Blood is Pretty

by Steven Paul Leiva

  I heard a sudden, deep, CLUNK! from somewhere outside, and the mechanical rolling of metal wheels —the front drive gate I assumed. The acceleration of an engine confirmed that someone was pulling onto the grounds. I turned off the computer and went to the door, took a quick peek and was about ready to dash across the living room when I heard a noise coming from the dining room. I pulled back, closing the door, but leaving a crack to look out of. From the dining room came Imelda, in robe and slippers. She passed through the living room and into the foyer. I could hear the soft beeps of an alarm system being turned off and the front door being opened. The engine sound was close now, and echoing around the courtyard in front of the house. Then it stopped. A car door opened. I could hear the quick little clicking of claws on stone and a voice saying in a loud whisper, “Go Bat, go piss big!” The clicking speeded and faded. “Imelda, get bag!”

  “Yes, Mr. Zhel,” Imelda said.

  Heavy steps entered the house and landed on the stones of the foyer. “Piss Bat! Stupid! Don’t smell all trees!” Soon I could hear Imelda’s struggle as she re-entered the house. “Is bag heavy for you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Zhel. ”

  “Then use two hand, stupid bitch!”

  Claw clicking rushed in. “Come, mangy dog. ”

  Then it began to growl with low throat vibrations of willingness to tear flesh.

  “What… ?”

  Three quick, loud throaty barks and the pounding of paws accented by slamming clicks the dog was on his way. I closed the door and looked to see if there was any hiding place at all. A useless gesture, for I could not hide my scent. The dog slammed against the door and began to claw at it furiously. “Bat! Sit!” The dog protested, but obviously did so. I grabbed a book out of the bookcase. The door opened. A light switched on. There stood Zhelyu Batsarov, the Bulgarian Cowboy, in blue jeans, boots, a western shirt, and a sweat stained Stetson. He looked at me with white-hot eyes. “Who fuck you?”

  “I—I—. ”

  “Get on knee! Get on knee!” he screamed, his two front gold teeth gleaming.

  I did so, giving a nice performance of stark fear.

  “Zhelyu, what the hell is going on?”

  It was Rand, coming through the other door, pulling on a robe.

  “I find intruder. ”

  Rand looked at me. He was not happy to see me here, but… “Tom is not an intruder, he’s a guest, Zhelyu. Would an intruder breakin in his pajamas and robe?”

  “Guest? Why guest?” Batsarov demanded to know.

  “I’ll tell you in—. ”

  “Why in here? Four o’clock morning?”

  That seemed to worry Rand. But he smiled at me gently. “You can get up

  Tom. ” I did. “What are you doing down here?”

  I showed him the book. “I—I couldn’t sleep. I was looking for something to read. ”

  Miguel and the Basque ran into the room, suddenly concealing guns behind their backs when they saw the scene. They were somewhat silly figures standing there in their boxer shorts and tee shirts looking like children hiding the stolen candy. An image enhanced by the fact that Miguel had on a tee-shirt displaying a group portrait of the Looney Tune characters in radically hip “Gangsta Rap” clothing, and on the Basque’s tee shirt, B. U. M. curved across the chest.

  “Go back to bed!” Rand demanded. They looked to Batsarov. He nodded and they left.

  Rand turned back to me, looked into my eyes, which I adverted, wondering if I had seen the guns. “Something to read?” He asked for more of an explanation.

  “Uh, yeah. I only brought, you know, work related stuff, and I wanted something—lighter. When you went in here earlier, I saw some bookcases. I—I didn’t think you would mind. ”

  “Tom has suffered from insomnia since he was ten. ”

  It was Anne. Everyone turned to her—and their blood shifted gears. She stood there, very casually, in nothing but a chemise made of crinkly cotton gauze. The off the shoulder neckline and empire seam shaping just added to the delight. She wasn’t even wearing slippers. The effect on both of the men was immediate. Especially on Batsarov who, had he had just a few less neurons in his brain, might very well have happily drooled. As a mental diversion, it was perfect.

