The Devil's Analyst

by Dennis Frahmann

  Even now after so many years, the smell of trash evoked in Danny a thrill of anticipation. Rotting lettuce held the same power as some expensive cologne filled with the rarest of scents. The memories were powerful, like those afternoons combining the lingering odor of trash and the close-up smell of Oliver’s sweat and sex.

  Their afternoon activities became routine so fast. Oliver reeled him in with all the expertise of a master fisherman, playing on both Danny’s trepidation and his anticipation, until Danny was flopping around the truck like a fresh trout. The moment Oliver first pulled Danny’s hand over to touch him was the point that firmly hooked Danny.

  “Danny, are you listening?” Now Cynthia was looking at him and demanding a response. “Do you know how Oliver could be connected to all of this?”

  Danny understood he should tell Cynthia about his past with Oliver. All he really had to do was hand her Lopez’s novel. The Dumping Ground was practically a day-by-day diary of Oliver and Danny’s teenage affair. But the book’s accuracy extended only to what they did and the progress of events as the summer went on—the steady escalation from touching to kissing to oral sex to the day that Danny was bent over the tailgate of the truck, his nose inches from stink of the trash, his virginity being pounded away. Lopez captured all of those transgressions.

  But the novel never got close to how Danny actually felt. He was actually happy for those few weeks. He smiled all the time and laughed easily at the stupid jokes of the resort’s chef. He felt protected and wanted, and a little guilty that he had been so mean to Pete Peterson the summer before. At last he understood what love was, what caring was, and what it meant to be understood so completely by another person. In those stolen minutes from work as Danny lay on the ground staring up at the cumulus Wisconsin clouds above, as he watched Oliver’s handsome face bob above him, as he felt the man inside him, he knew life could never be better.

  But he was wrong.

  There was no point in telling Cynthia any of his history. It was in the past. It had nothing to do with the present. Maybe it said something about Oliver’s character, but it wouldn’t explain his motivation. People didn’t kill and steal over a teenage case of puppy love—especially when they were the one who committed the wrong.

  Cynthia abandoned the topic of Oliver Meyers, and then drove for several miles without speaking. When they passed the sign welcoming them to California, Cynthia looked over, “What did my dad mean when he said something about Pete Peterson being special to you?”

  Danny crept carefully into his answer. “Pete was good to me at a bad point in my life. You remember when my mom committed suicide how Dad moved us closer to town? Pete lived next door. I was just turning fourteen, but he gave me odd jobs, kept me busy, and used to show me movies in his old theater. That was before he lost the building to the bank.”

  “I always thought the theater closed years before that.”

  “It did, but he still had the projectors inside, and sometimes he’d fire it up to let me see old films. I once told him how my mom said she and Dad fell in love by going to the movies and he understood how watching old movies somehow made Mom seem alive again, at least for a little while. He tried to help me deal with what she did. I guess he loved me. At least more than my Dad did.”

  “It sounds like Pete tried to be your protector.”

  “I guess.”

  Cynthia was chewing her lip, a habit she displayed as a teenager when she debated saying something aloud. “Remember how Chip told me he saw someone with a hat like Pete’s? What if it was actually Pete’s hat? What if it was Pete?”

  Even though he had already wondered the same thing, Danny felt a need to scoff. “But he’s dead.”

  “We don’t know that. Not for sure. Maybe he just disappeared after that fight. Maybe he’s still alive, still trying to protect you. Maybe he’s watching out for you.”

  They could hear a 747 jet coming in low, heading west for the runways at LAX. Oliver glanced skyward as though to confirm the plane was sufficiently far away not to land on them. The man looked uncomfortable, which was fine with Josh.

  “Last time, you said I was acting like we were in a spy movie,” Oliver complained. “How hard did you search to find a meeting spot to do me one better?”

