“Oh shit, Wally,” he whispered, half sobbing, into the phone. “Oh shit. …”
There was dead silence on the other end of the line. Had his own lawyer hung up on him too? “Wally?” he demanded. “Wally?”
“Huh … ? Oh sorry, Jack, I was thinking, trying to remember a name… . Bailor, yeah, that’s it. Garry Bailor!”
Bruners rising voice was a life preserver in a hopeless sea. “Who’s Garry Bailor?” Weller asked hopefully. “What can he do?”
“I’m not sure what he can do,” Brunner said, “but he is an expert in these matters, a ‘deprogrammer,’ he calls himself. He works mostly with parents of kids who have been gobbled up by the Moonies or the Jesus Freaks, I think, puts their heads back together, so to speak. But I think he may have done some work with refugees from Transformationalism too. ”
Weller rose off the couch on a wave of hope. Good Lord, he thought, there’s an expert in fighting these bastards! A hired gun! Who would’ve thought it?
“That’s beautiful, Wally,” he said. “I love you. Can you set up a meeting?”
“I should warn you that this guy is no philanthropist. He’ll cost you. It’ll cost you a hundred bucks just to talk to him.”
“Screw that,” Weller said. “Can you arrange a meeting for tonight?”
“I think so,” Bruner said. “You don’t mind if I’m not there?”
“Huh? I guess not. But why—?”
“Let’s just say that Bailor’s operations walk a very thin legal line,” Bruner said. “In fact, lets say that he walks both sides of it. As a lawyer there are certain things it’s better for me not to know about. If that doesn’t scare you off …”
“Hell, no!” Weller said. Bailor sounded like just what the situation called for, and as far as Weller was concerned, the dirtier he played the better. “Do it, Wally,” he said, realizing that he was committed to going all the way, and feeling better about himself for it than he had all day. If there were anything that one man could do, he was going to do it, and to hell with legal niceties. Benson Allen, watch your ass!
The address that Bruner gave Weller for Garry Bailor turned out to be a seedy-looking apartment house in southeast Hollywood—three stories of motel-like apartments around a grim looking concrete central court. According to directions Weller arrived promptly at eight o’clock and rang the bell marked “Larry Jonas.” He was buzzed into the building, climbed two flights of stairs, and knocked three times at the door to apartment 3C, feeling a bit dubious about all this hugger-mugger.
A wiry man in his late thirties answered the door. A thin, angular face, suspicious eyes like hooded ball bearings, and a strange, anachronistic military haircut, almost a crew, straight out of the 1950s. Again following Wally’s bizarre instructions, Weller handed him a check for one hundred dollars and said, “I’m Jack Weller.”
“Garry Bailor,” the man said, pocketing the check. “Come on in.”
Weller followed Bailor into a small living room furnished in standard Southern-Califomia-motel modern. There was no television set, no radio, and the only thing on the wall was an awful floral painting that obviously came with the apartment. No personal touches at all; the place looked totally unlived in.
“Sit down,” Bailor said. “Have a beer. Included in the price. ”
Weller sat down on the slablike couch as Bailor disappeared into the kitchen and came back with two open cans of Coors. He handed Weller one can, took a swallow from the other, and sat down on the couch beside him.
“Okay, Mr. Weller,” he said. “What’s the mission?”
Weller was beginning to feel this was a mistake—the phony name on the bell, the tacky apartment, the cans of beer, it all added up to a total effect that did not exactly inspire his confidence. “Do you … uh, live here, Mr. Bailor?” he blurted.
“Hell, no, I don’t live in this shithole,” Bailor said. “But in my business you don’t want clients or anyone else to know where you live. It’s smart to keep your personal life in another drawer, so to speak. You can’t help making enemies in this business, you know.”
“Just what is your business?” Weller asked. “Wally didn’t make that too clear. …”
“I’m a deprogrammer,” Bailor said. “You won’t find me in the Yellow Pages. There are a lot of people these days making money by programming people’s minds. I make mine by eradicating that programming to order. The culties brainwash, and I debrainwash, you might say. It keeps the money in circulation.”
