A convulsion shook Ram’s shoulders and he snapped himself back into the moment. He had work to do, his last working day in Sagrada, as far as he could tell, and couldn’t afford the indulgence of memory. He dressed, bought the morning edition of The Sagrada Stinger and walked to a nearby bakery and read it over coffee. When he read Hal Blum’s column, he was shocked to find his name there. Blum had witnessed the scene beneath the rotunda and gave a three-sentence account of the fight Llewellyn broke up, mentioning Ram and calling him “neophyte scribe Ram Le Doir.” Ram smiled. Gates would like that.
From the bakery, Ram walked six blocks southwest to the capitol and stopped at the State Library that sat where the old family mansion once stood. It was a lovely four-story building in Greco-Roman classical revival. He took the elevator to the third floor and walked to the room where the government publications were kept. He spent the morning pouring through books about lobbyists and government reports analyzing lobbying activities. He was taking his mom to lunch, and as he got up to leave, he noted a room on the other side of the building. A sign posted there said, “The California Room.” Ram had a half-hour to kill, so he went inside and approached the librarian seated behind an old oak desk.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked. She was older, gray-haired, and plump, with a thick German accent. Her voice was painfully loud.
“I was passing by and saw the name on the door. Exactly what is The California Room?”
The woman took some paper handouts and handed them to Ram.
“This is what is located here in The California Room and these are the services we provide,” she said. “We have everything from the journals of Gold Rush pioneer families, to maps, to photographs of California and all her cities from as far back as 1850. There is quite a resource we have here, reserved for scholars and historians. Are you a scholar or a historian?”
“Not really,” said Ram. “I’m a… a writer, I guess. I’m a journalist with Golden State magazine.”
“Please look over the material and see if there’s anything that we can provide you with, and if there’s any service that you need, we’ll do what we can to help you.”
“I’ll do that,” said Ram.
Ram read the material in the elevator as it descended. When he exited the building, a white disk of sun was burning through the standing fog. The sky was still gray, but Ram could see faint patches of blue. The forecast said the fog would lift and the rain would cease. The weekend called for general clearing.
Ram took his mom to lunch at the small stucco-sided building where he and Thomas Honey and the lobbyists had gone to lunch a couple of days before. The restaurant was called Feeney’s, and it had been a favorite of Ram’s mom since Ram was a youngster. They entered the dark paneled exterior. Ram gave the hostess his name and asked for a table. The hostess said it would be a few minutes, and Ram escorted his mother into the bar where they sat on stools and ordered drinks.
“Have you been getting a lot of work done?” his mother asked, raising her bourbon and taking a large sip.
“Well, I’m making a lot of notes,” Ram said. “Getting a few interviews, but I’m not sure I’m getting anywhere. I feel like I’m making it up as I go.”
“And what is it that you’re writing about, honey?”
“Lobbyists and lobbying, I told you about it the other day.”
“I’m sorry, honey. When you get to be my age, you tend to forget. I’ll be lucky if I live long enough to make it into retirement.”
“Not that again.”
For as long as Ram could remember, death was always imminent for his mother. When he was young, she said she’d be lucky if she made it until he graduated high school. When she made that deadline, she said she’d die before she hit 60, then it was 65, now it was before retirement. She was 72 now. Her presentiments frightened Ram when he was young, awakening the memory of his discovery of her that long-ago day on her bed when she was blue. Now, it annoyed him, sometimes to exasperation. There was little reason for it, Ram felt, other than her need to be noticed or pitied, for her health was generally good.
But her spirit had been savaged in Sagrada, almost since the moment the family arrived in the city from Pennsylvania in 1957. Less than a year later, Ram’s father walked out, leaving his wife to manage a home mortgage and raise three young boys in a town where she hardly knew a soul. After a while, she began to tire of life, to await its end, and the termination of her suffering. It got old for Ram, hearing her continually court this scenario, yet he also understood it, considering the nature of Sagrada, almost as though there was something in its undersea-like atmosphere that was deadening, that was redolent of loss and suffering.
