Mystery Girl: A Novel

by David Gordon

  And with that Solar Lonsky proceeded, with a quiet dignity, out of his front door.

  84

  JOSHUA TREE IS MORE than just a great place to trip on mushrooms. It is a place created by the gods while they were tripping on mushrooms. It is the Land of the Lost. It is Bedrock, a Flintstones landscape of cartoon colors and morphing, melting shapes. Boulders the size of two-family homes are strewn like forgotten marbles across the horizon. There are drip castles and rock skulls, ice cream sundaes and sleeping dinosaurs all of stone and sand. There is a mountain made entirely of bowling balls. Then there are the namesake cacti, an army of scarecrows, pierced Gumbys beseeching the empty sky, crucified trees with pincushion hands and thorny heads that flame into white blossoms when the rain comes in the spring.

  We took the Twentynine Palms Highway into the tiny sun-dazed town, low buildings and blank streets sparsely populated with an odd mix of spiritual hippies, desert rats, and Marines from the nearby base. We found the UPS franchise and Nic and I went in, leaving Lonsky stowed in the backseat, which he’d chosen for safety reasons. I’d been mulling the name question over during the drive, wondering what alias Zed would choose, and gave the clerk, a stout lady, redheaded and soap-pale in her glass room of frozen air, my best shot. Minutes later, she handed me a small express envelope addressed to B. Traven. It contained another plain white envelope, which in turn held a small key and a numerical code on a slip of paper: 12-15-22-5 6-18-15-13 8-1-4-5-19.

  In the car, Lonsky glanced at the paper and chuckled. “Quite witty, really. He would have been a man worth meeting.”

  “You mean Zed?” I asked, craning my head. “Why?”

  Lonsky scowled at me. “Surely you can solve a simple alphanumerical substitution code, Kornberg. They’re for children.” Nic grinned at this while she drove.

  “Let’s just say I don’t feel like it.”

  “If one replaces the numbers with the corresponding letters, the message reads ‘love from Hades.’ No doubt Zed felt it was his own, and the real B. Traven’s, most suitable return address.”

  At the bank, Nic said she was Mona Naught’s daughter, and gave the code, which no one there chuckled at, and after a long delay, the young blond clerk returned.

  “Oh my God,” she warbled in her frank California accent. “No one’s opened this box in ten years,” as if ten were a thousand and we were unearthing a time capsule. She asked us if we wanted a private room, but she was clearly hoping not and it didn’t seem likely that the box contained diamonds or a bomb. So she turned her key and I turned mine. She held her breath and widened her eyes. Nic grabbed my wrist under the counter. The lid stuck for a second and then I opened it with a pop. It contained two unlabeled film canisters. “Sixteen millimeter, I think,” I said.

  The clerk looked bummed. “Maybe you should open them and check,” she suggested. We declined and returned to the car. While our backs were turned, evening had begun to creep in. The horizon darkened, and as evening approached, Lonsky’s belly was growling.

  “Well done,” he said when I handed him the canisters. “We will watch these right after dinner.”

  “Do you really think we should wait?” I asked.

  “I can’t think on an empty stomach,” Lonsky said petulantly.

  “How about some nuts?” Nic asked. “Or chips and salsa?”

  He didn’t even stoop to a reply. Finally we compromised and pulled into a diner he somehow knew and picked up a couple of barbequed pork sandwiches and coleslaw sides to tide him over and keep his brain going. Then we went to the inn where he’d booked our rooms. Built on a palmy oasis, it was a pleasantly run-down cluster of bungalows surrounding a pool where a boy in goggles and a girl in a swim cap and nose plugs were seeing who could hold their breath the longest, and a restaurant, of which Lonsky approved as “homey and fulfilling.” Like a bear leaving his winter cave, he emerged, blinking and grumbling, from the backseat and put on a panama hat.

  Milo had already arrived with the projector and had set up in Lonksy’s bungalow, which contained a rustic lounge. He’d hung a bedsheet on the wall and was extremely bored after hours of waiting with no TV or Internet.