Weller found Bailor’s up-front mercenary attitude disquieting. It did not exactly inspire trust. “Uh… what about your qualifications?” he asked. “Are you a trained psychiatrist?” Bailor laughed contemptuously. “There isn’t a shrink in the country who can do what I do,” he said. “Try to find one! My qualifications? My training? My man, reality was my training. I’ve been through them all. I’ve been a Scientology auditor, I’ve worked for Esalon and Arica and EST, I’ve flunkied for all the scams. Each time I thought I was going to make my fortune, and each time I found out that the organization was making the real money and the lower-level people like myself were only marks of a slightly higher quality. So I found myself broke and with experience and training in the various mindfuck games. It was either this or set myself up in my own cult, which seemed like an overcrowded field. There are too many outfits in the programming racket, but deprogramming is a sellers’ market, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“That all sounds pretty cold-blooded.” Weller said.
“It’s a cold-blooded business,” Bailor said. He shrugged. His expression softened slightly; he seemed almost embarrassed. “Of course, there is another side to it,” he said. “As a deprogrammer I sleep better at night knowing that I’m freeing people’s minds instead of enslaving them. They take your bread, and you’re hooked, I take your bread, do a job, and get out of your life. And the money is good enough so that I can do my untroubled sleeping between silk sheets. But you’re not paying your money to hear my life justifications, Mr. Weller. What about your problem?”
Weller found Bailor’s stark candor somehow a little more reassuring, though there was still a certain cynical edge to the scene that made him nervous. “Wally probably told you something about it,” he began.
“Yeah,” Bailor said. “Your wife got programmed by Transformationalism. What I gather, she got a life directive to leave you, and she split. Pretty standard stuff.”
“Standard stuff?” Weller said.
“You think not?” Bailor said. “The Jesus Freaks, the Moonies, Scientology, Transformationalism, Nichiren Shoshu, they all run some variation on this ‘life-directive’ number. Hell, the Communist Party was doing it in the thirties. So relax, you’re not alone; it isn’t all a plot concocted specifically against you.”
“You’ve been successful in this kind of situation before?” Weller asked hopefully. “With Transformationalism?”
“A few times,” Bailor said. “A lot easier with minors, my main business. There you can just have the parents snatch them, and then I kind of get inside the programming and destroy it from within. I mean, you name the cult, I know as much about it as the people working the scam.”
Weller took a big slug of beer, feeling much better now. “So you think you can deprogram Annie?”
“I can deprogram anyone,” Bailor said flatly. “Kids are a snap because you’ve got them in parental custody. With an adult it’s trickier because holding them against their will is kidnapping. So we have several possible approaches in your case. I can pose as a friend and begin the deprogramming on the sly, or you could have your wife declared mentally incompetent and hold her that way, or if none of that works, I might be willing to risk the kidnapping charge and deprogram your wife against her will, trusting that she’ll thank me later. For a substantial extra fee, of course.”
I’d risk that if I had to, Weller thought. He felt quite confident now. This guy really seemed to know his stuff, his self-confidence was impressive, and the fa
ct that he seemed cynical and hard as nails about it might be repulsive but also seemed like the kind of strength that was needed for the task.
“Okay, Mr. Bailor,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve sold me. You’re hired. What do we do now?”
Bailor seemed to measure him with his eyes. “There’s the matter of my fee …” he said.
“How much?”
Bailor looked at Weller speculatively over the top of his beer can. “Sounds like this is going to take a couple of weeks,” he said. “Three grand for the complete deprogramming, fifteen hundred up front and fifteen hundred on successful completion.”
“Jesus,” Weller said, “that’s a lot of money.”
“So is what Transformationalism sucks out of its victims,” Bailor said. “Someone who’s really sucked in can be shelling out a grand a month to them. Besides, I’m in a high-risk business.”
