Over the Edge (32 page)

'How's Thursday?'

'Fine. I'm flying up to San Francisco to visit my parents and then back down here for the Friday Forum gig. I'll send Jackie or one of the roadies to pick it up. Now for the fun part.' He unzipped one of the compartments on the parachute pants and drew out a wad of hundred-dollar bills.

'Filth and lucre,' he said, peeling off thirty or so and handing them to Robin. It didn't change the size of the wad appreciably. 'That do it?'

'You gave me three hundred too much,' said Robin, counting and holding out three bills.

'Keep it. Perfectionism's hard to find, and I can use the write-off.' He hefted the wad and shifted it from one hand to another.

'Don't flash that in this neighbourhood,' said Robin.

He laughed and put the money away.

'It would be tasteless, wouldn't it?'

'I was thinking more in terms of dangerous.'

'Oh. Yeah, I guess so.' He shrugged. 'Well, that's why I have Jackie. He's bulletproof. Faster than a locomotive. Eats rivets for breakfast. I hired him after the John Lennon thing. I was nervous; lots of people were. I think he used to break legs for the Mafia or something, but all he's had to do for me so far is glare.'

Robin wrote him a receipt, and we walked to the door.

'Good to meet you, Alex.'

He picked up Robin's hands and kissed them.

'Keep these in good shape. In today's market visuals are everything. I'll be needing plenty more objects d'art.' A diamond-lit smile. 'Well, off to S.F. and a reunion with Dr. and Mrs. Ornstein.'

I thought of something.

'Billy,' I said, 'did you grow up in San Francisco?'

'Atherton, actually,' he said, naming one of the high-priced spreads just outside the city.

'Were you involved with the Haight-Ashbury scene?'

He laughed.

'When all that was going down I was a good little nerd who wanted to be an orthodontist just like Daddy. I spent the sixties memorising biology books. Why?'

'I'm trying to find out about some people who lived in an urban commune on the Haight.'

He shook his head.

'Never my scene, but I can tell you who might know. Roland Oberheirn - Roily O. He's a producer, used to play brass with Big Blue Nirvana. Remember them?'

'I think so. Sitars over a heavy backbeat?'

'Right. And pop Hinduism. They hit gold a couple of times, then got ego cancer and broke up. Roily was one of Ken Kesey's pranksters, heavily into acid, called himself Captain Trips. He knew everyone on the Haight. Now he lives down here, doing independent gigs. I can put you in touch if you want.'

'I'd appreciate that.'

'Okay. I'll call him tonight and get back to you. If I forget, call me and remind me. Robin's got all my numbers.'

'Will do. Thanks.'

He fluffed his hair and was gone.

Robin and I looked at each other.

'Rockin' Billy Ornstein?' we said simultaneously.

The next morning I returned to the building on Pico. This time the door was open a crack. I leaned against it and entered.

I was greeted by a flight of wide pine stairs and the aroma of pesto. At the top of the stairs were darkness and the faint muscular outlines of two Dobermans reclining, seemingly impervious to my presence.

'Hi there, fellas,' I said, and went up one step. The Dobermans sprang to their feet, snarling throatily. A heavy chain ran from each of their necks to the top stairposts, too long to be of much comfort.

The dogs bared their teeth and started roaring. I couldn't say much for their tone, but the duet was full of emotion.

'Who is it? What do you want?'

The voice was loud and female, emerging from somewhere behind the Dobermans. Upon hearing it, the dogs quieted and I shouted up:

'I'm looking for Gary Yamaguchi.'

A purple pear topped with grated carrots materialised between the two dogs.

'All right, honey pies, those are good boys,' the pear cooed. The dogs sank submissively and licked a pair of hands. 'Yes, sweeties, yes, sugar dumplings. Mama likes when you're alert.'

There was a faint click, and a bare bulk crackled to life above the stairs. The pear became a young woman - early thirties, blowsily heavy, wearing a purple muumuu. Her hair was a hennaed tangle, her pale make-up laid on with a trowel. She put dimpled hands on ample hips and swayed assertively.

'What do you want with him?'

'My name is Alex Delaware. I counselled him years ago, and I need to talk to him about another one of my patients who was one of his friends.'

'Counselled? You're a therapist?'

'Psychologist.'

She lit up.

'I love psychologists. My first two husbands were psychologists. You married?'

'Yes,' I lied, keeping it simple.
   

'No matter, you can still come up.'

I hesitated, gazing up at the Dobermans.

'Don't worry' - she laughed - 'they won't eat you unless I tell them to.'

I trudged up warily, ankles tingling in anticipation.

The stairs ended at a large landing. To the left was a splintered door; to the right, an open doorway. From the doorway came strong wafts of basil.

