“Joanie my dear, you’re still looking for the Mark of the Beast on my forehead, after all these years. The only card that consistently shows up for me is the Fool. Now, Holly, have a seat.” Art gestured for Holly to sit at the end of the sofa next to Amy and then brought a leather wing chair over and sat next to them.
“Those are the strangest-looking cards I have ever seen,” said Holly, peering at a picture of haughty woman on a sled pulled by a leopard, all angles like shards of glass.
“The set was designed and commissioned by Aleister Crowley,” Joanie said.
“Who is that?” asked Holly.
“The most brilliant psychopath of the twentieth century. A nasty man,” said Art. “I have no taste for anything he produced except these brilliant images.”
“Art, you have every book he ever wrote in your library,” Joanie said.
“Of course. It’s necessary to explore the darkest corners of the human heart. The path to wellness must always begin with recognition of sickness.”
George put out his hand, palm forward, and intoned solemnly, “A riddle.” The party looked toward George expectantly. He wore a black silk shirt buttoned to the throat. “What did Madame Blavatsky get when she ate some bad pork?” He suppressed a smirk as he looked around for an answer.
“Uh-oh,” Art said. “Watch out.”
“Tricky Gnosis,” George burst out gleefully.
Everybody groaned and then burst out in laughter. Holly had no idea what they were laughing at or what they were talking about as they chatted on about Theosophists and Yeats and the Golden Dawn, about the Platonic Ideals and Aldous Huxley.
The conversation was interrupted by a small Hispanic woman carrying a tray. She silently placed it upon the table, looked to Joanie for further instructions, and left the room.
“Okay,” said Joanie, “who would like some tea?”
Tea was poured, the cards put away, and the room was silent for a few moments, except for the murmurs of “sugar only,” “yes, that’s perfect,” and “thank you.” Holly took tea and several cookies. She felt comfortable and yet apprehensive, as if something were in the air that everyone was aware of except her.
⍫
Only an hour earlier, after the lecture in Beverly Hills, Art had suggested to Holly that she mingle, and then he led her to a group that was conversing in the lobby. Art merely presented her and said, “Holly. New.” The others introduced themselves. Art told her he would be back soon and disappeared.
A tall man with a gray beard held out his hand and said, “Welcome to SOL.” A student-type in a corduroy jacket told her she was in for the ride of her life if she stuck around.
“I’m not so sure I will stick around,” Holly replied. “I’m certainly not going to spend fifteen hundred dollars to find out what’s next.”
“Holly, what are your aspirations?” asked Frank, the man with the beard.
“I’m an actress.”
“Since you’ve not yet graced the cover of People magazine, I imagine you have some measure of success yet to achieve ahead of you, yes?” He looked at her patiently, she thought, and did not seem to expect an answer.
“Holly.” It was the guy in the corduroy, Nick. “How would you feel if you had a suspicion that everything you think you know was wrong? Everything you know about how the world works, about how other people work, what they think, what they are. Like a flat earther just beginning to figure out that something wasn’t right.” He grinned.
“The point,” continued Frank, “is that people come here because they feel stuck in the problem that is their life, but are unwilling to admit that, at the most fundamental level, their thinking is the problem.”
“Yeah,” said Nick, “who wants to give up their thinking? It’s all we know.”
“Yet what you know may be entirely false,” added Frank, “and what you think you know generates what you call reality. Talk about staying stuck. There’s no way out of the box.”
Holly looked around for Art. She wished he would come back, yet she was angry with him for abandoning her to this onslaught.
“I just came here out of curiosity. Who said I was stuck?”
“Oh yes, the retreat into ‘I’m okay, my life is fine, I’m just auditing this deal like I’m auditing the rest of life.’” Nick was derisive. “Okay, a riddle. What do you call a sound that you’ve heard ever since you were born?”
“I have no idea,” Holly retorted.
“Silence. You would call it silence because it would be the threshold below which you can never hear anything new. The sound of the chatter of your own thinking is what you think is silence. Think of the possibilities of what you’re missing.”
“It all seems very arrogant,” Holly told him. “You’re all talking to me like I’m an infant.”
“That’s the point, Holly.” Frank was lighting a pipe as he spoke. “I was, figuratively speaking, an infant before I did this work. Tenured professor of philosophy at a university, three published books, lecture tours, educated at Harvard and Cambridge, and yet I was an infant. So we’re not here to insult you. We’re here to invite you to step through the door, make a commitment, trust someone, and let life become a constant surprise.”
At that point Art had returned and, taking her by the elbow, guided her to the exit. She turned to see the group smiling beatifically at her. Frank gestured a goodbye with his pipe.
“Do you know who that is?” Art asked her.
“Not a clue,” she replied, biting her tongue at the choice of words.
“That is Frank Dixon. His book is number one on the New York Times bestseller list.”
“Yeah, so he can afford to blow fifteen hundred bucks.”
“Actually, Holly, he finished the book after completing the work in SOL. He came here three years ago in a suicidal depression, incapable of facing his computer screen.”
They were outside. Art’s green Jaguar was parked right in front of the theater—she hadn’t noticed it earlier.
