A Gathering of Forces

A steady bass-riff, duh-duh-duh-duh-doom-muh-doom, growled through the ground in seismic waves under her feet as she approached the far end of the walkway past several apartments. She didn’t have to check the address, it had to be Ralph’s place. Anna pounded hard on the door… shouting answered her from inside, “One-Two… One-Two-Three-Four, … I wanna be X-Rated!” da-pa-papa da-pa-papa… the grumbling ceased… Clang! Clank! Followed by ear-splitting screeching feedback! The door opened a crack, smoke billowed out. Anna leaned into it and filled her lungs with the pungent fumes the best she could.

Ralph’s jet-black disheveled hair cascaded into his face and mid-back over his black leather jacket. He looked like a curly-haired Latino Ramone and younger than his age because he never had to shave. He spoke loud, as though the amps were still booming, “What do you want?” she held her hands over her ears. He stopped and took off his gun-range muffs. He poked his head out and peered from the door past Anna to the parking lot of the complex and then back into her dark eyes, “Woah, who are you, sweetheart?”

 She stepped back enough for him to appraise her, “I’m Anna. You must be Ralph, right?”

Ralph’s deep resonate voice, and smile just short of a leer, told her that he never had to go so far as to seduce women. To his advantage, women liked Ralph’s Latin good looks even though it was obvious to them he wasn’t interested in much more than bong hits, beer, sex, a few laughs, more beer, and more sex. They needed little or no persuading to fall into his bed. He turned on the charm, “Oh now, what can I do for you?”

 “Is Max around? Roy, at the bike shop, said he might be here.”

“Max, Naw. Max. Shit no. He ain’t around. What are you, a cop?” he eyed her clothes and opened the door wide enough for her to see inside through the apartment’s thick atmosphere. Standing back to look her over he was pleased at what he saw, or imagined, under the hoodie and oversized coveralls.

“You’d be busted if I was.” She turned as if to leave, “Tell Max a friend needs his help… a friend of Crash, if you hear from him?”

“Just kidding. Crash, wow. Come on in and have a hit.”

 Egg-flat squares were stapled to the walls and taped to the windows for sound proofing but made for a claustrophobic space. It would be damned dark in there during day-light hours.

Ralph was stoned. When he was stoned he talked to hear himself talk. After all, he was a singer and, as any singer should, he liked the sound of his own voice, “I ain’t seen him in a year and, Max? Last I heard, shit, Max bailed with an Indian Chick to like Nicaragua or something.”

A card table with folding chairs was in the middle of the room and everything was damned near in reach of it… a stack of speakers, amps, and bass guitar at one side on a stand nearest to the door and a thread-worn couch and beat up dresser against the inner wall that separated the kitchenette from the living room. The center-piece of the table was a bong and an open bag of buds in a tip-tray.

He lit the bong and took a deep hit. After sucking it in and holding, he squeezed out, “Can you fuckin’ believe that? Max in a fuckin’ jungle.” Cough, “Man, I can see why though. Sent me a picture of her. Hot. Not Bianca Jagger hot…” cough again, “you know, but better, in my book. Mix in a little Africa with some Miskito… but not the bug… Miskitos are Indians… More like earth mama hot. Not bad for a white boy. Like I said, more like something Crash would go for.” He pulled out a chair for her, “You want a hit, a beer?”

She set the chair away from the table, at an angle facing the door where she could get out easily if she had to. She gave Ralph the once over as he went into the kitchenette to bring back two long-neck bottles of beer. She asked, “Don’t your neighbors complain?”

“Naw. I gots them egg-flats ta cushion the sound and, ‘sides, I give that one a bud or two and this one a few lines… before I quit the Cola…, uh, you’re not a cop, are you?”

“Would I tell you if I was?”

“Good point. Crash, no shit.” He lit the bowl again and passed the bong to her, “I met Crash… worked out with him when he was here to practice for my brown belt… you know, Ka Ju Kempo… he was drunk but, once he bowed, look out… he’s a bad-assed dude. Seems like he would’ve been the one to go to Nicaragua though, not Max. You know, Max… he got dinged bad… messed his head up… a bike accident… concussion. They say, that Chiquita was a school teacher or something. He’s more of an intellectual, ya know… not the soldier type… he went as a journalist, I think. Crash now, I saw him kick-ass once… tore a new one on some pendejo… a biker, at the Library.”

“In a library?”

