Chapter 20. Acid Interrogation

Casey brought out a couple one-quart tin cups that came from an Army/Navy Surplus mess kit. The kind that’s curved so that it fit over the contours of a canteen. The sound of coffee poured from urn to this kind of cup seemed like it sent an audio-hallucination of each gurgle that was a comforting sound to me. After Casey poured the coffee I had to get alone with Doc if I was going to get anything out of him. That no one was attending the helm made it easier. Casey didn’t have auto pilot or rudder lock. He normally just strapped the helm in position with a belt or frayed bungie cord. “It’s time you two attended to the helm,” I ordered.

Anna hung back reluctant, “I’ll stay here.”

It is a routine interrogation procedure to separate subjects. An objective investigation doesn’t assume anyone is innocent or guilty, “No, Anna. Doc and I need to sort this out, mano y mano.”

I didn’t actually realize, until the acid kicked in that, though Anna had been my protector in the beginning, she had become a person of interest or a possible suspect since we left the island. I wasn’t sure if she was guilty of anything but I did know she was not all that innocent. Peculiar as he was, Casey, in spite of his constant chatter, was the only reliable ally I had on the Dinky Dau.

After Anna and Casey left the cabin, Doc and I sat silent for an age or two… who knows how long? Larry’s pupils were almost as wide as his irises. He was looking at his plate of fried-up canned hash and yellow egg yolks like they were an all-out assault on his senses. I couldn’t resist rubbing it in, “How ‘bout some Ketchup, Larry?”

He laughed. I mean, he really laughed. It started out as a chuckle but rolled into a demonic cackle. He stopped as suddenly as he started. Fear washed over his face… His mirth switched to contempt, “Don’t you have any salsa?”

“C’mon, Larry. You’ve been in Southern California too long. Ketchup’s the American salsa everywhere else.”

I palm-pounded out the thick red goop that plopped from the bottle, “Eat. It’s better while hot.”

Larry’s eyes bulged as he stared at the pile on his plate. “I’m still not hungry, Crash.”

I must’ve dropped acid several hundred times from 1965 to ’74. My interrogation method was as simple as walking inside your subject’s head… a friendly guest… quell all fear until there. Once there, the work begins.

“Larry, you’re with me aren’t you? What do you see on the plate, Larry? Share with me.”

“It moves… and what?” he stuck a finger in the mushy pile and tasted, “Red blood… my God! Real red blood!”

“It’s okay, Larry. That’s what I see too… but it’s just Ketchup.” I stuck my finger in the pile, “The blood is Ketchup, Larry. Blood has a taste and smell you can’t forget.”

“I never tripped before, Crash. Everything is new to me.”

“I can guide you through this. It’s the novelty of perspective, Larry, not the novelty of a fantasy of reality. You’ve had hash and eggs before. There’s nothing to be afraid of between your ears, is there Larry?” I asked, knowing there had to be a kaleidoscope of visual delights, odors, senses awake... but mostly fears circling around like buzzards… swooping in and snipping and pecking at morsels of crimes and misdemeanors locked away in there. His eyes followed my hand as I waved it over his plate.

“Those are called tracers, Larry.”

“What? What’s that. What are you talking about?” Larry’s fear was palpable… like a dark aura… a shade between us. I knew I had to gently steer through it or lose him. Hell, he could just as easily switch the focus and direct my consciousness wherever he wished.

“My hands… that flicker that follows them. Trippers call'em tracers.”

“Between my ears? What are you going to do with me, Crash?” His gaze followed after the space where my hand had passed.

 “You know, Larry, my name is David Kraszhinski. You can call me David. I’m not going to harm you.”

“David… I know your name,” he waved his hand slowly across the front of his face. “Oh, tracers? Really? That's what they're called?Tracers. But everybody calls you Crash.”

“Try to focus, Larry. You aren’t just anybody any longer. You are Larry. And Larry, I’m David, and I’m going to lead you and we, yes we, You and me Larry, we... are... going... we're going to get through this together.” Repeating his name set it in… scribed it into his hard drive. I had to replace the persona of Doctor Lawrence Spawnn with something closer to eye-level. Larry.

Doc fidgeted, Anna… and Anna. She too?” He sat with hands on the edge of the table and pushed his back against the vinyl cushion… the very idea that we might be pals must have disgusted him almost as much as it did me but he tried not to offend, “Pals? Crash, I don’t get it. The people behind all this… You and Ryan. What makes you think he won’t turn on you?”

“That’s more like it Larry. The people behind this.” He was soft and easy to turn. If I hadn’t been on acid I would have gladly busted a cap between his eyes. Empathy, that’s how acid helped the interrogation.