“Holly,” Art turned toward her and placed his hands on her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length, “I’d like you to come with me to visit some very special people. Will you join me now?”
⍫
Holly sipped her tea and reflected on the drive through the narrow, twisting roads of Stone Canyon, past the huge walled and gated estates, and up into the hills. They had finally come to a wrought-iron gate set in ivy-covered brick walls. Art had pushed a button and announced himself; the gate swung open and they continued up a driveway that was at least a city block long. There was a fountain in the middle of a circular drive in front of the house.
“Holly,” Art broke into her thoughts like a wake-up call. “Still with us?”
“I’m sorry. I was thinking how lovely the house is.”
“Holly, we’re all going to stand up now, and I’d like you to join us.” Art reached for her hand. She put down the cup of tea and stood.
The others joined in a circle and Joanie took her other hand.
“We are here to save our lives,” Joanie intoned.
“We are here to save our lives,” the others repeated.
“We must trust,” said Joanie.
“We must trust,” they echoed.
“Surrender,” Joanie’s hand gave Holly’s a little squeeze.
“Surrender,” she joined in the reply.
Art broke from the group and brought the ottoman that matched the wing chair into the middle of their circle.
“Holly, I’d like you to stand up on this for us,” he told her as he offered his hand in support.
“Why?” she asked, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Because this is the beginning. Your entry into the work. I absolutely guarantee your safety.” He took her hand and helped her step up on the ottoman.
She stood awkwardly, feeling naked
and exposed. The others moved so that Art and Diane were in front of her and to her left, George and Amy to her right, and Joanie, who stood back a few paces, was facing her.
“Now, Holly, if you would close your eyes,” Art suggested softly.
“Holly,” Joanie began, “I am going to take you on a guided meditation. When I tell you to fall, I want you to fall straight forward. Keep your eyes closed—we will catch you. There is absolutely nothing to be afraid of.”
“I don’t want to do this,” Holly replied, but she kept her eyes shut and made no move to step down.
“I hear you,” said Joanie. “You don’t want to do this. I’ve got that. Now, you are walking up a road through a beautiful mountain forest. The trees are tall and full and green against the clear blue sky. It is very peaceful. Ahead, to your right, is an old stone wall. It is about ten feet tall. There is a castle beyond it. Something is very wrong. The castle is being demolished.”
Holly stood still, actually seeing the trees and the wall, and felt a sudden anxiety that danger approached.
“You begin to walk more quickly. Over the wall you glimpse a monster. It is half beast and half machine. It has destroyed the castle and is tearing down the wall. You begin to run. Without looking back, you know it is chasing you. The road ends at a meadow; you run through tall grass and flowers. When you look back, you see that where the beast has run there is only scorched desert. You run to the end of the meadow—the edge of a cliff is before you. You look down and can see only a shimmering golden fog. Behind you is destruction. It is time, Holly, to jump.”
Holly, standing with her arms outstretched like a highdiver, eyes still closed, shook her head in a small tremor and said, “I can’t.”
“Why not?” asked Art.
“I just can’t.”
“Holly, tell me what you’re feeling right now,” he persisted.
“I’m feeling . . . panic. Anger. I feel like this is some of the silliest bullshit I’ve ever heard.”
“I hear you, but that is not a feeling. Stay with your feelings, Holly. Where are you feeling this panic?”
She concentrated for a moment. “In my neck.”
“Where else?” Art prodded.
“In my jaw and my shoulders. And I have a headache.”
“A headache. Where is your headache?”
“In my head, goddammit, where else do you get a headache?” Holly snapped.
“In the front of your head?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“About an inch in from my forehead.”
“How wide is it. How thick?” Art persisted.
“It goes from temple to temple. Maybe an inch thick.”
“Does it have a shape?”
“Yes, it’s oval.” Holly was entirely inwardly focused.
“Does it have a color?” Art’s voice was gentle but persuasive.
“Yes. It’s orange. No, it’s changing. It’s bluish.”
“How big is it?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s getting smaller.”
“How about your jaw, your neck and shoulders?”
Holly moved her shoulders and turned her head left and right. “They feel okay. I’m okay.”
“And your head? Do you still have a headache?”
“No. No, I feel fine.” She flexed her fingers as though they had just begun working.
“Okay,” Joanie resumed, “you are standing at the edge of the cliff. There is nothing but destruction behind you. Ahead is a golden mist. All you need to do is fall into it. There is nothing to lose. It is quite beautiful.”
With no intention of cooperating, Holly felt herself pitch forward and then, after the briefest second of flight, she was picked out of the air by five pairs of hands and gently lowered to the floor. A sob welled up from deep in her gut; it came out like a bellow but she didn’t care. She had a vision, first of gemstones glinting from the bottom of a mountain stream, then of a child, herself at six years old. She was looking at a man squatting, pointing a camera at her. She saw herself through the camera, and then the picture tilted to a crazy angle. A brilliant light flashed.
Holly lay on the floor and wept, effortlessly and unrestrained.
The others knelt around her, hands still on her body. After a moment she turned over and sat up.
“Holly,” Art began, “what did you see?”
“Jewels. Jewels in water.”