"The Library’s a bar… used to be a real Carnegie Library, though," he spaced, "It's in the basement where the children’s section used to be," and laughed a stoner's laugh, “Hah, we played there in kindergarten. Why you lookin’ for Crash? You a cop?”

“That’s three times you asked. Again, what makes you think I’d tell you if I was?” she lit the bong and let the bubbling of it affirm that she wasn’t likely a cop.

They sat at the card table while Ralph served up a couple more bottles of beer. He liked her but still wasn’t sure of her.

“I need to stay out of sight for just one night. I can use your floor.”

 “Sure, you kin stay here tonight?”

“Really? thanks Ralph.”

“It’s Ralph to Gringos. You can call me Rafael.” He flipped a Trojan in its wrapper out from his jacket pocket onto the table next to the bong, “Don’t worry, I gots protection.”

She wasn’t sure whether this was a clumsy come-on, trying to test her… piss her off, or, all the above.

Ralph reached behind the speaker stack next to the door “I gots this kind too,” and pulled out a pistol grip, sawed-off, twelve-gauge.

Anna was on it. In a swift turn-about, she was off the chair, had the shot-gun out of his hands and into hers with the naughty end of it on Ralph’s throat, “I doubt if you have the kind of protection I need, Rafael.”

After a few pregnant moments, he grinned and asked, “foreplay?” Not a wicked grin… she knew it came from the innocence of play. She laughed, to laugh-off the tension of the past week and handed the gun back.

Ralph’s confidence was comforting as was his sense of humor. They talked a few hours in which he explained, “I was a guard you know? Uh, a Corrections Officer at the prison ‘til I got busted. The DEA, and every other law enforcement agency, kicked in the door but it was a bogus bust… beat it in court. I only had caffeine pills. But I’m suspended without pay. When I get reinstated I’ll have back pay coming… gonna throw a party and then I’ll quit. I’m gonna have David Letterman host it and invite all the big stars like Joan Jett, Iggy Pop, Joey Ramone, Stevie Nicks, and, you know, Hunter Thompson and Joe Bob Briggs… Some might even come. You never know.”

Anna thought it was clear that Ralph was hemp-delusional but she humored him and explained an abridged version of what had gone down… before she asked, “Damn, I haven’t had a shower in a longer time than I can recall. They wouldn’t let me take one before the fuckin’ rape test. I was out of Dodge before that was ever going to happen.”

“Who? What happened. It wasn’t Crash, was it? Who did it?”

“Who said I was raped?”

“Why’d you run for it? They don’t do those tests unless they thought somethin’ happened, do they?”

“It’s hard to explain. A fuckin doctor doped me with somethin’ I don’t know what…”

“Who?”

“Dr. Coxcomb. Are you gonna let me use your shower or what?” She pulled the hoodie off up and over her head.

 “Shit, that was Max’s doctor. What a con!” Ralph appraised her bare breasts peeking half over the bib and under the straps of the coveralls. “Hey, you have some nice ta-ta’s, small ones. I like ‘em bigger but them’s nice,” he said.

“Thanks, I grew ‘em myself,” she shrugged off the straps, let the coveralls fall to the floor, and kicked them to the side, cupped her breasts and stood proud in front of him, “Two for the price of one.” When it wasn’t about selling it, sex came to her as a gesture as natural as a handshake. She knew sex bought loyalty better than talk or cash.

Poor Ralph, punk rocker that he was, was a sucker for love and sure that there was no other reason but sex for a girl to be naked. At first, he didn’t notice her body was bruised, especially her inner thighs. His libido was stemmed … not entirely but enough, “Yea, sure. Shower’s back in the bedroom, first door on the left. I think there’s a clean towel already in there.”

She showered, and afterwards, checked the mirror for bruises, wondering what happened to her, asking her image, “Was I raped? Wouldn’t I remember something like that no matter how doped up. Maybe beaten to look like rape?” She came out of the bathroom to find Ralph laying naked on top the covers on the bed. She crawled up next to him. Anna was in no mood for sex but was willing to pay the price for his loyalty. Her experience with young men was that the best way to a man’s heart wasn’t his stomach at all… at least not a man Ralph’s age.

What started out as an obligatory nuzzle… a ploy… her way of paying for room and board, became more than that to her. He held her… spooned up from behind. It was a comfort like the way Crash held her on Santa Cruz Island that first night. He was kind and gentle in one moment and then, at times, a beast… just enough of a beast. It turned into a passionate night and, if she was ever in the habit of rating men, this one would be at the top of her long list.