  “I’m really, really sorry,” I said.

  “Well,” Rand said reluctantly moving his gaze from the gauze, “why don’t we all go back to bed. ”

  “Yes, I think that’s a good idea. Come on Tom. ” Anne walked pass both men slowly and came over and retrieved me. “You can give a more proper apology in the morning. ”

  “Well, I said I was sorry. ”

  We both retreated and made our way pass Bat, the largest German shepherd I had ever seen. He growled, but made no move to follow.

  “Nice doggie,” Anne said. “He didn’t growl when I came down,” she whispered as we made our exit.

  “No, but I bet you he drooled,” I whispered back.

  We made it upstairs, passing Imelda who was still in the foyer with the bag. She gave Anne a look. I couldn’t begin to guess the particulars behind that look. I stopped Anne at the arched opening.

  “Hey!” She whispered somewhat urgently. “These stones are cold. ”

  I gestured for silence, then for her to listen.

  “What the hell,” Rand was saying in a whisper good acoustics allowed us to hear, “are you doing coming back at this hour?”

  “I come, I go, when I want. America is land of free”

  “I suppose you did a hundred and ten all the way down. ”

  “Sure. Pedal to metal. ”

  “Stupid, Zhelyu. What if you had been stopped?”

  “I bribe. ”

  “You know, American police—. ”

  “All corrupt, I know, I see Serpico. Who guests? Who girl?”

  “I’ll explain in the morning. But know and understand that he might be able to help us advance the project. And that she is my guest. ”

  “She look at my crotch. ”

  “Zhelyu, go take out your frustrations on Imelda, and let me get back to bed. ”

  “Yeah. Sure. But I watch those two. ”

  “Just look. Don’t touch. And keep a rein on that stupid mutt. ”

  “Bat okay. Tear throat out. ”

  “So you’ve told me. ”

  The conversation ended. After a moment, I moved Anne back to our rooms.

  “Thanks Sis,” I said, “that was quick thinking. ”

  “Was it worth it?” she whispered.

  “Nothing was gained, if that’s what you mean. ”

  “Should I worry?”

  That’s the problem about second thoughts. They’re persistent. “No. Didn’t that little dialog put your mind at ease?”

  “Yeah, I suppose. And my heart in my throat. ”

  “Try to get some sleep. ”

  “Yeah. I should have said that to you three hours ago. Night. ”

  “Sweet—. ”

  “Don’t waste your breath. ” She went into her room.

  I went into mine and climbed into bed and tried to settle into sleep. I took my seventeen deep breaths. Despite the still flowing adrenaline and the lingering image of Anne in her chemise, it was just beginning to work when my legs suddenly jerked up—the homing device was beginning to itch.

  *

  When I came down to breakfast at 8:45 Craig York was sitting at the dinning room table, his head practically buried in a plate of eggs and sausages, scooping the food in as he read a magazine. I very quietly said, “Hello. ”

  York looked up. There was no hint that he recognized me. “Oh, hello. You’re the guest. Imelda said there were guests. I’ll finish right up. ”

  “Well, you don’t have to hurry because of me. ”

  “No, that’s okay. I—I’ve got to get to work. ”

  “Oh, you work for Mr. Rand?”

  “Yeah. ” He scooped furiously at the eggs.

  “We’ll, I hope you weren’t disturbed by the little commoti
on I inadvertently cause last night. ”

  “Commotion? No, I’m—uh— I’m a heavy sleeper. Well, Imelda will be in, in a second. ”

  He started to leave just as Rand came in all cheery. “No, no, Craig, stay. I want you here. ”

  “But—. ”

  “Sit, Craig. Have some more orange juice. Good morning Einstein. ”

  “Einstein?” York asked.

  “That’s right Craig. His name is Einstein, but he’s no relation, he tells me. But he is a scientist—neat, uh? Craig is a scientist also, working on my current project. Doing a good job, but a bit—well, that’s what we will talk about. ”

  “Good morning. ”

  It was Anne, as radiant as the morning, any residue fear from last night well hidden.

