The Easy Chain

by Evan Dara

  During his reign of conquest, Selwyn fell in with the Chicago branch of a mysterious bunch called Curgile Associates, whose above-ground businesses are said to include oil, maritime transport and African minerals. As it turns out, the Gianolos had for years wanted to forge, or deepen, a bond with Curgile, and saw Auran/Selwyn as good intermediaries. But when Auran balked at drawing Selwyn in, the heat got turned up.

  Auran felt she had to dissolve the link. But it’s still unclear whether Selwyn packed himself up or if he went the way of Jimmy Hoffa.

  Like I said: good stuff. And still, I sense, just the beginning.

  And certainly so for me. Dear Editor, we’re on to something here. And I certainly intend to do it justice. This story is so good, and so *big,* that I do not want to compromise on it. Our livelihood requires that we do right by this thing, and I trust you agree. I’m avid to see where it takes us.

  Sincerely,

  Tracy

  Extraordinary communicative powers.

  —OK. You got it? You got the fax?

  —Yeah.

  —Right in front of me.

  —So look at August 12, OK?, Jack D Spinota’s Cell World in Lawrence, Kansas. You see it?

  —Got it.

  —Yeah.

  —OK, so there is nothing left in creation that sells for an even 45 dollars, OK, for anything like a round number. Even if you calculate the tax, which I did, that means the sticker price was like 43.08. And also look at the number, OK?, 45, right below the max. So I called down there today and asked ’em if my order was ready, and the guy said he’d check ’n then came back ’n said probably by Friday, ’cause they had to special-order it in from the company—

  —Shit.

  —So—

  —So we gotta get someone down there by Friday, ’n just have him wait by the door; all day if necessary, all weekend, all week—

  —Maybe slip a sawbuck to the owner. To Jack D—

  —Zackly.

  —’N just wait until the fuckup fucks himself by picking up his ripped-off phone.

  —Wo.

  —So we’re going, gentlemen. We are going. I’m on top of legal and they’re crossing t’s—

  —So where’s Borah? Shouldn’t he be on the phone here too—?

  —Too expensive. I’ll call him this afternoon ’n bring him up to speed real quick. Shoot. I gotta see if he knows a good server down there—

  —Hey, I got an uncle who lives about ten minutes from Lawrence—

  —Thanks, Stan, but it might be pretty long goin’.

  —Just thought I’d throw that out.

  —Yeah. Thanks. We’ll find someone.

  —O I can taste it now. ’N I can see him writhe. I can see this guy, as soon as the heat comes down, turn into the snake he really is ’n start writhing and collapsing ’n crying like a fucking found-out schoolgirl. ’N then the miserable fuck meets his inevitable destiny in some black-dark sweat-cell somewhere, living like the crawlspace-scum he really is, eating like a beggar in Bangladesh, light spurting in through one postage-stamp window. Miserable skankjob parasitic loser’s finally gonna be in the world what he is in his soul, beg—

  Skills almost inhuman at putting you at ease.

  Daniel:

  A life-size sculpture? Wonderful! Thank you for letting me know about it. And please send an invitation to the inauguration in Jackson Park.

  Best,

  Tracy Krassner

  Dear, Dear Z—

  And the coffee goes cold and the emies file in and the dishes Tribble, and the calls-to-be-made back up and the recycling spills out of its fourth paper bag: and there are cable bills and legally-permitted percentage-based rent hikes and paper clips that live to fall off shelves, and dust’s wagging finger, and a crown to be fit, and stacked Sun-Timeses to read and windshield-fluid to fill and a superbly nice cashmere-y sweater that came back from the cleaners all dark and ugly. And I could go on but you get the drift.

  But in the middle of this and whatever more, it is simply extraordinary: I am visited by a vision of you, usually behind The Smile, and I know that I can do everything that’s demanded of me, and whatever more. Hassles be gone. Resistance go too. Welcome, energy and lofting optimism to take their place. Welcome, and please make yourself to home.