'Ms. Randee Bogdan,' said the woman, saluting. 'With two e's.' We shook hands briefly. 'Come on in, Dr. Alex Psychologist.'

She waddled through the doorway. Inside were three

thousand square feet of studio. The walls had been painted deep salmon. One of them held a linear display of sea turtle shells polished to a high gloss; the others were bare. The floor was black lacquer; the skylit ceilings were a clutter of exposed ducts painted hot pink. The furniture was eclectic, a studied mix of Deco, contemporary, and serendipity: grey Chinese vases; Lucite nesting tables; pink fainting couches piped with taupe; a high ebony armoire inlaid with abalone; a rough stone garden urn filled with silk amaryllis; lots of empty space. Apparently casual, very expensive.

Dominating the centre of the studio was an enormous industrial kitchen, stainless steel and spotless. Racks of copper pots hung from an iron rail. The counters were hammered metal with insets of marble for rolling pastry. Cauldrons and pans simmered on a nine-burner Wolf range. The smell of basil was almost overwhelming. Randee with two e's walked into it, lifting lids and peering into the cauldrons. Once or twice she sniffed and tasted, then shook a dash of something into whatever she was brewing. I picked up a pink satinised card from a stack on the corner: CATERING BY RANDEE and a Beverly Hills exchange.

'That's the answering service,' she said, licking one finger. 'For class. The bowels of the operation is right here, pardon my anality.'

'Did Gary live next door?'

'Uh-huh,' she said distractedly, looking for something on the counter, cursing cheerfully until she found it. She held it up - a piece of paper which she proceeded to read out loud: 'For the Malibu soiree of Mr. and Mrs. Chester ("Chet") Lamm. Cold winter melon soup, gosling salad with raspberry vinegar, a nice sweetbread and truffles teaser, pike and crayfish quenelles, blackened chicken with ze leetle tiny pink peppercorns, the always chi-chi pasta pesto, of course, and to top it off, lightly baked goat cheese and a daring cucumber-pineapple sorbet. What a hodgepodge - pretty fucking dreadful, huh? But to the nouvelle-nouvelle
 
beasties crass is class.'

I laughed. She laughed back, bosoms rolling.

'You know what I'd like to be cooking? Burgers. Bur-fucking-gers. Greasy home fries, a good honest salad - no radicchio, no endives, plain old Caesar Chavez iceberg.'

'Sounds good.'

'Ha! Try peddling that for a hundred a head.'

She jabbed a fork into a pan, and the tines came up enmeshed with pink pasta.

'Here, taste this.'

I leaned over the counter and opened my mouth. The stuff was laced with basil to the point of bitterness.

'Great,' I said.

'Absolutely. The lady can cook.'

She offered me other samples. Even in a hungry state the experience wouldn't have been welcome. But after the hearty breakfast I'd shared with Robin it was downright assaultive.

After more false praise from me and self-congratulation from her I managed to get her talking about Gary.

'Yeah, he lived here, along with a bunch of other freaks.'

'Lived?'

'That's right. Past tense. Someone broke in last night and trashed the place, and he split. Fairly typical for the neighbourhood, which is why my place is alarmed. I was doing a party at A and M records, came home around one, and found their door all smashed in. My alarm hadn't been tripped, but I called my parents and borrowed Nureyev and Baryshnikov anyway. For insurance. They're real killers - last year they eliminated parenthood from a burglar's future - and I've been leaving the door open, hoping the creeps who did it will return so I can turn my sweeties loose.'

'When did the . . . freaks come home?'

'About two. That's their usual schedule: sleep until noon; panhandle in front of the Biltmore; come home and party until morning. I heard them, peeked through the door, and watched them split. Your counselee looked pretty scared.'

'Any idea where he went?'

'Nah. There's been a tribe of them living there free - one of the freaks' fathers owns the building - coming in and out. They wander around, putting down everything, thinking of themselves as tres bohemian.'

'Artists?'

'If they're artists, the stuff on the stove's haute cuisine. Nah, they're little kids playing nihilist. Punk stuff, you know: Life is meaningless, so I'll solder spikes in my hair and shoot speed while Daddy pays the rent. I went through the same thing in college, didn't you?'

I'd spent college studying by day and working my way through at night. Instead of answering, I asked another question.

'Were they heavily into speed?'

'I'd assume so. Isn't that what punks are into?'

She lowered the fire on one of the burners. I remembered Gary's boast to Josh and said:

'He told someone he was going to have an exhibition in one of the downtown galleries. Any idea which one?'

She put her finger to her lips and licked the tip.

