by Jon McDonald
Veronica was now seething. “That rat Jocko just ran out on us. All that bravado -and he’s just a jerk-wad coward.”
Lan bowed his head as he contemplated the reactions from the rest of the orchestra when they learned of their defeat.
Just then the door opened and one of security guards said, “This way please.” And once again they were ushered along without an explanation. They were taken to an elevator and then eventually arrived at the top floor of the casino. The guard led the way to the door of the Presidential Suite. He showed them in.
“Help yourselves to anything you’d like to drink,” he said, showing them the bar, then departed, and once again locked the door behind him. The three of them looked around in stunned silence.
Finally Lan spoke up, “You’ll have to excuse me. Nature has been calling me for the past hour.” He rushed to the marble bathroom with the sunken tub.
When he returned he smiled, greatly relieved. “Well if we’re going down, we might as well go down in style. Champaign?” he asked, as he walked over to the bar.
Chet Domini came through the door followed by several executive types.
“Gentlemen – ladies…” he nodded. “Chet Domini, General Manager of the Venezia Casino at your service. Do you like the accommodations?”
Lan was at a loss for words and just stammered, “Ah, well, ah. Yes, very nice.”
Chet continued, “Quite a little stunt you four tried pulling out there on the floor. Very impressive. But we pretty well know all the games, all the scams, all the tricks. Not much ever gets by us, you know.”
Lan bowed his head once again. “I’m truly sorry. We….”
“Yes, I know,” Chet responded. “You were doing it for your orchestra. Is that right?”
Lan nodded, “Yes, I’m afraid so. We seem to have run out of all other options.”
Chet nodded to one the of the exec types. He stepped forward with a briefcase and handed it to Chet.
“We are not insensitive to your plight.” He offered the briefcase to Lan. “Your winnings, I believe - five hundred thousand, plus twenty-five percent for Jocko. I believe that is correct.”
“How…?” Lan stammered.
“Oh, we have our sources,” Chet added.
Lan took the briefcase in utter disbelief.
“Enjoy the room as our guest. You might want to invite the rest of your orchestra up here to join you. Have a nice little celebration - on the house, of course.”
Chet turned to leave, but paused as he reached the door. He turned back to Lan, “Oh yes, just one more little detail. We’ll need a non-profit receipt from the Orchestra Board for our taxes - one million, isn’t that correct?” Chet grinned slyly, and Lan nodded with a big smile.
“Oh - and by the way - you could have just asked,” Chet added as he exited.
His Majesty Will Let You Know
Skippy traveled cross country in his mother’s beat up old Civic, packed to the rooftop with what he could carry, and “Royce” his Persian-mix cat in his cage on the passenger’s seat beside him. Royce was a white, long hair with just a touch of beige running down his back and around his ears. He had gorgeous blue eyes and was as sweet and even-tempered as a dowager. He had a very regal quality and would have been an inspiration for a fine Egyptian cat study. Royce was already a full-grown cat when he adopted Skippy, so Royce’s age was always something of a mystery. And as he suffered from diabetes he needed insulin shots twice a day.
Their destination was Laguna Beach, California where Skippy had friends he could stay with till he got back on his feet. Having survived a disastrous bankruptcy, he headed west to start over. Being a skilled carpenter, he decided he could make a go of it in tawny southern Cal amongst the mansions needing constant up keep and remodeling. And his friends could give him welcome introductions and recommendations.
Skippy was going to trade some carpentry work with Laura and Jim for staying in their guest room until he could build up a few clients and afford a place of his own. They lived in a wonderful craftsman cottage on a cliff over the Pacific Ocean. The waves crashed below and the property looked out over a small bay where dolphins came to feed and play in the early morning. Not a bad place to land on your feet to get a new start.
Skippy and Royce settled into their very comfortable but snug room. The sleeper sofa opened out into a bed. Skippy knew Royce’s habits from having moved several times before, and decided that he needed to keep Royce confined to the room for several days, so he could make an initial adjustment to his new home. He would then let Royce wander around the house awhile before letting him go outdoors to explore the yard and garden.
