there, hands folded in front of her, gazing at the Strip in all its overheated glory.
It was, I had to admit, a very nice back. A tapered thing, gently curving inward to a belted tiny waist. The belt was made of some velvetlike material, a mysterious shade of green. Chameleon green, maybe. I was lost in it for a moment, absorbed in its sort-of-but-not-quite greenness.
She abruptly turned around.
Mr. Redman, she addressed me in a calmer tone.
No more Rick, I guessed. Two steps forward, one step back.
Mr. Redman, I really did not expect to have to give you step-by-step instructions. You presented yourself as a professional.
Yes, I said. Well. But it’s hard for me to see how I could have known that you didn’t want me to mention that you were asking after her boyfriend.
Mr. Redman, that is preposterous. Since when does an investigator volunteer anything about his client to others, still less the object of the investigation? Isn’t that rule number one in the manual?
I was starting to see her point. I made a note to track down a copy of the manual.
Yes. Well, I can only apologize, again. And hope that irreparable harm hasn’t been done.
I don’t know, she said in a suddenly quiet voice. A voice with a tinge of despair.
There was a long silence. As I waited for her to break it, I poured myself a scotch. I offered her one. She shook her head. She turned her back to me again. I sat back down in the frighteningly comfortable armchair. I looked around the suite. A remarkable job they’d done. The place had an easy air of luxury about it, but somehow avoided the pretension usually found leaching about these kinds of joints.
I have to tell you, Ms. Chandler, I said, unable to restrain myself any longer, I’m beginning to wonder what the hell this is all about.
What it’s all about? Why should that concern you, Mr. Redman?
It shouldn’t, necessarily. But it depends. If I don’t know what I’m doing, I could end up
doing something wrong.
Mr. Redman, please. I’m quite certain you are no stranger to that concept.
Yes, well. There’s a difference. If I choose to do something wrong, something that some people might consider to be wrong, that’s one thing. I’ll take the consequences. It’s my choice.
And it’s your choice to take my money and do what I tell you.
I had a twinge. I didn’t have her money anymore. Or much of it. I elided through the twinge.
Sure. You got a point. And I can choose different, too, I said.
Ms. Chandler turned around.
You’re so charming when you slip into that goombah thing, she said.
Yeah, thanks.
She was a slippery number, this Louise Chandler. Hard to keep the conversation going in the right direction.
Where was I? I asked.
Something about being a bad boy.
Listen, I said, so far you haven’t asked me to do anything questionable, at least to the best of my knowledge. But at the same time, it’s obvious that there’s a lot of stuff you haven’t told me. And I’m not at all sure that what you have told me was, strictly speaking, true.
She glided over, sat on the couch.
And yes, I continued, you’re the client, and I guess that’s your right. Sort of. Maybe.
I stopped. She got up and got herself a drink. I began to realize that I was in danger of shooting myself in the gonads. I couldn’t go too far with this. What if she said fine, you’re fired, give me back the retainer?
Shit on a stick.
I can’t help thinking, I said to her, that I could do my job better if you shared more information. I mean, maybe I wouldn’t have told Eloise—
Mr. Redman, she interrupted, returning with a drink for herself, one for me, I understand what you’re saying. And maybe, someday, I’ll tell you everything. But I’m sure you’ve divined by now that these matters are very sensitive. Family matters. I will give you the information you need to do what I ask you to do.
This wasn’t going anywhere. Which was just as well.
Besides which, she went on, are you sure that you have given me all of the information that you have acquired?
What do you mean?
You haven’t told me much.