The light falls on my typewriter.
“You,” I whisper.
You…
February 15
The offices of Claymore Industries are located on the 57th and 58th floors of the West Coast Bank Building at 707 Wilshire Blvd. I park Vance’s motorcycle on the curb and walk inside. The building, built by my father, is a monstrosity of steel and concrete. I shudder every time I enter it, today being no exception.The lobby is cold and sterile, covered in steel and glass. I move quickly through the sea of suits and make my way to the elevator.
The sun had taken forever to rise this morning. I had waited for it by the pool at Longdale’s house; Artie himself had failed to make an appearance for a second day in a row.
After the picture in his bedroom had spoken to me in my LSD induced fever dream, I had taken the typewriter outside.
And I wrote.
I wrote for eight hours without stopping.
Words pouring out of me.
Worlds flowing from my fingertips.
By time the sun rose, two things had become clear. First, I could fulfill my contract to Bob Carr and deliver a script tonight. Second, it was time to visit my father.
Not to grovel for money—I am committed to never taking a penny from him again—but to fulfill my promise to Jane and help her find the location of the ISD’s Los Angeles station.
The elevator doors slide open and I step inside, pressing the button for the 58th floor. I had called first thing this morning, 8 AM sharp, and made my appointment. I wasn’t going to visit my father at home. If he respects anything, it is the ability to both make and keep appointments. Also, the plan now feels too urgent. That ISD spook, Vic, is too close for comfort. And Jane is determined to find the LA Station by this Sunday. Her plan is insane, but I think I’m beginning to trust her particular brand of insanity.
After all, it was because of my father that I lost a month of my life. I still don’t know exactly what his connection was, or is, to that place. But I’m determined to find out.
If that means walking into a top secret government facility, drawing the force of the government down upon me, and forcing his hand… so be it.
All of this makes this morning’s objective far more more delicate.
If he thinks I might actually try and visit the site of the tunnel, he will either refuse to give me the location, or he will give me a false location. So will have to sound interested enough in revisiting this memory for him to tell me the truth, not but so interested as to raise his suspicions and shut him up entirely.
The elevator dings at the 58th floor and the doors open, revealing the smiling office drone at the front desk. The drone—a recent hire as I don’t recognize her—stands and asks who I am here to see. “My father,” I say, and brush past her without another word.
I weave my way through the maze of desks and offices to find my father’s secretary: 72-year-old Edith Miltner—my father calls her a ‘lifer’, but mother calls her ‘affair-proof’—blinking at me through coke bottle glasses.
“He’s still in a meeting,” Edith says.
I clench and unclench my fists. “I have an appointment, which I am on time for. I am not early or late. I am exactly on time.”
“I can let him know—”
I give a dismissive wave. “It’s fine, I’ll wait.”
I sit on the couch and stare at the closed door. My vision feels like it’s tunneling inward. I know we aren’t on good terms, but now he’s making me wait like I’m a client he’s about to drop. Hell no. I stand and stalk for the door.
“He’s in a meeting!”
I ignore the geriatric secretary and push my way through the door. My father and three Chinese businessmen turn to gape at me. I imagine I am quite the sight to them in my bellbottoms, Hawaiian shirt, and battered corduroy blazer.
“I have an appointment,” I say, firmly.
My father opens his mouth and then closes it again. He turns to his associates. “Excuse me, we’ll have to end this early.”
The three men gather their things and file out past me without saying a word. They don’t have to ask for an explanation, my filial resemblance has been clear since birth, and my bearing and delivery was clearly suggestive enough to make my intentions clear. It’s a story as old as Abraham and Jacob. I am a son making demands of his father.
“Ellis,” he says, after his associates have left. “I won’t pretend to guess why you’re here.”
I take in a breath, close my eyes, and steel myself. “I’m broke.”
“I’m not surprised.” He stands, filling the space behind his large desk with his formidable bulk.
I wait for him to say more but he doesn’t, so I barrel ahead. “I owe three months of rent. I can’t even afford groceries.”
He steps out from behind the desk. “You have a job. Or did something happen to that movie… thing?”
I close my eyes, feeling my heart increasing and my temperature rising. “Yes, I was commissioned to write a script. I’m delivering the draft tonight. But I’m not due the rest of it until cameras are rolling. I can’t wait that long. My roommate has already kicked me out. And did I say I can’t afford groceries—”
He shakes his head and looks away. “Dammit, Ellis. After how our last conversation ended I shouldn’t have even let you in here. I told you not to come to me again.”
“You forgot to tell your secretary that I was banished from your sight,” I reply, my voice quiet.
“Well? Are you going to admit you were wrong?”
I take in another deep breath, collecting my wits. This is the lynchpin of the plan, and is also a huge risk on my part. A misstep here will leave everything in ruins. I am relying, above all, on my father’s oversized sense of honor.
“I’m not here to ask for money. Or for a job.” I say.
“Is that right?” He goes to his liquor cabinet and makes a drink Vodka on ice. I wait as he downs it and immediately pours another. At least I come by my alcoholism honestly. Finally he turns back to me. “Well then? What did you come here for?”