She was out of bed at sunrise. Ralph’s jacket and black jeans were draped over the back of a chair. His wallet hung on a chain from a belt loop. She found that it contained a couple hundred bucks in twenties, tens, and smaller bills. She would’ve taken all of it but she took only what she needed… a couple twenties.  He wouldn’t miss it unless he counted it right away. He snored peacefully while she rummaged through the cupboards in the kitchen to find a few cans of refried beans that she opened and a bag of chips and salsa.

Ralph awoke to the rattle-crinkle of the bag of tortilla chips and saw her sitting naked at the table scarfing down the refried beans scooped onto a chip. “Oh shit, you’re hungry, I’m sorry. We kin go to the store.”

 “No, I have to get out of here. I can’t be seen in public.”

“Yeh, you need clothes.” He opened a drawer from the small dresser next to the table and lit the bong, “My ex left some of her clothes. There’s some jeans and tees and some tennies in here, help yourself.”

“Yes, that too. But I have to get out of Vacaville.”

“Where? What can I do?”

She liked that he didn't hesitate or ask why, “I need to get to a place near Rio Vista?”

“Sure, I’ll take you.”

“I need to go near there. You ever hear of the Island Mansion?”

“Yeh, lived here all my life. Born and bred…. Island Mansion? Shit, I tried to check it out a few times. Something weird about it though. It looks abandoned, you’d think. But, I been there several times, and every time, some bad-assed lookin’ dudes with dogs… German Shepherds and one guy had a big dog, a Mastiff! They chased us off. I didn’t never see no tats on ‘em but I know ex-cons when I see ‘em.”

While the bong gurgled, she checked the clothes for anything that might fit and pulled on a pair of very tight jeans, “You mean, you didn’t ever see any tats on them.”

He passed the bong to her. She held up a hand and declined, “No thanks, Raphael, not today. I have business to attend.”

 “That’s what I said… didn’t see no tats. Ain’t goin’ up that driveway, though. No way. I figured it ain’t healthy t’ git too near it.”

She tried the gym shoes. They fit better than the jeans, “I’m good. You ready? That’s all I need you to do, Rafael, get near it, just get me near it.”

The 1% Feeds off Hysteria and Chaos

My once in a while political observation:

His supporters already have a persecution complex about the media. Don't feed it. We play into his hands when we use heated and hysterical rhetoric. It just pours gasoline on the fire. We have plenty of ammunition through several investigations in the Congress (more than a few Republicans see through him). So far he has proven to be incompetent and politically ill-advised and is likely to not improve. Think of how bad it would be if real political operatives, like Ryan, were in his place. The only card he has to play is the hysteria of the opposition. It serves to pump up his supporters. Climate change, the Health Care Act, and so on, have serious problems that need looking at. Look at them objectively and we take away another tool he uses. If we stop making excuses for losing we will do better. The solution is in the problem. Come one people, we don't need to alienate almost 50% of the voters by calling him, and them, idiots, and focusing on the minutia of rhetorical twitter errors, throwing around terms like fascist and so on. That is what the fanatics on the right did with President Obama. Treat him with the respect of his office, whether you like him or not, lest we become the same ilk of fanatics we despise. I believe that, by respecting the office of the Presidency, we diffuse his rational. The FBI and the NSA already have a close watch on him with several investigations and, if they don't succeed in taking him down, his energy will certainly be sapped. That is all he has in reality is the energy of an alienated public. He doesn't have a plan of his own. Congress will not stay in his camp much longer... they need to be re-elected. Our system of government does not bend easily to radical change. It is geared to grind away slowly always frustrates the will of dictators in the long run. I fear the emotional outrage of his critics more so than I do his impotent twittering gestures and I know that if we take the heat off our rhetoric we have a better chance. Of course, I know there are some who don't want a solution. They feed off conflict and grievances. Don't let your righteous indignation be used against you. We fall into the hands of the 1% when we cry out to create chaos

Crash Escapes

Since White Bear insisted the cruel & unusual clause of the Constitution dictates three-hours of exercise in the yard, and I had not any beyond the perp walk, he threatened to sue and the jail administrators caved. It was a small jail with a minimal honor yard. My eyes would be ready to find blind spots and weak points in the yard.

