by Jim Harrison
“No car?” B.D. could see a life on foot returning. Walking anyway cleared the mind.
“No car. My car’s my trademark. Everyone in town knows my car, especially the cops. I could rent you one.” His voice trailed off into bleating.
When B.D. parked at the hotel Bob was racked with sobs of grief and fear. They embraced in front of the puzzled doorman and Bob stuffed some more money in B.D.’s pocket. He turned away as Bob tripped up the steps and walked kitty-corner over to the botanical gardens, needing a big dose of nature to gather his thoughts. A little dose would have to do.
B.D. hoofed it back to the Siam in an hour. In the garden there had been an Oriental in a white suit sitting by the carp pool and since he had his heart set on it B.D. sat there too. After about a half-hour of mutual silence the Oriental smiled and got up. They talked for a few minutes and B.D. learned that the guy was composing himself to do an eight-hour brain surgery on a little girl. B.D. wished him good luck, thinking of Rose’s little girl Berry, back home, whose head was severely cross-wired, which came from Rose’s heavy drinking when she was pregnant and now the condition was hopeless. All the way back to the Siam B.D. felt the peculiar, damp heaviness of homesickness swelling in him. He actually craved to get bitten by mosquitoes and freeze his ass off on one of those cold summer mornings when the wild huckleberry crop was in danger and he had gone out to pick a few to make pancakes. He always used way too many berries so the pancakes were a mess but, nevertheless, good. Afterward a beer would cut the sweetness of the maple syrup and then he’d take a stroll of a few hours or go fishing.
Back at the Siam he had a shower, throwing his fancy Hollywood clothes aside with disgust. It was time to return to the cool, level-headed humility of his janitor’s suit with the unknown Ted’s name on the pocket. With his ear to the wall he could hear Sandrine singing, certainly the most noteworthy experience he had had in town though the reviews were mixed. The view had anyway been wonderful despite the occasional intrusiveness of Vincent’s dour face between the smooth cheeks. He had barely finished a quart of the expensive water when there was a knock on the door. He took the precaution of peeking through the curtains and there stood Lone Marten holding a bearskin rug with a green felt liner. He opened the door and the rug looked even more pathetic than it had through the window with a slight cinnamon phase to the fur and rubber nonskid gizmos on the liner. It might not be possible but the skin looked like it belonged to a very gay bear.
“This car I borrowed cost a hundred thirty grand,” Lone Marten said, gesturing at the Mercedes convertible behind him.
“Tell it to someone who gives a shit.” It did occur to B.D. that the amount probably surpassed his lifetime income. “That bear rug looks like it came from the prop department at Universal.”
“How did you know?” Lone Marten looked quizzically at the rug in his arms.
“I have my ways.” He swiveled to see Sandrine peeking from her door wide-eyed.
“Lone Marten!” she exclaimed.
“Sandra, the French girl! How strange to see you in humble circumstances, including B.D.”
“Sandrine’s the name, kiddo. I bet you thought of fencing that car in Tijuana for a lot of bucks. I live here because it’s free rent. I can’t live with a man because you guys are the spawn of the devil, maybe worse.”
It turned out that her NBC exec boyfriend had taken her to the fund-raiser up Benedict where he had bid on some ersatz turquoise jewelry.
“Sandrine, darling, I need a pair of scissors.” Everyone seemed to use the word “darling” and he might as well join them. He took the bear rug into his room, intending to somehow sneak into Lloyd Bental’s house and switch the rug for his bearskin. He’d probably end up dying in a California prison but so what? Maybe they’d let him out in a couple of winters so he could go home and hear the delicious sound of crunching snow beneath his feet.
Sandrine and Lone Marten sat on the bed smoking a joint while B.D. cut loose the lining with the scissors. Lone Marten discussed several ways he might help B.D. get his bearskin back, including the highly creative way of blowing up the house with a ton of nitrogen fertilizer, some kerosene, and blasting caps. Sandrine yawned when she heard Bental’s name.
“Think smarter and try to remember that I’m otherwise going to tear out your heart.” B.D. had finished with the rug noting that someone had shampooed and softened the fur and given the bear marble-blue eyes. There is no end to blasphemy, he thought.
