Land of Dreams

by Eugene Lester

  In the escalator well Clendon tried to act calm, but he was puffing for breath. For a moment, he thought about trying to circle back around to the Volvo, figure out a way to break in, and at least get the cash envelope out of the air vent. Then Ed appeared at the top of the escalator well, shouted, and started running down the moving escalator, shoving people aside. He caught Clendon at the bottom of the next staircase and grabbed his shirt. Clendon pushed him sideways. Ed's momentum made him fly past Clendon, stumble, and roll onto the escalator below, knocking down two blue-haired ladies. He gashed his head on the sharp edge of a moving stair and lay bleeding. Clendon went past him and on down at a full sprint.

  The escalator took Clendon to the street level where he hit the sidewalk. It was bright and a whiff of smog shot up his nose. There was a bus stop at the corner with a waiting bus. He boarded it as the driver, a black man who looked like a retired weight lifter, flicked the door shut behind him. Clendon didn't see any sign that posted the fare.

  "How much is it?"

  The driver moved the bus into traffic and looked in his mirrors. Clendon swayed and grabbed the fare box. The bus had a stench of body odor, urine, and cheap perfume. He was getting a headache between his eyes and his mouth was dry.

  "I'm sorry? How much?"

  "Eighty-five cents."

  Clendon had a quarter, two dimes, a nickel, and three pennies. A few bills were stuffed into the glass-encased fare box. He took out his wallet and looked in it. All he had was the six $100 bills from Brooks's apartment he had folded up and hidden behind a special flap.

  "This is all I got," he said and showed the driver the folded bills. "Can I get change?"

  "Don't fuck around with me. Pay your fare or you're off at the next stop."

  The bus was nearly full and there weren't any other white persons on it. Two black men sitting near the front looked over Clendon and his $100 bills.

  "Hey, bro, you need change?"

  They laughed. Black and brown women in maid and nursing uniforms stared at Clendon with stabbing eyes.

  He saw a 7/Eleven across the street.

  "Sorry," he smiled and said. "Just let me off. Sorry."

  When the bus stopped, the two men got off after Clendon and followed him. They wore gold chains around their necks and bright blue jogging suits and shoes. They stood at the corner next to Clendon and waited for the light to change.

  "Hey, bro, you need some change?"

  "Thanks, I'm okay."

  The light flashed WALK.

  "We can give you some change, brother."

  They crossed the street with Clendon.

  "Thanks again. I'm in a hurry."

  They followed him into the 7/Eleven. It was crowded but cool. Clendon craved a large cold drink. A sign on the cash register stated, "We do not accept bills larger than $20." He darted toward the Icee machine, deciding to spend all of his fifty-three cents on a small Icee. In the parking lot Clendon sucked on his Icee and looked up and down the street. There was a Wells Fargo bank one block away. The two men kept following him toward the bank, but now hung back. They talked loudly and jived on about a hundred dollars and change. An LAPD black and white cruised by with one male and one female cop. Clendon threw his empty Icee cup at a trash barrel and missed. His forehead was a film of sweat.

  The line in Wells Fargo was very long. Clendon waited fifteen minutes. He finally stepped up to a teller, a pretty Latina.

  "We can't change a $100 bill unless you have an account here or have proper identification," the teller said.

  "This is a bank," Clendon said.

  "Do you have an account here?"

  "No."

  "Do you have some ID?"

  When Clendon showed her his Oklahoma driver's license, his hands were shaking.

  "You have to have a California driver's license or a major credit card."

  "To get some change? What do you think I am, a counterfeiter?"

  "I don't think anything," she said.

  Clendon left. He thought about buying another pair of sunglasses so he could get change.

  "Sir, you need change, don't you."

  The two men had waited, where they leaned against the bank's wall in the shade, next to people standing in line at an automatic teller machine.

  "You can change this hundred?"

  "We can change that C note. For a fee."

  "What's your fee?"

  "A twenty dollar service charge."

  "Make it ten and I'll do it."

  "Twenty dollars is the standard fee."

  "Ten," Clendon said.

  His mouth was still so dry it was hard to swallow.

  "I thought you were in hurry."