The first day I was brought to the yard in shackles alone. White Bear’s one call to the ACLU remedied that. Day two, though I had the yard to myself, I counted twenty guards in the small confines of it. I tried jogging but, every ten-steps, an officer stood in my way so that one lap around the yard made for almost two. The reputation for violence that preceded my arrest could have been the motivation for the obstruction. The guards, frustrated that their tactic failed to rankle me, bumped and jostled me at times too. They could have had orders to provoke an attack because no officer in his right mind would lean on an inmate like that since California's prisoners bill of rights was enacted during Reagan's term as Governor. Instead,they muttered insults as I passed, like, “What’s the matter Kraszhinski, no one to rape here?” … “Working off your jizz bucket?” … “We got some juvies in here that you might like.” … “Maybe we can put a buck in your cell.” … “Pay-back’s a bitch.” It would make it too easy for them if I powered through them.

I stopped by the weights bench and rings. Stripping down to the jailhouse boxers and tees, I did a few turns on a set of rings. I was still in good enough shape but faked being weaker than I was. A guard was watching me, “Not bad, Kraszhinski. You learn to do that in the Army?’

The isometrics I did in the cell had worked well enough to keep my strength up. “Yeah, not so hot now. I'm over forty, ya know. Age slows ya down. Besides, my hands are gonna blister. You guys have any tape?”

Things like tape in prison and jails is a security item kept locked up. The guard came back with a roll, “Hold ‘em out. I’ll wrap ‘em.”

“Wrap ‘em thick. I have a girl’s hands now, you know what I mean.”

Another guard saw what was going on and stepped between us, “Yeah, tape ‘em up good. The pervs got blisters from chokin’ the chicken.”

I picked up my jump suit and started some laps around the yard. The jerk was just using amateur Psy-ops tactic… Harass… never let-up on verbal abuse… physical abuse is the last resort before torture. They’d already used isolation and sensory deprivation on me. I’d done them all on prisoners myself. Never had to get down to pulling nails. If only they knew what I could endure when I fell back on what I did best. Not only was I trained to endure this, but trained to do so as a volunteer lab rat for the CIA while tripping on Lysergic Acid Diethylene. The few of us, those of us who had the aptitude to pass that extreme, laughed and called it the Acid test.

Lap one: The trick was to know that; whatever the experience, whatever the hallucination, whatever the fear evoked… it was all in my head in the space between the scull and the inner-sanctum. They, the guards, were trying to get in there… Don’t believe that which is outside the head and but believe what is facing me. I go inside but go way-in there… way-in, all the way to … the Holy of Holies… where… no one impure… where no pain, no threats of imminent death … all of the external is not allowed in… they are to be dealt with. Equilibrium.

Lap two: What is exploding in the cavern of the scull is irrelevant to the mission. The mission isn’t to survive. The mission, once captured, is to preserve and restore chi, resist, escape … or otherwise take command and direct the energy and purposes of the enemy against themselves. Even death holds nothing on me because it too is an escape and escape is a tactical victory.

Lap three: I have no beef with law enforcement. Most are well intentioned and honorable but, when incarcerated, no matter my personal feelings about an individual corrections officer, those feelings are never to get in the way of the previously described mission. Any inmate of any value, in any prison, has to have a similar aim or they will give up all hope. The prison of self is the same. Hope isn’t the door to the inner-sanctum, it is the key. It only opens the door. Once the door is open you leave hope at the portal. There is no going back from the brink of the ultimate death, the death to self, the death to ambition, the abandonment of hope, given over to the sea of consciousness where the heart of compassion beats. I neither love nor hate the enemy. The enemy is just another dancer to the drumbeat of the cosmos… too far out there for ya? I think so, but I don’t even try to come back from it. The only thing left is to dive into it or else go back to the oblivion of drunkenness. Peggy Lee sings in my head as I jog one step at a time, “if that’s all there is, if that’s all there is my friend, then let’s keep dancing. Oh, Sweet Buddha, you are so full of shit. Will I ever come back from insanity once I’ve tasted the nectar of its virtue? Naw, but not because I can’t but because I have no reason to.

On my way around the yard I can see there's two sets of fences to pass to the outside. Between the fences is the lane that the guards pass through to change shifts in the tower. One came in through a gate. He left it open for the other guard he would relieve. And there it is… the Bardo… the gap between guard and the tower. Low part of the chain-link fence and razor wire… I see it… a blind spot… the tower changing of the post… One of the guards stopped… His shoelace had become loose… turned his back to me… squatted down to tie the lace. A Shoelace! The Bardo between here and now, shit or get off the pot. Holy Shiva! BE HERE NOW! Dance! It isn’t speed, Miyamoto! It’s Musashi rhythm… cadence… the beat… the pulse of the gods… a cosmic RAGA… now dance! 