Laura and Jim had known Skippy from Ft. Collins, Colorado where they had lived for several years while exploring the country for the right place to settle. Laura was now a very well established and respected artist, showing successfully in a Laguna Beach art gallery. Jim was a successful investor, trading from his home office a few hours every day. Quite a nice life for a couple of ex-hippies.
Laura loved to garden and was out on the large redwood deck tending to her newly planted pots and containers. She was watering. Skippy ambled out with a mug of coffee, as he had slept in a little later than usual.
“Ah, what a splendid morning,” Skippy sighed.
“We serve up only the very best,” Laura teased.
“I have to go into Tustin shortly for an interview and some errands. Was thinking I would let Royce go outside to explore today. He seems pretty well adjusted to the house by now.”
Laura looked up. “Don’t you need to be around to look after him?”
Skippy shook his head. “Nah, he’ll be okay. He’ll just scout around, find his perimeters, and come back in when he’s done. I’ve seen it a dozen times. He’s a pretty cool customer.”
“Well…. if you say so.” Laura was not at all convinced, however. She kept her elderly cats confined to their bedroom and never let them out. They were close to the edge of town, where the hills turned into coyote country, and the critters could be seen occasionally, scouting the streets of an early morning, so Laura feared for any loose pets.
“I’ll just give him his morning insulin shot before I go. I should be back by mid-afternoon.” Skippy finished his coffee, went back inside, rinsed his mug and went to the bedroom where Royce was still confined.
“Okay, big guy, freedom day. You get to go exploring outside.” Royce rubbed up against Skippy’s leg, purring. “Come on kiddo, gotta give you your shot.” He picked Royce up and headed to the kitchen where the insulin was stored in the refrigerator. He put the syringe down on the counter and took out an insulin bottle when his cell phone rang back in the bedroom. He put Royce down on the kitchen floor, forgetting the doors to the deck were open, and ran to answer the phone.
When he got back Royce was gone. Already out on his feline adventures. “Damn. Oh well.” Skippy put the insulin back in the refrigerator and went out to Laura.
“I’m leaving in a minute,” he addressed Laura. “Royce got out before I could give him his shot, but he’ll be okay till I get back.”
Now Laura was a diabetic herself and this news did not sit well with her. “Are you sure? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“He’ll be fine. It happens occasionally and there’s never been any problem.”
“Oh….” Laura was not at all sure about that.
Skippy scooted off. Laura continued to fuss with her pots but was considerably unsettled. She decided to look around and see if she could spot Royce, and administer the insulin shot herself. She scouted the garden immediately adjacent to the deck. There was a winding path that led down to the bougainvillea-covered wall at the edge of the cliff. She followed that and looked around calling Royce’s name. She wandered back up and to the front of the house, and looked up and down the street as well. Luckily it was a quiet street with little traffic. No Royce. A growing uneasiness led her back into the house and to Jim’s study, where he was trading away on his computer.
“Jim, I’m concerned about Royce,” Laura declared.
“Huh?” Jim was deep in the narrow twisting paths of Wall Street and did not like being disturbed.
Now, Laura was not a woman to be lightly shrugged off when she had an urgent quest. “Royce is outside, and he hasn’t had his insulin shot. He got out before Skippy could give it to him.”
Jim scratched his chin, disentangling himself from the lure of the computer. “And?” he said turning to his wife.
“We have to find him. You know how crucial insulin is. Can’t have him expiring under the shrubbery somewhere.”
“Well then, go find him. Call him.”
“I’ve tried. Now you’ve got to help me.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Just a second.” Jim fiddled with the computer, putting it into some kind of hibernation, and scrambled out of his chair. He let out a deep sigh, “Okay, where do we start?”