  And it is amazing. Love as the ultimate recontextualizer. Love as renewable energy source, burning amazingly clean. But for all this rush of feeling, I sense the true grandeur in this thing does not reside with you (sorry), or, in fact, with me (that make you feel better?). It is somehow impersonal, shared, vaster than us, than anyone. Its strength can only come from having that kind of size, and from, blessedly, our being able to download some small bit of it.

  But it’s there for anyone to tap into, and when that happens its blisses just geyser forth, unstoppably, automatically. The transcendent becomes the personal, immanent and imminent come together. Being realizes itself as feeling. We grow larger, and thereby discover what our true dimensions always were. I’m blithering now, obviously, the journalist’s stock in trade, but maybe it’s worth it, if it gets me to the point where I can articulate what you have taught me: greatness is the ability to love.

  But about those paper clips,

  xxoo,

  TK

  The boy made you feel

  Dear M{ . }:

  Was, perhaps, my last e-mail to you misplaced? It’s been another ten days since I wrote to you again, and your contribution would be so

  as if you were the only one in the room.

  Z One and Only:

  Yowie: a weekend trip! Sounds wunderbar, even if it includes training sessions. Just what the HMO ordered for your tragically overworked code-writing bones. Congrats. And evenings in Anzo-Borrega (sp.?) sound great, too. Tell me all about it.

  Still, I wish you’d find someone in SD whom you felt really comfortable with. I can imagine it’s difficult at work (all those computer jocks) (pretend you didn’t hear that), but not even at the gym? Drat. Maybe you’re just too busy/distracted.

  Still, these days, this is something I can understand. The more I hear about this Selwyn guy, the more I would like to have met him. Thank God he’s gone, or you’d have a rival. (Not really.)

  Forever,

  T

  PK: Your smile!

  Dear Mr. Hurler:

  Thank you indeed for your reminiscences. Your call was much appreciated. But would you be kind enough to tell me again (my notes got a little jumbled at this point): Selwyn said he learned *what* about vodka martinis from you?

  Best,

  Tracy

  You just felt real around him.

  Hey: you all right? This separation thing getting to you (, too)? Xxoo

  8/10: But did he ever amble in Grant Park? Did he ever clean a shower curtain, or buy little rubber suction things to hang a ladle from a kitchen wall? Did he never wince at a broken heel, then see it wasn’t so bad?

  A great listener. The guy really acknowledged you.

  My Sweet—

  Right now, precisely at this moment, I am knowing missing.

  —Yeah, nah, Borah got us a good rate.

  —Yeah?

  —Even good for down there. I’m sure of it. ’N we don’t have to pay for the subcontracting, like if we got, we started with someone here.

  —You think he took a cut?

  —Archie.

  —Yeah. Sorry. Out of line. He seems OK. So we handle it per usual?

  —Yeah. I’ll send copies of the invoices.

  —To Borah, too?

  —Yeah. Ha.

  —So you think we can negotiate with them, seeing as how nothing actually—

  —Yeah. Really ha.

  —’Tain’t so funny, Phillie. I mean like now, like look at the scuzzball. In Sterling, in La Junta, in Council Bluffs, ’n look what he’s buyin’, look what he’s surviving on. Lima beans, black cumin, lecithin. What the hell is black cumin? A salad bowl, Cold Paks, a Bunsen burner. Copper piping. This is road-sur
vival shit, animal-level stuff, whatever he can get for under fifty bills.

  —Yeah.

  —And no hotels. None. Either living like under bridges—

  —Or settling in cash.

  — … What a shithead.

  —Yeah.

  —What a fucking loser. I—

  —Do it, Phil—

  —I, I just hope this monster realizes, that he has some small inkling, OK?, that what he’s doing is odious on every level. That he is contributing to the degradation of the world, so when everyone complains, which I’m sure he also does, about how hellish the world is, that he is exactly what they’re talking about. That he is creating the hell-world that he is suffering from. That he has become an agent of the darkness that has fucked his own heart. Because if there is some sense of responsibility there, if there’s even one tiny flash of understanding or accountability in this loser, then the punishment he’s reserving for himself will be tons greater than what-all evil he’s doing. If he ever sees the truth of his pathetic little banality, the bills won’t get paid, but I assure you justice will be done.