Within the inner sanctum time is suspended… wrap my jumpsuit and around taped hands… Fly away in skivvies, tee, and shorts. The guard was still crouched over… I leap-step and spring-board from his back up and over the top on the razor wire… both hands protected... up … Fosbury-flopped, momentum flip lifted hands planted on razor wire… handstand on both sides of the post tumble over the razor wire’s edge that cut through the material of the hand wrapping of the jump suit but hardly scratched the surface of the tape over the palms… not enough to draw blood. The springboard guard looked frantic... eyes pleading towards the tower. He yelled… “Fuck! Kraszhinski! Stop! Halt!”

This was a small county jail and, though the tower was the only place where firearms were deployed, the changing of the guard had both pairs of eyes on clipboards and forms… bureaucrats with badges busy. Not long… but just long enough.

 On the ground…  a car … a woman in the car … waiting for someone… probably the guard getting off duty. Waiting for ME! It’s an easy snatch… she screamed… yanked her out the driver side door. It’s more than serendipity… a collision of elements. Like the dash to the Saigon Embassy in 75. Only better, no mortars. The cosmos would disregard the physics of it, if the need be, but doesn’t. It never does. It makes sense somewhere beyond the mathematics between Quantum physics and Newtonian mechanical clockwork of the universe… a peg kicks another cog and it never has to do anything like a miracle. I heard more yelling… alarms… klaxons blasting and a full-on squeal of tires… a turn… a ditch … a farmworker’s truck… keys in it… Stop! Make a trade… drive away and out of sight of the car. Find some clothes under the driver’s seat. Ah, a San Francisco Forty-Niner’s hoodie and a pair of coveralls. Coveralls too small. Highwaters! I’m off… on my way to the Island Mansion. Find Max. Is he still in Vacaville?  Vacaville, it is. A reunion. 

Chapter 32. Anna at Large

It was a dream… a dream of the tropics… of a temple ruin in a tropical rain forest. Rain… not your regular rain coming down in drops dripping but rain that comes down in thundering sheets… a waterfall of rain … from under and between gnarled and twisted roots overhanging the decaying stone edifice of a jungle temple ruin, a procession of a hundred monks wearing rain soaked saffron robes came out in twos, led by an ancient monk. She stood facing the procession in the middle of a causeway on which the monks stepped to the slow beat of drums towards her. Each reverently cupped a bowl in both hands containing a lotus blossom. It appeared to be a funeral. She stood in front of the procession waiting for it to arrive. She couldn’t hear herself begging the leader something… his head was shaved like hers…his face was kind though crevassed and creased with age. He whispered, “You belong to us.” “You know that by now, don’t you?” She recognized the voice from behind a burgundy mask that covered the contours of its face. It was that of the Bird Dog.

“No… I can’t. I must find my father.”

The saffron robes of a monk in the procession directly behind the leader turned blood red. He was Smerdyakov, “You need to flee.”

Bird Dog barked, “Your father’s fallen into a deep well.”

With a start… startled, Anna tried to get out of the bed. Dogs outside barked. She didn’t understand, it was a hospital bed… the kind with rails on the sides. She pushed herself out and off but something was off. Her body leaden, her feet were as though equipped with bad prosthesis… they wouldn’t follow commands. She fell forward but caught her fall, hands out, on the bed tray. It rolled away but she gained control in time by falling to the side and landing on the bed. She saw police patrolling with K-9’s outside her window. There was a closet across the room. It was far away enough to be daunting but she felt she must check to see if she had clothes.

An attendant rushed into the room before she was halfway to it. “Anadel, you mustn’t be out of bed. Let me help you back.”

“No… no. I don’t want to be here. My father’s in a deep well!”

The nurse humored the girl as though she was a child, “The doctors are making their rounds and will be here within the hour, stay.”

She gently pulled Anna back further onto the bed while another attendant wheeled a gurney into the room.

The attendant was a robust man with biceps as thick as Anna's thighs. The nurse patted the gurney and asked, “Can you get up on this on your own, honey?”

“Really? You call me honey. Who are you and where the fuck am I?”

The attendant stood by, “Is this one gonna be trouble?”

The nurse nodded his way. He clasped his arms around her and lifted her in a swoop to the gurney.

Anna’s body felt as though her body was moving through thick air and there wasn’t enough in her to resist when the nurse and the attendant strapped her down and wheeled her out the door to an elevator and a small room. They had her reclined in a gyno-chair within seconds. Under normal circumstances, she felt vulnerable with her feet in stirrups trapped in one of those chairs. She had less than no time and little energy to object.