“Royce - kitty, kitty, kitty.” They called up and down the garden. They looked under every bush and up every tree. Jim squeezed his way under the deck with a flashlight. He took the ladder out of the garage and scrambled up to the roof. No Royce, anywhere. Laura was getting pushy. “He’s got to be somewhere. Look under the deck again. Cats love dark hidey places.”
Poor Jim envisioned millions of dollars flying away from his trading account as he once again wiggled under the deck, carefully examining every dark nook and cranny.
“There’s nothing here!” he called back, starting to get testy.
“Then we have to go out to the street and check the neighbor’s yards,” Laura demanded.
Jim grumbled from beneath the deck but followed Laura to the street. They looked into every yard nearby - nothing. A little further along was a walkway between two rows of houses. It was shaded and cool. Jim looked down the walk and was about to move on when he saw a shadow in a corner by a trash can. He peered more deeply into the gloom and could make out what looked like Royce. He approached cautiously, calling out Royce’s name. The cat looked up and Jim leaned over and gave him a gentle caress. He picked up Royce, and tucked him snugly under his arm.
“Got him,” Jim called back to Laura, who was watching intently from the street. They walked back to the house. Laura was greatly relieved.
“I think we’d better put him in Skippy’s room till I can get the shot prepared,” Laura counseled. They deposited Royce in the room. He did not look at all pleased. He immediately jumped up on the windowsill. The window was open, but the screen kept Royce from escaping.
“My, he doesn’t seem very happy does he?” Jim commented.
“He just needs his shot. He’ll calm down once gets it.” Laura rushed to the kitchen to prepare the shot as Jim stood guard. Royce looked at Jim and hissed. He obviously didn’t like being extricated from his cool resting spot along the walkway.
Laura returned with the syringe. She approached Royce with a “Good kitty.” She prepared to stick good kitty in the scruff of the neck. He was not having that and clawed his way up the screen. Jim had to come to the rescue, and pulled Royce from the screen and sat on the edge of the sofa bed with him so Laura could administer the shot.
“He doesn’t give Skippy this much of trouble. I’ve seen him give the shots many times.” Laura picked up the scruff of Royce’s neck and was just about to plunge in the needle when Royce wrested free. Laura was startled and discharged the syringe into the air. Royce jumped down, raced through the bedroom door and out the entry to the deck. Jim charged after.
Royce shot across the garden towards a fence separating the house next door. It was a hard climb as the fence was covered with heavy foliage. Jim caught up just as Royce was about to disappear over the top. Jim grabbed Royce and got a good paw full of claws for the effort. But Jim managed to drag Royce back to the house, and entombed him in Skippy’s room once again. Laura gave up on the shot for the moment and decided to just wait until Skippy returned in a few hours. As Skippy had said – “He’ll be fine.”
Laura greeted Skippy upon his return with much excitement. She immediately led Skippy to his room, and closed the door behind them. Royce was not to be seen.
“Oh Skippy, you won’t believe what happened while you were gone.”
Skippy could hardly wait to hear what that was. He sat on the edge of the bed. Laura gave the full account of the adventures of the Raiders of the Lost Kitty. She paused.
“Where is he now?” a hushed Skippy asked.
“I believe he’s hiding under the bed.”
Skippy leaned down and peered under. It was somewhat dark but he could make out a white mound crouched as far away as possible. Skippy called, “Royce, come on baby. It’s all right.” The cat did not move. He reached under and finally grabbed Royce, pulling him gingerly towards him by the tail, claws desperately trying to dig into the highly varnished wood floor.
“He’s terrified,” Laura sympathized as Royce emerged from beneath the bed.
Skippy took hold of Royce firmly, soothing him with a caress, and carefully examined him. Skippy turned his head slightly towards Laura, and asked with some amount of hesitation. “So terrified it’s changed the color of his eyes?” He was looking into eyes of a distinct hazel color. “This is not Royce.”
Laura was stunned for a brief moment. Then she called out loudly, “Jim!”
Needless to say that cat disappeared faster than Road Runner from Coyote. “Beep beep.” He was out the door and across that fence in about ten seconds. Not surprisingly, he was not seen in the neighborhood ever again.