“You’re really serious?”
“I can’t afford not to be.”
Weller sipped at his beer and thought about it. Bailor was the only hope he had, and he seemed like a total pro: cold, hard, confident, and competent. He didn’t have much more than fifteen hundred in the bank, but he was making two thousand a month. It would be tight, but what was the alternative? It’s like being hospitalized for a major illness, he told himself. You can’t afford to do it, but you can’t afford not to.
“All right,” he said. “You win. Three thousand it is. Now what?”
“Well, I’d go with the old-friend technique before we get into anything heavier. So what you do is invite me—”
A chill burst through Weller’s balloon. “Didn’t Wally tell you?” he said.
“Tell me what?”
“That Annie left me. That I don’t know how to get in touch with her.”
Bailor whistled, shook his head, and said, “Uh-oh. Bruner told me she had left you but not that they were holding her incommunicado. This does make life difficult.”
“Oh shit,” Weller said. “I thought you’d know how to handle it. …”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t,” Bailor said. He took a drink of beer, contemplated the ceiling, then looked at Weller. “This isn’t standard,” he said. “Transformationalism usually likes to keep a channel open so they can use the one they’ve got to rope in the frantic spouse. Pleading phone calls, tearful visits, the whole bit.”
“They’ve told me that Annie can’t communicate with me till I’ve been processed to her level,” Weller told him.
Bailor frowned. “Heavy,” he said. “That’s a new one on me. Hmmm … how did you say your wife first came into contact with Transformationalism?”
“At their Celebrity Center in Beverly Hills.”
“Ah!” Bailor said. “This going after the elite is a new twist; none of the other cults have tried it yet. So it looks like you’re getting special treatment. The chain-letter technique among you media types. Hook Jack Weller’s wife, use her to convert Jack Weller, use Jack Weller to convert his producer, build up an ever-widening network in the media. So each link in the chain has personal importance to them, no mass-marketing techniques on this one! A lot like the way the Communists operated in the thirties. …”
“Jesus,” Weller whispered. “But … but what do we do?” Bailor put his feet up on the coffee table, finished his beer, put it down. “They’ve called the game,” he said. “You’ve got to go along with them, let them process you long enough for you to play a true convert credibly. Long enough so they’ll let Annie get in touch with you. At which point I can take over.” A sour bubble of beer burst in the back of Weller’s throat. Jesus Christ, he thought, back to square one again! But now, sitting in the tacky living room with his last possible hope, the narrowness of his choice was finally sinking in. Either I give up and admit that there’s nothing I can do to stop these bastards from taking my wife away from me, or I play Bailor’s game with them. Either I let them get away with it, or I fight them. Fuck it! he thought. So I blow another few hundred bucks— it’s gonna cost me three grand anyway—and let the assholes run their stupid numbers on me. I should be a good enough actor to pull it off. What am I afraid of? What choice do I really have?
“Okay,” he said. “If that’s the way we have to play it, that’s the way we have to play it. ”
Bailor eyed him narrowly. “Look,” he said, “you’d better understand what you’re getting into. These people aren’t stupid, and they’re going to know exactly where you’re coming from. They’re going to know why you’re doing it, they won’t believe in any instant change of heart. They’re going to use all sorts of techniques on you, and they know what they’re doing. They’re going to know you’re resisting and they’re going to know you’re trying to con them into believing that you’re becoming a true convert against your will. You’ve got to convince them that they’re converting you without actually being converted while they do their damndest to make it real. It’s a heavy game you’re getting into. ”
“I am a director, after all,” Weller said. “I do know how to handle actors, which means I’ve got to know a few things about acting myself.” Then, much more uncertainly: “You don’t think I can handle it?”
Bailor thought about it for long moments. “Maybe you can,” he finally said. “You being experienced in the acting game. And of course, you’ll have a session every week with me. You tell me what numbers they’re running, and I feed you the proper responses for a true convert. And, hopefully, erase any programming that might be taking hold in your mind.”