A doctor entered… well, he looked the part wearing in a white coat accessorized with stethoscope. The nurse frowned. Anna sensed there was no love between the nurse and the doctor, “I’ll take it from here,” he said.

“You know the rules, Doctor Coxcomb. We must have a female chaperone for all pelvic exams.”

The nurse smiled while opening a box with swabs and paraphernalia wrapped in crinkly medical paper, “Now, honey, this is a rape kit. Have you ever seen one?”

“No, fuckin’ no way. I haven’t been raped, have I?”

 “You tell me. We’ll administer a rape test just in case. You were kinda out of it when you came in. Can you remember any of it?”

Anna remembered the boat. Larry --- Casey --- Casey! “Yes, Casey. They killed Casey!”

“Who”

“Yuri… he killed Casey.”

 “I don’t want that man to stay here.”

Anna gathered what strength she had and resolved to escape.

 “Don’t worry, Hon,” the nurse assured her, ”I’m not going anywhere. Got that, Doctor?”

The doctor nodded for the attendant to act, “What are you waiting for? Get her out of here.”

The nurse shrunk enough to avoid the behemoth’s grasp. Doctor Coxcomb helped to shove her out the door. The nurse struggled to get back in the examination room. She put up a hell of a fight. Anna saw her chance while they pushed and shoved in the hallway. Of the three, only the nurse, saying nothing, let her slip past and behind the Doctor and the hulk. With her hospital gown flapping, opened in back, the last they saw of her was her butt passing through the door to the stairwell. The attendant took off in full pursuit mode while Doctor Coxcomb followed. Anna’s coordination returned enough so that, one hand gliding down the rail, she damned near flew down the stairs, leaping four or five steps at a time. She exited the stairwell to find the first floor was one level above ground level. It was her good fortune the nearby window was a fire exit. She opened and burst through setting off the alarms.

Once on the ground she dashed to the parking lot on the opposite side of the street. The dogs were not in sight. She spotted a VW Van parked within a short sprint, and ducked down next to it. She tried the door. It was locked but the wing window was easily pushed open. She heard a commotion from frantic security guards and police shouting orders and more dogs barking. Her arm was thin enough to reach inside the wing window and pull the latch. She cracked the door enough to get inside and close it sliding under the dash before a squad car passed. The barking faded into the distance. She groped inside the glove box for anything that would work towards connecting the ignition pegs and hot-wiring it. She felt some letter size forms folded and held together with a large paper clip… perfect. In seconds, she loosened the nuts on the pegs by finger tips, twisted the clip around two and screwed them back down clamped tight by the nuts. Leaving the third starter peg open she kept the end of the clip unattached to be used as a spring connector. Touched to the third peg would kick in the starter when she was ready. She sat up enough to peek over the dash to see if the lot had anyone in it looking for her.

VW’s, vans and bugs, make quite a racket when they start and Anna knew she didn’t have a chance to outrun anyone if she was caught firing it up prematurely. Several uncomfortable moments passed. She crawled behind the seats to seek out anything useful and found a laundry bag. Among skid-marked skivvies and tees, stinking of beer and sweat, she dug out a beer stained hooded San Francisco Giants sweatshirt and greasy jumpsuit. Getting out of that hospital gown was good and the hoodie afforded her an extra layer of cover from getting ID’d. Night had fallen by the time she fired it up and headed West on I-80 towards Vacaville.

She’s taken the old VW because they were the easiest vehicles to hot-wire. However, it bothered her that the contents of the dirty laundry bag told her it belonged to a working man. She’d try not to trash it but would need a less conspicuous car by morning. She had no money or plan beyond getting to the Island Mansion. Bird Dog was the clue her dream provided. Father is in a deep well… blood… raining blood. She exited at Vacaville where she knew of an artist that worked running an arts program in the prison. Max and Crash had been involved in a Vietnam Veterans group and had shared a few hours at Mel’s and the Ofice in Santa Barbara. Crash told her about the distinct triangle building where Max had his studio on Main street. It was a long shot but she thought she might be able to hit him up for some cash and possibly a ride.

The door to the studios upstairs was locked. The bicycle shop below was closed but a light was on in the rear. She went around to a side door, ready to break-in, but was relieved when a young man answered from the other side of the locked door, “We’re closed. Come back in the morning.”

She played the damsel in distress, explaining, “I came to visit Max McGee. Does he still have a studio upstairs? Please, please... I can’t get in. Please, can you let me in?”