That evening, after the fluster had calmed down, Laura, Jim and Skippy were eating some grilled salmon and asparagus on the deck. The sun was just descending over Catalina. There was a rosy glow over the ocean and the waves were breaking gently on the beach below. The air was settling into evening with the scent of jasmine mingling with the wafting aromas of neighborhood barbeques.
Skippy sensed some movement across the deck, and looked up to see Royce calmly ascending the steps. He paused a moment, looked at Skippy, and then serenely ambled into the house.
Skippy pointed out the departing Royce to Laura and Jim. “There, what did I tell you? He always comes home when he’s ready.”
Skippy followed Royce into the house, and trailed him back to the room. Royce took a sniff at his dinner bowl, jumped up on the bed, and promptly curled up and went to sleep, to dream of unknown adventures.
His Majesty will always let you know.
Magdalena
a remembrance
Memory is fickle. It haunts us, teases us, and eludes us all at the same time. It can shape-shift – just when we think we have captured the essence of a memory it can morph, or merge with other memories and become a unique construct of our imagination. Or it is like a fun house mirror, so distorted that it never lets us see the true reflection.
But since we know that truth is relative, the best we can hope for is to present our own truth - from our own unique and personal perspective. Forgive me Magdalena if I have, by following my truth, not fully captured yours.
◘ ◘ ◘
Newly arrived in San Francisco in 1973, my partner, Orlando, and I found immediate refuge - with friends of New York friends - in a hippie house at the corner of Haight and Ashbury. Although the residents of this hippie house were mostly straight, there was no negative reaction to us as a couple. After all, San Francisco was rapidly becoming the gay Mecca of the United States.
Our actual room was a large closet with a mattress on the floor, and a window that looked out onto a ventilation shaft. Our adjacent roommate had his closet lined with egg cartons nailed to the walls to serve as a primal scream chamber. Needless to say, we wanted to find our own apartment as soon as possible.
One of our housemates had come across a vacant, furnished apartment on the top floor of an old Victorian on Fell Street, along the panhandle of Golden Gate Park. It did not suit him, so he told us about it, thinking we might be interested. We eagerly went to see it. But it was more like a
finished-off attic than an actual apartment. It ran the length of the house - the living room and bedroom had pitched walls matching the outside pitch of the roof. There was a tiny kitchen, a primitive bathroom, and a stairwell to the floor below. But it would suit us just fine.
Orlando wanted to take the apartment right away at only $150 a month with a $50 deposit. I was less certain, however, because we had just arrived from New York City, and did not yet have real jobs – and only a small amount of savings. But his ardent faith in the abundance of the universe persuaded me to take the leap of faith that would be necessary for us to move out of our closet, and into our very own sparsely furnished top floor.
We were moving our few meager possessions from hippie house into our long, narrow apartment. I was approaching our stairwell with the last box when I heard a “Psssst” from a doorway on the floor just below ours. I looked over. A diminutive lady with a red wig was waving at me. “You - you come,” she whispered. I set the box down on our stairs and ventured over. She opened the door and I went inside.
She lived in an apartment on the second floor. Her front room had a large Victorian style, corner bay window, with a view of the street and park. Originally this had been a single-family house, which had been subdivided into apartments. Behind her living room was a second room with only an archway separating the two, and she had her bed in this second room, sheltered by a series of freestanding folding screens. Opposite the bed, her dressing table was in a second bay window at the side of the house, overlooking another Victorian house next door, which had been converted into a Russian Orthodox church.
“You just move in?” she asked, with a thick Russian accent.
“Yes, Orlando, my boyfriend, and I. Hi, I’m Jerry.”
“Oh, then that funny girl upstairs is gone, yes?”
“I guess so. It’s just the two of us up there now.”
“Oh, I’m so glad. She was always very rude.”
“And what is your name?” I asked.
“Magdalena….Kolokolava. I am Russian,” she said with a great deal of pride.
