Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army (30 page)

I met Pat3, as almost everyone called him, in South Africa where he had put together a group of mercenaries to storm Robben Island and break Nelson Mandela out of jail. This was completely Pat3's idea and Pat3's adventure. No one else really wanted him to do it. Not even, we knew, Mandela, who had great doubts for their eventual success, and some concern for his own health, if the operation were to take place. Pat3, though, is a big-hearted Irishman who hates injustice and so took it upon himself. It was a stupid idea. I was charged with stopping it and getting Pat3 out of the country, which I did with extreme efficiency. He hated me at first, but once things were explained to him, especially after he had read a personal letter to him from Mandela, thanking him for his concern, but expressing the belief that there would eventually be a political solution to his problem and any rash action now could jeopardize that, he came around and we became friends. As a friend I suggested that he should stop trying to turn movies into reality and go back home. The idea was abhorrent to him, but he said he would think about it.

Later, upon the death of his father, which he heard about while trying to ferret a politically minded Buddhist monk out of Tibet, he inherited the Sailfish Bar and Grill. He returned to it to find it in a desolate state serving horrible food to more than horrible customers. Because of his left leaning, big-hearted, liberal attitude he quickly made friends with the New Hollywood. He shut down the Sailfish, completely restored it to its Forties seedy grandeur, got an incredible chef from the Carlyle Hotel in Manhattan, and reopened with a flare of fanfare. It quickly became the place for all the power players in Hollywood: Stars, directors, executives, lawyers and agents, as well as the high priced hairdressers, physical trainers, yoga gurus and nattily attired sailor-Scientologists that were now so much a part of the landscape.

I turned left off PCH onto the steep little road that led you down to Heaven's Cove and the Sailfish Bar and Grill. The one story building sat right on the beach, backed by a large parking lot that had been extended to the left to accommodate daytime beach goers. To the right was a sheer rocky cliff, on top of which was a mobile home park. Moonlight bathed the cove, assisted by the incandescence of the restaurant and parking lot lights. There were only a few cars left. The last of the bar crowd was just leaving. The sound of them—loud drunk voices informing the world of their presence—and the sound of the ocean were all there was to be heard.

I pulled up close to the back of the building, by the kitchen door. Pat3 was standing there having a smoke. He greeted me as I got out of the car.

“Hey, Fixxer! How's tricks? And I do mean that literally.”

I came up and shook his offered hand. “Tricks in general are fine, Pat3. It's certain tricks in particular I'm having a problem with.”

“Well, I'd give you a good meal, but we've shut down the kitchen. Got plenty of vodka though.”

“Don't need food; don't need drink. What I need is some good honest labor.”

“Ah. Well, we've still got a load of the dishes from the last shift.”

“Send your crew home. I'll get them done.”

“You sure?”

“I need the work. I need the solitude. Send them all home and don't dock their pay. I'll leave a little bonus for them, make sure they get that as well.”

“Okay Fixx, whatever you want, but do a complete and good job, will ya? I got a hell of lot of Sunday Brunch reservations.”

Pat3 went into the kitchen and I went to the car to retrieve a CD boom box and some CDs. When I reached the kitchen door, three Latino men came out and clasped me around the shoulders with cheers and thanks. I had been this strange benefactor to them on several previous occasions. They never understood it, but they loved me for it, and if they had known my name I'm sure they each would have had a child who answered to it.

As I walked into the kitchen I momentarily regretted my actions. There were piles of dirty pots, pans, crystal and china. Pat3 had his coat on. The lights in the restaurant proper were out.

“The front's all locked up. You know how to lock the back and turn on the alarm.” Pat3 started to leave, then stopped. “Say, should I be asking to see your Green Card?”

“You're almost as funny as your grandfather in
Hail of Bullets
.”

“Ah, yeah, I liked that one. Well, good night, Fixx. Enjoy your weird hobby.”

It wasn't a hobby. It was a simple technique. Occupy the body—free the mind.

Work had practically been a religion to my father. All kinds, but especially menial labor. It was not so much the labor as the laborer he worshipped, “The poor bent backs of the poor,” as he liked to say. He was, of course, a romantic. Unfortunately his romance extended to participating in the labor to feel closer to the laborers. He would go out every summer and work on work crews; join assembly lines; dig deep in mines—and wash dishes at local greasy spoons. The fact that he was an academic and wrote a major work on the American Working Man, never quite forgave him, in my mind, for dragging me along on many of his forays into the workaday world. He was, in his mind, giving me “lessons no school could teach you.” Which was fine, but the bumps, bruises, calluses, strained muscles, aching back, pounding head and withering soul all hurt just the same. There was nothing I could do about the physical pains, but my soul I protected with my mind. I found that repetitious manual labor, taking up only the mechanically inclined areas of the brain, left free the more abstract loving gray glob to roam over thoughts, puzzles, problems, dreams, fantasies and plans. I found manual labor to be oddly meditative. This is assuming, of course, that you had something interesting to meditate on. Although a comfortable chair, a stimulating drink, and interesting music is usually my preference when I wish to meditate, there are times when only a return to the days of my father-controlled youth will suffice. This was obviously one of those times.

My current love of luxury, it should not be surprising to note, probably stems from those days as well.