  “What can I say? I like this place.” Josh glanced around the hilly scrublands near the airport and into the cracked bowl of the abandoned Baldwin Hills reservoir. In 1963, the dam on the far end of this bowl failed and tons of water rushed down the hillsides, through the residential neighborhood below, killing five and destroying nearly 300 homes. He thought it a properly apocalyptic setting for the conversation they needed to have. Plus he liked the imagery of being so close to the flight path for the international airport.

  “You know this whole neighborhood is black,” Oliver complained. “Two white guys stand out like a sore thumb.”

  “Then I guess you can’t kill me, can you? Everyone would notice.”

  Josh wasn’t concerned about violence. The cracked reservoir was now part of the Kenneth Hahn Recreation Area, a popular place for jogging and a great vantage point for spectacular views of downtown Los Angeles. On the other hand it wasn’t a frequently visited park. While most of the users were likely residents of the now upper-middle-class African American neighborhoods that surrounded the park’s woods and grasslands, there were never many people about. In reality, the site wouldn’t be a bad place to kill someone. Some sixty years earlier someone dumped the cut-up body of a woman somewhere down below and the press called that victim the Black Dahlia. As Josh recalled, the case was never solved.

  Josh thought he would just take his sweet time. It was a picture-perfect day. No smog anywhere. Across the basin and flats of Los Angeles, he could easily read the letters of the Hollywood sign in the hills to the north. To the northeast were the skyscrapers of the downtown area with the First Interstate tower projecting high into the sky. In the distance, Mt. Baldy and the surrounding mountains were covered with snow. Everything seemed clear.

  Finally, Josh spoke, “Here’s what I want.

  “Premios is not going public. The market is too weak. Instead, Barbara Linsky is going to help us find a buyer. We’ll sell or merge, and in the process, Endicott-Meyers will get its money back with a nice profit. You and Colby will drop off the Board, and the Big Stick project will remain unfinished. We’ll all go our separate ways. Live happily ever after.”

  “Who the fuck do you think you’re dealing with? I’m not that impressionable teenager you met back in Thread. Josh, you’re in deep water here, and my friends take their games quite seriously.”

  Oliver kept his voice low and controlled, but his hands were trembling with suppressed rage. Or maybe it was fear. Josh didn’t really care. Let Oliver worry about what his superiors might do to him when he brought Josh’s message back.

  “What makes you think we would ever agree to your asinine plan?”

  Another plane flew by. LAX was a busy airport, and jets were landing every minute or so, all circling to come in from the west, all getting a perfect bulls-eye view of the Baldwin Hills and the spot where Josh stood with Oliver.

  Josh reached into his jacket to pull out a folded-up section of that morning’s Los Angeles Times. “See that story?”

  The headline was focused on the potential trial of Ahmed Ressam, the Millennium Bomber and the government claim that there would be over one hundred witnesses. The guy was certain to be found guilty.

  “What’s that?” Oliver attempted to appear nonchalant, but Josh could see he was shaken. His hands were no longer trembling with anger, but beads of sweat were breaking out on his forehead.

  “I wouldn’t want to say aloud why you should be concerned, but you know Big Stick is what it is. A big stick. And whoever controls the big stick can beat the one who doesn’t yet have it.“ Josh allowed himself a smirk.

  Josh enjoyed going on. “Let’s just say that I have reason to believe the government doesn’t know about every witn
ess that it should call for this trial. Maybe it doesn’t know about all the friends and acquaintances that Ressam has in the United States. Maybe it doesn’t know how the money reaches those people. Or its strange projects here in Los Angeles and Arizona. Don’t you think the Feds would like to know all of that?”

  Oliver stood still, his gaze pointed, a slight flush now entering his cheek. “Are you seriously trying to threaten us?”

  “I’m just showing some of the cards in my hand.” Josh wasn’t concerned with body language. The small lizards in the park might be eager to puff their bodies up and do grandiose pushups in the sun, attempting to prove to the world that they were in control, but they shouldn’t be so cocky. Any hawk could come down and snatch them up for lunch.

