by Mark Russell
'Yeah, why should I piss my life away like the wage slaves out there with their home sweet home loans?' He gestured at the unseen metropolis extending beyond the sandstone wall fronting the house. 'Who needs it? I'm forty-grand off being a millionaire.' He lit a Marlboro and crossed his legs. His jacket scrunching against his seat as he brushed aside a scraggy lock of hair. 'I promised myself I'd get out of the game once I made seven figures, and I've nearly done it at thirty-four years of age. Not a bad score by anyone's count.'
Goldman could see it was a special moment for Sorenson, his ego big and bouncy, his beer cold and comforting as he lauded his rapid rise in the LA drug trade. But then, Goldman realized, how many people would be as willing an audience as he was today? Not many.
'You've got to have a nose for this business,' Sorenson went on. 'Move too fast or too soon and you'll end up behind bars, or in a shallow grave ...'
Goldman sipped his beer but had little taste for it. He was both interested and disheartened by Sorenson's confessed sagacity in the narcotics arena. He only wished there was another way to sell his Silverwood Centre formula. But here he was increasingly unsettled and worrying about Michelle. If only she were in the living room and not idling about the back of the house. It didn't seem right that she be arm in arm with him during the lowest point in his life ... She surely deserved better.
'... yeah, I've got it pretty much in the can with Thirteen. In a few months I'll bow out with a cool million under my belt, and I've already got a solid deal in place for laundering the bills.' Sorenson drew hard on his cigarette before flicking it over the railing.
'So, Goldman, what's your scoop after all these years?' Smoke hovered in front of his hawkish face, partially obscuring his narrowed eyes.
The direct question made Goldman uneasy, made him shift nervously in his seat, made him flex his toes inside his scuffed brown loafers. In a ploy for time, he said, 'You know, Thirteen ... I can't quite figure him. These kids? This place?'
Sorenson looked uneasily at his visitor. 'Jesus Christ, Goldman, what's with the sudden interest in Thirteen? 'You better not be a confidential informant.'
'Ah, get away, Rick.' Goldman acted genuinely offended, and in fact was. 'Jeez, mate, how low do you think I'd stoop?'
'I don't know, you tell me.' A hard tone crept into his voice.
'Rick, please ... I'm just here on holiday. I'm staying with one of Michelle's friends in Hollywood Hills, for Christ's sake – '
'So you say.'
Goldman scoffed. 'Listen, I thought to look you and Carl up. You know, for old times' sake. He put me onto you and, jeez, here we are sharing a drink, that's all.' Goldman shook his head, hardly caring for Sorenson's accusing look and voiced fear Goldman had become a police informant. But underneath his indignant bravado, the wanted chemist was growing uneasy from the real reason behind his visit. He didn't want to be cast in a suspicious light before he got down to business. It was the last thing he wanted.
Sorenson glanced at Goldman's shaking foot, then looked back up, his face creased with a larrikin grin. 'Ah come on, dude, I was only joshing. Don't get so hot under the collar, I was just playing with you, was all.'
'Crap you were,' Goldman countered. He took a sip of beer, and both men laughed, somewhat uneasily, but still dispersing a good deal of the tension that had flared between them. Of course an underlying guardedness remained. Neither had had anything to do with the other for an alienating stretch of time. Goldman had seen little of Sorenson since marrying, and had seen or heard nothing of him since moving east. Yet here they were on the balcony testing the durability of a friendship forged when insouciance had had a greater reign in their lives.
Sorenson lit another cigarette. 'Hmm, so you want to know about Thirteen ... Well, he's a complicated sonofabitch. Wouldn't fancy fucking with him ... Anyhow, I met him about a year ago at a record launch for the Western Warriors. We drank beers, racked up lines, and came to the glowing conclusion that whatever I could bake, he could distribute. And now, my snooping friend, we're both profiting from a partnership that's got plenty of mileage to it. Yep, plenty indeed.'
Sorenson turned towards the house and nodded at someone inside. 'Gerry who's with that chocolate honey, Trinda, is Thirteen's right-hand man. Everyone calls him Eighteen. The two of them are the heavyweights of Fast Cash Boys, a gang of crims Thirteen founded a few years back. All the dudes round here are connected one way or another to Fast Cash Boys.'