  “Jesus fucking Christ you kept me waiting long enough,” he said as we entered. “Some emergency.” Then noticing my hands, he brightened. “Holy shit, what happened to you? Hey!” He pointed cheerfully at my mouth, which I’d almost managed to forget for a minute. “You look like Eli Wallach in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. He’s the ugly,” he explained to Lonksy, in case he didn’t know the film. Lonsky lowered himself onto a wicker love seat, which sighed tragically beneath him.

  “Sandwiches,” he commanded.

  I handed him the paper bag and gave Milo the canisters. “Are you going to show this or not?”

  Milo carefully pried open a canister. “The film gets brittle sitting so long and I don’t want it to break.” He slipped on white cotton gloves and took out a small film splicer and some black leader. While he worked, Lonksy munched thoughtfully. Nic offered to find cold drinks and ice.

  “Do you need aspirin, for your hands?” she asked, stroking my arm.

  “No thanks,” I said, and she smiled, then sashayed out.

  Milo turned to me, his voice low. “Are you doing her?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Sort of. I guess.”

  “Nice work,” he said, and I couldn’t help feeling a surge of foolish pride. “I’m glad too,” he went on, “because it makes it easier to break the news about me and MJ.”

  “What news?”

  “We’re going to have a baby.”

  “When? I’ve only been gone two days.”

  “Her and Margie want kids and they asked me to be the donor. We were worried you might be, you know, crushed emotionally, since you always had a thing for her and your wife just dumped you.”

  “But I don’t have a thing.”

  “Whatever. It just seemed emotionally cleaner with me. Plus I’m extremely virile. My sperm count is unusually high. And my motility’s off the charts.”

  “OK. Well, congratulations. That’s… intense.”

  “They’re talking turkey baster, but I’m pushing for direct insemination. You know. Penile. I think it’s better for the kid.”

  “I thought you were gay?”

  “What’re you talking about? I’m so bi it’s ridiculous. I watch straight porn all the time. I was watching Sausage Fest Two last night. Twenty naked dudes and this fat chick.”

  “If you say so.”

  He gave me an evil look and began to rewind the reel. “The point, hombre, is that MJ wants my sperm, not yours. OK? I’m going to breed with her and then while they raise the kid I will live temporarily in the guesthouse. Sorry if that’s tough for you to accept. The guesthouse has its own little sauna.”

  “Congratulations, stud.” I slapped his back. “I’m a proud uncle.”

  “Thanks.” He grinned and slid a reel onto the arm of the projector. “I’m just glad you found a replacement for Lala. She kind of looks like her too.”

  “No she doesn’t. She’s blond and taller.”

  “Whatever. She’s your type. The tragic femme fatale type.”

  “But she turned out not to be that at all,” I said. “That was an act. She’s more the hard-nosed chick with the soft heart. And besides, Lala’s Mexican.” I sighed. “At least that’s one fact we established about her.”

  “I know. The big guy told me. Well, hang in there.” He flipped a switch and the machine began to hum, throwing a white square onto the sheet. “Let’s see what happens in the next reel. Go get your girl and your soda. It’s showtime.”

  85

  UNLIKE THE OTHER FILMS in the trilogy, Ascension was just uncut footage, shown as it was shot in the camera, so one could only guess at the themes and intended sequence. The movie was set in the desert, close to where we sat, among the crags and ridges of the park. The film stock gave it a brightly dated look, but the homemade, school-play-style costumes, and the ti
meless, epic, Biblical-Western scenery made it seem as if it could have been shot any time.

  Two women in goddess gear (gauzy whatevers and body glitter, Venetian masks and peacock feathers) scamper over desert landmarks while a group of men in black suits, ties, and black masks pursues them. There were a lot of beauty shots: erect nipples silhouetted against the tangerine sun, firm buttocks rising between red rocks, a landscape of hips and hollows, soft focus sand-slopes and close-up beads of sweat. The damsels appear and disappear, with simple camera trickery, teasing and cajoling the men, who seem to be invoking them as muses or spirits, able to bestow the various gifts they demand: knowledge, power, money, glory, talent. A guy I knew was Zed, from his voice, stumbled around, sand in his hair, and shouted at the heavens, “Genius! Grant me genius, you goddess, you bitch, and I will give you all, my soul, my heart, my balls!” This drew snickers from Milo and Nic. Lonsky watched impassively, though I could hear his slow breathing back there, like an idling machine, like an enormous cat.

