by Todd Grimson
“My mother’s gone crazy, I don’t know what’s going on with her anymore … and my father …”
“What about you?” Lisa said, willing herself to remain unmoved, to forget what she’d seen of Lou or some vestige of Lou.
“I contributed, unknowingly, to my mother’s problem. I was making this piece of conceptual art. It came to life, trashed my mother’s gallery, and blew up. I went to jail for construction of an ‘infernal machine’ … that law’s still on the books, I swear. Since then … these bikers have been hunting me. Very strange guys. They broke into the apartment and shattered my roommate’s legs. He’ll never be the same … and I know they got him by mistake, they were looking for me.”
“What’s happened to your father, then?” Lisa asked, feeling very nervy and brazen.
“He’s missing. This tattooed girl bought tickets for both of them to take an ocean cruise; she and some Mexican cleaned out his stuff … he’s never been seen again. I have the feeling that he’s dead. I can’t explain it. But … the tattooed girl just might be the same one my mother was seen with a few times. There’s this guy named Boro who has a girlfriend who fits the description. He has something to do with it all … he’s some kind of a gangster, I think he’s South American. Tell me, when you were with my dad, near the end, was he taking any unusual drugs?”
“No. Not that I know of.”
“I’ve heard that he promised you some position, and then couldn’t, or wouldn’t, come through. That’s right around the time when everything started to go to hell.”
“I went to Brazil,” Lisa said.
“That’s right, I heard that. Why did you leave town?”
Lisa’s eyes flashed darkly at him. His “learned” dopey naturalism annoyed her—also, she didn’t believe that he really cared so much about his family. He seemed unaffectionate, a solipsist….
“My father is in Brazil,” she said. “I left L.A. because Lou had fucked me over, and I was disappointed … he’d used me, and I didn’t like it. I should have seen it coming.”
“Promises aren’t worth anything here,” Jonathan said, like this would be news. “Someone who looks like you, people tell you what you want to hear.”
Lisa waited several beats, stopping herself from flaring up. Finally she said, “What do you want?”
“What do I want?” His shaved skull and face made him look—with his dull, glazed, intelligent eyes—like a madman in Charenton, the asylum the Marquis de Sade had ended up in under Napoleon, or like a convict escaped from Devil’s Island, a martyr to some cause. He was playing a part. “I want to find out what happened, and why.”
“I don’t understand,” said Lisa. “It doesn’t sound like any of it’s connected. What do you think you’re looking for?”
Jonathan just sat there, faintly smiling, like he knew something. Lisa didn’t think he did. She pulled up her knees, hugging them, and from the curiosity now on his face and the direction of his eyes, she could tell he had noticed the tattoos on the backs of her fingers. The fact that he was surprised, that she could see him react a little, oddly pleased her. He couldn’t see the others, and he wouldn’t.
“What about this guy Boro, the gangster? Did Lou ever say anything about him to you?”
Lisa shook her head.
“Could he have owed him money?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t talk about money.”
It didn’t appear that Jonathan believed this.
“I’m going to go see this guy, talk to him.”
“Don’t do it,” Lisa advised.
“Why not? What do you know about him?”
“I used to buy drugs from someone who knew him … and they said that he’s dangerous, and crazy—he doesn’t like white people at all.”
“You know more about him than you’re telling me.” Jonathan said.
“Just that he’s dangerous.” Lisa was uncomfortable now, and it probably showed.
“Those bikers work for him, don’t they?”
This was a distraction, an out. “Yeah,” she said, “I heard about something like that. He’s a bad guy.”
“My mother said that some boys on motorcycles harassed her and Dad on their way home from a party … that was when I was in jail, before I got bond. The next thing I heard, she was paying to have a giant moth painted on the side of the house. It all fits together. Sure.”
“I don’t think so,” Lisa said. “Lou would have told me. If I was going to guess anything, I’d guess … have you heard about the invitation-only celebrity whorehouse in Bel Air? Lou had connections there,” she said, hating herself, aware that he could connect the dots here, but it was all she had left to keep him from getting eaten or stuffed.