“First, I wanted you to know that I am going to honor your wishes. I won’t ask you for money ever again.”
He nods. “And the second?”
“I need to go back to where it happened.”
He lowers his drink. “Where what happened?”
“You know,” I say. “The unfortunate disappearance of one eight-year-old Ellis Claymore. I would like to go back there.”
“Why the hell would you want to do that?”
“At the request of my psychiatrist,” I say. “For closure.”
He sets down his drink. “You’re still seeing that psychiatrist?”
“Yes,” I lie. This is another large risk. But I’m gambling on the fact that I’ve seen so many different psychiatrists, therapists, and general kooks over the years that he wouldn’t be able to locate the most recent one if his life depended on it.
“Dammit, Ellis. Why do you have to bring that up again?”
His voice is soft. I look up and see... something in his eyes. But what? Pain? Sadness? I can’t tell.
“I remember it was up in the mountains,” I say, looking casually out the window. The smog covers the urban sprawl like an oily swamp. “But I have no idea which ones. West in Big Bear? Or up the coast around Malibu? I would ask mom but I’m afraid it would send her into another spiral of depression.”
“Yes, you’d better not,” he says.
I wait quietly, becoming more and more nervous as each second ticks by. If I fail at my task, could I go back in time through that tunnel and do it all over again? Only if I was also blessed with immortality and the patience to wait a few million years. No, it is now or never.
He turns to me with a strange look in his eyes. “You really don’t remember?”
“What?” I wasn’t expecting this from him.
“Do you still think that, what, I was lying that whole time?”
“If something happened. If some
body... took you, then you could tell me about now. No one would get hurt, Ellis. No one needs to get in trouble.”
I can feel my blood boiling. Could I be wrong? Did the LSD insert my father into that memory? “Nobody took me, dad.”
“Come on, you know that’s not possible. You were eight. You wouldn’t have survived out there on your own.”
My confidence falters. Maybe he really knows nothing about what actually happened to me?
He takes a step closer.“You were different after that, Ellis. I always wondered.”
“Wondered what?” I ask, feeling a growing sense of dread.
“I know that sometimes, when certain things happen to people—to young men—that it can change them. I know that’s what your mother believes. Sometimes, when we don’t know the answers, we must accept the explanation that would give the most peace to those we love.”
He turns back to me, studying my face.
So that’s his plan. To use the pity I have for my mother against. I’m going to have to step lightly now.
“Maybe if I went back up there it would trigger something. Make me remember. Who knows…”
I look down, rub my eyes to induce a little redness, and set my chin to quivering. “I want to know the truth as much as you do.”
A hint of truth will sell the greatest lie.
My father stares at me for a long moment before finally nodding. “We were visiting my business partner, John Parker. He left the company a few years ago. Edith should be able to give you his phone number. Honestly, Ellis, I don’t even know if he still owns the place.”
“I’d still like to call and get the address.” I say, letting my voice crack just a little.
My father nods, then sits back down, leaning back in his chair. He stares at me, expectantly. “Is there anything else?”
“That’s all.”
I stand, hearing the swelling of applause.
My father nods at me and I turn to leave.
I vacate the office. Closing my eyes, I see myself facing an adoring throng.
Bravo! Bravissimo! they scream.
I pause and take my bow.
“I would like the thank the Academy…”
I find a payphone on the corner of Hope and 6th, deposit my dime, and dial Vance’s number. An endless parade of cars stream by, filling the air with their poison. I look up at the smog-filled sky. I had seen on the news this morning that today was a stage three smog alert. Governor Reagan was warning residents to limit ‘all but necessary auto travel.’ It doesn’t look like the city got the message.
Vance finally picks up after what feels like ages.
“What took so long?” I ask.
“Oh, it’s Longdale,” Vance says. “He wants to know why your car is still sitting in front of his parent’s house with its guts strewn all over the place.”
“I’ll come by and call a tow truck. Did you tell him that I slept in his bed last night?”
“Yeah, and he doesn’t care. His parents are still gone for at least another week, and he practically lives at Constance’s anyway.”
“Doesn’t she have a studio down in Chinatown?”
“I think it makes him feel chic.”
“Whatever floats his boat,” I say.
“So how did the meeting go?” Vance asks.
“I have the address,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“It looks right to me. Should I give it to you now?”
“Let me get a pen,” he says.
I tell him the address, then wait for him to write it down. “What now?” I ask.
“Quincy and I are going to head over to the San Bernardino County Registrar's Office and do some digging. We’ll meet back at Camton later this afternoon.”
“What time?” I ask.
“It could be a few hours,” Vance says.
“Are you going to need your bike?”
“Quincy has wheels.”
I look at my watch. It’s not even a quarter to ten. My meeting had barely lasted twenty minutes.
“I’ll go take care of this Longdale situation.”
“See you in a few hours.”
I hear the click of the receiver and then the line goes dead.
“Ellis, baby!”
