Eleven fifteen.
Maybe I should check on Wimpy.
Eleven twenty.
Maybe I should peek into her underwear drawer. I’ll never know, otherwise.
Eleven twenty five.
Damn. Vietnamese, a peace activist, and that’s the FBI.
I put on a black turtleneck and my darkest woolen ski cap.
Satisfied the Fed’s sedan wasn’t parked on her street, I moved along a row of bushes, then from tree to tree, checking for signs of surveillance on Phuong’s apartment. I settled into a hidden recess near her building. A couple talking and their crisp, fast footsteps passing nearby held my attention until the sounds faded.
What am I doing here? What’s my plan? To search for and remove anything that might be incriminating before Orville finds it. He might already have, and I don’t know what I’m looking for.
Teresa will kill me for doing this.
Okay, here goes. If Orville grabs me, I’m here to feed the cat.
Invisible to the last moment, I glided up the outside stairs and slid inside the building. Each step I took was measured, slight of pressure, as I approached Phuong’s door.
I’m sneaking into my friend’s apartment. I’m trying to outmaneuver the FBI. Gotta do this right.
I slipped the key in silently, turned it, gently pushed the door open, and stepped into the living room. A faint glow from the kitchen at the end of a long hall startled me.
I’m caught.
I tried to swallow back my panic. I was sure I hadn’t left any light on. Debating whether to backtrack and disappear out into the streets or approach the puzzling illumination took seconds but seemed to encompass hours before I made up my mind. In slow motion, I closed the door behind me and crept down the hallway. If Phuong was home, I’d tell her about Orville. If Orville was snooping, I’d introduce him to Wimpy and act dumb.
God, this plan is screwy.
I held my breath and maneuvered to the kitchen entranceway. Thinking it just best to step in like I belonged there, I didn’t. I inched my head, then my body, past the wooden door frame until I stood entirely exposed.
Phuong stood hunched over her kitchen table, a goose neck lamp shining onto a low stack of papers in front of her. The short, red silk robe she wore hung untied, revealing fully her small, compact tits and black lace underwear. She scribbled on a notepad, then lifted a miniature camera and aimed it at the topmost sheet of paper. A slight click. She flipped the typewritten page over and began scanning the next one. Her body tensed with the awareness of my presence. Her head jerked up in panic. Confused, Phuong finally assimilated the fact that it was me watching her.
She clutched the camera tightly, tried to palm it. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for an immediate place to hide the tiny device. A large leather briefcase perched near the sink, too far for her to reach inconspicuously. She looked back at me, resigned that I was about to discover her secret.
She whispered, “Deets.”
I approached the table. She stepped around to meet me.
“What is it? Phuong, what are you doing?”
“Shh.” She put her finger to her lips, then pointed towards the hall.
I listened, making out a light rhythmic snore.
She pulled her robe together, clutching it. “Why are you here?”
“Why am I here? What are you doing? You’re taking pictures of what? Documents in the middle of the night. And some guy, that’s his briefcase, thinks you’re cuddled up in bed with him.”
I reached behind her, brushing her robe. She smelled of excited wetness, the captive heat of a dangerous, steamy jungle. Looking over her shoulder, I held up the top page she had been about to photograph. The letterhead was of U. S. Congressman Anthony Wellings.
My mind wavered between incomprehension and incredulousness.
“You’re a spy?”
“It’s not what you think. I don’t do anything that would jeopardize lives. It’s not about troop movements or armaments. You know me, I believe in peace. They only ask me to report on the peace movement here in America.”
I searched her face trying to comprehend why that would involve secret cameras in the middle of the night. Fear and doubt flickered momentarily in her eyes, then they began to probe mine.
She let her hand slip away from her robe, revealing her body. I could feel her breath and an inviting shift in her stance as I drew my attention back to the letter.
Addressed to a fellow congressman on the House Un-American Activities Committee, the correspondence was a request for continued surveillance by the FBI on a group of musicians performing free anti-war concerts in his district. Describing the musicians as probable communists whose lyrics were subversive to the war effort, the letter expressed concern about the band’s influence as they became more nationally prominent with their hit song, “Mother, I’m Dying.”
I looked at a second letter, addressed to a general in the Pentagon. Congressman Wellings cited enlistment figures in his district had dropped noticeably in the last three months.
Phuong gripped at my sweater. “Don’t misjudge me. At first, I only had to observe the peace movement. Now they want me to find out details of what the government is doing about the protestors. Nobody dies from what I do.”
She had pulled me closer as she spoke, each of her words punctuated by the obvious invitation of her dark nipples. Her eyes explored mine until we both knew what would keep me silent. The war had twisted her. She was fucking some politician to steal secrets. She would fuck me to keep me quiet. It was a Phuong who I didn’t know, a Phuong who alarmed and intoxicated me. My hand went to her breast and cupped it, kneading her softness delicately.
She shut her eyes and sucked in her breath. “Don’t do this for all the wrong reasons. I already know what that’s like. But with you—please, as a friend, don’t do it because this war degraded us. We’d hate each other tomorrow.”