Jonathan looked confident, like it had been tough but he’d Philip Marlowed her, he’d gotten a hot lead. He stood up, excited, in his leather pants. She could smell his sweat. Yes, she’d been there, she admitted, forlornly. No, she didn’t know the address. A limo had picked her up and brought her home.
He didn’t press her too much. Obviously he had some new associations to work on. He left, more or less smirking at her as he said goodbye.
SIXTEEN
Monday morning, when Lisa opened her front door to go to the studio, she found a stack of about fifty Confidential Weeklys on her porch, next to what she discovered was a script by someone she didn’t know. Great, she was on the cover of the rag, with Popcorn, in a small box down at the side. Slow week for invented dish. Her mouth wasn’t open, at least. They liked to catch you eating pizza if they could. She tossed the script in too. She knew she’d never read it. She probably wouldn’t even open it.
She was a little bit late to the studio. Rosa Liszt and Dario Boccioni were waiting for her. What had Jules said about having a meeting this morning with Robert Hand? Doing a sequel was an ideal way to break in out here.
They talked about visual concepts, going over the storyboards, seeing where a crane shot seemed like a good idea, until they broke for lunch, when someone came by and asked Lisa if she could drop by Tami Spiegel’s office for a minute. There was plenty of time to get to her lunch date with Paul Bancroft, so she said sure.
Sort of a long walk. The assistant showed her in—it was like a cozy art gallery in here. Tami Spiegel herself was short, radiating energy and unscrupulous, cagy power. She was the “right-hand man” to Robert Hand. Lisa didn’t think this could be anything good, but she was interested in the art on the walls.
“Is this a Sigmar Polke?” she asked.
Tami was put on the defensive, made a little uncomfortable, but in a few minutes she remembered who she was and what she was here for.
“Everyone loves your work, and everyone loves what you’ve done
with the script, ” she began. She went on in this insincere vein for a while longer, then began talking about how many people would be involved in the production, the special effects. “You might not be ready for this yet. There’s some feeling that you might be much happier doing a more intimate, personal film. This kind of project is more an assembly-line thing, the director is like a foreman, making sure all the bolts get put in the right place.”
Lisa didn’t say anything. She was on the verge of saying something about Eric Lemongrass, but she refrained. Nothing she could say would make any difference. The decision had already been reached. She tried to make it easy for Tami Spiegel to get it over with. She smiled, which actually seemed to displease Tami, who knew why?— Tami really frowned. Maybe she was afraid Lisa didn’t think she had enough weight.
Anyway, Lisa was fired. She thought she’d taken it well, but by the time she was driving down Wilshire, having no idea where she was headed, what her destination was … she realized that the transaction had indeed left her in kind of a daze. She felt like crying, suddenly, but tried to control it, behind new sunglasses—the traffic was too thick to cry and drive at the same time.
Oh, she was OK. She’d seen it coming, in a way. She just hadn’t admitted it to herse
lf. Jules Brandenberg might even have fought for her this morning with Robert Hand. She wondered if he’d call her or if he was too embarrassed. He’d have to talk to her: He’d put money into Manoa, City of Gold.
Sure. She had a picture, even if it didn’t yet have a distributor, even if it felt dubious to her, like she’d been used as a medium to transmit some inscrutable message from the past.
She’d missed the lunch with Paul Bancroft. That was all right. He might not have shown up—someone might have called him. Lisa wondered who Eric Lemongrass’s agent was. If it was Nehi Laughton … no, that wasn’t likely. Eric had gotten hot only in the last few weeks; before that, he’d been a mediocrity for years.
She pulled into the parking lot of a Burger King. She parked and turned off the engine. Why not? She’d have a chocolate shake, like David Lynch used to. Distracted, once she got inside, amongst all the skateboard kids and Hispanic families and weird street people, she impulsively, when it came her turn, ordered a Whopper to have with the shake. Today Lisa wore a cinnamon-colored long-sleeved silk top, cream cotton pleated trousers, and sandals—she sat down in a plastic booth. The Whopper tasted much better than she expected.