  "Yes, I am."

  "We don't change our fees for nobody."

  "All right, all right. Let's see it."

  One of them pulled out four $20 bills.

  "Here you are, sir. Twenty dollar bills. The key to easy living."

  Clendon held out $100 bill in one hand and reached for the four twenties.

  "Thank you for your business, sir."

  They laughed and turned away, high and low fiving.

  * * *

  Clendon had always wanted to see Hollywood, and from his hotel window on Sunset Boulevard that night he had a clear view. Women in hot pants and blond wigs hung out across the street under a light. Young Latinos cruised in low rider cars that almost scraped the pavement. White guys with waist-length bleached blond hair and spandex tights hugged their ghetto blasters and strode the sidewalks.

  Clendon had a room in a motel chain that had green print bedspreads and poorly designed shower stalls. He had ridden the city buses for two hours until he wound up on Sunset as dusk was coming on, so he decided to get a room and spend the night doing some hard solitary thinking.

  Since he was paying cash, the desk clerk had wanted to see his driver's license.

  "How much is the room again?"

  "Fifty-four plus tax."

  "Okay, I'll give you $20 dollars if I don't have to show you my driver's license."

  "Sir, I said the room was fifty-four plus tax."

  "And I said I'd give you $25 if I just sign in and forget the license."

  It dawned on the desk clerk.

  "I'm in the middle of a messy divorce," Clendon said. "My wife's hiring private detectives to find me."

  "Are you from Kentucky?"

  "No, I'm from Tex-ass."

  "You said $30 right?"

  "I guess I did say thirty."

  Clendon gave him the money.

  "Sign the registration card."

  Clendon signed it Wylie Cobb and pulled out one of the hundreds to pay for the room.

  * * *

  He was walking down the sidewalk along an L. A. boulevard. Cars drove past and the sun was cranked to broil. He didn't have any sunglasses. He walked past small shops-- a bookstore, a cleaners, a map store. People began pouring out of the shops and walking towards him and then past him. They were Mexicans, Chinese, blacks, Filipinos, Arabs. Funny smells lingered in the air. There were no white people anywhere. At last the crowds thinned and Clendon walked past a costume shop with a poster in the window of women dressed like English maids, witches, burlesque strippers, Little Red Riding Hood, Wonder Woman. He stopped to stare at a woman in a tigress costume of orange with black stripes, her face also painted with black stripes. He loved the costume and decided he had to buy one for Shelley.

  When he went in he couldn't find any clerks. The store was packed with costumes hanging from the ceiling-- cowboys, cops, pirates, soldiers, doctors, nurses. There was a growling in the back. Then Shelley, wearing the tigress costume, leaped out of a curtained dressing room. Her face was painted with black stripes. She growled again and showed her fangs. Her hands reached out to him. Her fingernails were sharpened claws. She crept towards him, the tigress suit sheer and tight on her body, the sight of her curves and her swaying hips making him ha
rd. Her breasts popped out and the slit of her mons showed through her tights. Clendon reached for her. She lunged at him with her clawed hand, struck his chest and dug into it. He flinched in pain, tried to scream, but couldn't. She yowled as she pulled her hand out of his chest and showed him his own beating heart.

  * * *

  At eleven a.m. Clendon was wearing his new polarized Luxotica sunglasses when he went to a pay phone on the corner across Sunset from the Comedy Store and called.

  "Agent Asp."

  "This is Clendon Lindsey."

  "Thanks for calling, Clendon."

  "I know you already have the briefcase and I called D. C. Lyman and told him, and he was pissed."

  Asp laughed. "Clendon, that's a lie bigger than Dallas."

  "Lyman knows some guys who are after your ass."

  "Thanks for the tip. When I woke up at Shelley's house the other day, I had a bad gash across my nose. The blood ruined my shirt. Took five stitches. I'd hate to have to ruin all your clothes, Clendon."

  "Wear a bib when you shave."

  "Clendon, I have someone here who wants to talk to you."

  "Who?"

  "Dr. Shelley Symmes-Boyd. She's agreed to cooperate with us."

  Clendon started to say "bullshit," but it died in his throat.

