Too many questions, not enough answers. And a battered, mad young man destined to live out his days in a nightmare world.
Souza had cut me out before I'd had a chance to look into any of it.
As I ruminated, the Seville drifted toward the Union District, not far from the address Sarita had given me for Gary.
Souza had reminded me of my ethical obligations. I couldn't discuss my findings with anyone, but that didn't stop me from evaluating further - as a free agent.
The building sat in the middle of the block, embroidered at street level with a daisy chain of dozing winos. Bottles and cans and dogshit turned my progress down the sidewalk into a spastic ballet. The doors were rusted iron, warped and dented, and set into the crumbling brick facade of the former factory like a fistula. A band of concrete striped the brick. In it was carved PELTA THREAD COMPANY, 1923. The letters were pigeon-specked and cracked. To the right of the door were two buttons. Next to each button was a slot for an address sticker. The first was unfilled; the second framed a taped-over strip of paper that read R. Bogdan. I pushed both buttons but got no response, tried the door, and found it locked. After driving around through the alley, I saw a rear entry identical to the one in the front, but it, too, was bolted. I gave up and went home.
Jamey's Canyon Oaks chart had arrived. I locked it in my desk and retrieved Souza's cheque. I addressed and stamped an envelope, sealed the cheque inside, jogged down to the nearest mailbox, and dropped it through the slot. At three-thirty the service called to deliver a message from Robin: Billy Orleans had come into town early and would be at the studio until five. After he left, we could have dinner together. I changed into jeans and a turtleneck and drove to Venice.
Robin's place is an unmarked storefront on Pacific Avenue, not far enough from the Oakwood ghetto. The exterior is covered with gang graffiti, and the windows are whitewashed over. For years she lived upstairs, in a loft she had designed and built herself, and used the main floor as a workshop. A dangerous arrangement for anyone, let alone a single woman, but it had been an assertion of independence. Now the place was alarmed and she shared my bed and I slept a lot better for it.
Both parking spaces in back of the shop were taken up by a white stretch Lincoln limo with blackened windows, gangster whitewalls, and a TV antenna on the rear deck. Three hundred hard pounds of bodyguard leaned against the side of the car -fiftyish, a sunburned bull mastiff face, sandy-grey hair, and a white toothbrush moustache. He was dressed in white drawstring pants, sandals, and a sleeveless red singlet stretched just short of bursting. The arms folded across his chest were the colour and breadth of Virginia hams.
I coasted to a stop and looked for a place to leave the Seville. From inside the studio came deep, pulsating waves of sound.
'Hi, sir,' said the bodyguard cheerfully, 'you the shrink friend?'
'That's me.'
'I'm Jackie. They told me to be on the lookout for you. Just leave the car here with the keys in, and I'll watch it for you.'
I thanked him and entered the shop through the rear door. As always, the studio smelled of confifer resin and sawdust. But the rumble of power drills and saws had been replaced by another wall of noise: thunderous power chords and screaming treble riffs resonating from every beam and plank.
I walked to the rear, where the test amplifiers were kept and saw Robin, wearing a dusty apron over her work clothes and padded earphones half buried in her curls, watching a gaunt man assault a silver-glitter solid-body electric guitar shaped like a rocket ship. With each stroke of
the pick, the instrument lit up and sparkled, and when the man pressed a button near the bridge, a sound similar to that of a space module leaving the launching pad issued forth. The guitar was plugged into dual Mesa Boogie amps and cranked up to maximum volume. As the thin man ran his fingers up and down the fretboard, it screamed and bellowed. A smouldering cigarette was wedged between the strings just above the fretboard. The windows shuddered, and my ears felt as if they were about to bleed.
Robin saw me and waved. Unable to hear her, I read her lips and made out 'Hi, honey' as she came over to greet me. The gaunt man was lost in his music, eyes closed, and went on for a while before he noticed me. Then his right hand rested, and the studio turned funereal. Robin took off the ear pads. After unplugging the guitar, the man removed the cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, then placed the instrument tenderly in a clasp stand and grinned.
'Fabulous.'
He was about my age, hollow-cheeked, pale, and pinch-featured, with dyed black hair cut in a long shag. He wore a blue-green leather vest over a sunken, hairless chest and crimson parachute pants. A small rose tattoo blued one bony shoulder. His shoes were high-heeled and matched the pants. A pack of Camels extended halfway from one of the vest pockets. He removed the cigarette smouldering between his lips, put it out, pulled out the pack, extricated a fresh one, and lit up.
'Billy, this is Alex Delaware. Alex, Billy Orleans.'
The rocker extended a long, calloused hand and smiled. The nails of his right hand had been left long for finger picking. A diamond was inlaid into one of his upper incisors.
'Hello, Alex. Head doc, right? We could use you on the road, the band's precarious mental state being what it is.'
I smiled back. 'My specialty is kids.'
'Like I said, we could use you on the road, the band's blah-blah-blah.' Turning to Robin: 'It's fabulous, Mizz Wonderhands. Do some fooling with the lead pickup to get a bit more punch on the high registers, but apart from that,
perfect. When can you have it ready for takeoff?'