“You’re going to enjoy your retirement until you’re in your eighties,” said Ram.
His mother shrugged. “I don’t think so, honey. I don’t want to live that long.” She drained her whiskey. Ram ordered another for her, telling the bartender to add a little more water.
After a lunch of clams and mussels, Ram walked her back to the capitol and told her he might come for Sunday brunch with Thomas Honey on their way out of town. His mother had been asking Ram to bring Honey over, and Ram promised he would. Now she seemed to have forgotten the invitation. “I might not be in town, honey. Walter wants to go to Nevada,” she said, referring to her boyfriend, an engineer with the Department of Water. “Why he always wants to go there, I’ll never know. I’d rather go to San Francisco.”
“At least it’s somewhere. You could be stuck here all weekend.”
“That’s true.”
“I gotta go, Mom,” he said, kissing her on the cheek and hurrying over to the capitol. When the elevator doors opened, a bunch of lobbyists exited. Among them was the guy who owned the bar that Honey knew. He made eye contact with Ram, then turned away, following his colleagues down the hall. Ram recalled his name: Emile Donner.
Ram spent his day in Sagrada doing interviews by himself, telling Thomas they could probably get more done independent of one another, which was only partially true. Ram’s real reason for doing so was centered more on their differences in style, which their time together had made increasingly apparent. For Thomas Honey, the lobbying story was a source of amusement, an opportunity to socialize, an entry into power circles that might lend itself to his own promotion as a conceptual artist and whimsical political visionary. For Ram, the assignment provided a portal into his past, a past he didn’t quite fully apprehend because of the conscious and deliberate effort he’d made these past several years to shut it out. Honey was having a ball, drinking with his newfound friends, amusing himself and others with his disdain for politics and its characters and institutions. Ram brought an altogether different attitude to it: for him, it was an exploration into the interior of a world that was heretofore known to him only on its surface. Where Honey was content to catalog and describe the exterior filigree in all its detail, finding it revelatory of what it exposed of the interior mechanisms and the motivations of those who practiced politics, Ram felt the obverse was more important: that only by understanding the mechanisms and principles of the machine could you see its exterior dressings for the mask that they were. Honey thought he understood the world of politics; that it was all a game that was amusing and shouldn’t be taken seriously. Ram felt he didn’t understand this world, but that it was an exploration that would stretch and expand him and take him into the heart of a world that none of the pundits he’d read had ever made clear.
He spent the rest of the day wandering the halls of the capitol, dropping into legislators’ offices trying to obtain interviews with them or their staffers. Most of the legislators had gone home for the day—either to their district offices or their Sagrada residences. Most of the staffers didn’t want to be interviewed on the record. Ram then wandered through the buildings along Tenth and Eleventh Streets where many lobbyists had offices, picking up superficial material on the business of lobbying but striking out whenever he tried probing deeper. Sometimes, he go
t a usable quote, an anecdote, an aphorism, a metaphor. When five o’clock rolled around, he went to The Torch Club where Thomas Honey was waiting.
“How’d your interviews go?”
“I got some stuff, not a lot, a quote or two. How’d you do?”
Honey grinned and sipped from his drink. “I got some great stuff. Mac took me to The Sutter Club. It’s a private club were lobbyists hang out. We had a liquid lunch and I got a bunch of interviews, including a guy who works for horseracing and another who’s a liquor lobbyist. I got it all on tape,” he said, holding up his recorder and waving it. “We got plenty of stuff for the story. It’ll get us more assignments from Golden State.”
“You really think so?”
“Of course. Don’t worry about it. Relax.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“You take things too fucking seriously,” said Honey loudly. The bar patrons turned momentarily in their general direction, then turned away.
“Have a drink, Le Doir. It’s Friday. Loosen up for Chrissakes. There’s this private party at Emile’s tonight that we’re invited to. We’ll have a few here and then go have dinner out on the river at a place I know. You’ll have to drive though because I’m too fucked up.”