He grinned at Weller. “You might say I’ll be your director,” he said. “That should be interesting.”
Weller smiled wanly. “Ready when you are, C. B.” he said. “Uh … now the matter of money. …”
“I thought we had settled that,” Weller said.
“That was before I found out we had to get to your wife before I could do my stuff,” Bailor said. “Now there’s more of my time involved …”
“Don’t you have any heart?” Weller snapped. “Are you a total mercenary?”
Bailor laughed. “Not a total mercenary,” he said. “But I’m not in this racket for my health, either, believe me! Tell you what, though. You give me the fifteen hundred up front, and then you pay me a hundred a week until we get to Annie, and for that, you have my unlimited services. Could be worse, right? Cheaper than a shrink …”
“I guess so,” Weller admitted. He was depressed by the growing hole forming in his pocket, by the way Bailor rubbed his nose in the fact that he was hiring a money-grubbing professional, not a committed ally. But there was also a certain elation in the sense of dedication that came from the total commitment of whatever resources he had. At least I’m fucking well going to do something! he thought. He felt a strange new sense of vitality, almost as if he were getting the chance to direct that forever illusive first feature. How, he wondered, could such a good feeling come out of such rotten circumstances?
“When do we start?” he asked.
“You might as well call them now and set it up,” Bailor said. “Then I’ll brief you on how to handle your first session.” He studied Weller, and for the first time Weller sensed a certain unpaid human concern. “You’re sure you want to go through with this?” Bailor said. “You’re sure your marriage is worth this much to you?”
Weller sighed. He took a slug of beer. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean, how could I five with myself if I didn’t? And to tell the truth, the fact that it scares me only makes me want to do it more. I mean, the fact that these bastards can do what they’ve done and then even have me thinking that maybe they’re too heavy to fight… That really makes my blood boil. You know what I mean?”
“Who could know better?” Bailor said dryly. “Believe me, Jack, I understand where you’re coming from a lot better than you do.”
“Yeah, maybe you do,” Weller said. He paused, hesitated, then went to the phone and dialed the number of the Los Angeles Transformation Center.
Four
/> Weller walked into a beige room with about twenty folding chairs arranged in rows facing a large video playback unit at the front. A dozen people were already seated, mostly in uneasy isolation, waiting for the introductory lecture to begin. A few of them were middle-aged, a few well dressed, but mostly they were in their twenties and thirties and looked like either counterculture refugees or lonely people working dead-end jobs. Except for the fancy video equipment, the atmosphere was tacky and de-energized, and from what Weller had seen of the Los Angeles Transformation Center, only the executive country on the eighth floor escaped this aura of sleaze. Yet Benson Allen’s opulent office and the expensive video equipment gave Weller the feeling that the dinginess and lack of flash here might be a carefully calculated effect.
He sat down in the middle of the room and waited. He had forced himself to go to work, slogged through a slow day’s shooting like a zombie, grabbed a quick hamburger at a Denny’s, and then driven here, feeling the nervous tension building in his gut. Now his nerves were twanging like piano wire. Benson Allen had been totally neutral on the phone when he set up the appointment, and this lack of any overt reaction at all to his quick turnabout made Weller more uptight than anything else could have. He wondered if that too might be a calculated effect, and, thinking that, began to wonder if he wasn’t getting a wee bit paranoid.
Finally a blond young woman wearing the white blouse and black slacks that seemed to be an informal Transformationalist uniform entered the room and stood in front of the video console. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Los Angeles Transformation Center.” she said. “You’re all here to find out if Transformationalism is the answer for you.” She smiled a plastic smile, but her eyes broadcasted a fanatic sincerity. “By the time we’re finished tonight, you’ll be able to judge for yourself, and I hope you’ll all choose to join us in the greatest of all adventures: the exploration of the beyond within.”
The Mind Game Page 7