'How's Thursday?'
'Fine. I'm flying up to San Francisco to visit my parents and then back down here for the Friday Forum gig. I'll send Jackie or one of the roadies to pick it up. Now for the fun part.' He unzipped one of the compartments on the parachute pants and drew out a wad of hundred-dollar bills.
'Filth and lucre,' he said, peeling off thirty or so and handing them to Robin. It didn't change the size of the wad appreciably. 'That do it?'
'You gave me three hundred too much,' said Robin, counting and holding out three bills.
'Keep it. Perfectionism's hard to find, and I can use the write-off.' He hefted the wad and shifted it from one hand to another.
'Don't flash that in this neighbourhood,' said Robin.
He laughed and put the money away.
'It would be tasteless, wouldn't it?'
'I was thinking more in terms of dangerous.'
'Oh. Yeah, I guess so.' He shrugged. 'Well, that's why I have Jackie. He's bulletproof. Faster than a locomotive. Eats rivets for breakfast. I hired him after the John Lennon thing. I was nervous; lots of people were. I think he used to break legs for the Mafia or something, but all he's had to do for me so far is glare.'
Robin wrote him a receipt, and we walked to the door.
'Good to meet you, Alex.'
He picked up Robin's hands and kissed them.
'Keep these in good shape. In today's market visuals are everything. I'll be needing plenty more objects d'art.' A diamond-lit smile. 'Well, off to S.F. and a reunion with Dr. and Mrs. Ornstein.'
I thought of something.
'Billy,' I said, 'did you grow up in San Francisco?'
'Atherton, actually,' he said, naming one of the high-priced spreads just outside the city.
'Were you involved with the Haight-Ashbury scene?'
He laughed.
'When all that was going down I was a good little nerd who wanted to be an orthodontist just like Daddy. I spent the sixties memorising biology books. Why?'
'I'm trying to find out about some people who lived in an urban commune on the Haight.'
He shook his head.
'Never my scene, but I can tell you who might know. Roland Oberheirn - Roily O. He's a producer, used to play brass with Big Blue Nirvana. Remember them?'
'I think so. Sitars over a heavy backbeat?'
'Right. And pop Hinduism. They hit gold a couple of times, th
en got ego cancer and broke up. Roily was one of Ken Kesey's pranksters, heavily into acid, called himself Captain Trips. He knew everyone on the Haight. Now he lives down here, doing independent gigs. I can put you in touch if you want.'
'I'd appreciate that.'
'Okay. I'll call him tonight and get back to you. If I forget, call me and remind me. Robin's got all my numbers.'
'Will do. Thanks.'
He fluffed his hair and was gone.
Robin and I looked at each other.
'Rockin' Billy Ornstein?' we said simultaneously.
The next morning I returned to the building on Pico. This time the door was open a crack. I leaned against it and entered.
I was greeted by a flight of wide pine stairs and the aroma of pesto. At the top of the stairs were darkness and the faint muscular outlines of two Dobermans reclining, seemingly impervious to my presence.
'Hi there, fellas,' I said, and went up one step. The Dobermans sprang to their feet, snarling throatily. A heavy chain ran from each of their necks to the top stairposts, too long to be of much comfort.
The dogs bared their teeth and started roaring. I couldn't say much for their tone, but the duet was full of emotion.
'Who is it? What do you want?'
The voice was loud and female, emerging from somewhere behind the Dobermans. Upon hearing it, the dogs quieted and I shouted up:
'I'm looking for Gary Yamaguchi.'
A purple pear topped with grated carrots materialised between the two dogs.
'All right, honey pies, those are good boys,' the pear cooed. The dogs sank submissively and licked a pair of hands. 'Yes, sweeties, yes, sugar dumplings. Mama likes when you're alert.'
There was a faint click, and a bare bulk crackled to life above the stairs. The pear became a young woman - early thirties, blowsily heavy, wearing a purple muumuu. Her hair was a hennaed tangle, her pale make-up laid on with a trowel. She put dimpled hands on ample hips and swayed assertively.
'What do you want with him?'
'My name is Alex Delaware. I counselled him years ago, and I need to talk to him about another one of my patients who was one of his friends.'
'Counselled? You're a therapist?'
'Psychologist.'
She lit up.
'I love psychologists. My first two husbands were psychologists. You married?'
'Yes,' I lied, keeping it simple.
'No matter, you can still come up.'
I hesitated, gazing up at the Dobermans.
'Don't worry' - she laughed - 'they won't eat you unless I tell them to.'
I trudged up warily, ankles tingling in anticipation.
The stairs ended at a large landing. To the left was a splintered door; to the right, an open doorway. From the doorway came strong wafts of basil.
'Ms. Randee Bogdan,' said the woman, saluting. 'With two e's.' We shook hands briefly. 'Come on in, Dr. Alex Psychologist.'
