“Ram, this is Ed Petersen,” said Mac, introducing the bald man. “Ed works for Portland Cement. He’s their lobbyist.”
Ram extended his hand and the bald man shook it vigorously.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Ram. “Why does a cement company have a lobbyist?”
“Freeways,” the man laughed. “They’re built of cement, most of which we supply.”
At lunch, Peterson and Mac told Ram and Thomas Honey all that they wanted to know about lobbying, at least all that Honey and Ram had thought to ask. They talked about how they got their clients, how they worked the bills, how they worked the legislature and legislators, of what was accepted and what wasn’t, and how much money the so-called Third House generated and where that money went. It was the beginning of Ram’s education in lobbyists and lobbying, but it was by no means comprehensive or complete, as both Peterson and Mac were quick to admit. At one point, after a series of pointed questions Ram asked, Mac said, “Look, there’s only so much we can comfortably tell you about how this works. If you really want to know how the game operates, if you really want to know what lobbyists do, just pick some big bill—an insurance bill, a horseracing bill, an energy policy bill, say—and observe the whole process from introduction to passage or defeat, and track who’s lobbying for it and who’s lobbying against it, and watch what they do from start to finish; watch where the money goes and who stands to benefit financially from the bill. If you learn how to follow the money, you’ll learn a lot about lobbyists and lobbying. If you really want to learn about clout and muscle, the best thing you can learn up here is learn how to follow the money. But that’s something to learn for yourself, because neither Ed nor I are going to tell you how, for reasons which should be obvious,” Mac laughed. “Who knows? If you get any good at this, you might catch us doing something that we’d rather be kept between us and our clients.”
Ram smiled lazily and nodded. “I think I see,” he said.
Mac saw the look on Ram’s face and his laughter ceased. His eyes hardened, a wry grin spread across his liquid features. He lit a cigarette, exhaled, nudged Petersen and chuckled.
“You may begin to see,” said Mac, “but it’ll be years before you think that what you’re seeing is really what you’re seeing.”
When the check came, Honey grabbed it saying, “It’s on Golden State.”
Mac snatched the bill from Honey. “Oh please, Thomas, get serious. Save your expense money for The Torch Club or something useful. This one’s on me.” Then Mac and Petersen rose quickly and told Ram and Thomas Honey goodbye and good luck.
“What do you think, Le Doir? We got a lot out of them we can use for the story, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’d say if you really think that, then we’re really in trouble.”
Over the course of the next week, Ram alternated his hours between those spent with Honey, prowling the capitol corridors in search of clout and muscle and observing the festivities of the Restoration Gala, with lesser hours spent getting to know Sagrada again. He visited his mother at her office in the capitol and she proudly introduced Ram to her coworkers, calling him “my son, the journalist.”
The festivities were now in full swing, with receptions and balls and dedication ceremonies. Actors and actresses in 19th-century costumes enacted scenes of California history and then retired to the bars, still in costume, to partake of refreshments while camera crews scurried about recording it for posterity. All that week, workers from a fireworks company were rigging pyrotechnical devices on the east lawn of the capitol, preparing for the grand finale set for Saturday evening.
On Thursday evening, Ram and Honey attended a press reception given by the new Assembly Speaker Louis Verde, “Big Louie” as everybody called him, even to his face. Ram remembered Verde from long ago, when he was a young firebrand attorney from the Mission District in San Francisco who’d just been elected to his first term. He had shoulder-length hair then and a luxurious handlebar mustache and dressed in Levi jackets and rumpled chinos. Big Louie was the people’s advocate back then, espousing liberal causes like agricultural policy reform to aid Mexican migrant workers and pushing for bilingual programs in education and expanded welfare and unemployment benefits. He was red-hot then and he traveled with a large entourage from the Royal Chicano Air Force, an artist’s cooperative based in Sagrada allied with Cesar Chavez.