  —Amen.

  —Yeah.

  —And with that, Brer Phil, I say fuck it. Fuck him. In about ten minutes I am getting out of here, ’n I’m gonna forget all this shit ’n go catch me some wind. Can hardly wait to get into the sunshine.

  —Yeah? You a kiter?

  —Oh yeah. Big time. Go out with my son. You?

  —Since I was a kid.

  —You’re shittin’ me.

  —No sir.

  —Yeah. My brother’s into it too, ’n sometimes we go out together. There’s this great area just west of Montrose, near the golf course—

  —I know that spot!

  —So what’s your poison?

  —Hey, you are speaking to someone who’s still partial to sled kites.

  —Stop.

  —You know, feel the wind, let it put everything where it wants to—

  —C’mon—

  —Absolutely, ’cause that’s where it should be. Let the wind-pressure mold you, let it tell you your oh, sorry, Stan. Sorry to leave you hang—

  —No problem. I’ve been flyin’ for twenty years.

  —You’re—

  —Yeah. Love it. Crazy about—

  —You’re—!

  —Been all up ’n down the lakefront. Even in Milwaukee—

  —Wond—

  —But mostly I just go right on Belmont Harbor.

  —Shit. Must’ve seen each other a hundred times.

  —So check this out. I just got this eight-cell tetrahedral with, like, this new insulated carbon-fiber securing the sparring, and the thing is amazing. Rides cross-breezes just kickass, and like nice upward—

  —So you know the Tumbling Star? It’s this 3-D by Tony Thyssen, all ripstop nylon, ’n it has like the best unwinding skills I’ve ever seen. Give it slack ’n it, it’ll—

  M{. }:

  Please, will you be kind enough just to explain: why won’t you reply to me? What did Selwyn, or I, do that makes you so incapable of taking just five minutes to

  Doll Face:

  Sorry to have left that second message last night. It was around 11:45 here, and I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to call back so late (and, OK, maybe I wanted to hear your voice on the machine again). So I thought I’d try once more, and then the Beep was upon me, and then I didn’t want you to have some mysterious gap on your machine, so the blurt. So, sorry.

  But, yeah, wanted to talk. A little frustrated here: earlier today, I happened to call an editor-type at the Trib whom I’ve worked with before (I was sniffing around for clips about LS, wouldn’t you know) and used the opportunity to pitch a story about my former neighbor (he lived for a while in the apartment downstairs) and, I suppose, friend. Guy named Bob. But the editor turned it down flat, snuffled Not for us, while riffling papers. And that’s too bad. The story is somewhat time-sensitive, and I’ve been so busy with Selwyn-research that the window may be closing. So, hmph. World enough and type. Will try again tonight.

  Big Love,

  T

  Good and Gentle Editor:

  Hello, and welcome. And oh do we have news for you.

  My research, happily, seems to be pushing in the right directions. Yes, as mentioned last squib, Selwyn was in deep with Curgile Associates. And there were some Auran Beede-related contacts with the Gianolos. But it’s now clear that Selwyn’s principal sponsor here, and probably the reason he came to Chicago, was Philips, the Dutch electronics giant. There’s reason to believe that Philips has its eye on certain large-scale public-works projects soon to happen around town, and wanted a local presence who seemed unaffiliated with the company, to give the Dutchies broader, people-based access and, as they called it, flexibility (i.e., latitude, i.e., room to do what’s needed). Thus the contacts with the mob, thus the unofficial talks with the dubious Curgiles, thus Selwyn’s well-greased entree to our highest-flying business and social circles. All of which Philips could deny any involvement in.

  There’s some evidence of Selwyn going around looking for local investors, and it seems he hired a private investigator based in River North to help. I’ve put in several calls to both Philips’ Chicago plenipotentiary, Ted Crain, and to the investigator, Marvin Darden. Predictably, no reply, but I will continue to leave messages and, if necessary, will start knocking on doors.