Maybe she was just in the mood. It occurred to her that she missed having a boyfriend; in this case, the concept was somewhat disconnected from sex. (Tavinho was the best possibility, but he was so far away.)
“Can I join you?”
She looked up. It was a rocker-type guy, denim vest and a lot of hair, he must have imagined the hair and a bold manner made him attractive, he was coming on to her—what was she doing in a Burger King, anyway? She said, “I’m just leaving,” and stood up and left. The advance worried her. He said something else but she hardly listened, just shaking her head.
From a phone booth in the parking lot she called Christine.
“Hello?”
“Chris, this is Lisa. I got fired.”
“Really? Those fuckers,’ Christine said emotionally, making Lisa glad she had called. “It doesn’t sound like you’re at home.”
“No, I’m in a phone booth. Oh shit.” The jerk had followed her outside. What did he want? She had no desire to talk to him, to listen to two words. He was blond, with red lips. It would be nice if his nose started bleeding.
It did.
“Christine, I’ll talk to you later.”
“Are you OK?”
“Yeah.”
The blood was streaming down. The guy was dabbing with some napkins, realizing no doubt that he was rendered temporarily uncool. Lisa thought of making him bleed from his ears, but that would be too much. She stayed impassive, sunglasses down, walking past him, managing not to wickedly laugh until safe in her car.
SEVENTEEN
“This one makes you see movies in your head. TVC15. You know, like the song.”
Lisa had never heard of this song. Joey, upon seeing an expression of interest, held up another vial of the same pills. Lisa nodded and
asked for instructions on dosage, possible side effects … it was pronounced TVC-one-five. An oldie. A David Bowie song.
The longer one studied Joey, the less resemblance there was to Daryl Hannah in Splash, but Joey had a sweet smile nonetheless. There had been a call on Lisa’s machine from the head of props, asking about the gun. Lisa paid Joey, and Joey left.
Lisa took the TVC15. It was a day to blot out, to forget about, to leave behind.
An hour later, she was lying on the couch, communing with Caz, when she became aware of someone at the door. It was Casablanca, with the videocassette of his last fight. He seemed shy … and yet they had something in common—Boro.
“Watch it with me,’ Lisa said. “Tell me what you were thinking.”
“OK,” Miguel agreed. The drug was making Lisa euphoric, and she could easily have become sexually aroused. It didn’t seem like it would be a good idea, however, to seduce this boxer, no matter how beautiful his slender body was. The Boro connection made her wary that all might not be as it seemed. His cock might turn into a serpent or something, bite her inside. Meanwhile, it was an interesting fight. Linton “The Undertaker” Minniefield, left-handed, with his bald head and ripped torso, seemed like a very tough character—Miguel had been brave just to be in the ring with this guy, much less mixing it up, trading punches, the announcers kept saying he should jab and move, if he got into a slugging match he’d end up on the deck.
“I don’t know why they say that,” Miguel commented. “I’ve always had power. I’ve put guys down with either hand.”
There was an unmistakable little throb of excitement in his voice as he watched himself on the screen. It was the fifth round. The crowd was roaring. It was definitely an action fight.
“Do you know what an uppercut is? Watch for the uppercut when he gets me on the ropes. It looks like he’s scoring, but I’m catching most of those on my arms.”
“God.” She grabbed his arm. “You’re not hurt here? Jesus, ow.”
“Now,” he said, and on the screen his right hand in its red glove hit Minniefield perfectly, and Minniefield fell forward past Casablanca into the ropes. Somehow, at the count of eight, he got to his feet. When he nodded and said he was OK, the ref gave in to the howling bloodlust of the mob and let it continue. There was just over one minute left in the round.
Minniefield tried to hold, to cover up; it seemed almost unnecessarily
cruel of Miguel to shake himself free and nail the Undertaker with his right, a straight right, then a left hook and another right— Minniefield fell down again, and they stopped the fight. Miguel, on TV, jumped up into the air.