He was different now, that much Ram could tell. The long hair was gone. Now he wore it short, expertly barbered and finished with a shiny gel. The handlebar mustache was now a tight pencil-thin job that ended at the corners of his mouth. He’d shed thirty or forty pounds and played racquetball daily, the newspapers said and dressed in handmade suits and expensive Italian loafers. A flock of aides and followers trailed him wherever he went, as did a handful of attractive young women seeking to catch his eye. His home was no longer the storefront office in the Inner Mission; now he lived in a three-story mansion overlooking Dolores Park. Louie Verde was now an Imperial presence and he wanted everyone to know that. Rumor had it that some of his aides privately called him The Pharaoh, still others called him Montezuma. Rumor also had it that when Big Louie heard what his aides called him, he put the word out that he preferred Montezuma. “I want them to remember the revenge,” he reportedly said.
The reception was held under the capitol dome’s rotunda, in the tiled chamber where the marble statue of Columbus kneeling and kissing the hand of Queen Isabella once stood. It was gone now and Ram wondered what had happened to it and why it was missing from the restoration, wondering if it had been purposely excised from the present, an artifact now deemed “politically incorrect,” the new term just coming into common use. Ram mentioned the missing statue to Thomas Honey who shrugged. Ram jotted down a note on his pad mentioning it. The room was filling with legislators and lobbyists in suits, and journalists and photographers more casually attired in sport coats and leather jackets. Society matrons gathered in knots while younger women in short dresses talked in groups of two or three. A bass and piano duo played standards and Ram noted that the piano player was barefooted (a nice California touch, Ram noted in his notebook). Tables along the perimeter were littered with platters of fresh salmon, deli meats, cheese cubes, California vegetables, and elaborate dips and patés. The two bars placed at opposite ends of the room did a land sale business. The noise level was a din. Honey was deep in conversation with a blonde woman who was laughing at whatever it was he was telling her as he gesticulated with a drink in his hand, grinning and displaying his gapped and gilded smile. Ram felt a presence behind him, then heard the recognizable baritone.
“Enjoying yourself, are you?”
When he turned, Wesley Llewellyn was standing alongside him holding a plastic cup filled with brandy.
“I guess I’m okay.”
“How go the stories? Making any headway?”
“Some, I guess,” Ram said noncommittally. “But what I’m mostly finding is how ignorant I am of how things work up here. I mean, people are talking to us and I’m making lots of notes, but I don’t know if I’m learning anything yet.”
Llewellyn nodded. “You won’t, not for a while at least, probably a long while at that. Lobbying isn’t something that lobbyists like to talk about. It’s something they like to do. And they like to do it only if they’re really good at it. The better they are at it, the less talkative they are.”
“Can I use that? Can I quote you on that?”
Llewellyn shook his head affirmatively and drained his brandy. “Sure, why not? Come on, let’s go to the bar. I could use another brandy and it’s actually an acceptable one they’re pouring tonight.”
Ram and Llewellyn made their way across the room, the tiled floor now filled with dancing couples. A fracas broke out between two photographers, one of them dead drunk. Punches flew and landed. One caught the drunken photographer on the chin. He crashed into a table, knocking a platter of shrimp onto the floor. The photographer rose from the table and headed to
ward his assailant, then Llewellyn was in the middle of the fray, his hand upraised. “That’s enough, gentlemen,” he boomed. “This is supposed to be a celebration, not a free-for-all. Apologize to your fellow guests and excuse yourself. It’s time for you to leave.”
The two combatants looked at Llewellyn, towering over them, composed but resolute. The photographers did as he commanded, begging apologies, excusing themselves and leaving out separate exits as Llewellyn directed them. When the situation was in hand again, Llewellyn sauntered back over to Ram. A minute later, Louie Verde approached with two members of his entourage.
Verde thanked Llewellyn and extended his hand. Llewellyn smiled and shook his hand lightly.
“If there’s anything I can do for you, anything you need—”
“—Actually, there is,” said Llewellyn, interrupting. “This is a new member of the Capitol press corps,” he said, gesturing at Ram. “His name is Ram Le Doir, from Golden State magazine, and I would very much like it if you’d extend him the courtesy of the Speaker’s office.”