  So where is Selwyn? It now seems more likely that he’s soaking up photons on a Curaçao beach, unsnarled on a towel emblazoned Philips, than that he was Hoffa’ed. But still no sign, and thus no surety.

  That said, there’s no sniff of foul play (but the night is young), and still, quite clearly, more to determine. I will pursue the Philips angle with megaton force, in the hope of, real soon, knocking your socks off.

  Sincerely,

  TK

  To Z from Me—

  Tell me about your hair, cupcake. Is it shorter now – short-ish? – and what tints, what glimmers now peek from its falling rain? Darling, I can hardly wait to get caught in that warm, baptismal shower.

  I will be sure to leave my umbrella at home when I come to you in two weeks. (Well, 17 days, actually.)

  (!!)

  Xxoo,

  Your TK

  Dear Z:

  It’s after midnight.

  16 days!

  T

  Made you feel as if you mattered.

  —So now do we—?

  —What’s there to—?

  —So we just wait? Shouldn’t we—?

  —C’mon. He ain’t eating cumin.

  —Yeah. For six days.

  —Exactly. Either he’s sticking people up, or he found a girlfriend—

  —More likely a boyfriend—

  —Or he’s, I. Who the fuck knows.

  —So maybe he’s got another card, ’n it hasn’t, or it’s slow to—

  —Maybe he’s just staying under his rock.

  —The scuzzbo.

  —Fucking rodent. Fucking squirmin’ vermin.

  —Unbelievable.

  —And so what, Phil. He vanishes, right? That changes the climate. You forgetting Ratzenhofer?

  —Yeah.

  —So.

  —I know.

  —So?

  —I know. Section 18C.

  —Yeah.

  —Yeah.

  —So we call the Feds?

  Z:

  Yes, I am possessive. But wouldn’t you be, if you were involved with you?

  xxoo,

  T

  Ms. Krassner:

  The answer you seek is simple. Chicagoans are not normally tactful, or reticent. Subtlety is not our habitual mode. People won’t talk out of a kind of defensive guilt. Lincoln was us and we were him. Just as is the case, of course, for all Chicagoans.

  All comment would be a kind of displaced autobiography. And no one can say objective things about himself. There is no description, only projection. One can’t see the history for the countertransference. F
or our opinions, see his actions.

  It’s no surprise that denial is America’s national sport. It’s to be expected from a country of immigrants. People who shape their lives around breaking away from difficult realities. Who live in dreams and abstractions, in suggestibility. Who renounce soils, and earth.

  Who can say what a life meant, or signified, or proposed. It is not that it is uncapturable. It is that it is too vast. We are not too small. It is too vast.

  All the conventional production is just smoke-screen. Feinting, distraction, misdirection. In fact, all talk is prestidigitation: magic. And magic, of course, is supposed to dazzle.

  Yours,

  RJ Deen

  8/15: offshore accounts?

  Funny, bright, big-hearted, and smart smart smart. I miss him every single day.

  —Oprah

  Dear Tracy Krassner:

  Yes, I did receive your e-mails.

  Why haven’t I replied to your questions about Lincoln Selwyn? Probably because there isn’t much to say.

  William R. Thornton

  Dear Z:

  Tried you at 10 (your time). Will try again later, or tomorrow.

  Dear Peter Hurler:

  Thanks for your e-mail. I need one more follow-up, if you please: was it at Lowry’s Prime Rib, the time when Auran Beede had her syncope, that you introduced Selwyn to Kabbala?

  Best,

  T

  A great communicator.

  My Dear:

  Sure, the dislocations are tough. You’re working 10 times more than they said you would, and 16 times more than anyone wants to, you’ve got all that grief making your car meet California standards, the rug sucks, the microwave still hasn’t arrived, you’re finding your way through a million small things, it isn’t Cleveland, and that’s just for starters. So here’s my point: go easy on yourself. Look for escape hatches.