by Mark Russell
A Spanish prince who'd started a fashion house with an official from the Chambre Syndicale and designers once with Lacroix and Valentino had handpicked Michelle and other models from a selection of agency portfolios. Filippo Ruspoli planned a lavish parade – apparently inside the Louvre – to showcase his new Haute-Couture spring/summer collection. The thirty-two year old prince who invariably wore tailored Spanish suits and silk Charvet shirts (and who reportedly washed his hair in Alpine spring water) was from all accounts smitten by Michelle's looks. Apparently she possessed the “superfine Nordic dimension” the prince considered crucial in the global marketing of his house's upcoming collection.
Modelling such covering clothes (it seemed the collection didn't favour many low-slung or revealing designs) would certainly prove advantageous, in that Michelle's chest wounds would take time to heal (and should she prove too scarred from her bullet wounds, her good friend Sandy knew of a renown cosmetic surgeon who'd chopped and changed a galaxy of Hollywood celebrities). Michelle now waited for legal advice on her new Alexis Models employment contract.
'That's a disgusting habit to have taken up again,' said a blond nurse from Culverwood, who wasn't averse to letting people know she'd won last year's Open Surf Contest at Huntington Beach. She stared disapprovingly at the tin ashtray on the armrest of Michelle's chair.
'Come on, Miss Eastman.' The nurse clapped authoritatively. 'Get back to bed so I can take your blood pressure and temperature.'
Comfortably seated on the balcony with the magazine and a light blanket on her lap, Michelle turned to the nurse and said, 'Take them here, if you don't mind, nurse. It seems silly to drag myself back to my room, only to come out here again. I need the fresh air.'
'You certainly must, smoking those damn cigarettes. Now, please.' The impatient nurse clapped again, her molars grinding to the occasion.
'No,' Michelle said, looking the nurse in the eye. After staring each other down, the time-starved nurse said very well, and not pleased, marched off to get Michelle's thermometer and chart.
Michelle leaned back in her seat and gazed at the unmarred sky, twirling her fringe. She'd made up her mind. She wouldn't be trapped again in a world she never made; nor would she be an incidental fixture to some mate's reality. From now on she would live her life on her terms. She lit another cigarette, bit her lip, and sensed the texture of future days.
Jomtien, Thailand. Saturday, 15th November 1980.
Rod Haslow strolled along a pleasant stretch of tropical beach. A refreshing onshore breeze caressed his face and small rhythmic waves broke gently at his feet. With a floral shirt tied about his waist and loose cotton pants rolled up to his knees, he felt equal to the fine blue morning about him. Colourful rows of Nipa umbrellas with tourists and locals lounging under them spiked the grey sands of Bang Sare Bay. Up from the beach, traffic streamed along Jomtien Beach Road. Squat apartment blocks and native palms made up much of the skyline.
Haslow had flown into Bangkok a week before. To his relief, his counterfeit passport and visa had got him into the country without a hitch. He'd checked into a Lonely Planet-recommended hotel on Rama IV Road, and once settled had telephoned Chuan Suttarom, an old university friend working for a large Bangkok pharmaceutical concern. Suttarom, it turned out, had gone to a pharmacology conference in Pune, India, and from there planned to visit his sister who managed a backpackers hostel in the coastal tourist town of Goa.
With several days to kill, Haslow caught a bus to Pattaya, a seaside city a hundred and fifty kilometres southeast of Bangkok. He rented a room in a multi-storey hotel two blocks back from the hustle and bustle of Pattaya Beach. While having a coffee in the hotel lobby one morning, he met Manaschanok. It seemed the pretty local had set up office in the busy lobby, for Haslow saw her there many times. This morning she greeted him with a smiling Sawatdee and a customary wai. All up he found it difficult to resist the young woman's advances. From the pressures of being a fugitive in a foreign land, and having not slept with a woman since his wife, he eventually succumbed to Mana's offers of undreamed-of bedroom pleasures.