'Yeah, he told me that, too. We passed on the landing one night and he insulted my food - that's the kind of little shit he is. I told him to shove his little Buddha head up his ass even if it did mean bending sideways. He liked that. Smiled and gave me a flyer for this so-called exhibit; he was one of a bunch of other freaks showing their trash at a place called Voids Will Be Voids. I said, "Terrific, putz, but you're still just a little snotty freak to me." He liked that, too; said something lewd.' She shook her head. 'Can you imagine doing it with one of those little freaks? Yucch.'

I asked her how many kids had lived in the studio.

'There was him, his little girlfriend, blonde Valley Girl type, didn't look more than fourteen; Richard the Rich Kid, the landlord's boy; his babe, plus assorted hangers-on. The last week or so it had been only Yamaguchi and the blonde because Richard went on vacation somewhere and the hangers-on went with him. What are you expecting to get from him anyway?'

'Information.'

'Don't count on it. The kid's not into helping others.'

I told her she was probably right and thanked her for letting me come up.

' Do you mind if I look around his place?'

'Why should I care?'

'Could you keep Nureyev and Baryshnikov at bay while I do it?'

'Sure. They're really sweethearts anyway.'

I left, and she called out after me:

'For your sake, I hope you've got nasal congestion.'

Her parting shot was more than bombast. The studio smelled like an undermaintained outhouse. Most of the space was a jumble of rancid clothing, clotted food, and nasty-looking stains. The toilet was stopped up, and brownish gunk had overflowed onto the unpainted plank floor. The furniture, if you could call it that, had been knocked together from plywood and sawhorses. Whoever had broken in had upended and shattered most of it. A workbench, similarly fashioned, held an acetylene torch, an assortment of templates and moulds, fish bones, a decapitated Barbie doll with the head lying off to one side, and charred chunks of plastic. One corner of the studio was devoted to six-foot piles of newspaper, sodden and mildewed, another to a collection of roach-infested cookie boxes and empty soda cans. I poked around for a few seconds, finding nothing, before the stench overtook me.

I exited to more basil, hollered a good-bye, and walked stiffly between the Dobermans. They grinned and growled but didn't move as I made my way down the stairs. Once outside, I inhaled hungrily; even the smog smelled good.

As I unlocked the Seville, a hand settled on my shoulder. I whipped around and came face-to-face with one of the winos, a black man whose tattered clothes had grimed to the point where they matched his skin. The boundaries between cloth and flesh were indistinguishable, and he resembled some naked feathered cave creature.

His eyeballs were the colour of rancid butter; the irises, filmy and listless. He was anywhere between forty and eighty, toothless, stooped, and emaciated, the caved-in face

coated with an iron-filing beard. His head was covered with a greasy ski cap worn over his ears. Pinned to it was one of those cute I LOVE L.A. buttons with a heart substituted for the word love.

Slapping his hands on his knees, he laughed. His breath was a blend of muscatel and overripe cheese. I winced; this was the morning for olfactory torture.

'You ugly,' he cackled.

'Thanks,' I said, and edged away.

'No, man, you really ugly.'

I turned, and the hand landed on my shoulder again.

'Enough,' I said, annoyed, shoving it away.

He laughed harder and did a little dance.

'You ugly! You ugly!'

I turned the doorkey. He came closer. I compressed my nostrils.

'You ugly, you ugly. You also rich.'

Oh, Jesus, what a morning. I reached into my pocket and gave him whatever change I found. He examined it and smiled woozily.

'You real ugly! You real rich! I got somethin' for you if you got somethin' for me.'

He was breathing on me now, showing no inclination to leave. We were ignored by the other winos, already locked in alcoholic torpor. A pair of Mexican boys walked by and laughed. He leaned closer, giggling. I could have pushed him aside, but he was too pathetic to manhandle.

'What do you want?' I asked wearily.

'You lookin' for that li'l Jap kid wit' the nails in his hayed, right?'

'How'd you know that?'

'You ugly, but you not smart.' He tapped his scrawny chest. 'Mudpie heah be smart.'

Ceremoniously he held out his palm, a palsied mocha slab, mapped with black lines.

'All right, Mudpie,' I said, pulling out my wallet and peeling off a five, 'what is it you want to tell me?'

'Sheeit,' he said, snapping up the bill and secreting it among the shapeless contours of his rags, 'that buy a song

an" dance. You ugly an' you rich, so why don' you give Mudpie his due?'

Ten dollars and some haggling later he let it out: 'Fust you come yesterday; then you be back, sniffin' and snoopin'. But you not the only one. There be these other whi'e boys lookin' for the Jap, too. Ugly but not li'e you. They real ugly. Whupped with a ugly stick.'

'How many were there?'

'Dose.'

'Dose?'

'Li'e in spic talk - Uno, dose, you unnerstan'?'

'Two.'