  “Don’t forget your card deck also contains Danny.”

  The little vermin. Did Oliver really think he could win with a ploy like that?

  Oliver continued, “I know what he means to you. I’ve known your lover a long time. What good is winning your little game if you don’t have him?”

  “He’s not part of this round.”

  “Isn’t he? Didn’t you tell me once that all’s fair in love and war? This is it, isn’t it? Both love and war, I mean, all wrapped together. What could be fairer?” Oliver’s face was clearing. He thought he was ahead, but Josh knew he wasn’t.

  Josh handed the newspaper to Oliver. “Take that story to your bosses. And don’t try threatening me. I’m the one who calls the shots.

  “Tell your guys it’s over. What I’m offering is not a bad deal. At the moment, we hold each other in check, because we can both destroy the other. Take the deal. I get to go on with my life and my business. You get to go on to foster new plots. I don’t care what you and your friends do, and you needn’t care what I do. Really, it’s simple. We both know too many secrets about each other. If either side goes down, both sides go down.

  “But consider your role, Oliver. You’re only incidental to your friends, and remember I share at least one thing with your masters. Neither of us cares if you live. So be a good puppy. Do what you’re told.”

  Arnold Twin Feathers was impatient, and Cynthia took an immediate dislike to the man. She didn’t like his Tringush casino either. Standing fifteen stories high, alone in the middle of an empty desert, its structure pointed skyward as an insult to the heavens. The cars in its parking lot mostly sported license plate holders from dealerships in southern California, but the din inside was an echo of Las Vegas.

  Perhaps her judgment was unduly harsh. After all, the Lattigo Nation operated a similarly large casino, and it was just as filled with slot machines, poker tables, roulette wheels, and the like. In Lattigo, there was the same sense of smoke in the air and stale booze in the carpets. But in Cynthia’s mind, the American Seasons Resort and Casino glistened with a fairyland touch as the kingdom her husband created. It attracted families with its northwoods-themed attractions and its glass-enclosed water slides. Plus she always knew that Chip truly sought to do the best for his tribe. She doubted if Twin Feathers was so noble.

  “I don’t have much time,” he said. He didn’t offer them any refreshments. “I’ve got to meet with my auditors in fifteen minutes. Besides I don’t know what I could tell you. Of course, I’m sorry to hear of your loss. Your husband was well regarded in our community.”

  Cynthia didn’t believe a word of it. His words were just social tripe. She could tell that Danny didn’t care for him either. But they were here, and she would ask her questions.

  Twin Feathers didn’t bother to feign interest in what was asked. “Yeah, your husband called me one night back in January. I didn’t realize it was just before he disappeared. Didn’t really see anything in the local papers, just heard the gossip that he had taken off with the tribe’s funds. Didn’t seem like that kind of guy, but then you never know.”

  Cynthia forced herself to stay calm. “Do you remember why he called or what you talked about?” she asked.

  “It wasn’t special. We occasionally conferred in the past. Bunch of us rely on each other to vet people we encounter. There’s a lot of mob money trying to sneak into our casinos. I guess they think we’re a bunch of idiots who won’t mind being taken over by gangsters. They discover soon enough that’s not the case.”

  “Did he ask about anyone specifically in this call?”

  “Yeah.”

  Cynthia was irritated. Didn’t her husband and this guy share some common blood as Native Americans? Why was he so unhelpful? “Who was that?”

  “He asked about this firm called Endicott-Meyers.” Twin Feathers noticed how Danny and Cynthia exchanged looks, “but I’m guessing you already knew about them.”

  Danny spoke first, “What did you tell him?”

  “As far as I knew the firm was clean. That’s all I told him. The name had never come up with any of my contacts.”

  Like a balloon slowly deflating, Cynthia shrank. She didn’t know what she had expected or wanted to hear, but it wasn’t this.