Verde turned to Ram and looked him up and down appraisingly, flinty-eyed at first, then more warmly. “Louie Verde, at your service, Mr. Le Doir,” he said smiling. He turned back to Llewellyn. “I appreciate your actions, sir,” he said. “Is there anything I can do for you personally?”
Llewellyn looked at Verde a long moment, considering. “No, Mr. Speaker, I don’t think so. There’s nothing I can think of at the moment.”
“Let me know if there is. I am in your debt, sir. We are all in your debt.”
Llewellyn nodded. “If I think of something, I’ll let you know.”
“Please do that, Mr. Llewellyn. May I call you Wes?”
“Wesley,” said Llewellyn. “I prefer Wesley.”
“Well, thank you again, Wesley. And welcome to the capitol, Mr. Le Doir. Here’s my card, call me if there’s anything you need.”
A moment later, Verde and his entourage were gone, but all eyes were fixed on Llewellyn and Le Doir. “Let’s get out of here,” said Llewellyn, grabbing Ram by the arm and steering him out the side entrance. As they were walking out the mahogany doors that gave out onto the Capitol’s west steps, Llewellyn shook out two Pall Malls, pausing to light them and passing one to Ram. Llewellyn exhaled the smoke from the two cigarettes. Then, in a voice that underlined the point, Llewellyn said to Ram. “If you really want to know who the most dangerous man in California politics really is, you just met him. That would be Louis Guillermo Verde the third, Big Louie. And don’t ever forget that, because that is the unvarnished truth.”
They walked up L Street under a diamond sky dominated by Orion. At Eighth Street, a red neon sign hanging over the sidewalk proclaimed The Torch Club. Llewellyn opened the door and they wandered inside the smoky room. It was different now from the way Ram remembered it from his childhood, which was dimly at best, remembering mostly how bad it smelled then and how rank the clientele was, floozies and alcoholics mostly. Now it was upscale; the floozies and alcoholics were still present, but they were a dwindling minority. A number of men in suits and attractive younger women were seated at the bar. Boxing pictures were everywhere, along the walls, behind the bar, and in the bathroom, many of them signed. “It’s the owner’s fetish,” Llewellyn explained. “He said he was a Golden Gloves lightweight champion, but I have my doubts. What’ll you have?”
“I don’t know; a beer, I guess.”
“You don’t drink brandy, do you?”
“No, I’m trying to watch it with the hard stuff. I nearly killed myself a while back.”
Llewellyn ordered the drinks. When they arrived, he threw back a brandy and ordered another. “Absolutamente necesario," he said.”I always seem to wind up in the middle of some brawl. I believe it has to do with my size."
“Either that or the choices you make,” Ram said boldly. “It seems you have an attraction for war zones.”
“Touché, absolutely correct, Mr. Le Doir. An astute observation and a revealing one I’m afraid.”
“Were you in the war? In Vietnam, I mean.”
“No, no I wasn’t. Bad knees from football exempted me from that debacle, happily so. Otherwise, I’d have probably gone to jail or Canada.”
“That’s where I was, not jail, Canada,” Ram said.
Llewellyn smiled and raised his glass. “Salute,” he toasted.
Ram sipped his beer while Llewellyn drained his brandy, ordering another. The bar owner entered through the double doors with an older man and they stopped alongside Llewellyn and Ram. Llewellyn introduced Ram and the bar owner signaled the bartender that the next round was on the house. Ram and Llewellyn thanked him, then drifted back to their conversation. A few minutes later, Thomas Honey pushed through the doors, accompanied by his blonde friend. With them were Mac and Petersen and two other young women. Honey commandeered a large table in the back of the bar and insisted that Ram and Llewellyn join them. They did, as did the bar owner and his elderly friend, who it turned out was the local boxing commissioner.
The conversation turned to pugilistic feats and their practitioners, a subject in which Llewellyn was well versed, having once boxed when he was a young man in Louisville, he said. The conversation was colorful but Ram had nothing to contribute to it. When an opening presented itself during a lull, Ram excused himself to return to the motel, telling Honey he wanted to make some notes and arranging to meet him the next day at 2 p.m. when they had another interview scheduled. Llewellyn asked Ram to call on him again before he left town, and Ram promised that he would.