  The second reel turns darker, in color and mood. The characters can be seen drinking from wine and whiskey bottles, smoking joints and taking what looks like acid, little white confetti flakes melting on the tongue. Behind them the sun begins its slow decline, and the desert light show turns on. There is sex, couples and groups, cavorting about the rocks and grappling in the dust, nude but for masks and climbing boots, as well as some gloves and capes. The women are unshaven, pits and groins.

  “Wow, that’s some serious bush,” Milo called out, then turned to Nic, as if placating her, “I dig it.”

  “I don’t,” she said.

  “No, me neither,” he said. “I was just saying that to see if you shaved. And you do.”

  “Waxed, sucker.”

  “OK, shush,” I said, smiling proudly at the way she’d handled him. “Check this out.”

  The women now stand triumphant-like, nude and with their arms spread, atop a narrow peak, crowned by the rays of the bloodred sun and calling for sacrifice. They keep sliding down the crumbling rock face and then clambering back up, raising their fists, and screaming, blood, blood, give us blood. Then one of the masked men, a schlubby guy with pale skin, a round belly and thin hairy legs, grabs Zed and pushes him over a cliff. A moment later someone yells cut, and he pops back up. As the camera wanders, we see that really he has only jumped down a few feet to a ridge. They reset and do it again. Again. The guy, the pusher, takes off his mask and wipes the grit and sweat from his eyes. Someone hands him a hanky. I recognized him from the other films, where he’d appeared as an ass kisser and a spear holder. Next they do a variation where he and Zed pretend to fight and both fall screaming, and then one where the pale guy just jumps. Zed looked pretty good naked, tan and lean with a big metal star on a chain around his neck. In the next shot Zed is alone, closer in, naked and unmasked, with a pistol. He holds it to his head, takes a deep breath, howls and then pulls the trigger. Nothing. He laughs and says, “How was that?” An offscreen voice says, “OK, but don’t scream.” He does it again, calmly. Someone yells, Bang! and he falls. He does it again. Again.

  Now it is getting dark and they have a fire going. The third man, broad and strong, still masked and costumed, is kneeling behind the pale guy, pressing a dagger to his throat, and giggling. Their eyes are crazy in the flame light, gleaming dark and wet, pupils wide as saucers. We hear Zed offscreen, “OK, stop fucking around. We’re going to lose the light in a second. Say the line.”

  “Hee, hee…” The masked fellow presses the blade. “You want clean shaven or mustache?”

  “Cut!” Zed yells. “Fuck you. Seriously.”

  They do it again. The knife holder takes a deep breath, swallows his giggles, and booms: “I am the dark lord. I offer blood. I will rule here on earth and in hell.”

  “Good! Again!” They do it again.

  “Good! Again!” They do it again.

  “Good! Again!” He does it again. Then he cuts the schlubby guy’s throat.

  For a second no one else does anything. You can feel the shock. The victim himself looks confused, still smiling, as another red smile spreads across his neck. Then it flaps open like a busted lip and the blood pours. The killer laughs, high and fast. It sounded familiar.

  “What the fuck!” Zed runs on camera, pushing the guy with the knife away, and tries to stanch the blood with a tie-dyed scarf. Both naked men are soaked. The women scream and scream. The killer’s mask is knocked askew. He is still giggling. It is Buck Norman.

  “See, I really am the dark king!” he chortles.

  Zed pushes him back, screaming. “What did you fucking do? What did you fucking do?”

  “See Zed, I really am!” Buck rambles on. “Not the king I mean, the dark prince! I really am.” He grabs Zed, still waving the knife. “I rule! Not you! I rule!”

  Zed flings the knife away and punches him in the face. The women rush over, crying, screaming. Their masks are off. The first girl I had not seen before, though she does look similar to the way Nic had: curvy, tan, dark-haired, green-eyed.

  “Mona,” Lonsky said, from the back. No one else spoke.

  The next girl looks like she could be her cousin. She is maybe a bit younger and thinner than she would be now, but still I know her immediately. She is my wife.