At that moment, Llewellyn walked through the door. Ram caught his eye and motioned him over. Llewellyn shook his head no and took his seat at the end of the bar. When Honey went to the bathroom, Ram went over.
“Sorry to decline your offer, Ram, but I’ve had enough of your partner. I ran into him over at David’s and he talked my ear off. I’ve never heard such a crock of shit.”
“What was it? I’m curious.”
“Now is not the time,” said Llewellyn, sipping his brandy. “I’m still recovering from the onslaught. By the way,” he said, gesturing with his chin, “The Crockman cometh.”
Honey was staggering toward them along the bar, pausing periodically to whisper in someone’s ear. By the time he reached them, Llewellyn was gone.
“Where did the most dangerous man in California politics disappear to?” Honey asked. “Did he tell you—”
“—Told me all about it, said he had to go. Told me how much he enjoyed himself with you this afternoon.”
“Oh? Oh, yeah,” said Honey, grinning and ordering another drink, insisting that Ram join him in an Irish whiskey with Guinness back. “I don’t see what’s so fucking dangerous about him… or even interesting. He’s just some right-wing nut so far as I can tell. What do you think?”
“I’m not thinking much now, other than I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat.”
“Let’s do that.”
Honey threw back his whiskey, then drained the whiskey that Ram hadn’t touched. By the time they reached the restaurant on the river, Honey was passed out. Ram took a table on the glassed-in porch overlooking the river and dined alone.
When he got back to the car, Honey was snoring. Ram tried to wake him, but he was gone. On their way back to the motel, Honey told Ram to pull over onto the shoulder. When Ram did, Honey opened the door and threw up. ‘Déjà vu all over again, only this time, it’s not me,’ thought Ram.
He got a towel and handed it to Honey who moaned again. “Take me back to the motel. Go to Emile’s by yourself.”
Ram didn’t protest. He got Honey back to his room safely. Then he drove the half-mile south to Emile’s Backroom, arriving just before nine.
The place was filling, and Ram recognized some of the people he’d seen all week. They seemed to be regulars here. He remembered the two men seated at a small table as aides of Governor Bailey, and nearby was another table of Verde staffers, including one of the hulks he remembered from the night before. At the end of the bar, stood Mac and a few other lobbyists. Ram went down to say hello. Mac asked Ram where Thomas Honey was and Ram told him. Mac didn’t seem surprised. “He’s got to learn how to pace himself better. That’s another important point: learn how to pace yourself,” said Mac as he sipped a martini.
“I’ll make a note of that,” said Ram, excusing himself and taking a table in the small room beyond the bar that gave onto the backroom, which Ram hadn’t seen yet. The door opened and the waitress with roller skates on cowboy boots approached. She was with a man with long curly hair, wearing jeans, black boots, a 1950s sport coat and a skinny tie with blinking lights embedded in it. Ram stopped writing, looked up and smiled at the couple. The woman’s name was Jill, he remembered. She smiled at Ram, then steered her companion forward.
“This is my boyfriend I was telling you about the other night. He’s a big fan of yours. Phil, this is Ram Le Doir.”
Ram looked into the man’s eyes and saw them widen and beam intensely for a moment. He smiled and stepped forward, extending his hand.
“Man, it’s an honor, Mr. Le Doir, truly an honor, you’re a great poet and I’ve read most of your stuff. I saw you read once in Berkeley. Phil Le Gris.”
Ram smiled and shook Le Gris’ hand. “Was I drunk?”
“Well, you were drinking, that’s for sure.”
“That was usually the case. In fact, it was always the case. Why don’t you join me?”
Phil and Jill were natives of Sagrada, and like Ram, Phil opted for exile as soon as he graduated high school, going to England where he lived for a year and a half in London, playing in a rock-and-roll band and trying to land a record deal while working days at the Monument Records store there. Ram and Phil talked about the Monument-Endymion range war days. They talked about London clubs and concerts they’d seen, about books they’d read and authors they admired, while Jill provided comic relief, offering criticism that was precisely on point when she agreed or disagreed with them, discussing the work of Kubrick and Bertolucci with cogent observations, sometimes turning the triangulated conversation to the more mundane or accelerating it outward toward something broader, more comic or cosmic, then bringing it home with hilarious one-liners.
