by Mark Russell
They walked up wooden stairs into a spacious, second-floor living area. The high-ceilinged room featured plaster walls, a river rock wall featuring a central fireplace, a lacquered redwood floor, and a stained pine ceiling with exposed hardwood rafters. Several young people sat around a table in a panelled extension off the south-end of the room, playing cards.
A large L-shaped divan was positioned before a TV and a Betamax video player. Two matt-black concert speakers, each with separate horn enclosures on top, stood one at each end of the river rock wall. One side of the divan ran parallel to the same rock wall. On Goldman’s side of the central fireplace, angled stage lights were mounted on an aluminum holding rail. The stage lights were fixed above two keyboards, an expensive-looking cassette deck, a small mixing board, a somewhat battered multi-tracker, and a new-looking Marshall amplifier.
A long-haired youth wearing round, John Lennon glasses stood amidst the music-making equipment. He adjusted controls on a Roland synthesizer and a faint hum sounded from the black concert speakers set against the rock wall.
The girl who'd answered the door resumed her seat at the card game, before placing a Siamese cat on her lap.
'Just in time, baby doll,' said a Hispanic teenager seated beside her. He dealt a new round of cards at the table, which was home to a butt-filled ashtray, several drinking glasses and an opened bottle of Smirnoff vodka.
'Well, well, and who might you be?'
Scott and Michelle turned toward the dark-haired youth who'd addressed them. He sat on a two-person sofa, his legs crossed on a coffee table, an opened can of Jim Beam and cola beside his shaking upper foot. Wearing leather pants and a Judas Priest T-shirt, the stern-faced youth eyed his visitors from under the rim of a Panama hat. A half-smoked cigarette hung from his mouth and only added to the overall impression of him being a churlish member of a rock and roll band.
'Well?' He raised his eyebrows in cocky emphasis of his query.
'I'm Scott,' Goldman said uneasily. He cursed that Rick Sorenson wasn't here to greet him and that the girl at the door hadn't made any kind of introduction.
'And this is Michelle.'
'Who?'
'Michelle,' Goldman repeated, and Michelle smiled awkwardly from behind her boyfriend's shoulder. The attractive dark girl with braided hair looked up from her hand of cards and sucked ardently on the joint that'd been passed to her. Smoke billowed from her nostrils as she passed on the smoke, put her cards face down on the table, and drew herself up from her chair. She plopped her cat back on the seat, and without a care in the world traipsed over to Michelle.
'I knew I'd seen you before.' She raised a plucked eyebrow for emphasis. 'You're Michelle Pfeiffer, right?' An endearing smile spread across her honey-brown face, her dark eyes glinting knowingly.
'Who the fuck is Michelle Pfeiffer?' barked the dark-haired youth on the sofa.
'I mean you are, aren't you?' asked the girl who wasn't many years younger than Michelle. 'You were Miss Orange County 1978, right? I was in the contest too.' She beamed with admiration at Michelle. 'Though I didn't place ... my colour I suppose.'
'No, no, I'm not – '
'You are out of your fucking mind, Trinda!' The dark-haired youth on the sofa shook his head in disbelief.
'Really? Oh gee.' Trinda giggled uninhibitedly at Michelle. 'You look just like her. Honestly, you do.'
Michelle hunched her shoulders and smiled in a way so as not to cause further embarrassment to the girl.
'For God's sake, will you put some pants on, babe,' barked the youth on the sofa.
Oh, eat it, Gerry.'
'I just might have to if you don't cover it up soon, honey buns.' Gerry slapped his girlfriend's shapely behind. As he did Michelle glimpsed a red rose and a car piston tattooed on the inside of his lower arm.
'Hey, that hurt! I'm warning you, Gerry.' Trinda's eyes blazed with indignation as she tugged on the hem of her oversized T-shirt. 'God help me if I don't move back to my sister's place!'
'Are we playing Rummy, or what?' the Hispanic teenager cried out, eyeballing Trinda from across the room.
'Okay, okay.' Trinda twisted the bottom of her T-shirt, before slapping Gerry hard on the shoulder and returning to the game of Rummy.
Wrestling with the ensuing silence, Goldman said, 'And your name is?'
'As you just heard, dude. Gerry is what it is.' He blew a cloud of smoke towards the visitors, then shot forward and ashed his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table. He looked at Goldman with unblinking eyes, more in provocation than assessment.