“I know Lloyd Bental real well,” Sandrine bragged, which really got their attention. “I’ve blown him a few times. I won’t fuck him because he’s not a star, only a director and producer.”
It hadn’t been real hard to strike a deal for Sandrine’s help. Lone Marten started at five hundred bucks but she held out for the usual thousand, glaring at B.D. and reminding him of the measly two fifty-dollar bills in his socks. Lone Marten took out a wad and peeled off the ten one-hundred-dollar bills, explaining plaintively that this was the people’s fund-raising money and now they’d lack money to repair their leaking tepees. Sandrine made a fake yawn and went to get Lloyd’s number from her five-inch-thick alligator-skin personal phone book. The moment she left Lone Marten whispered to B.D. that the money was bad counterfeit he’d bought for twenty bucks for a thousand, useful in such occasions. B.D. agreed and when Sandrine returned she said that Lloyd only had a thirty-minute “window” at nine before going to dinner so they had to be on time. That meant they had two hours to stew in their juices. Sandrine was hungry so Lone Marten took her out for something to eat, tooling out of the Siam parking lot with unbelievable speed. B.D. requested that they bring him back a liver sausage on rye with onions, cheddar, and hot mustard but wasn’t too hopeful they’d succeed. This was as close as he could come to power food from back home. A deer heart or liver would be more proper to ready himself for the momentous night ahead but either of them would be hard to find in the neighborhood. A number of times hunters had given him and Frank bear meat, wanting to keep only the hide. They quickly discovered that you had to get all the fat off older bear or there was a predominant flavor as if you had mixed axle grease and saddle soap. Younger bears, especially female, had fewer purines in the blood and on slow nights in the kitchen of Frank’s Tavern in late October they’d make some experimental bear stews using lots of garlic and red wine, but sometimes varying the recipe with garlic, hot pepper, and dark rum which Frank said is how they cooked old goat down in the sunny Caribbean. The downside of bear meat for Brown Dog was that it always caused remarkably vivid bear dreams. It was pretty frightening to make love to a sow bear even in a dream, and the male bears, the boars, made Mike Tyson look like Mary Poppins. Delmore had teased him that in the old days it wasn’t unknown for a man to become a bear if he ate too much bear meat or generally fooled around with them too much. Down near the headwaters of the Fox River one evening while fishing he had sat with his back against a big white pine stump and a sow bear had come along and sat down no farther than twenty feet from him. It was a real attention getter and they both averted their glances, knowing that in the natural world a direct stare is considered at the very least impolite. Even ravens don’t like to be stared at and if you look off to the side a bit they’re much more likely to stick around.
The slam of a car door jogged him from his bear trance which had only served to increase his homesickness. His heart leapt at the idea of his liver sausage sandwich and he sniffed the air as he opened the door. It was Sharon driving the brown Taurus with Bob snoring away beside her. Now she was in adult clothes, a tank top and Levi’s, rather than a pink dress and shiny black shoes. She leaned against the car door with an attractive twist to her hips and her nipples were perky beneath the tank top.
“Bob insisted I drive him over to apologize to you and now he’s asleep.”
“Let sleeping dogs lie,” B.D. said for no reason at all.
“Don’t be too hard on him. He’s just a big kid.”
“I’m not. He’s g
ot his own problems. It must be pretty hard when your whole family is sick, not to speak of your mom loose on the streets.”
“Oh, that’s all bullshit. Our families are friends from way back and there’s nothing wrong with his wife and kids except the usual neuroses, dope, and alcohol.”
“You don’t say.” B.D. couldn’t figure out if he was startled, surprised, or just plain diverted for a moment from his own problems. “I thought you were his lady friend.”
“I admit I have to lead him on a bit. I really want a career in the movie business and after last night’s party I think I might have a job with the great Lloyd Bental. He reminds me of a pear with lipstick but I liked him a lot. He quoted poetry to me in five languages.”
“Well, congrats to you.” Now B.D. was startled. Within this big town there was obviously a small town. The last thing he was going to do was tell Sharon he was forming a plot against the versatile Lloyd.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re weirdly attractive?” Sharon had glanced over to make sure Bob Duluth was still asleep.