  86

  THERE WAS A LONG silence, as in a real movie when the credits roll and everyone waits for the lights or music, as if for permission to get up. The film ran through the gate and started flapping. A white square like an empty window opened in the wall. A breeze rippled the sheet. Then I realized Nic was quietly crying. I wanted to take her hand but something held down my arm. Milo got up to stop the projector. The white window shut and it was dark. Lonksy turned on a lamp. A yellow umbrella spread. He said, “Kornberg, kindly get Mister Norman’s man, Russ, I believe, on the phone for me, if you please.”

  I didn’t move. “That was my wife, Solar.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Please, the phone first. Then we’ll talk.”

  I got up. Now, in the soft lamplight, I could see that Nic was weeping into her palms but I dug in my pockets for my phone. I found Russ’s number and pressed it.

  “Here,” I said. “It’s ringing.”

  “Excuse me,” Nic said and hurried out. I let her go.

  Lonksy spoke into the phone. “Good evening. My name is Solar Lonsky. May I please speak to Mr. Buck Norman? It is regarding a film. Yes, I’ll hold.” He called after Nic: “We’ll have dinner after this call,” he said, “I booked a table,” but she didn’t turn. He frowned, then turned away as someone came on the phone. “Yes, Mr. Norman, good evening. Yes, I do, I just watched it. I don’t know your other films, I admit, but your performance in this one is riveting. Yes. And the woman, Mona, she is alive? Put her on please.” There was a pause. “Hello? Yes. Are you all right? I…” He frowned again. “Yes. Yes, I can get a map. Eight tomorrow then. No, I won’t. Very good. Good night.”

  He turned off the phone and handed it back to me. “The exchange will be tomorrow on a high cliff a few miles inside the park, where it will be easy to see who’s approaching, so we can’t rely on the police. He put Mona on the phone, though of course all she said was yes. It could all be fakery. We will have to wait and hope. Milo, thank you, you’ve been most helpful indeed. We won’t need you tomorrow but perhaps right now you could ask for a map in the office, then meet us in the dining room for dinner. I’d like a moment with Samuel.”

  “Sure.” Milo put the film in the can, smiled sadly at me, and left.

  “You said no cops,” I told Lonsky. “But these people are killers. It will be very risky tomorrow.”

  “No doubt,” he said. “You are walking proof of their ruthlessness. I’ve come prepared.” He reached into his jacket and pulled a pistol from a shoulder holster. It was huge, a monstrous black Magnum.

  “My God, don’t wave that thing around.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not
loaded. Tomorrow it will be. It was my father’s.” He set it on the table. I didn’t feel any safer.

  I said, “Tell me about my wife.”

  “Please, sit,” he said. I did, and he spoke, evenly and without pauses, as though he were reading from a book.

  “A few months after I first met Mona in the hospital, she received a visit. I took special note, of course. I was in love with her already and fascinated with every aspect of her life, but also because she had never to my knowledge received a visitor, or for that matter any mail or phone calls at all. In fact, this was the one and only visit she ever had. Her guest was a young dark-haired woman, beautiful and very well dressed. They could have passed for cousins or even sisters, though of course the visitor looked healthier, stronger, and tanner than Mona, who’d been in a locked ward for six months. I don’t know what they spoke about, they retired to Mona’s room alone, but I pretended to nap in a chair in the lobby, and when the guest left, I noticed that she was crying. I peeked at the nurse’s log. The visitor’s name was Natalia Montes. Your wife to be.

  “Since, as I said, she was the only visitor Mona ever had, the only connection to the outside world, I took an interest in Ms. Montes and kept track of her from a distance. I knew that she was from Mexico, that she worked at a local fashion shop, that she soon married and bought a house. I knew your name too and your address. Again these were mere facts in my file. I gave them no special attention, I was simply curious about anything to do with Mona. And so the years passed, until a week ago, when Dr. Parker called. Mona was missing, possibly in danger, and he asked for my help. Suddenly, I had a case. I needed an assistant of course, someone local to do the legwork, so I visited the jobseekers website and saw your résumé. Well you know how I feel about coincidences. There are none. I called you in immediately. When, during our initial meeting, I realized that your wife had left you, I knew my intuition was correct: the two events were somehow connected. And when you reported your wife’s disappearance, I realized that by solving your own mystery, you would in the end help solve mine.”