Goldman was hardly at ease, but he wasn't about to let someone like Gerry get the better of him. All the while he couldn't think of anything to say to help break the ice. “And what do you do for a living?” would hardly prove an adequate opener, he knew. By the look of the house and the cars outside, there appeared to be some sort of cash flow operating, but he doubted whether the IRS was getting its rightful slice from this crowd – if indeed any slice at all. For want of a conversational topic, he was about to ask if Rick lived in the house when Gerry announced drolly, 'That sounds like Thirteen now.'
From outside the deep gurgle of a muscle car seeped into the living room. Its worked motor revved loudly before shutting off. Michelle pressed closer to Goldman and gripped his upper arm. Car doors slammed and voices, strident, then larking, drifted up into the room. Heavy footfalls on the staircase announced three people who in no time made an appearance. One of whom Goldman easily recognized.
'Goldman, I don't believe it. Haven't you gone back to Sydney yet?' Rick Sorenson stepped forward and slapped his bygone friend on the shoulder. He feigned a short right punch before shaking hands in a solid and congenial manner.
'Rick.' Goldman felt a resurrection of friendship pass through their hands, but it was soon underlaid with the caution that can arise when meeting someone after a long period of time. Still Goldman was glad to see his old friend, and Sorenson released the handshake after ensuring he squeezed the hardest.
Sorenson wore runners with no socks, knee-frayed jeans, a YSL T-shirt and a leather jacket with a profusion of zippers, flaps and pockets. He was tall and wiry with a tangle of reddish hair framing one side of his gaunt face, which gave him a less than mainstream look. He turned to the couple behind him.
'Scott, this is Thirteen and Holly.'
The man in his early-twenties who went by the moniker of Thirteen flashed a brittle smile at his guests. He was shorter than Sorenson, but unlike Sorenson looked fit as if long given over to daily workouts. He wore alligator skin boots with stylish silver caps, stone-washed jeans and a black T-shirt with the legend FAST CASH BOYS printed in gold script across its front. With dark hair tied back in a ponytail, he glanced at his watch before scanning the room. He seemed the man of the house.
Holly stood beside him holding a brown paper bag of Chinese takeaway food (the wafting aroma of Lemon Chicken and Garlic Prawns set off a mild pang of hunger in Goldman). Like her boyfriend, Holly flashed a brief, perfunctory smile. She was tall and thin and pale and wore tight jeans and a skimpy Balinese silk top. She had the maverick look of an inveterate drug-taker, and the shadows under her eyes spoke of sporadic sleep cycles unrelated to circadian rhythms.
'It's been awhile,' Sorenson said in an amicable manner.
'Sure has, mate,' Goldman said with a smile, but was only too conscious of Gerry's levelling look. Gerry sipped his can of bourbon and seemed intent on psyching out the stranger in the house. The ill feeling was mutual. Goldman didn't care one iota for the Panama-hatted youth.
Sorenson gestured at Goldman's hair and looked about with an air of joviality. 'See our hair? The same colour, eh?'
Thirteen and Holly were unmoved by the comparison.
'What were we called on campus?' He looked searchingly at Goldman. 'Oh, that's right, The Blood Brothers.' He shook his head and forced a chuckle. 'Because our hair's, you know ... a reddish colour.' He looked again at Thirteen who refused to partake, by even a wh
isker of a smile, in Sorenson's merriment. Sorenson turned to Michelle. Another man taken in by her striking looks and lost waif persona.
'Oh, Rick. This is Michelle.' Goldman was ready to introduce Michelle to the others when a loud wall of music blasted the room. An angst-filled voice railed over staccato drumming and cacophonous guitars.
"... I wanna die die die, cause I've gotta have you at any cost ... I wanna die die die, cause baby, I can't pull on the brakes and stop ..."
The skinny guy with the John Lennon glasses adjusted several slide controls on the mixer, but to no avail. The music remained disturbingly loud. A row of stage lights flashed in brilliant rainbow colours and piercing strobe lights moved in sweeping arcs from their roost above the music-making equipment. Even a cannister of stage smoke was triggered from the accidental running of the sight and sound system that the bespectacled youth had set up for an upcoming house party.
'Shut that shit off!' Thirteen barked. Michelle cringed from the violent outburst.
Thirteen stomped over to a power point in the river rock wall and yanked an electrical plug, killing all power to the runaway music system. An uneasy silence claimed the room. 'If you put that shit on again I'll take my axe to your Rolands. Just see if I don't!' Thirteen glared at the long-haired youth. His outburst grabbed everyone's attention like an explosive confrontation between two drinkers in a crowded bar.