  “I would ask if everyone slept well, but—. ”

  “Yes, I really do want to apologize again,” I said.

  “Forget it. What’s wrong with a little drama in the middle of the night? Anne, this is Craig York. He’s working for me on a special project. ”

  Anne went over to shake his hand, but probably, more effectively shook his mind. “Oh, are you writing a screenplay for Andy?”

  “Uh, no—no, I’m not a writer,” York said as Rand laughed.

  “No, Craig is a scientist. ”

  “A scientist?” Anne nicely played the confusion.

  “Sit. Sit. All will be explained. Imelda!”

  Imelda came out of the kitchen. She looked tired and a bit—done in. Rand did not choose to notice. “Any special breakfast orders?” he asked.

  “Just a grapefruit for me, if that’s okay,” Anne said.

  “Sure, sure, anything. And you Einstein?”

  “The eggs and sausage looked good to me,” I said, taking advantage of the vacation from Roee’s kosher cooking.

  We all sat. Anne looked around. “This is a lovely room, Andy. ”

  “Yeah, isn’t it? Look at this ceiling. ”

  We all looked up. “Oh, my,” Anne said.

  The ceiling was made up of light bleached wood beams interspersed with rows of colorful square tiles. Each one was completely unique and had that lovely crude look of medieval craftsmanship. Some of them were fairly abstract. Some pictured flowers within an abstract design. And a few depicted scenes of English royalty. Directly above me was a picture of Edward Rex seated on his throne within his castle talking to two noblemen.

  “The first twenty or so Kings of England are up there, they tell me, but I haven’t had time to count them. ”

  “Are these originals?” Anne asked.

  “Who knows? But let’s go ahead and say they are. Then we’ll enjoy them more. This whole house is pretty fascinating. When we first inspected it, do you know what we found in the garage—a 1925 Dusenberg with bullet holes in the passenger door. My first thought was that it was a picture car used for some movie. But no, it was real, turns out this was the house of a rather successful bootlegger. This whole area fed L. A. during Prohibition the way the Catskills fed New York. After the bootlegger died—in his sleep I understand—the title to the house became, well, confused. It sat here going to pot for over 50 years. Finally the title was cleared up, wound up in the hands of a distant heir in Canada. He had the place restored and it went on the market just when I was looking. The furniture, everything, it all belonged to the bootlegger. Maybe they should have called it Chateau de la Lune-shine. ” He laughed at his joke, and so did we, except York. Perhaps he had heard it before.

  “That’s a great story,” I said.

  “And this is a great house,” Anne said.

  “You haven’t seen anything yet. This house has special attractions. ”

  The food came and we all started to eat, chit chatting about nothing in particular. Then the kitchen door swung open and Batsarov, wearing the same clothes he had had on at four in the morning, entered. “Howdy. ” he said in his Bulgarian-Western accent. This was my first real good look at him. That night on the Willamette River my perspective was a bit skewered. And during the recent encounter I had kept my eyes fearfully averted. Now, though, I faced him directly, if with well-played apprehension.

  Batsarov was a tall man. At least six foot five. Lanky. If he didn’t open his mouth you could take him for a real cowboy. That is if he didn’t speak. Just a silent view of his two gold teeth didn’t hurt the effect, as they seemed not incongruous with 19th Century America. His face was all flesh-draped-over-a-bony-head featuring high cheekbones, a wide forehead, a large chin and a massive hatchet nose that must have been the result of limited breeding choices within a small village. His smile was pleasant—in a vicious sort of way.

  “And how our guests this morning?”

  Rand looked at Batsarov casually and said, “I take it you stayed up to work?”

  Batsarov snorted—it was catching. “Work! Yes! Good work. ”

  “Well, why don’t you go get some sleep then. A shower I think first. And then some sleep. ”

  “I wanted to greet guests and apologize for Bat,” he said staring at me, making it quite clear that he apologized for nothing.

  “I’m sure Einstein’s not worried about last night. ”

  “Oh, you forgive Zhelyu?” Batsarov stared at me, tilting his head.