Their laughter was infectious. A crowd gathered around their table, watching Jill and Phil and Ram, turning from one to the other as they each held forth. The crowd bought them rounds of drinks and laughed at their one-liners, which were more a case of capping one another, sometimes finishing each other’s thoughts with even wilder twists than the original speaker had intended but who then would fully endorse, making it seem almost as though it were a multi-voiced, multi-personed monologue rather than a three-way conversation.
“Somebody should record this,” one of the triangle’s observers stated.
The three looked at one another, their response simultaneous. “Record this,” they said, raising their middle fingers. The crowd howled, and the party around them grew until there were hardly any patrons left at the bar. The back door opened and the bar owner stuck his head in to see what the commotion was about. He approached them slowly, taking in what he could hear, chuckling occasionally, and smiling. He stood opposite them, directly in front of Jill. When she noticed him making no effort to move away, she nudged Phil, who interrupted a story Ram was telling, gesturing at the man standing in front of them.
“Gosh, I’m sorry. Ram, I’d like to introduce Emile Donner. He owns this place. Emile, this is Ram Le Doir.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” said Donner, nodding.
“All bad?”
“Not at all. You’re Thomas Honey’s partner, right?”
“Well, we’re doing a couple stories together.”
“So Thomas tells me. McLaurin Britten too. I believe you know him as Mac.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Welcome to the Backroom. Why don’t you come on back? We have a private party going on. Jill knows the way.”
“Thank you. We’ll take you up on it in a minute or two.”
“Call me Emile, and give me a call if you ever need anything. I might be able to help,” said Donner, reaching into his brocaded vest pocket, producing a gilt-edged card. “I know pretty much everybody you might need to know in Sagrada. I’m always willing to help a fellow writer.�
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Donner moved away from the table, working his way up the bar, pausing to greet the politicos and stopping to sip a glass of wine with the new wavers.
“Who exactly is that guy?” asked Ram.
“It’s a long story and maybe Jill’s the one who should be telling it.”
“Jill?”
“Not now. These walls have ears. Besides, this is supposed to be a party. Come on, boys,” she said, getting up from the table and clutching an arm of each man.
“We have to pay our tab,” Ram said.
“Emile took care of that long ago,” said Jill.
They moved to the porthole door and entered the backroom. It was darker in the back. Small cups with lighted candles illuminated the bar, which was otherwise dark except for a small spotlight atop the cash register. A Sinatra tune finished; then the jukebox played ‘Sultans of Swing.’ People stood in groups of twos and threes, sipping cocktails and eating hors d’oeuvres off small plates. The food table was placed alongside one wall, atop which were open bottles of wine and champagne. The bartender was a tall, good-looking blonde who stood near the cash register. When the trio took stools at the bar, she came down and asked them what they were drinking, “Complements of Emile,” she said. Jill and Phil ordered tequilas with beer backs, Ram an iced tea. The bartender motioned Jill aside and had a brief word with her. When she returned, Jill said, “Come on, boys,” and motioned for Ram and Phil to follow her into the kitchen. People were clustered around a stainless steel food preparation table. Jill approached it, reached in her pocket, and emptied the contents of a bindle onto an already large pile. “Complements of me,” she said, smiling at Ram and Phil, before she inhaled two rails. Phil followed, Ram declined. People filed in and out all night until it was down to the diehards.
When they left the bar, dawn was breaking. The sky was ice blue and birds were singing. Ram said goodbye to Jill and Phil, promising he’d see them before he left town. He drove back to the motel, took a long hot shower, and fell asleep, rising sometime in the afternoon to his ringing telephone.
Windwhistle Bone Page 35