'Chill out, Thirteen,' called one of the card players.
'Yeah, pick on someone your own size,' jeered another.
Thirteen spun towards the outspoken youths, his anger refocused.
Sorenson smiled at Michelle, as if to say “they're a rough and ready bunch ... but, phew, babe, they're good for business”. He stroked the stubble on his chin. 'Scott, let's go out on the balcony. You and your lovely lady friend.'
Goldman glanced at Michelle who said with her eyes that the ball was in his court.
Haslow banged the brass knocker on the redwood door at The Excelsior, an opulent five-star hotel which had recently opened its doors on Embassy Row. The door opened and Candy greeted him with a teasing wink. She wore an aquamarine tank top and tight-fitting Calvin Klein jeans, her red-nailed fingers clutching an untouched hot dog.
'Come in, little bro.'
Haslow followed her into the suite, noting her curvy stride and the label on the back of her jeans. He remembered a television commercial from when he wasn't a fugitive and his life had been achingly mundane. Brook Shields smiling coyly at the camera as she hunkered down and spread wide her denim-clad legs. The teenage temptress huskily saying, “You know what comes between me and my Calvins? Nothing”.
Haslow appraised Candy's fabulous figure. He sensed as most men did that she would be wild and accommodating in bed. Hadn't his brother intimated as much last Friday night?
'Wait a second.' Candy rapped on the master bedroom door and inched it to. 'Peter-pet, little bro is here to see you.' A faint grunt sounded from inside the room. Haslow had to know if his brother had got him a passport. Too excited to bother with formalities, he pushed into the room.
Peter Haslowski sat on the end of the room's bed, smoking a cigarette, blowing smoke rings, doing nothing. He seemed unperturbed by his brother's abrupt entrance and chuckled under his breath. 'Wondering about your passport, Mr Martin?'
Haslow nodded, his mind racy and ahead of itself.
'Don't worry. It came this morning, Federal Express from Florida. Beautiful workmanship as always.'
Candy stopped beside Peter as he butted his cigarette in the ashtray on the bed. Haslow cast sidelong glances at her, taking in her centre-fold body and made-up face. Candy sensed his attention only too well. She moaned lightly and licked ketchup from off her hot dog. The unabashed Texan winked and performed a fellatio-like act on the snack, before biting down on a formidable length of it. Her eyes and cheeks bulged from the compact of sausage and bun in her mouth. Fake surprise lit her face. Haslow was unmoved by her ribald theatrics, knowing only too well she mocked him. Consumed by the business at hand, he faced his brother.
'Come here, Roderick.' Haslowski opened a bedside drawer and pulled out an American passport. A state-of-the-art facsimile. 'Here we are, as promised.' He handed the forged document over to his brother.
Haslow turned to the front identification page. It contained his picture (an automatic booth print he'd given his brother five days before) as well as his new name: David Martin. The passport looked authentic. Haslow trembled with excitement as he flicked through the empty pages. On the fourth page, he discovered a red and blue visa stamp.
TOURIST CLASSIFICATION 586/2524
SEEN AT THE ROYAL THAI CONSULATE GENERAL,
WASHINGTON DC ON OCT. 29 1980. GOOD FOR ONE JOURNEY TO THAILAND. THIS VISA MUST BE UTILIZED BEFORE JAN. 28 1981 IF PASSPORT REMAINS VALID. EMPLOYMENT PROHIBITED.
MR PRICHA SAKULINGHAI VICE CONSUL.
Haslow was truly impressed. From the drama of recent days he'd overlooked that he would need a Thai visa. His brother was proving a benefactor far beyond any original expectation. But was there some catch, some unpaid cost he was yet unaware of? His stomach tightened and his mouth dried. He was way in over his head. His precarious world could break apart any moment, as if he were walking a tightrope without a balancing pole or safety net for support. He had little choice but to use whatever advantage came his way; however illegal its source.
'You don't have to worry about the visa,' his brother said. 'Hans has a reliable contact in the Miami Thai Consulate and gets a regular update on issuance numbers and visa design. Apparently Thailand's become the destination of choice for cashed-up fugitives.' He raised his bushy eyebrows and shrugged as if contemplating the reason. 'Must be those eager young pole dancers who'll do anything for a Benjamin Franklin.' He vented a bullish laugh that careened off the walls. Candy put in a good laugh too before finishing off her hot dog.