The acid was hitting me hard too and its power was unexpectedly daunting. I had to focus and make a few friendly suggestions in order to get back on track. Awestruck, Doc was staring at his plate and coffee mug as I asked, “Do you see that? What I’m seeing? I see sparkling iridescent rainbows over an abyss of black…”

Doc’s voice quivered, “Yeh, Crash, I see them too, rainbows…”

“David… I’m David, Larry.” Over gently rolling seas the Dinky Dao plowed on. It was time to get down to brass tacks. I got on beam with Larry’s consciousness and could take him anywhere. I poked at his fear to make sure, “Do you hear that Larry?”

“What? Sure. The engine?”

“Yeh, growling. An angry growling?”

The suggestion worked. Fear’s pallor washed over Doc’s face, “Yes… yes… angry!”

I went with his fear. The engine growled like a tiger in the bowels of the boat. What’s more, it took on my father’s voice… Judge Hard-Ass’ voice… every cop… authority… my own words bounced around…  fear between my ears…. Out of body I watched from above the table and became aware that my lips were moving and the vocal chords that I felt vibrating were my own as I moaned, “snap out of it or you will Crash…. Kraszhinski!”

My voice caught Larry’s attention, “What? What?”

I came back into my body and to the subject, “So, what? What’s with you Larry?”

“I don’t know what you mean?”

“I mean, what’s with you? Nothing more… nothing less.”

Larry puzzled, “Were you really some kind of spy?”

“Not exactly… not as glamorous… no sex kittens to turn, if you know what I mean.” I answered without thinking… not as glam alright. A murderer maybe… fucking license to kill, yeh, sure. License to bend over for every jackass with a star or two on their collar… “You’ve been watching too many movies, Larry.”

Doc’s fear had dissipated. I’m fishing. Let him run with the line but be sure not to let him go too far. I needed him to feel confident that he’s safe once we dove into the subconscious because that’s where the real sharks swim. The image of the marlin’s head on the pier came alive, saying, “I’m warning you Kraszhinski, don’t play with him too long. There’s a great white out there at the helm.”

Anna… My mind went to Anna… then Perry… then Jenny… then Ryan…Yuri… and a mysterious puppeteer… synapses playing musical chairs… focus… goal… why am I here? What am I trying to accomplish? Ryan’s investigation… investigation… interrogation… oh yes, interrogation… “Wazzup Doc?”

We laughed hysterically. I mean, really laughed. Doc kept repeating, “Wazzup Doc… Wazzup Doc!”

After we were done laughing, Doc asked, “Do you believe in God, David?” He was a minister after all.

“God? Be honest, Larry. You don’t believe in fairy tales, do you Reverend?”

“Not really… I mean, I wish I did. It would be easier.”

I had him now. “Easier to what?”

He knew I knew he was a fraud… a big part of him was aware of it, “To confess.”

I went to confession once in Nam. I’m not a Catholic but I liked the idea of going into a dark closet to confess. This crap was eating him up and now I was inside. Time to set up the confessional booth, “Tell me Larry, I know someone like Yuri’s a hired gun but can you tell me who it is he works for.”

Larry spat out one word, “Bratva!” A few minutes passed as it soaked in.

“Bratva? Oh shit.”

His chest expanded… “I told you that you were dealing with more than you can handle… They’ll get Ryan too… if they haven’t already.”

Doc was doing a good job by accident of turning his paranoia onto my own beast. An unconscious power-play on his part. Little phrases like, “If they haven’t got Ryan already.” They stuck… enhanced by my mind already on the edge of control… what if Ryan gets offed? Larry wasn’t a pro but the ego is. The ego is the expert double agent in all of us. It is always on the lookout and ready to counter-attack when threatened. His ego threw back a greater fear in a gentle lob, what if Ryan gets turned! Almost anyone can be turned. Gotta stay on track… it’s Ketchup, not blood. It could just as well be blood… all the blood I’ve ever seen. Crystal clear. Reality or hallucination… it makes no difference. Both are real… all’s the same thing… it merely takes a twist… a change in lighting and someone’s bleeding.

Looking back on this era… the eighties, I can reflect on how these were skilled operatives pulling the strings. I didn’t know what only a few at the top of the intelligence community in the Kremlin and Langley knew; the Soviet Union was falling apart. The old Gulag prison gangs, Thieves in Law (vory v zakone) of the Tsarist and Stalinist eras, had evolved into Solntsevskaya Bratva (the Brotherhood of Thieves). They were there to welcome some of the KGB’s Cold War skills but kept them, and anyone in the Russian Army or police, at arm’s length. I’d heard about heroin trafficking from Afghanistan via gangs from Chechnya. They had to be on top of things. I’d heard they didn’t allow members to be married, work for the government in any capacity, and were faithful to each other unto death. The cohesiveness of this group made the Mafia, Columbian and Mexican Cartels, look meek by comparison. Gorbachev’s imposition of a Russian form of prohibition on Vodka opened up organized crime as it once did in the USA back in the twenties. It only took a handful of KGB and Special Forces to infiltrate and take over some areas of the enterprise at arm’s length of the brotherhood. The children would be kicked out of the candy store once the grand play for democracy, Glasnost, was subverted. 