  “Su—sure. Think nothing of it. ”

  “Good! You make me feel good! I take Bat for run. Bat!”

  The German shepherd lunged into the dinning room and sat obediently by his master.

  “Beautiful dog,” Anne said. “Why did you name him ‘Bat’?”

  “Named after Bat Masterson, great frontier marshal and sports writer.

  Come Bat. ”

  They left, man and dog.

  “I would say, you’ll have to excuse Zhelyu, but there’s really no reason why you should. He’s a completely crude individual. But he’s the most honest business partner I’ve ever had, and for that I value him. ”

  “He’s your business partner?” I said with calculated overreaction.

  “Yes. Now, why don’t we have a fresh cup of coffee while I explain a few things. ”

  Chapter 17

  The Man with the Golden Gut,

  The Goddess with the Ivory Skin

  “They say I have a ‘Golden Gut,’” Rand started in on what seemed to be a prepared speech. “You know—they’re right. And I can tell you the exact place, day, and time I got it. It was in Japan on the evening of April 5th, 1974, at 7:07 PM. I was fairly new in the business, but so enthusiastic for success I literally vibrated to the frequency of ‘Make it Happen!’ I was at dinner with a lovely young Japanese woman who worked for the local distribution company that was releasing a film of mine in the Far East. We were at the Fujiya Hotel in the mountains above Lake Ashi in Hakone. The hotel’s at least one hundred years old. First hotel in Japan built for Gaijin—foreigners. At the suggestion of the maitre’d I ordered a special meal to be prepared by the chef just for us, every item on the menu to be at his discretion. It was, of course, a spectacular meal. But the most spectacular item of the meal was—the soup. ”

  “The soup?” Anne said. She had hardly taken her eyes off Rand, even while eating her grapefruit, giving a sense of connection, that fed him, that he played to, that made him seem invincible. “How so?”

  “It was gold soup. ”

  “Gold soup?” Anne repeated as if stroking his—hair.

  “Yes. Its base was a clear golden broth. Simple enough. But floating within that broth was real gold leaf. ”

  “Really?” Anne said.

  Rand nodded. “‘Can I eat that?’ I asked the woman. Yes, she said, it would be an insult not to. So I took my spoon and captured some floating gold, brought it up to my mouth, said the only prayer I’ve ever said in my life, and ate it. It had the most delicate taste, and went down slow and warm, warming my stomach. I had a second spoonful, and then a third. And then the warmth in my stomach passed into my intestines and became—hot—literally hot. I was scared at first. I began to sweat. Had I been
poisoned? But then I understood. The gold had become hot liquid and was applying itself to the lining of my intestines. The broth would pass. But the gold would stay. ‘Now I really do have a golden gut,’ I said to the woman. She didn’t know what I was talking about. But it didn’t matter. The truth was within me. I had a clear mental image of my gold-lined intestines. That image became my visual mantra.

  “From that time, I made no decision on supporting or green lighting a project until I had meditated with this visual mantra. And always, within that meditation, a crystalline—,” he thought for a moment, searching for just the right word, “perfection appeared. If the project matched that crystalline perfection, I made it a ‘Go’ project. If it didn’t, I sent it away, I cursed it, I banished it.

  “Now, you may think this is all just weird shit, and it may well be. But my track record is better than anyone else’s in the business right now. If it’s weird shit, it’s weird shit that works. And isn’t that what it’s all about?”

  “I can believe it,” Anne said. “The Japanese, I mean, there are things, I mean mystic things, that they know that we can’t even grasp with our rigid Western minds. ”

  Oh, very good, I thought. Well played. At least I hoped it was playacting.

  “But Einstein doesn’t believe it, do you Einstein? You’re a scientist. A rationalist. ”

  “Oh, well, you know, physics blows people away. It’s considered magical by most people. That this, uh, visual mantra of yours allows you to focus great mental concentration on what you have to focus on, is, uh, perfectly reasonable. With that focus, you just, probably, heighten your natural instincts, which have proven to be, you know, pretty good. ”