“Can’t say that it never happened.” Their eyes fixed deeply on each other unlike what’s permitted in the other part of the animal world. B.D. bowed and swept an arm in a gesture to his motel room door. Sharon entered with a pronounced blush. Not a little while later he would have a perplexing moment thinking about how fucked up the relation between time and people can be. He and Sharon had fairly collided behind the door. Her jeans were half down and he was kneading her bare bottom while she yanked a bit roughly on his weenie as if starting an older-model outboard motor. Their tongues were sweetly entwined when Lone Marten screeched up outside yelling, “Liver sausage from Nate and Al’s.” It was simply heartbreaking, so near but so suddenly so far. Injustice spread around him like an elephant fart. He quickly cinched his pecker under his belt and went outside, followed by Sharon who for some reason whistled “The Colonel Bogie March.”
“Here it is, blood brother, and with double meat.” Lone Marten handed him the lunker sandwich just as his pecker fell in his trousers like the reverse of the famous Hindu rope trick. He turned abruptly, hearing an audible hissing. Sharon and Sandrine were faced-off a mere foot from each other spitting out their words.
“Trying to cop another of my boyfriends, you string-bean Ivy League bitch,” Sandrine shrieked.
“I’ll kick you in the cunt, you gold-digging faux-French street slut,” screamed Sharon.
B.D. leaned against the passenger side of the Taurus, looking down in embarrassment at the sleeping Bob. This range of female anger horrified him. He took an enormous bite of his sandwich, feeling the possibility that since he had just been cheated of sex, it was also possible to lose his sandwich. Lone Marten moved quickly between the women and in perfect unison they both slapped him for reasons of their own. Sharon stalked to the Taurus and B.D. reached in the window and patted Bob on the head. Bob woke up smelling the sandwich and quickly took an offered bite. B.D. had to jump as Sharon backed up.
“Goodbye, old pardner.” He waved. Bob looked something like a wizened child who had fallen asleep after a tantrum.
Zero hour. Sandrine drove the car expertly up Beverly Glen, what with her NBC boyfriend owning the selfsame vehicle. The front seat was rather small and Lone Marten had to sit on B.D.’s lap. Imagine paying that kind of money for just two seats, B.D. thought, noting that Lone Marten’s bony ass lacked the charm of either Sharon’s or Sandrine’s. The plan was that Sandrine would go into Lloyd’s house and before she did her job she’d leave the door ajar, presuming she could divert him from whatever room held the bearskin. This was less than a guaranteed plan and when Lone Marten said something about “giving it the old college try” it meant nothing to B.D. who was irked that Lone Marten and Sandrine were sharing yet another joint so strong that the secondhand smoke addled him.
“Je suis ici,” Sandrine warbled, pressing Lloyd’s gate button, “Je suis là.” There was an immediate mellifluous, baritone “Goody” from the other end, and gates as large as those in a prison movie began to open. B.D. and Lone Marten slid down until they were out of sight. Sandrine slapped at Lone Marten as he lifted her short-cotton dress for a peek. B.D. couldn’t help but feel a little smug over the time he had spent in Sandrine’s nether regions notwithstanding the now permanent image of Vincent Price. Just as she stopped the car he grasped the substitute bearskin which felt feminine, albeit dry. Sandrine got out and he heard her throaty laughter, and her saying something more in French and the man’s hearty laughter which sounded something like the Escanaba newscaster’s on TV when some tourist insisted on watching the news at Frank’s Tavern. B.D. couldn’t help but take a stealthy peek out the car window. The man wore a short yellow robe and did look like a pear with lipstick as Sharon had described him. B.D. had to admire how fast he worked because he already had Sandrine’s skirt above her waist. B.D. was thrilled to see that after they walked up the wide, palatial steps she was able to leave the door slightly ajar. Above the ticking of the Mercedes engine B.D. listened for her voice which would call out “Moola” if she managed her intent of getting Lloyd out the side door and into a rose garden, or into a bedroom, anywhere at a safe distance from the bearskin should she be lucky enough to note its location. Lone Marten looked a bit glazed and drooling under a bright mercury-vapor light above them. And then B.D. heard the high clear call of “Moola” and eased himself out of the car, the cinnamon skin with blue marble eyes in hand. When he reached the steps he turned and saw that Lone Marten was following him like a zombie. B.D. grabbed him, carried him back, and threw him into the car, looping a seat belt around his neck. He would have to go it alone.