Haslow was unaware of their antics as he studied the fake visa in his fake passport. 'There's nothing to worry about,' his brother continued. 'You'll arrive at Don Muang airport, customs will glance at your visa, ask a few questions about your stay, if that, then stamp you in. You'll just be one in a line of hundreds.'
Haslow wasn't without reservation. Still it was the best shot he was going to get and he was immeasurably grateful for his brother's support.
'I also organized a little something else for you.' Haslowski snapped his fingers at Candy, much like an Indian maharaj to one of his wallahs. She poked out her tongue, but nevertheless dragged out an overnight bag from under the bed. With surprising strength, she shoved the bag at Haslow who all but teetered from its unexpected weight. Candy winked at him and licked a trace of ketchup from off her glossy lips. Haslow easily pictured her in a cowboy hat and cut-off jeans as she pumped gas at a remote roadhouse. Her tarty exchange with motorists flowing as freely as the gasoline into their sun-beaten vehicles.
Haslow placed the bag on the bed and zippered it open. Cash. Rolls of high-denomination bills bound with rubber bands.
'Go on, take it,' Haslowski said encouragingly.
'No, I couldn't ...'
'Go on, take it,' Haslowski urged. 'Turn it into travellers cheques.'
'No, I ...' Haslow was downright nervous at the sight of so much cash. More than he'd ever seen. With an unsteady hand, he closed the bag. He felt lightheaded and flashes of light danced before his eyes. That the money was laundered was a given. Even so, he had little choice but to take it. He thought again of the reversal of fate. Peter was from all accounts a reputable millionaire; whereas Haslow ... he'd sold his 322i to a Georgetown BMW dealer for less than a reasonable price because he'd insisted on cash (he'd been too paranoid to accept a cashier's cheque for fear of conducting business in a bank). Until now such money had been his only means of support. Saturday evening the DIA had frozen his bank accounts. Each ATM he accessed bore the same disheartening message: YOUR ACCOUNT IS TEMPORARILY INACTIVE.
The research chemist licked his dry mouth. His finge
rs tingled as if conduits for a mild electric current. 'Thanks Peter, I really don't know what to say.'
'It's okay, Roderick.' Haslowski got up from the bed and looped a solid arm about his brother. Haslow felt the arm tighten and momentarily panicked. His brother chuckled roguishly and slapped him on the back. 'Hey, come on ... what are big brothers for?'
Goldman leaned back in his seat and studied his friend from UCLA days.
'So, you called Brad Ryan in Hawaii?' Sorenson pulled the ring-tab off a fresh can of beer and stared at the pear-shaped hole, his question rhetorical. 'God knows what his sister Rhonda says about me. Dumb little broad.' He brought the can to his mouth, guzzling a mouthful of amber fluid.
Goldman and Sorenson sat about a circular wrought-iron table on the upstairs balcony at Thirteen's house. Sorenson had just finished his share of the Chinese takeaways. A white carton with chopsticks stood empty and discarded beside his striped beach chair. 'Yeah, Rhonda's a real case, all right.' He shook his head and looked at the cars parked on the driveway below.
Goldman wasn't comfortable Michelle was with Trinda, the attractive coloured girl who'd taken a shining to the house's new female visitor. He didn't like Michelle being out of his sight around these crooked young people, even as Trinda had mentioned pleasantly enough that the backyard's split-level gardens and kidney-shaped swimming pool were well worth the see, along with an authentic Mayan sundial which Trinda professed the ability to read.
'Rhonda's your typical uptown girl,' Sorenson continued. 'A Holmby Hills airhead who likes an occasional roll in the mud. Something wild and dirty to shake her out of her tan lamp and vitamin pill stupor. Anyhow, Rhonda and I are finito.' He took a hefty swig of his beer. 'Fuck Brad and his stupid-ass sister. What do they know?' He chuckled darkly, as if remembering a recurring argument with his former girlfriend. 'Why should I go straight like them? Why the fuck should I?'
He looked at his shiny Porsche below. Undoubtedly the high-performance car was an ego-nourishing reminder of how well he'd done for himself; and it seemed he harboured no self-reproach over how he made his money, either, for he was only too willing to discuss his illegal livelihood with his old university friend. Most likely he was flattered that Goldman had bothered to visit him. In any case, he carried on with an expansive air.