  "Dr. Boyd has told us where the briefcase is."

  Muffled talk came over the line.

  "Clendon."

  It was Shelley, her voice flat, drained.

  "Shelley."

  "Clendon, I'm going to be talking to the U. S. Attorney this afternoon. I'm telling them everything. I'll testify at any trial."

  Her voice stayed flat.

  "Shelley-- "

  "I have to, Clendon. They've made me a deal."

  "Shelley-- "

  "Turn yourself in, Clendon. They've promised to make you a deal, too."

  "Where's Diedecek?"

  "I don't know."

  "Where's the goddamn briefcase?"

  "I can't tell you."

  "Use your goddamn head. You have the right to remain silent. Get a fucking lawyer. Don't tell them anything."

  "You're hysterical, Clendon."

  "Shelley, don't-- "

  "I have to, Clendon."

  "Think, Shelley! There's alternatives-- "

  "There are none, Clendon."

  "Why, Shelley? Why? I-- "

  "Clendon, you have to stop dreaming and get over this silly infatuation you have with me."

  PART FOUR

  LAND OF DREAMS

  Clendon walked for six hours. Shelley, Asp, the briefcase, Shelley, Diedecek, the tigress, D. C. Lyman, Shelley, computer disks, Shelley, the velour couch, the hole in Brooks's forehead, Shelley, this silly infatuation, the Volvo, Shelley, the nipples on her breasts, her silver-blue eyes, Shelley, the Westwood apartment, the power saw, Shelley, the money bag, Valium, Shelley, this silly infatuation, Shelley, the claws, Shelley Shelley Shelley

  Clendon bought a Los Angeles map guide in Book Soup on Sunset. Back outside, the new Luxoticas didn't cut the glare enough. He took another Valium and headed south walking down the hill on La Cienaga. At Trashy Lingerie's display window he stopped and looked at the red and black garter belts, negligees, and crotchless panties on the matchstick mannequins. A sign read: "By Appointment Only."

  He ordered a giant chili-n-cheese dog at Tail-O-The-Pup. The hat shopping center loomed across the street. While Clendon ate, a young black man carrying a four year-old girl in his arms walked up to the Tail-O-The-Pup's counter. His clothes were rags and he smelled like an old laundry hamper.

  "Can I work for some food?" the man asked the Latino counterman.

  "No."

  "Look, my little girl hasn't eaten all day, man. She's hungry. I can cook hot dogs, man. I'll clean up. Just let me work for some food for a couple of hours."

  "No, can't," the counterman said. "The manager's not here. You talk to him."

  "All I want is to work for a couple of hot dogs."

  "You must have T.B. test."

  The little girl's eyes were glazed. The man rocked her in his arms and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

  "You buy hot dog, I give you," the counterman said.

  "How about a Coke?"

  "You pay."

  The man glanced at Clendon, then turned away.

  "My wife left me two days ago," he said to the street. "I'm sleeping in my car."

  Clendon finished his hot dog. The onions and chili began fencing in his belly. He tapped the man on the shoulder and gave him a $10 bill.

  "Here," he said. "Get something to eat. Just don't eat here."

  * * *

  After three buses, two hours, and one shot of Jack Daniels in a small bar on Ventura Boulevard followed by a one mile hike, Clendon was walking in a neighborhood of small stucco houses three blocks from Madeline's apartment. It was turning from dusk to dark. His feet ached and his eyes burned. He didn't feel like searching for a motel on foot. He had decided that if she wasn't there, he would wait, no matter how long and no matter who might come home with her.

  Behind him, he heard a car slow down, and then a spotlight shone on him from the street. Red flashing lights started up. Clendon glanced over. A commanding "Hello there!" came from an LAPD squad car. He slowed and turned to look. Two strong spotlights nailed him, brightly blinding him. He brought his hand up to shade his eyes and stopped walking.

  "Keep your hands in sight!"

  The patrol car stopped and two officers got out. Clendon stood still and let his arms hang motionless at his side, the spotlights still hard in his eyes. One of the officers stayed next to the car, staring at him. The other one slowly approached.

  "What are you doing out this evening?"