  Twin Feathers stood. He looked at both of them slowly. “I got this meeting to go to, like I said, but I told Chip I thought the firm was clean. But I also told him I had heard things about one of the investors, the one named Oliver Meyers. Word on the street is that he’s in bed with all sorts of unsavory types, like the kind of guys willing to fuck with anybody that shows a wad of cash. Foreign types is what I hear. Crazy types.

  “I wouldn’t let a guy with friends like that near my tribe with a ten-foot pole. Take a word of advice. Neither should you.”

  INTERLUDE

  Session Twelve

  I have this theory about life. It’s not what you do; it’s who you know.

  Come on, doc, why didn’t you laugh? You don’t really think that’s how I view the world, do you? I don’t give a damn who you know. Ultimately it’s only what you do that matters. Every person controls his own destiny.

  All of this stuff about God and the devil that people like to talk about. It doesn’t mean a thing. There’s no God playing roulette with your life, just like He’s not out there pre-arranging your destiny.

  And there’s no devil either—making you do things you didn’t want to do.

  So if it’s not worth knowing God or the devil, because ultimately they hold no power over you, then who would be worth knowing?

  That’s a trick question. You just got to know one person. Who’s that you ask? Yourself. And don’t think it’s possible to be whatever you want to be. At some point you are simply who you are. And you got to know what that is.

  If that wasn’t the case, why would people need a doc like you? You help people discover themselves right?

  So tell people to look into themselves. That’s what I say. See yourself for what you truly are. You can’t let it scare you. You can’t fall in love with what you think you see, or what you want to see. And you certainly can’t change what’s really there.

  But if you know who you really are, then the sky’s the limit. Anything is possible, because you’re a super hero, able to do what you need to do to get where you want to be.

  Which brings me to my central question. If you really love someone, if you really want them to be able to do whatever they want to do, then could you possibly do anything greater for them than to force themselves to look honestly in the mirror and determine what kind of person they really are?

  Sometimes you try to make me think I’m the devil tempting Danny with evil. And if it’s not that, then you want me to think I’m playing God and trying to control Danny’s life.

  You know that it’s not either of those things.

  The fact is that I just love Danny and I need him to face his personal reality, no matter what it takes.

  It’s just so damn hard making him choose a side.

  But I will.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Lair

  Back in New York, Josh mentally prepared to walk on stage for Barbara Linsky’s spring session. Within the hotel atop Grand Centra
l Station, some six hundred nerds and technocrats crowded the ballroom at the Grand Hyatt. They were just the tip of the crowd that followed Barbara Linsky with slavish attention. Barbara viewed this morning’s speech as the dry run for her planned inclusion of Josh at the September BLINK conference in Boston. He couldn’t afford to let her down.

  But he couldn’t focus on the speech ahead. Too much was going on related to his need to wrestle Premios away from Endicott-Meyers. Although the jailed terrorist in Los Angeles was key to his approach, Josh was afraid that Ressam might seek a plea bargain, which could weaken his negotiating leverage with Oliver and his friends. On the other hand, he reminded himself that his hand was strong and the planned trial showed how serious the US government took Islamic terrorism.

  The real problem was Barbara. So far she had failed to lure a suitable buyer to the table. Even though his real goal was to cut out Endicott-Meyers with a private sale, he also had to keep the IPO option open. Balancing it all was driving him crazy, especially given the gyrations on the exchanges. Already this week the NASDAQ had dropped hundreds of points as though determined to follow the same selloff that haunted the overall Dow.

  Everywhere things were falling apart.

  But first things first. It was Friday, the fourteenth of April and he was scheduled to preview the wondrous ideas of Premios to the New York investment elite. Barbara expected him to wow her followers with his innovative thoughts on how the network could become one’s personal advisor.

  “You ready?” Barbara asked. Smartly dressed, she appeared calm and relaxed. She allotted Josh the opening Friday spot, and he knew that was a huge honor. But for a moment he doubted himself. Maybe he wasn’t a visionary.