'So why do they call each other by numbers?'
'That's what they go by when they do break-ins. Any night guard who gets pistol-whipped and tied up by a bunch of guys in ski masks is less likely to remember a number than a name when later filing a police report. I'm telling ya' – Sorenson chuckled darkly – 'they've done that many jobs the numbers have simply stuck.'
'So they mostly break into warehouses?'
'Jesus, Goldman, are you sure you're not a fucking narc? I mean, honestly.' He blew cigarette smoke through his nostrils and looked this way and that before locking eyes with his inquisitive guest. 'Yeah, Thirteen's networked, largely through Deuce, that skinny four-eyed geek who tinkers with keyboards. Deuce gets intelligence on a lot of good stuff.' Sorenson swallowed more beer and sucked greedily on his cigarette. 'Thirteen's nose is on the money. He's diversified and prospering.'
'Hmm, looks like it.' Goldman gestured at the large house and well-to-do street outside.
'Nah, the house belongs to his old man, some rich film producer. Thirteen hasn't paid rent in years and his old man hasn't got the guts to kick him out. Apparently Thirteen bashed him once. Anyhow, it seems dad regards the house as a fair price to have his crazy son out of his hair. In any case, Thirteen's planning to buy the house off him. And it won't be long until he does. Like I said, the dude's prospering.'
Respect was evident in Sorenson's smoke-rasped voice. 'Fast Cash Boys recently broke into a medical supply house and stole cartons of growth hormone. A mountain of it. Christ, the stuff's worth more on the black market than smack or coke. Bodybuilders and athletes love the stuff, but it's hard to get legally. It triples what steroids do for muscle growth and apparently doesn't show up in urine samples.
'Thirteen's got a crew of muscle heads moving the stuff for him in gyms up and down the coast. I heard he just turned a white coat who works at an Irvine laboratory that makes the stuff. One of the guy's duties is to destroy ampules of growth hormone that've passed their use-by-dates.'
A crash sounded from inside the house as the long-haired youth with round glasses lost possession of a speaker box he was attempting to lift.
'See Deuce in there,' Sorenson said, with a contemptuous wave of his hand. 'He's a total geek ... and an ass-kick to boot. Still, he's an electronics whiz who can find any security system's weakness from a blueprint or manual. Thirteen pays him wads for what he knows.
'Deuce got Thirteen interested in Silicon Valley. Word is a big boom's happening up there. Deuce's plugged into it, and generally knows from his geeky pals what's happening in the industry. He's put Thirteen onto some good strikes. Fast Cash Boys recently broke into a Santa Clara warehouse and made off with fifty-grand worth of semiconductors. Thirteen's lined up a fence who's gonna ship them to Korea.'
Carl, old buddy, it was probably your semiconductors they took. Goldman brushed the disturbing thought aside, his hand tightening about his beer, all the while his unspoken business with Sorenson gnawed at him like an unrelenting curse. He had to get the ball rolling, but he couldn't broach the subject ...
Afternoon sun slanted across the vehicles on the driveway below. Golden-crowned sparrows hopped and chirped amidst trees lining the eastern wall of the property. A climbing jetliner rumbled in the distance. A noisy LAPD helicopter cut through the air as it approached from the other side of the city. It banked sharply and with a blur of rotors sped off into the brightening sunset.
'So, I imagine your expertise in cooking speed plays no small part in Thirteen's empire.'
'Got that r
ight,' Sorenson said proudly. 'My kick-ass powder is one helluva of a cash cow.'
Goldman looked over the wrought-iron balcony and felt deep in where he didn't belong. A queasy sensation had worked its way under his skin and showed no sign of letting up. He was keen to leave Sorenson's shady world for the sunny heights of his proposed future with Michelle, but knew just the same he couldn't afford to get ahead of himself. He had to get his hands on some cash. With his bank accounts frozen, he and Michelle had precious money between them for any kind of life abroad.
Goldman looked inside the house. Relief washed over him. Michelle was with Trinda and a young blond runaway named Aaron. The women were checking out Deuce's music-making equipment. Deuce had become vocal about an aspect of the homemade system and seemed excited by the attention of his attractive audience.