  "Taking a walk," Clendon said.

  "Could I see some identification?"

  "Sure."

  He pulled out his wallet, found his Oklahoma driver's license, and handed it to the officer. The spotlight haloed around the cop's head. The cop was tall and well-built and looked Nordic, about 25 years old.

  "What is it?" Clendon asked.

  The cop studied Clendon's license.

  "Oklahoma, huh? Long way from home."

  Clendon said nothing.

  "It's a long walk from Oklahoma," the cop said.

  "Yeah."

  "Mr. Lindsey, why are you walking by yourself this evening through a neighborhood in the San Fernando Valley?"

  "I'm here visiting a friend. I just went out for a walk."

  The cop stared at Clendon for a moment. He was sure the cop smelled the liquor on his breath.

  "Mr. Lindsey, we've stopped to talk to you because you match the description of a man who robbed a Taco Bell a mile from here about twenty minutes ago."

  "Okay. What'd he look like?"

  "The witnesses said a six foot medium-built male Cauc about thirty."

  "Well, that does look like me. Did he have an Okie accent?"

  The cop stared at Clendon again.

  "Mr. Lindsey, would you please sit down right over here on the curb, keep your hands in sight at all times, and don't move. I'm going to run your driver's license."

  The cop pointed to a spot on the curb about ten feet in front of the squad car. Clendon obeyed, went over and sat. He wondered how the LAPD ran an out of state license. The second cop, a muscular black man, rested his right forearm across the handle of his holstered revolver and stared at him. Clendon shivered. It was chilly with the sun down.

  The license run took long minutes, then the Nordic cop came back over and handed Clendon his license back.

  "Thank you, Mr. Lindsey. No wants or warrants."

  Clendon stood up.

  "Oklahoma City, huh?" the cop said.

  "Oklahoma City. Northwest side."

  "My sister's husband's from Guthrie."

  "Really? Small world."

  "Been there a couple of times."

  "It's a nice littl
e town. Did you ever eat at the Hilltop?"

  The cop smiled. "Why, yes, yes, I believe I did once."

  "It's a Guthrie landmark."

  "Have a nice evening, Mr. Lindsey. The man we're looking for has a Brooklyn accent."

  Clendon watched the two cops get back in their patrol car and speed away.

  * * *

  He knocked on Madeline's door. Madeline's lights weren't on and she didn't answer. Her apartment door was in a small nook at the end of a long balcony, so no one could see him from the balcony or parking lot. It was getting chillier as he curled up on the doorstep.

  * * *

  "Clendon-- What are you doing here? Aren't you cold?"

  He had been half-asleep. He opened his eyes and shivered. Madeline bent over him and wiped her hand across her face.

  "Shelley's in trouble," he said. "Madeline, what's wrong? Have you been crying?"

  She had her keys in her hand and fumbled with the lock.

  "Yes."

  "Are you trouble?"

  "Not anymore," she said as the door opened.

  "What time is it?"

  "Nearly midnight."

  She was wearing a very short tight black dress, sheer red hose, and low heels.

  "Get a beer if you want," she said.

  Clendon got a Corona from the refrigerator. Madeline's apartment felt warm and her couch was soft. The poster of Simone de Beauvoir stared at him.

  "Want to smoke a joint, Clendon?"

  "Why not, Madeline?"

  "Call me Mad."

  She sat on the couch next to him and with supple fingers rolled a joint from a small canister of pot she kept under the couch. Clendon stared at her legs and wondered how her fingers would feel gripping him.

  "Did a man fuck you around tonight?"

  "He didn't fuck me at all, know what I'm saying?"

  "Is he the love of your life?"

  "He's not even the love of my week, Clendon. I'll forget his name by noon tomorrow. What's happened to Shelley?"

  Mad lit the joint, took a hit, and handed it to Clendon.

  "This is Colombian. That means it was grown in somebody's backyard in the Valley." She laughed.

  "Shelley's been arrested by the FBI. They almost got me."

  Clendon took a long hit. It burned his throat but he held it in and then blew it out hard.

  "Then she told me to fuck off."

  "Oh, shit," Mad said after she blew out smoke.