I turn away from the two men hoisting my car onto the back of their tow truck to see Artie Longdale waving at me from his front door.
His long dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail. He jogs out to me in slippers and a bathrobe, grinning widely. Even though it’s still the morning and hardly sunny under the palm-lined drive, he’s still wearing his aviator sunglasses.
He must’ve slept here. I hadn’t noticed his car when I peeled out on Vance’s motorcycle this morning. Of course, I was fairly preoccupied at the time with confronting my lying scumbag of a father.
“I didn’t realize you were here,” I say. “Vance told me you’ve been at Connie’s most of the time.”
He grins and slaps me on the back. “Yeah, well you’ve gotta come back now and then for a fresh change of clothes. Why don’t you come inside?”
I turn to the two guys loading up my car and they wave me on. Following Longdale, I make my way up the circle drive,
The main living space of chez Longdale is nothing like the pool house. Where the former is a well-furnished bachelor pad, the Longdale residence is a bonafide mansion. I glance down, seeing my reflection in the white marble floors. I don’t look so hot.
“So, what happened with your car?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Vandals, probably.”
Longdale shakes his head. “I’ve been telling my parents for ages to get a security guard. But don’t worry about it, I’ll get you fixed up.”
“Longdale, You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.”
Longdale stops in the middle of the entryway. “Ellis, stop being crazy. That happened in front of my house. Which means it’s like they did it to me. So I’m paying for the repair. And before you object, yes, I insist. Besides, you’re practically family.”
“You’ll do what?” I sputter, my voice echoing in the large space.
“I’ll pay for the repair. It’s fine.” He turns, heading for the kitchen. “I’m going to make some coffee. Want some?”
“I’m good,’ I say, following him.
Longdale takes some Folger’s from the cupboard and dumps several large spoonfuls into the coffee maker’s filter.
“You’re all out of coffee in the pool house,” I say.
Longdale shrugs. “I keep telling Vance he can get some from here.”
A television is on in the adjoining family room, and a news reporter is giving the latest update on the impeachment proceedings.
“Ford,” I mutter.
“Ford,” Longdale echoes.
The news show cuts to a clip of the previous night’s town hall address, where a young woman is addressing President Ford over a microphone. “Would you be willing to wave executive privilege, to give the judiciary committee what it says it needs to end any question of your involvement in Watergate?”
“Well Ms. Thomas, as you know, the matter of the judiciary committee’s investigation is now being discussed by Whitehouse. And as I indicated in my state of the Union Address I am prepared to cooperate with the committee in any way consistent with my constitutional responsibility to defend the office of the Presidency against any action which would weaken that office and the ability of future presidents to carry out the great responsibilities that any President would have…”
“What kind of bullshit answer is that?” Longdale asks.
“A total bullshit answer,” I say, checking my watch. It’s almost noon. I don’t know when Vance and Quincy are going to return, but I want to be back when they do. Also, there’s the matter of Bob Carr’s goons and their precious script. I need to read over it before I can hand it off to them, but I’m hoping to god it’s interesting enough to at least get the goons off my back.
“Did you know,” Longd
ale continues, “That people are saying the whole break-in was to turn attention away from an investigation into a Washington sex scandal?”
“Now that I would believe,” I say.
“Honestly,” Longdale says, turning back to me. “What kind of President hires a couple of guys to break in to their opponent's headquarters?”
I shrug as the percolator begins to bubble and hiss but I can’t help but think of Bob Carr.
“You know, Nixon should have gotten the nomination. He would have been a better President than… Ford.”
“Listen, I’ve got some writing to do today. You don’t mind if I hang out in the pool house, do you?”
“Stay as long as you like,” he says. “I heard about Jim kicking you out.”
“Did you talk to him?” I ask.
“Vance told me. He said you were being a real asshole.”
I close my eyes. “Yeah, well he’s right.”
The percolator gives a final hiss. Longdale pulls out the carafe and pours himself a steaming mug. “I’ve got an idea. All that talk about Big Bear at the bar Monday night got Connie thinking about visiting her parents’ place up in Arrowhead.”
My stomach does a double flip. I didn’t know exactly where on the mountain the address was that my father’s secretary had given me, but I knew enough to guess that it was in the general vicinity of Lake Arrowhead.
Vance takes a sip and then continues. “Why don’t we invite everyone up there. You two can smoke a few joints and clear the air. What do you think?”
“I think I’m just going to stay in this weekend,” I say.
Longdale shrugs. “Suit yourself. You sure you don’t want some coffee?”
“I’m good,” I say, as I turn and make my way for the back door.
“Let me know if you change your mind about Arrowhead!” Longdale calls after me. “And stay here as long as you need.”
I nod my thanks, feeling a burden lift off my shoulders. This will work for some time, but it’s not a long-term solution. Jim and I had a good thing going. Until I fucked it up.
I exit onto the back patio and make my way into the pool house. The script is where I left it at the foot of Longdale’s bed.
Dispersion: Book Two of the Recursion Event Saga Page 10