“Ah. Very nice. What else?”
“Me,” she said. “I saw myself. Someone was taking a picture of me. But then I was looking through the camera at myself when I was little.”
“Yes?” Art encouraged. He handed her a handkerchief.
“Then the picture tilted.” She cocked her head at an angle. “I think I fell over.”
“Who fell?”
“I must have.”
“Who fell?” Art commanded.
“Daddy fell.”
“Why did he fall?” Art asked, almost in a whisper.
“He fell because he was drunk.” She cried and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.
“Yes,” said Art, as he lightly brushed the bruise under her eye, “Daddy fell because he was drunk.”
CHAPTER 11
⍫
Jeff drove up Santa Monica Canyon to San Vicente, heading east toward Pop’s. His aging Audi was nearly out of gas and the registration had expired, but he figured he could fill the tank later.
It was half past ten and the lot at Pop’s was full—Thursday night was ladies’ night. He parked in the market lot next door and walked back to the entrance of the club. There was a line at the door, people waiting to get their IDs checked and pay to get in. Jeff walked past them to the door.
“Hey, Jeff, come on in.” The bouncer at the door was a big guy, looked like a football player, clean cut and all-American. He also moved—through Gary—a lot of coke for Jeff.
“Hey, Freddie, thanks a lot.” They ran through a series of arcane handshakes that Jeff always hated. “Is Gary here?”
“Yeah, he’s in back at one of the tables. Better hurry in if you still want to eat.” Freddie had seen Jeff race in for dinner at the last moment dozens of times. “Hey, man, is anything happening?” They were still clasped in the last stage of the handshaking routine, and Freddie pulled in to ask this discreetly.
“Maybe, man, check with Gary later on, okay?” Jeff moved toward the inside of the club.
Pop’s was a fixture in Brentwood, a sports bar with a large regular crowd and a magnet for out-of-towners. Most of the regulars were college types or young professionals—a straight crowd, at least in appearance. It was packed tonight, the dart board games already jammed, people three deep around the main bar, and the sawdust floor crowded with people standing, holding their drinks and yelling to be heard.
He pushed his way through the crowd toward the back room, which was darker and slightly less crowded. He saw Gary sitting alone at a booth.
“Hey, man, what’s happening?” Gary gestured a greeting with his Heineken bottle. He had long red hair and a handlebar moustache and looked out of place in the club; he belonged in a rougher place, with pool tables and “Sweet Home Alabama” blaring from a jukebox.
Jeff slid into the booth. “The joint is jumpin’,” he grinned. Already, the night seemed full of possibilities. “So what’s up at your place?”
Gary shook his head, rolled his eyes, and grinned back. “Skippy showed up with the twinbos. I figured I’d let them stay. You know, bird in the hand, right?”
The twinbos were Jeri and Sherry, the twin bimbos. “Shit, Gary, they make Lilah look like Marie Osmond.” Jeff told Gary about the night before at Lilah’s. A waitress came and he ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a bottle of Kirin.
“Listen, Gary, I got something for you, but I don’t w
ant things to get fucked up.”
“Hey, no problema,” Gary said. “I got it under control.”
“Listen,”—Jeff moved in closer to Gary so he wouldn’t have to speak loudly—“I’m going to lay everything I got on you. Can you move it by Saturday?”
“How much is there,” Gary asked.
“An even half-pound, some weighed ounces and a bag full of Xanax,” Jeff told him. “Just move it by Saturday, don’t front any of it, and don’t cut it in case I have to take it back. Okay?”
Gary said “no problema” again just as the waitress came. Jeff started on the burger.
“Best fuckin’ burger in town,” he said with his mouth full.
“No shit,” Gary said as he ordered another beer.
When he had finished the burger and the last of the fries, Jeff drained his bottle of beer and motioned toward the door. “Let’s head out.”
They went to Gary’s Mustang, which was parked around the corner, and drove to the market parking lot. Gary pulled up next to the Audi. Jeff got out, took a quick look around the lot, and got in his car. He handed the bag through the window as Gary leaned across to grab it.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jeff saw a dark-green Ford sedan pull into the parking lot from the side street exit. It had a big antenna, blacked-in wheel-wells instead of hubcaps, and two men in the front seat. The vehicle turned so that he looked straight into its headlights.
“Shit. GND,” Jeff said, and he released the bag.
He heard it land with a rustling sound. Gary was still stretched across the passenger seat of his car, hand reaching out the window. “Fuck,” said Jeff, “what’s the matter with you?”
The Ford pulled into the spot right next to Jeff and the doors opened. Of all the possibilities to tangle with on the street, Gang and Narcotics Division was the worst. If they smelled fear they knew they didn’t have to treat you like an ordinary citizen.
“So, you going to the beach tomorrow?” Gary asked, loud enough for his voice to carry over to the cops.
Jeff yelled back, “Yeah, I’ll be at the pier playing volleyball at eight,” and he started his car. He heard the Ford’s doors slam shut. He froze, wondering if they would knock on the passenger window or come around to his side where the bag was in plain view on the ground. He heard Gary’s car start.
Trust Me Page 5