It works most of the time, the cute little girl act. He opened the door, “No, sorry, McGee skipped out on rent a year ago. If you see him, tell the fucker he owes my dad three months’ rent. He might have forgot but we haven't.”

Flipping her hoodie back she wagged her head, “Son of a bitch, I’m sorry to hear that. He owes me money too. Do you have any idea if he’s still in town?” It crossed her mind to rob the asshole but thought better of it.

The kid softened up a little when he saw how her cute matched her voice, “His old roommate told us Max went to Santa Monica. Ralph still lives on Holly Ln. Maybe he’ll tell you more than I can.”

“You wouldn’t know his address, would you?”

“Sure, come on in. I’ll look it up.”

Ten minutes later Ralph, looking like Joey Ramone, opened the door for her. “Max, naw. He ain’t around. No one knows where he is.”

“Can you tell him a friend needs his help… a friend of Crash, if you hear from him.?”

“Crash, no shit. I met Crash once. A good guy and a bad assed dude. Kicked ass --- whooped-up and tore a new one on a biker at the Library. Come on in and have a bong-hit?” Ralph stood back to let her in.

“Don’t mind if I do. library?”

"That's a bar. The Library used to be a library." he spaced "It's in the basement where the children’s section used to be." and laughed a stoner's laugh, “I played there in kindergarten.”

The two sat at a card table while Ralph served up a couple bottles of beer. They talked a few hours and went to bed. Ralph was smooth that way. If he met a woman and didn’t have her in the sack within a couple hours he considered his life a complete failure. Anna wasn’t horny but she figured the best way to a man’s heart wasn’t his stomach at all… at least not a young man Ralph’s age.

She was out of bed at sunrise. Ralph’s leather jacket hung over a chair, its inner pocket exposing a wallet. She found that it contained a couple hundred bucks in twenties, tens, and smaller bills. She would’ve taken all of it but felt he wasn’t such a bad guy… she took only what she needed… forty bucks.  He wouldn’t miss it unless he counted it right away. He snored peacefully while she rummaged through the cupboards in the kitchen to find a few cans of refried beans, an opened bag of chips and salsa. The fridge was more promising. It had a half carton of eggs and a slab of bacon. She did her best to cook up a breakfast but the culinary arts suffered in lieu of nutritional value.

He woke to breakfast of bacon, refried beans, and eggs with tortillas. From the ambience of the night before he hadn’t seen her bruises and scratches.

“What happened to you. Did Crash do that?”

“Oh no, definitely not. No.”

“Then who?”

“I can’t tell you but I’m in trouble. I need to get out of here. Can you help me?”

“Where? What can I do?”

She liked that he didn't hesitate or ask who was after her or what for, “You know Rio Vista?”

“Sure, I’ll take you there.”

“I need to go near there. You ever hear of the Island Mansion?”

“Yeah. Born and bred… lived here all my life. Island Mansion, shit, I tried to check it out a few times. Something weird about it though. It looks abandoned, you’d think. But, I been there several times, and every time, some bad-assed lookin’ dudes chased us off. Like Hells Angels or something. I used to be a prison guard here in Vacaville. I know ex-cons when I see ‘em. I figured it ain’t healthy to get too near there.”

He lit the bong. While it gurgled, she raised a hand, “No thanks. That’s all I need to do though, is get near there.”

Oh, Sacred Moments

Too many days go by.

Too many meaningless hours spent

On too much frivolity…

Immortal still, I turned thirty…

Teased death at forty…

Embraced mortality at fifty…

Bored by it at sixty…

And now I’m seventy, it

seems I might have used up my chances

To spend very much more time on

Wonderful frivolities.

My life has been a blessed one.

I have loved and been loved by several women

Whose generosity loaned me their hearts.

At times it was for one night of bliss

And others there was enough for two lifetimes.

Several times I crossed between love and obsession

And I never learned the lesson.

But always, I was forgiven my trespasses

Every time.

Oh, sacred moments…

The bardo between love and obsession

Bring me home… bring me home…

Maybe another ten… twenty years…

But bring me home to the one

That saved my heart from dissipation.

Oh, my Bonnie, we all end up where you are.

Chapter 18. Modigliani Eyes

   Casey and Anna were cozy at the helm where they’d been watching the action when I came out of the cabin. Her eyes were riveted on me while I walked back to the stern to sit and air out what had transpired. The Blatva… it was something I’d heard of but hadn’t paid much attention to. The LSD affects were at that stage where my brains felt fried and my eyes burned from the light reflecting off the seas.