She waddled through the doorway. Inside were three
thousand square feet of studio. The walls had been painted deep salmon. One of them held a linear display of sea turtle shells polished to a high gloss; the others were bare. The floor was black lacquer; the skylit ceilings were a clutter of exposed ducts painted hot pink. The furniture was eclectic, a studied mix of Deco, contemporary, and serendipity: grey Chinese vases; Lucite nesting tables; pink fainting couches piped with taupe; a high ebony armoire inlaid with abalone; a rough stone garden urn filled with silk amaryllis; lots of empty space. Apparently casual, very expensive.
Dominating the centre of the studio was an enormous industrial kitchen, stainless steel and spotless. Racks of copper pots hung from an iron rail. The counters were hammered metal with insets of marble for rolling pastry. Cauldrons and pans simmered on a nine-burner Wolf range. The smell of basil was almost overwhelming. Randee with two e's walked into it, lifting lids and peering into the cauldrons. Once or twice she sniffed and tasted, then shook a dash of something into whatever she was brewing. I picked up a pink satinised card from a stack on the corner: CATERING BY RANDEE and a Beverly Hills exchange.
'That's the answering service,' she said, licking one finger. 'For class. The bowels of the operation is right here, pardon my anality.'
'Did Gary live next door?'
'Uh-huh,' she said distractedly, looking for something on the counter, cursing cheerfully until she found it. She held it up - a piece of paper which she proceeded to read out loud: 'For the Malibu soiree of Mr. and Mrs. Chester ("Chet") Lamm. Cold winter melon soup, gosling salad with raspberry vinegar, a nice sweetbread and truffles teaser, pike and crayfish quenelles, blackened chicken with ze leetle tiny pink peppercorns, the always chi-chi pasta pesto, of course, and to top it off, lightly baked goat cheese and a daring cucumber-pineapple sorbet. What a hodgepodge - pretty fucking dreadful, huh? But to the nouvelle-nouvelle beasties crass is class.'
I laughed. She laughed back, bosoms rolling.
'You know what I'd like to be cooking? Burgers. Bur-fucking-gers. Greasy home fries, a good honest salad - no radicchio, no endives, plain old Caesar Chavez iceberg.'
'Sounds good.'
'Ha! Try peddling that for a hundred a head.'
She jabbed a fork into a pan, and the tines came up enmeshed with pink pasta.
'Here, taste this.'
I leaned over the counter and opened my mouth. The stuff was laced with basil to the point of bitterness.
'Great,' I said.
'Absolutely. The lady can cook.'
She offered me other samples. Even in a hungry state the experience wouldn't have been welcome. But after the hearty breakfast I'd shared with Robin it was downright assaultive.
After more false praise from me and self-congratulation from her I managed to get her talking about Gary.
'Yeah, he lived here, along with a bunch of other freaks.'
'Lived?'
'That's right. Past tense. Someone broke in last night and trashed the place, and he split. Fairly typical for the neighbourhood, which is why my place is alarmed. I was doing a party at A and M records, came home around one, and found their door all smashed in. My alarm hadn't been tripped, but I called my parents and borrowed Nureyev and Baryshnikov anyway. For insurance. They're real killers - last year they eliminated parenthood from a burglar's future - and I've been leaving the door open, hoping the creeps who did it will return so I can turn my sweeties loose.'
'When did the... freaks come home?'
'About two. That's their usual schedule: sleep until noon; panhandle in front of the Biltmore; come home and party until morning. I heard them, peeked through the door, and watched them split. Your counselee looked pretty scared.'
'Any idea where he went?'
'Nah. There's been a tribe of them living there free - one of the freaks' fathers owns the building - coming in and out. They wander around, putting down everything, thinking of themselves as tres bohemian.'
'Artists?'
'If they're artists, the stuff on the stove's haute cuisine. Nah, they're little kids playing nihilist. Punk stuff, you know: Life is meaningless, so I'll solder spikes in my hair and shoot speed while Daddy pays the rent. I went through the same thing in college, didn't you?'
I'd spent college studying by day and working my way through at night. Instead of answering, I asked another question.
'Were they heavily into speed?'
'I'd assume so. Isn't that what punks are into?'
She lowered the fire on one of the burners. I remembered Gary's boast to Josh and said:
'He told someone he was going to have an exhibition in one of the downtown galleries. Any idea which one?'
She put her finger to her lips and licked the tip.
'Yeah, he told me that, too. We passed on the landing one night and he insulted my food - that's the kind of little shit he is. I told him to shove his little Buddha head up his ass even if it did mean bending sideways. He liked that. Smiled and gave me a flyer for this so-called exhibit; he was one of a bu
nch of other freaks showing their trash at a place called Voids Will Be Voids. I said, "Terrific, putz, but you're still just a little snotty freak to me." He liked that, too; said something lewd.' She shook her head. 'Can you imagine doing it with one of those little freaks? Yucch.'
I asked her how many kids had lived in the studio.
'There was him, his little girlfriend, blonde Valley Girl type, didn't look more than fourteen; Richard the Rich Kid, the landlord's boy; his babe, plus assorted hangers-on. The last week or so it had been only Yamaguchi and the blonde because Richard went on vacation somewhere and the hangers-on went with him. What are you expecting to get from him anyway?'
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 03 - Over the Edge Page 27