These characters alone would be tough enough. From what we, as in the USA, should have feared of the Bratva was that ex-KGB would, and did, work in concert with the brotherhood sometime in the future. They’d elect themselves by brute force. The only ballot needed for real power came from a radioactive capsule dropped into a dissident’s tea or a sniper’s rifle.

Yuri was but the first wave of opportunists in Brighton Beach under the guise of seeking asylum in the land of the free. It wasn’t so much that I was so damned prescient but I could see where trends go.

“I know you, Larry,” I began bringing him home… reeling him in, “You might be a creep but I don’t believe you have it in you to orchestrate anything like this. How did they get their hooks in you?”

Larry straightened up in his seat like I’d hit him with a cattle-prod… “Uh… I dunno, Crash. You think I’m a creep… but it just happened.”

“Happened? Naw, Larry, I don’t think you’re a bad man. Just don’t lie to yourself. Who made it happen? I don’t give a shit about your fun and games before. I get it… you were having the time of your life.”

Larry’s face lit up. The fucker was reliving it. I did think he was a creep and a weak, rotten, son-of-a-bitch… but not intrinsically a bad man. I’ve seen bad men before and he did not qualify.

Empathy was my best tool. “The young girls like Anna, then S & M. I get it, no one was hurt that didn’t want to be hurt. You knew a few people that would like to have pants-party flicks so you filmed the action… it was amateur hour… that ain’t so bad either.” I lied, “Your friends saw a business opportunity. Make a little money… You did make some money from your hobby, Larry, right?”

Larry busted loose in agony, “But I didn’t want it to go as far as it did…”

I had to keep him on the subject, “So, Larry, the pros moved in. Young girls weren’t enough now, were they? You got younger girls. Your clients wanted more. You actually liked that and so did your clients.” I turned to look out through the window and then nodded to Larry for emphasis where we could see Anna at the helm, “Anna got too old for you. Didn’t she? Look at her out there. She’s a woman now. It wasn’t enough to have schoolgirl outfits… they had to be real children Right? How am I doin’? okay yet?”

Larry’s gaze was beyond me towards the window, “Okay, okay. You’re right. You’re right… what do you want me to tell? Yes, I liked it too.”

“You said, it just happened. You said that as though you had no control over what went down.” The LSD was getting to me too. My emotions were flipping from empathy to disgust… I wasn’t interested in what Larry did. I wanted to know who it was behind the scenes… the ones calling the shots. But to get there I had to dig through this pile of rancid shit… go inside his head as dark and fetid as it was. “There are no rules, Larry. No right… no wrong… are you feeling guilty? Is it a foreign feeling to you? Well, that’s good, feel it. Guilt’s good for you. Never mind what Dr. Freud said about it.”

“No, I didn’t mean it to go as far as it did.”

“Snuff films? You can say it. I just did.”

“It was Yuri’s idea! He forced…”

Feigning impatience, I interrupted, “You can do better than whining to me about how the devil made you do it! Tell me something I don’t know, Larry.”

We sat silent for quite a while again. I was tripping. The gentle lifting and falling… the audio of the waters against the hull, the hum of the engine purring… the walls of the cabin breathing in synch with every breath I was taking… While this was going on with my consciousness, it was happening simultaneously with Larry’s, I didn’t suspect or imagine it…. No, I knew I was inside Larry’s head… like the way Charlie Manson got inside the heads of The Family.

 “A name, Larry. Give up one name.”

“I don’t know their names. I know of a house at the edge of Hope ranch, that’s all. They send people to me and I pay a fee…taxes, let’s say. Anna and Yuri know more.”

Anna! Shit. Her story about how she got her studio never made much sense to me. Like Kali, the destroyer of kings, she could be far more dangerous than Yuri or the Bratva. I’m going to have to squeeze information out of her too. I wasn’t so sure I was up to the task and, for the first time since this crap started, I needed a drink to come down off this acid. I softened my tone to a friendly purr, “That’s bullshit Larry. If we’re going to help you, you need to help us.”

He clasped his hands on the side of his head as a vise to squeeze his brains out and whispered, “Smerdyakov. Billionaire, Anton Smerdyakov.”

“KGB?”

“Ex-KGB.”

“Larry, there’s no such thing as ex-KGB.”