She had ensnared me, then released me. And she knew with one kiss I’d fall right back into her trap.
She was right.
Another night, without the bribery, it might have been. I dropped my hand.
“Phuong, the FBI is onto you. They were creeping around in the building earlier. Their car’s been parked on your street.”
“Did they come into my apartment?”
“I don’t know.”
“This is the first time I’ve done this here. I only copied information twice before, in his home. And that, I later destroyed. There has never been anything incriminating here.”
“Put those letters back, give me all your notes and that camera. Is that all that could get you hung?”
“Yes.” She placed the correspondence in a folder, tucking it neatly into the briefcase, flipped open the camera to expose the film, then handed it and her notepad to me.
“Okay, now go to that congressman—”
“He’s an aide.”
“Go convince him that love is why you’re with him.”
“I don’t think I want to see him anymore.”
On the way home, I watched the film crinkle up as I held a match to it. I put the camera in a trash can, stuffing it into a crumpled Kleenex box, then pushed rotten filth over the evidence until it was buried well. After tearing the notes up in a bathroom stall in a bar, I tossed the shreds into the toilet and pissed on them. It didn’t flush well, but I didn’t think Orville would discover the pieces and reach down into the mess that they floated in.
I was in the shower when Teresa got home. She was very drunk and opened the curtains to the shower, smiling as spray covered her face.
“My old boyfriend hit on me tonight.”
“Why not? You’re beautiful.” I felt no outrage. It seemed a natural thing to do.
She giggled. “I drank too much, and he got his hand inside my blouse. Just for fun.”<
br />
I laughed nervously, felt the urge to confess. “That’s an odd coincidence. I felt up Phuong tonight, uh, for a few seconds.”
“Oh, she’s so sexy, tell me about it.” She wobbled a bit, then stepped into the shower fully-clothed, knelt down, and began to stroke and suck me. Attempting to relate the story of cameras, spying, and the FBI now seemed a distraction and was quickly lost to a brief description of Phuong half-naked and her tit in my hand. Five minutes later I managed to undress Teresa, dry her off, and tuck her into bed as she rambled incoherently, moaning and slurring.
The next day, while Teresa slept off a bad hangover, Phuong hurried into Good Stuff, looking frightened.
“I forgot to give you this.” She handed me a photograph of three women in black pajamas, rifles slung over their shoulders, marching in single file on a beach. The waves rolled in off to one side, and footprints lay stretched out behind them. With stoic expressions, they were gazing into the future, unstoppable, beautiful. The first in line was a much younger Phuong.
“Christ, Phuong. The Feds have seen me with you, know I hang around at your apartment. They’re probably watching me too.”
“You’re the only one I trust. I can’t destroy it. It’s the only photograph I have of my sisters.”
I almost ripped it in two anyway, but instead went up to my workroom and dug through my box of photographs. I found a picture of Rebecca lying in a field staring straight up into the sky. Another was a black and white of Sam, her hair a mess, dark circles under her eyes, a cigarette dangling from her slack lips. After covering two of the Viet Cong women with Sam and Rebecca, I snatched up a print of a grinning Teresa, her face painted blue, yellow flowers in her hair, and hid the beach and background with it. A photo of Ham leaning against a lamp post with sketch pad in hand, arranged symmetrically alongside the others, blocked out Phuong’s rifle. Her pajama uniform and foreground disappeared beneath a shot of Chang wearing a cowboy hat, thumping on a bass guitar in a smokey bar. The final result of my quick layout was a collage of my friends with only Phuong’s face revealed from the original incriminating photograph. I tacked the pictures together with tape, slid them into an old frame behind glass and placed it on the empty hook behind the couch.
Looking at them all, my heart felt full. God, they were great people. I loved them all.
A few days later, Teresa came into our apartment carrying Wimpy the cat.
“Hey, what’s he doing here?” I ran my hand along his back as he rubbed against my pant-legs.
“When Phuong didn’t show up for work again or answer her phone, I thought I’d better check up on her. I thought maybe she was embarrassed about you fondling her, and I wanted to let her know it wasn’t bumming me out.”
“I’ve seen her since. We both seemed cool with it.”
“When I opened her door, Wimpy came running to greet me. The place seemed spooky to me. There was no food in his bowl, and it looks like Phuong has split. Her flowers needed watering, all her cosmetics were gone from her dresser, your portrait of her wasn’t on the wall anymore. The air tasted stale, and the kitty poop sand was a mess. So I looked around. Her drawers were mostly empty and her dresses and blouses gone from the closet. No medicines or toothbrush in her bathroom either.”
“That’s weird. She must have taken off in a hurry.” I wondered if she had fled from the Feds. It seemed likely, but I didn’t mention it. Teresa appeared to have no memory of my short synopsis of Phuong’s life as a spy, although she did remember me describing the brief sexual encounter. With no repercussions from Teresa about my wandering hand, and thinking she would be safer not knowing about the illegal activity I had involved myself in, I let Phuong’s tit be the main discussion point of that night’s encounter. “Sounds like she might be gone for awhile.”