In Haslow's room the twenty-one year old treated him as if he were her idol. Mana introduced him to a galaxy of pleasures, many of which involved little risk of venereal infection. Haslow spent memorable nights with her, unloosing knots of bitterness which had brewed inside him like budding cancers. Manaschanok made him feel like a king and he'd willingly paid her for it, hardly caring it was the first time he’d made use of the world's oldest profession.
Now, he walked along the curving bay that lead out into the Thai Gulf. He had a comfortable supply of traveller's cheques and a US postal box address his brother had given him should he need further funds. His position, therefore, was not entirely unfortunate.
He walked away from the gently lapping surf towards a thatch-roofed store on the other side of Jomtien Beach Road. The late-morning sun had made him particularly thirsty. He strolled past lines of umbrellas under which foreign men lounged with native boys and girls, some unguarded in their displays of affection. A burly man with tattoos tousled the hair of a teenage boy nestled against him. The man reached inside a portable ice box and grabbed a dripping can of imported beer.
Jesus H. Christ, now I've seen everything, Haslow thought. He left the warm grey sand and headed for the convenience store. He stepped inside and made a beeline for the glass doors of the store's loudly whirring refrigerator. He bought a can of locally made cola. He pulled off the ring-tab and the bubbly liquid coursed down his throat as if he were born for this moment alone.
Feeling better, Haslow walked outside and re-embraced the warm day. He squinted from the shimmering expanse of water. Fresh from a dip in the bay, a Thai girl wearing a G-string and a wet singlet (her dark nipples highlighted by clinging cotton) brushed past Haslow. An elderly Mediterranean male lagged behind her. She lit a cigarette and held out a hand. 'Come, come, teelac.'
Haslow tossed his empty can into a woven cane bin and headed for his open-top 4WD. He climbed behind the wheel and gazed through the windshield. A teenage girl in a black satin dress offer gifts of incense, fruit and flowers at a small Buddhist shrine set in the shade of nearby palms.
Haslow started the rented jeep and reversed out of his space, the sun an overhead furnace. Scott Goldman came to mind, which soon had him brooding. Again he resented that Goldman's shenanigans at Silverwood Centre had forced Haslow's move to this side of the world. Yes, it would be hard to forgive the Australian chemist any time soon.
Still a new side of Haslow was emerging. He remembered only too well the bitter loneliness of his post-Madeleine world back in America. Spiritually bankrupt and locked into a 9 to 5 job, he'd had little to offer any woman. Groundhog Day at its worst, or so it had seemed in the darkest days of his funk. In Thailand he sensed an excitement simmering underneath the surface of commonplace things. His veins throbbed and pulsed from endless stimulation, from a rich tapestry of sight and sound untamed by First World correctness. Superficiality had no place in the Orient. Accordingly each day gave birth to a more manful side of him. He just might rise from the ashes of his past and live a more fulfilling life in this part of the world. Of course it was early days ...
He put on a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses and swerved out of the parking lot. After merging with traffic on Jomtien Beach Road, he remembered that fateful night in Towson, Baltimore. What had happened to Goldman? Haslow knew he had little chance of knowing, unless of course he read about the chemist's capture in the international section of a newspaper, or else stumbled upon the red-haired Australian in who knew what country or place.
In any event, Haslow could only look out for himself. Hopefully Chuan Suttarom would find him a job in Bangkok's growing pharmaceutical industry. Also, an ex-Pat who owned a steakhouse/bar on Cowboy Soi had assured Haslow the tactful dispensation of American dollars in this part of the world could buy one almost anything – not impossibly Thai residence. This same ex-Pat gave the impression of knowing a mili
tary source for such a venture.
With Scott Goldman and an undefined future on his mind, Haslow weaved his jeep through the busy lanes of traffic leading to Pattaya Beach, his heart less troubled than the day before.
Maryland, USA. Monday, 1st December 1980.
General Turner sat in the panelled study of his Bethesda home. He reached across and turned off a portable television at the back of his desk (where once had stood a plastic model ship and a faux antique clock). He'd just watched a CBS coverage of President-elect Reagan's recent visit to Capitol Hill. A report on a pointed meeting in the chambers of House Speaker Tip O'Neill. Apparently Speaker O'Neill told Reagan and Vice President-elect Bush that they were now “in the big league and things might not move as quickly as you like”.