And it was easy as pie, though he was first diverted by the splendor of the home, thinking it must be the kind of place where the king of the world would live. He tried to run silently on his tiptoes which proved unsuccessful, but then he quickly found the bearskin which was predictably on the floor of a den lined with hundreds of photos and testaments to the greatness of Lloyd. B.D. swiftly folded his bearskin and stuffed it into the black garbage bag that was still handily in the back pocket of his green janitor’s trousers. He carefully arranged the ersatz skin, looking up for a moment at the line of Oscars on the fireplace mantel and suspecting they must be pure gold. The only close call was when he heard a female voice with a Mexican accent calling out, “Mister Lloyd, is that you?” but by then B.D. was in the foyer near the front door and at that moment the great Lloyd himself groaned out mightily from the garden, “Mom, Dad, success,” which made B.D. pause a split second while tripping down the steps to the car. He recalled one night in Munising while making love vigorously to an actual lawyer’s wife he had slapped his own ass and yelled out, “Ride ’em, cowboy,” and she had crossly jerked his ear.
Lone Marten was sitting upright dead asleep and B.D. shoved him down, climbing on top of him and pushing him into a ball on the passenger-seat floor. He decided not to take another peek when he heard Sandrine and Lloyd calling out their melodious au revoirs. He was unnerved by the thumping of his own heart and fear that Lone Marten would let out another movie-Indian Ugh! He searched out Lone Marten’s face and firmly pressed a foot against his mouth. And then Sandrine was in the car which roared to life and he could not help but press his own face against her lap and give her a hearty kiss. Her fingers tapped a rhythmic tattoo on his neck as he pushed up her skirt. She sang a little French ditty and there was grace in not knowing what the words meant.
The only real reason to go back to the motel room was the full remaining case of expensive water plus a few spare bottles. He had debated whether to head to the airport or a bus station but then at least four days on a bus would increase the chances of someone stealing his prize. He felt he probably had enough money for a plane ticket, at least partway, though no specific figure offered itself. He asked Sandrine if he might have a loan if he ran short on ticket money and her no was explicit.
“I went down on you all the way from Beverly Hills to
Santa Monica and you won’t pony up a cent.” He found this discouraging.
“Here’s the buck you slid under my door, asshole.” She smiled.
They stopped at Sandrine’s exercise place in Santa Monica so she could pay her bill with her earnings from Lloyd. Lone Marten wandered off to buy a five-buck cup of coffee and there was the question of borrowing some counterfeit but that seemed touchy. He had never been on a plane before except a small Cessna with a logger checking out territory and it hadn’t been too pleasant other than seeing the bottoms of rivers and lakes from the air. Now he stood looking into the open front of the gym with growing amazement. The rock music was quite loud and there were rows upon rows of exercising women following the movements of a sleek, young black instructor. B.D. did a little body count and figured not one out of fifteen women needed exercise and here it was shortly after ten in the evening and they were pumping and jerking themselves into a froth. Would the wonders of this place never cease? He noticed again that those passing on the street utterly ignored him in his green janitor’s suit. Earlier there had been a temptation to pick up both the water and his fancy Hollywood outfit but where would he wear the outfit up home?
When Lone Marten returned with his quart of coffee he seemed hyper. B.D had previously wondered how whatever the man put in his mouth always caused some immediate effect. This time Lone Marten had also scored some speed at the coffee place and was offended when neither Sandrine nor Brown Dog wanted any. All the way to LAX they wrangled about one thing or another centering on Lone Marten’s idea that they fence the expensive vehicle in Tijuana and then he and Sandrine could fly off to a South Sea island with the proceeds.
“I have to live in this town,” Sandrine said, rather righteously.
“Maybe I could use you in a documentary I’m going to do for the National Endowment for the Arts about Cheyenne dancers,” Lone Marten suggested.
“What’s the part?” There was a trace of interest in Sandrine’s voice.