Ram turned west on L Street, away from the motel, and walked down to the restored Old Town section of Sagrada alongside the river. He remembered the district when it was still Sagrada’s skid row. The father of a neighborhood friend of Ram’s had a bottle shop on Second Street, “The Deuce,” it was called then, and Ram remembered the bums and winos and two-dollar whores who hung around outside the bottle shop, begging for spare change. He remembered the rescue missions and flophouses that littered the area, and the farm labor trucks returning in the afternoon, filled with men with grimy faces and black hands lining up outside the bottle shop, admitted two at a time to buy their evening’s refreshment. It was all spruced up now, The Deuce was, with shiny tourist shops, fancy restaurants, and dance clubs playing disco and new wave music.
Ram remembered when the restoration was still in progress, when he and Shaughn would come down here with Shaughn’s father to rummage through the rubble for artifacts left from the Gold Rush. This was once the center of Sagrada, and the city had been lower before it was raised up one story to escape the cyclic floods that regularly swallowed it. When the restoration was still in progress, these lower depths were exposed, with tunnels leading everywhere below the surface of the city streets. Some of them led to chambers once occupied by the Chinese who’d been imported to build the transcontinental railroad, and Shaughn and his father John and Ram explored one of them and came away with a treasure trove of opium bottles and small enameled cups with Chinese characters painted on their sides. Chinatown was now entirely paved over and sealed; a freeway ran through the district, removing eight square blocks of the old Gold Rush buildings that Ram still remembered.
Now the district was thriving again, a commercial and tourist center still themed around the Gold Rush, although most of its history had been entirely eviscerated. Ram wandered down to the waterfront, lingering long enough to remember what was and recall all that he’d heard about it from his dad. He took a taxi back to the motel, arriving just in time to avoid a heavy rain. He made notes for an hour to the drumbeat of the rain, then fell asleep on the bed with his clothes on. When he awoke, it was three o’clock and the rain had stopped. He looked outside. It was clear, black, and quiet, save the occasional siren. He stripped off his clothes, brushed his teeth, and set the alarm for seven. When the radio woke him, it was John Lennon’s “Number 9 Dream.”
He showered and shaved, then sat at the desk in his bathrobe, making not
es while the coffee machine brewed. He wrote about Llewellyn and the scene at the reception with Louie Verde, remembering what Llewellyn said about him and noting it, then wrote a page or two of his observations about lobbyists and lobbying, which he was still struggling to understand, wondering if he ever would and whether this was anything more than an expense-paid exercise in dilettantism on his part, wondering too, if it was wise for him to return to Sagrada, a city which, for Ram, was mostly a story of pain and sorrow and loss. When he opened this more personal envelope, the contents began spilling out. Flashes of his father when he used to take Ram on his ‘research’ trips, stopping at weathered ranch houses and clapboard Victorians whose residents recalled for Fran Le Doir Jr. their memories of his family when the Le Doir’s in-laws, the Degnans and Pierces, owned five square leagues of the north bank of the Omochumnes, obtaining it through a Mexican land grant. There were flashes of Ram fishing Fran Jr. out of The Torch Club, shitfaced and sitting with floozies who cooed at Ram, whispering and laughing while Ram’s mother sat outside in the De Soto, chain-smoking Salem’s. He remembered the old man screaming at Fran the Third and Ram’s mom, the night that Fran Jr. left the family. The day that Ram, age 9, found his mom unconscious on her bed, blue and still, the pill bottle alongside her, while Ram begged her to wake up and then was told by the nurse, who lived next door and who had come to revive her, that nothing had happened, that everything was fine, remembering, too, that even then, he didn’t believe it, the further family deceptions and discolorations throughout his youth, the death of Yick, a watershed of sorts; then college, Canada, and heroin addiction. Now that Jaime was gone and he felt safer coming back to Sagrada, although all its memories and ghosts were still present, slithering up and down the elm shaded streets of the river town along with the tulé fog that seemed their transport.
Windwhistle Bone Page 34