Still, Reagan was in and sixty-three year old General Alexander Turner was part of the new administration. From the 21st of January 1981, Turner would be, along with Frank G. Carlacotti, Robert Allen and others, a permanent National Security Advisor.
The silver-haired general extracted a Padron cigar from a redwood box on his desk. The high-quality tobacco grown in Nicaragua from Cuban seed. He lit the cigar and puffed on it, savouring the exquisite smoke. He poured himself a shot of Chivas Regal and glanced disapprovingly at a soup stain on the sleeve of his Ralph Lauren cardigan. His wife Betty and two friends had gone to Las Vegas to gamble, get tipsy and generally girl it up amidst the bright lights and gaming tables of the 24/7 gambling Mecca.
Roswell felt to visit Bambra Studio, to see what nasty little girls the upmarket brothel had on offer since his last visit a year ago. From the pressures of recent politicking he needed to let off some steam. Marcella, the spirited little Brazilian whom he'd slept with during his last time at Bambra, came to mind. She'd made a lasting impression in the minuscule part of the general's world reserved for her kind. With Betty on the other side of the country it was an opportune time for any such indulgence.
He swallowed more scotch, dragged on his cigar and glanced at the copies of Newsweek and US News and World Report on his desk. He'd bought the magazines for their articles on the Westwood killings.
Goldman.
How had the chemist managed to escape again?
Turner puffed uneasily on his cigar. Goldman had obviously beaten impossible odds, what with so many people killed that night. Eight of them police officers. The killings had caused ripples in all levels of government. Many of Turner's colleagues had talked about the headline-making incident, generally concluding it was high time Uncle Sam kicked Latino ass in whatever shape or form.
The general believed that Goldman, in the aftermath of the massacre, would keep a low profile. The chemist wouldn't want to be connected to the well-publicized killings; much like Turner himself. Accordingly the general hadn't used the legal means of his office to probe into the explosive affair, but had found out much through a long-standing FBI source.
Turner had recently bought a state-of-the-art desktop workstation. Trusted staff at the Defense Communications Agency had moved his AUDNET 501 directory onto the hard drive of the new workstation. The compact system was hidden in a built-in section at the back of Turner's home garage, allowing the general to make a cassette-tape copy of any file he chose.
Of course he would still hunt down Goldman. The maverick chemist was a damaging loose end capable of tainting Turner's forthcoming promotions to the NSC and the Joint Chiefs. No, he wouldn't rest until Goldman was caught. With the aid of Interpol computers and NSA technologies, the Occident had become an increasingly observable arena. The chemist's capture was only a matter of time.
Turner rested his cigar on a Fortunoff crystal ashtray and drained his scotch. He grabbed a telephone book from underneath an outdated report listing Soviet-backed guerrilla camps in Central America. He looked up the number for Bambra Studio and made a 12:30 appointment after learning raven-haired Marcella still worked there and was available for him at that time.
Turner knew a late-night romp with the little Brazilian would fire up his cylinders more than any new medical prescription or human potential seminar. He needed to celebrate his newly won position on the political landscape, and couldn't think of a better way to do it. With an irrepressible grin, he re-lit his cigar and grabbed his 4WD's keys.
San Francisco. Tuesday, 9th December, 1980.
A pale apricot sun slipped behind the cluttered skyline. Deepening shadows edged along bustling sidewalks, contrasting the hurried pace of peak-hour pedestrians. A bracing bay wind swept through canyons of tall buildings, scuttling ribbons of dried leaves and lifting flapping pages of newsprint high in the air. Pigeons and gulls navigated the invading draughts with impunity, while down on the congested streets horns blared and tempers flared and brake lights flashed as daring drivers jockeyed their vehicles into better-placed positions. Exhaust fumes from a thousand tailpipes melded with the incoming winds and churned past a lone man seated at a Muni bus stop.
Goldman toyed despondently with the Sony Walkman on his lap. He removed its earphones as the compact cassette player clicked off. People pooled at the bus stop. He couldn't help but overhear a conversation between a tall dark youth and two blond girls who looked like twins.
'What? He's dead?'