Goldman was about to comment on Deuce's setup in the living room when Sorenson said in a forthright tone, 'So Goldman, you still haven't told me what you've been up to these past years.'
The moment had arrived. Goldman had no choice but to lay his cards on the table. He took an unsatisfying sip of his lukewarm beer. How could he begin? Appropriate words were beyond him as he rubbed his clammy palms along his thighs.
Cresting a wave of beer-induced impudence, Sorenson answered for him. 'Let me guess. Nothing too exciting, I'm sure. You threw in the towel at whatever boring UCLA research centre you worked at. Then, of all things, you contracted for the military. Jeez, what a dork. God knows what you helped make at that fort, and all in the name of a better salary. Jesus.'
He appraised Goldman, long and hard, from over the top of his beer. 'I remember you ... you're not unlike me. Cocky and loud most times about how good you are at what you do. Hmm, it wouldn't take long for someone like you to rub an army high-ranker the wrong way ... to overstep the mark, to break the rules.
'You know what I think? I don't think you're on a holiday like you told Carl and Brad. I think something bad went down back east and now you're on the run.'
Sorenson chuckled as if little in the world escaped his discerning perception. He swallowed more beer and his raspy voice reverberated with newfound certainty. 'Yeah, the more I think about it, you probably want to sell some newfangled military drug ... so you can drum up some fast cash for the road. And who better to see than me?' His eyes narrowed with piercing precision. 'I mean, why would you bother to see old Ricky boy, who to most people is “that scumbag speed chemist”? I doubt if you want to buy off me ... cause you ain't the dealer type. Yep, my instinct says you're hot, buddy. Definitely hot.'
Goldman all but cringed before Sorenson's challenging look. An edgy silence claimed the balcony of the Spanish-style house. A yellow Lamborgini streaked past on the street outside; all the while Goldman's fingers indented his beer can. He was altogether broken by Sorenson's razor-sharp perception. But dare he confirm what his friend had intuited? He looked down at Sorenson's black Porsche, conscious the longer he delayed his answer the more guilty of Sorenson's claim he would appear. This definitely wasn't a time for the truth and nothing but, nor was it a time for him to be putting in a bad performance.
'You're wrong, Rick.' He shook his head and chuckled, hoping beyond hope he was coming across as an innocent person outlandishly accused of a wrongdoing. 'Completely wrong. I'm not on the run ... Jeez, mate, like I said, I think you've become a bit paranoid in your old age. You've been watching too many movies or something ... anyhow you're right in that I did bring a little something with me.'
'I knew it.' Sorenson's eyes glinted coldly like a serpent appraising a rival snake. 'You are fucking hot!'
'Oh, cut the crap, Rick! Please!' Goldman let out a long breath and put on his best poker face. 'I just brought a little something that I cooked up on the side. An offshoot of a compound we made at the Maryland centre.'
Sorenson smirked, doubtful of the claim. 'As if you'd have that much time.'
'Ever worked for the government?' Goldman asked.
'Nope and I don't plan to, either.' Sorenson tilted his can and swallowed the last of his beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Nah, I'm sitting sweet with Thirteen. Why should I go out on a limb for whatever you're offering?' He leaned forward and flicked a stray cotton thread from off his jeans. 'To release a military drug onto the LA drug scene would be too dicey. Nah, wouldn't be worth it.' The lanky underground chemist crushed his beer can and tossed it into the shrubbery below the balcony, as if emphasizing the finality of his decision. He burped contentedly and flicked his cigarette over the railing as well.
End of story. Period.
Goldman couldn't believe it. He'd flown to California with the high hope of selling his formula to the appreciative likes of Carl Friedman, but had ended up being rebutted in Sorenson's guttery world of crime. Seated on the balcony, he was overcome with disappointment, crushed with wearying desperation. But he couldn't give up. He couldn't back away from what he'd started.
'Come on, Rick,' he said with the affable persistence of a door-to-door salesman used to rebuttal. 'The stuff isn't even scheduled yet. Christ, nobody knows it exists. At least try some and tell me what you think.' He reached into one of his dark cotton socks and pulled out a rolled-up plastic bag. 'Look, I've made up some capsules.'
Sorenson whistled and put on a nasal Australian accent. 'Jesus, mate, you're a regular travelling salesman.' Still he bent forward, his eyes bright with curiosity. Goldman had had something of a reputation as an innovative researcher at UCLA. Accordingly Sorenson sensed something extraordinary might be in the offing.