“That’s what I thought, so I brought Wimpy back until we hear from her. Poor kitty.”
“Odd that she abandoned her cat.”
“I wonder if her splitting without a word has anything to do with that man you saw her with. Maybe they ran off together, like he was married or something.” She scratched behind the gray and white’s ear. “I think whatever the reason, Phuong figured we’d show up and rescue Wimpy boy.”
About a week later, the phone rang, and an international operator asked me to stand by for an overseas phone call, but the line crackled and spit static while a whining noise grew louder until the line went dead. There was no call back.
I spotted the green Chevy passing the store twice. Once, from atop the roof, I saw it parked a block away. Orville had me under surveillance.
Chapter 54
In mid August, Teresa and I tripped out again. I had scored some sugar cube acid, and we dropped one night. The voyage was gentle, and we made love after we had peaked. Laying in bed, Teresa said everyone should feel like this as I watched butterflies flowering up from her body.
For days she looked beatific, with smiling eyes and always speaking calmly and lovingly.
I kept a lookout for Orville and his cohorts, hoped Phuong wasn’t in a jail cell, and worried that Doctor Steel was preparing another monstrous trap.
Later that month, we took some more LSD.
We had packed Ham’s belongings into the VW and driven him up to Providence where he was about to begin his graduate work. Afterwards Teresa and I meandered down the coastal road alongside Narragansett Bay and discovered a secluded beach.
“Let’s go swimming.” Teresa stripped to her underwear and bra, and ran to the water, diving right under without pausing. Her head popped up in the gentle waves. “Brr, it’s so cold. C’mon, you fraidy-cat.”
I had winced and back-stepped my way in up to my knees when she pointed to a small island offshore. “Let’s drop the cubes and swim out to that island.”
“You brought the acid?”
“We’re going to camp out, aren’t we?”
“Are you sure about this? Now? Here?”
“I can’t be afraid of spending the night out in nature for the rest of my life.”
So we put the cubes in our mouth and swam about a hundred yards while they melted on our tongues. We came ashore at a small beach between rocky ledges and lay there laughing about how nuts we were and exclaiming, “Marooned.” Teresa spent hours looking at and talking to sea shells while I built a sand sculpture of an octopus riding on a half-crab, half-lion creature with swept-back wings.
Teresa shouted with glee about some dolphins that had come up on the beach and then walked inland spouting diamonds from their mouths. I stood in the sand letting my feet sink deeper with each swish of water that lapped around my ankles. Teresa splashed by, giggling about me having no feet. I told her I didn’t need them right then.
An old man gripping a fishing pole drifted by in a small rowboat. He looked up as Teresa, in her pink bra and white underwear, waved at him. He casually acknowledged her with a slight sweep of his hand, then turned his attention back to the line bobbing in the low roll of the channel.
Watching sunlight sprinkle up from the waves and listening to the beach make popping sounds, I turned to see Teresa looking at me. She had the saddest eyes and most loving smile that had ever manifested themselves on any living creature since the beginning of time. At that moment, a bolt of lightning cracked the clear blue sky. Startled into a new routine, we walked inland as if searching for something. After climbing atop a grassy sand dune, she asked, “Was that the future?”
Then she rotated her head to peer over her shoulder, looking for her answer, not from me, but from... somewhere else. She pointed back at the beach where we had spent half a day. “Look.”
The sand was imprinted with fresh dog tracks.
“Dream dog stopped by.” I wasn’t surprised and said it matter-of-factly.
We lay on our backs, holding hands, kicking through the water, trying to allay our fears about the omnipresent dark sea and
night sky by yelling and giggling about a giant friendly fish named Fred that was circling just below us. Reaching the mainland, we lit a fire, smoked some weed, and shared a bottle of strawberry wine while munching on cheese and crackers, then fell asleep in the van.
On the ride back to the city, we heard a news story announcing that Congress was about to enact a bill making LSD illegal throughout the country. When the radio station followed the story with Donovan’s “Sunshine Superman”, we shared a laugh on the line about tripping out, and our eyes met during the verse that seemed written just for us—about standing on a beach at sunset, together for all time.
Chapter 55
Teresa and I whirled into early fall, wild and carefree. I hadn’t seen Orville’s car in almost a month, and I half-believed Steel had moved on, to whatever dimension he came from. How else could the stars and planets be so perfectly aligned? My pencils spun and danced, bringing illustrations to life, my hand joyous with creation.
I was working on a drawing of feathers made of sand when I suspect the gods grew restless with me.
After putting my materials away for the night, I joined Teresa in bed. She handed me our treasure book of surprises open to chapter thirteen, watching my face expectantly.
The first diagram showed two men and two women tangled together.
I didn’t know what to say. I was waiting for a clue of how Teresa felt about the newest path our guide to sexual delights was leading us into. With a questioning crazy grin, I looked at her. She had the same expression. We were both hiding our uncertainty.
The silence went on, nobody talking. Finally, I pointed to the beautifully decorated illustration. “Are we going to do this?”
Mayhem (The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker Book 1) Page 27