“He’s very tough,” he said now, his eyes shining. “You’re going to come see me fight on Thursday, aren’t you? Whoever wins, he fights the champion. This other guy, Rudy Washington, “The Hammer,” he’s undefeated. They pick him three to one. It’s at the Forum, it’s on ESPN. OK? I’ll see you there?”
“All right,” Lisa said. She had never been to a live fight before. Miguel’s excitement was infectious. She was scared for him. He sensed this and felt more confident around her now.
“After I win, we’ll go out,” he said. “When you’re in training, you need all your strength. You never know.” He kissed her. She was unresisting. He could have fucked her, but he was afraid it would kill his legs.
When he was gone, she played the piano for a while. Caz sat on her lap, which wasn’t the greatest arrangement in the world, but he insisted, he wanted to be touching her at all times, sensing her life.
The phone rang, and she let the machine take it; then, when she heard Christine’s voice, she rushed to get to it while Christine was still on the line.
“I’m here,” she said.
“Do you want me to come over?” asked Christine. “Oriole’s out with his buddy Josh, and I thought—”
“Yeah, come over.”
TVC15 wasn’t yet manifesting any unusual effects, beyond making her feel languid and … “loved.” Confident she could deal with the hazards of the world, that everything would work out for the best. When she closed her eyes, she saw some scene in slow motion, the same one again and again. A village in the Alps.
Then Christine was bringing her a glass of iced tea. Christine said, “Why is being a Cassandra seen as bad? She was right Right about the fall of Troy and right about the murder of Agamemnon. But when people say ‘being a Cassandra,’ they mean someone prophesying doom … out of a psychological compulsion.”
“I know,” Lisa said, utterly tranquil. “She foresaw her own death.”
“Can I put your new film in the VCR?” Christine asked. “Or are you sick of it right now?”
“No, it seems different every time. Put it in.” She explained about TVC15, and Christine shook her head. But about halfway through the film she slipped a pill into her mouth. The drug was from Japan, based on the chemical abstract of some plant from the Yucatan. This synthetic version was much milder, though, Joey had said.
“I dreamed this film,” Lisa sa
id. “Boro used me … I can’t explain it right now, but it came through me … no actors, no camera, no crew.”
“I thought something seemed weird,” Christine said. “It looks like you, though … like your drawings, and those color photographs you did that one time. And, obviously, some of the paintings you like.”
“Or that have made an impression on me, like Bosch. Roy’s dead, you know. He was dead before I ever left for Brazil.”
Christine, sitting on the rug, seemed willing to believe this all might be true.
“It’s so bizarre,” she murmured softly.
“I might be able to do it again,” said Lisa, lying on her side, nearly asleep. “How?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The film was over. They both fell asleep. It was a comfort to Lisa to have Christine sleeping so near.
Asleep, Lisa rose and went to her friend. It wasn’t right that she should be on the floor. She took Christine’s hand and led her, weight-lessly, to the bedroom. They rested, breathing regularly, facing each other, in their underwear, knees drawn up, like an advertisement in Mademoiselle.
Then Lisa, in curiosity, feeling secure, went into the front room and pulled back the rug, revealing the suspected trapdoor. Unworried, she pulled it open and descended, going down the ladder into the secret room.
As expected, there were candles burning all over, and there was the long-awaited jaguar couch. Black markings on soft white. A hanged man dangled, swaying almost imperceptibly off in the shadows, but Lisa paid no attention to him. She did not care who he might be.
She lay down on the couch, and it seemed to receive her, she went right through it, into a white stone chamber high up in a pyramid, dazzlingly illuminated by new sunlight, virgin sunlight— she moved slowly, to a different rhythm, she knew exactly what she had to do. She was dressed in elaborate ceremonial regalia of quetzal feathers that shaded from azure into cerise into brightest red, returning to yellow-gold like marigolds, there were marigold petals scattered all over the altar, copal incense was burning, and in a different rhythm, slowly but with no sense of delay, filling each moment like a dance … she pierced her tongue, the pain bit her, her mind filled up with it like smoky cloudy swirls, she was proud of how the ritual moved her hands, this force soaked in through the atmosphere, moved her, made her blood beat into the bowl, such beautiful red, there was no red to compare….