'You can have this.' Goldman offered him a sandwich-size bag containing several capsules. 'Take one, or two, tell me what you think.'
Sorenson hesitated. 'Look ... I can't promise anything.' Nevertheless he took the bag.
'Of course. Listen, ring me at this number.' Goldman pulled out a parking station stub and wrote down Sandy Collins's telephone number on it, copying the number from Collins's black and silver business card. He looked in on the young people lolling inside the house, and thought of Sandy and her exquisite hillside home. Two worlds he wanted kept apart.
'It's probably wise to use a pay phone when you call me.' He handed Sorenson his contact number.
'Don't worry, Goldman. I know what it's like ... but relax. Thirteen gets Deuce to sweep the line each week to see if anyone's listening in.'
'I'd still prefer a pay phone.'
Sorenson looked circumspectly at the capsules in his hand. 'So, what is this crap anyway?'
'Well,' Goldman said, 'it's an offshoot that – '
'So you already said,' Sorenson cut in. His right leg shook sharply and his grating back teeth suggested he may have sampled too much of his own product. 'But what does it do for you?'
Goldman was unfazed by the interjection. 'Sorry, Rick, I didn't realize the middle of my sentence was interrupting the beginning of yours.'
'Don't be a smart ass, Goldman.'
'Like I said, it's an offshoot, but pretty damn close to its mother molecule all the same. In any case, both drugs have pleasurable psychoactive properties. The mother molecule was designed to induce controllable states suitable for subliminal suggestion.'
'No shit.' Sorenson's eyes widened as he tipped some of the capsules onto his hand. 'This would probably be good for swaying a woman's no.'
Deuce materialized at the balcony door. 'Hey, Rick, I need to talk to you.'
'Piss off, Deuce,' Sorenson snarled. Deuce stared back defiantly, then spun round and made good of the blunt suggestion, leaving a trail of repressed anger in his wake as he headed for the music-making equipment in the house.
'Fucking nosy geek.' Sorenson tipped the capsules back into the plastic bag and pressed shut its snap lock. He stroked the two-day stubble on his chin. 'So the government got into this crap after the Korean War, didn't it? After it found out Chinese commos did mind-control experiments on GIs. I saw a TV doco about it once.'
'That's right.' Goldman hardly wanted to discuss th
e clandestine activities of his former employer, but knew it was in his best interest to do so. 'Actually the OSS, the forerunner of the CIA, got interested when it learned the medical arm of the German air force had done extensive mescaline tests on Dachau inmates.'
'No shit?' Sorenson tongued his lips. 'Damn, I need another beer.'
'Hey Rick,' Thirteen shouted from the driveway below. 'Holly and I are going down to the track. Wanna come?'
Sorenson looked at Goldman and shrugged with resignation. 'Hey, man, I love the horses.' He leaned over the railing and shouted back, 'Okay, I'll be down in a minute.'
Michelle and Trinda came onto the balcony and Trinda's Siamese cat rubbed itself against Goldman's leg. Michelle gave the impression she wanted to leave. Trinda now wore jeans and acted like she wanted Michelle, her new friend in-the-making, to stay longer.
'Well Rick, I guess it's time we pushed on.' Goldman stood up and grabbed Michelle's hand, causing Trinda's cat to scamper back inside the house.
'Sure, sure,' Sorenson said, struggling to keep his eyes off Michelle.
'Come on, Rick,' Thirteen barked from below. He leaned on the open door of his Chevrolet Camaro RS, the deep gurgle of its 454 race engine filling the yard. Before long he punched the car’s air horn and several Golden-crowned sparrows took flight.
'Jesus, all right,' Sorenson shouted back. He stood up and flashed a smile at his guests. 'Okay, I'll come down and see you off.'
No sooner had everyone left than Deuce stole onto the balcony. He stopped at Sorenson's seat and reached behind a terra-cotta pot of marigolds. He grabbed the plastic bag Sorenson had hidden there when the women showed up on the balcony (the bespectacled youth having seen it all from inside the house). Still smarting from Sorenson's gruff rebuttal, he popped open the Ziplock bag.