I set the CD boom box down and plugged it in. I took out a CD, some works by David Diamond, a Twentieth Century American symphonist, sort of a Copland without the chaps. I turned the volume up high and started his Symphony No. 1. The orchestra with bell began pounding out in a broad romantic sweep engulfing the room of stainless steel sinks, copper kettles, and filthy china. I started the water running hot. I breathed in the steam. I was free with the soap. Suds dominated. I threw my hands into the clean infernal. The water burnt like hell. I loved it. I took a deep breath and started cleaning off the residue muck of expensive tastes, being very careful to get each plate perfectly clean as Diamond transported me to a place far beyond this wet and soapy battleground.

I saw the future—or at least a reasonable facsimile given the facts. I started to change it. Doing this to get that. Arranging this to avoid that. It became a whole for me. If I dropped a pebble in at this end I could see where the ripple landed at that end. I gathered my pebbles. I mapped out where I would drop them. Control of the ripples, that's what I was after.

Three hours later, just after five AM, I was done. The kitchen looked great. I took a moment to be pleased, to be satisfied in a good night's work. Besides Diamond, the Duke had kept me company, with Gershwin and Porter chiming in at the end, once the majority of my thinking was done. I gathered up the boom box and the CDs and left the building, securing it with its alarm. I put the boom box and CDs in the Porsche, grabbed my cell phone, and went for a walk on the beach. It was cold and damp and dark, but I did not care, I had on a heavy long coat. I found a convenient spot up against the cliff wall and sat down on the sand. I set my watch alarm. I would deep breathe myself into a special sleep for one hour.

~ * ~

When I woke up it was the start of dawn. I gave myself a moment to sit and watch the waves, which were silver in the gray light, and listen to the joyful cries of seagulls, happy, it seemed, that another day of feeding had arrived. Then I picked up the cell phone and called Roee.

“Talk.”

“It's me.”

“I figured. Norton usually takes Sunday off.”

“I'm sitting on a beach.”

“Yes, I can hear the seagulls. Is this beach, by any chance, in the continental United States?”

“I'm here by the Sailfish.”

“Oh, and how is Pat3?”

“Prosperous by the amount of dishes I've washed.”

“Can't you burn incense and speak mantras like everybody else?”

“Sorry, but it's our peculiarities that make us endearing.”

“And endearing you are, Fixxer. I take it there are marching orders.”

“Yeah. Let's put in some phone calls.”

“Can't this wait until you get back?”

“No. I like to talk when I'm ready to talk.”

“It is fairly early on a Sunday morning.”

“What are you worried about? It's not your Sabbath.”

“Simple common courtesy.”

“I try never to go in for anything common. Not to mention simple. First call: the Captain.”

~ * ~

“Fixxer, how are you?”

The Captain came on the line much more cheerful than I had expected.

“You sound almost happy to hear from me so early on a Sunday morning.”

“Why not? You didn't wake me up. I'm up, showered, and just waiting for a pal to pick me up for some early morning golf. Eighteen holes; breakfast at the Country Club. It's how I like to spend my Sundays.”

“Well, I need but a few moments of your time.”

“In regard to what?”

“Bea Cherbourg.”

“I knew you couldn't stay away.”

“Indeed. You willing to help?”

“You make the calls and I'll make the shots.”

“Good. First I'd like you to check out something for me.”

“What's that?”

“Find out when the state started assigning Park Rangers to Hearst Castle. As opposed to just the normal tour guides. Then see if there is anything unusual about the people who have been hired to fill the positions. Do a background check on them. Don't just take what's in their state files. You'll be looking for things either hidden from or ignored by the state.”

“What's up with Hearst Castle?”

“I'll have to explain that later, but I wouldn't be surprised if you'll find that these Rangers have backgrounds somewhat less than admirable.”

“When I get the goods what do you want me to do? Have them arrested?”

“No. At least not yet. What I want you to do is look for a weak link. I want you to find one of the Rangers—outside of a guy possibly named George, Roee will supply a picture—find one of the Rangers with a past awful enough so that we can exploit it and force him onto our payroll.”

“Okay. What else?”

“Just be available to take some time off. I also have some rather detailed instructions, but I'll give them to you tomorrow.”

“Right.”

“Things may get a bit—elaborate. I'll be happy to add a bonus for this one, if you would like.”

“Hey! Didn't I offer to help? Just for helping's sake. Don't ever assume my word's not my bond.”

“You have my admiration for that.”

“Yeah, I know, but can I frame it and put it on the wall?”

“How's Mrs. Captain?”

“Grumbling like the golf widow she is, but otherwise doing fine.”

“Good. We'll be talking.”

“I look forward to it.”

~ * ~

The next call was to Petey.

“So you wanted to spend a couple of days in California?” I greeted him.

“Sure! Love to! When?!”

“Soon, but first, that new and improved satellite of yours...?”

“Yes?”

“Can you hook into it from a laptop?”

“Tricky!”

“$25,000.”

“But then so am I!”

“Roee will call you back with the details and a list of other supplies and needs.”

“All right, Fixx! See ya soon!”

~ * ~

Then we called Maloney in Chino.

“Roee and I want to come and talk to you about some very specific flying conditions. Any hints you have would be appreciated.”

~ * ~

Next was Mike.

“Mike, I've got more work for you.”

“Fine. Whatever. I'm yours.”

“Contact Roee and have him update you on Henderson and Pinsker. Then, when I tell you, you will meet Henderson and Pinsker at the Hotel Bel-Air. You will endeavor, while you are there, to make yourself conspicuous. Nothing too loud and obnoxious, just something highly visible. Roee will give you the complete scenario. Call him later today through Norton. As always, I will need you to do a very good job, but you'll do it by being incompetent.”