'That's right, sweetheart,' said the lanky dark youth with budding dread locks.
'I can't believe it,' the other girl said.
'Well you better, sugar lips, because he was gunned down outside his apartment last night ... right in front of Yoko.'
'Did she get shot, too?'
'Nah, babe, she didn't.'
'My God, it must be awful to see your loved one gunned down like that ...'
Goldman wrapped the Walkman's cord tightly about his finger. A fresh surge of tension tugged at his nerves.
... to see your loved one gunned down like that ...
The unexpected news about John Lennon's murder made him uneasy, made his fugitive world that more out of kilter. Again his mind drifted back to that fateful night in Westwood. After the explosive confrontation with the Cuban gunmen, he'd stole back to Thirteen's house, only to blend in with a group of onlookers across the street. The flashing lights of Fire Department Paramedic trucks and LAPD patrol cars lit up the front yard and driveway. Paramedics carried weighted body bags from out of the house. Goldman had to know if Michelle was still alive. Before he knew it he ran into the grounds, only to be stopped by two LAPD officers guarding the integrity of the yellow tape cordoning off the crime scene. TV news vans screeched to a halt outside. Animated network crews bearing all kinds of cameras jumped to the ground. Goldman panicked at the thought of being captured on film and stole back into the night.
He moonlighted a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt from someone's clothes line. Attired in the loose-fitting clothes, he paid for a room in a backstreet motel. Once inside the room he began to address the boulder of agony threatening to crush him.
Rick Sorenson and most of his colleagues were dead. And Michelle ... His tortured mind couldn't entertain the notion she had died along with the others in the house. He tossed and turned on the bed. From behind closed eyes, he saw the recurring imagery of a room filled with bodies. Blood, unbelievable amounts of it, pooling across a hardwood floor, staining a crumpled living room carpet. Of course it was his fault. General Turner's cryptic signature lay at the heart of what had taken place. A suffocating guilt threatened to relinquish the chemist of further breaths. His head throbbed and his body ached and there seemed no way forward. And so he suffered in the timeless confines of the narrow room.
After fitful snatches of sleep, he ventured outside and bought a copy of the Los Angeles Times from an all-night convenience store. Standing beside a cluttered aisle of goods, the sun winking brightly on the horizon, he'd read and reread a second-page article to assure himself Michelle had survived the killings. Apparently she'd been identified from the belongings in her bag. She would likely pull through from her wounds. Incredibly she was the only one so fortunate. All others in th
e house had succumbed to their injuries.
Goldman returned to his room, elated Michelle was alive. Even so, guilt bore down on him like the smothering weight of a Sumo wrestler. He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, besieged by anguished thoughts and memories, a post-traumatic state from which there seemed little or no reprieve.
So many people killed. Goldman having killed several of them ...
Time, a parade of days and nights, passed unchecked. Food and drink were of little concern, even as his aching body protested the ongoing neglect. His internal pain looked set to consume him, to keep him in a near comatose state on the bed.
And then it happened.
Surfing channels one night, he happened upon Michelle's prime-time interview. She looked pale and drawn, but it was her all the same. He broke down and cried, realizing how badly he missed her. How badly it had all turned out. Toward the end of the interview she'd looked face-on at the camera and smiled. A sunny portrait underpinned with a resolve to pull through the trauma of her ordeal.
Seeing her as such lifted Goldman's spirits. His world turned again. Purpose surged through his limbs like the revitalizing waters of a deistic fount. He wrote a heartfelt letter, including it in a florist's bouquet of roses delivered to Michelle's bedside.
It was hard to resist the impulse to visit her in hospital, but after much deliberation he decided against it. God knew he'd already brought ruin upon the girl. She'd been almost killed. No, he respected and loved her too much to want to endanger her again. In any case he wasn't sure how Michelle would respond seeing him again. It could prove an unpleasant episode. He didn't want to tarnish the cherished memories of their time together. Though in a chamber of his heart he hadn't given up hope he and Michelle might one day meet, and not impossibly resume their relationship once this unpleasantness was behind them. Of course it was a big ask. Nevertheless he allowed himself to be buoyed with hope.