“We’re goin’ to the Bay now, the Boss wants us there,” Casey’s voice interrupted the thought.

“What?” I had begun to wonder what Ryan was doing ashore. I knew he would have something planned but I had been in the dark up to then. It would be easy to get Casey to tell me everything he knew of it. I probed, “I know Ryan wants us in San Rafael but you must know more than me.”

Casey was bubbling with joy to be part of a big plan… that he knew more than me, “I have a good friend, Jimbo. He has an old boat I heard he’s been workin’ on. New canvass and paint. Other than that I gots no fuckin’ idea what Ryan’s up to.”

Anna interrupted, “Speaking of fuckin’ ideas, I want to know what the fuck’s going on with Doc, huh? What’s the plan with him?”

“He’s still tripping pretty heavy. I sent him below to chase the bats from his belfry, I suppose. I’m done with him though… got what I wanted.”

Anna entered the cabin and went straight below towards the berths where Doc was quietly sitting on the bunk. “I gotta use the head and change clothes.”

I followed close behind and called out, “Wait, Anna. I’m done with him but we need to pow-wow.”

The Dinky Dao had a layout similar to the Sherlock’s except that the Casey’s tub was an unmodified working lobster boat. The Sherlock had the same cabin and berthing configuration. Converted to a popular yacht design, it’s stern wasn’t open for hauling in lobster traps. The cabin was a step up from the deck to the galley and cabin table and then three steps dropped down to a level accommodating a small shower and head. Forward of that space and through a hatch were four bunks… two on each side. The helm was outside in the weather on the starboard side but under the same canopy as the cabin.

The Dinky Dao was in dire need of a paint-job and unlike the Sherlock, there was garbage everywhere. Empty plastic water bottles, empty beer cans and gallon wine jugs, newspapers, doubled plastic bags stuffed with laundry, and junk… fishing line and flasher lures etc. covered every counter and table top. However, a stack of skin magazines was a conspicuous exception. They were kept, covered in cellophane in a neat bundle in a plastic milk crate under the table I’d cleared for our breakfast.

It was noon by the time I was done with Doc but I was anxious to keep him out of reach of Anna. Once paranoia slips into one’s psychedelicized consciousness it is difficult to sort out which fears are justified and which ones are not. I knew a few Lurps (an affectionate name adopted from the initials for Long Range Recon Patrol) that liked to go into the bush on acid to enhance their environmental awareness. This worked well for real reasons to be safe, “left of the bang”, but it might also account for some of the Geneva Accord violations against innocent villagers. My paranoia told me that Anna had a motive to take out Doc beyond mere revenge. He might expose more than she wished of how she fit-in. I had to keep those suspicions in check, however, because they might just as well be chemically induced fears.

Anna was already stripped down and stepping into the shower. I could see why Ryan was in love with her. Her nudity, while my mind was sucked into a cosmic chemical reality, didn’t evoke any desire at all to possess her sexually. I was completely enrapt at the sight of her innocent beauty. My mind raced from big questions to wondering whether women got the same depth of sensual arousal at the sight of a man’s naked body. They might but I suspect not because I don’t see women keeping a neat and bundled stack of old skin mags. I million and one such ruminations passed through that transcendent Bardo as she slipped out of sight into the shower. I went from paranoia to awe in less than a flash… the time it takes for a match head to flare upon striking.

Her shout from below snapped me out of that Bardo of reflection, “Hey! There’s no fucking water!”

She came out and up to the table wearing a weather jacket and nothing more. She knew she was going to be grilled and was prepping herself to craft the best defense she had leaving the jacket open enough to expose the partial curve of her breasts. Just enough to keep me distracted. There is a line from the Bible… hell, I don’t know where to find it. I just heard Thumpers quote it in jail. It says the eyes are the windows to the soul. Anna had been trained by someone on more than that Mac-10. Her eyes suddenly became hard to read and that’s a skill known by only a few amateurs that are unwelcome at poker tables or by specialists in trade craft. I knew full well when the subject’s eyes became opaque and unbreakable.

I broke the ice, “We aren’t playing the school-girl now, are we?”

She wasn’t playing alright. She had become robotic and my task was to remind her that she was human; that I was human, and hardest of all, that Doc was human. Her jacket opened to expose more Modigliani flesh but I was transfixed on the opaque eyes. The painter studied eyes. Each portrait displayed a fascination with the deception of eyes. It was as though the painter never quite figured them out. He painted what he saw. There is one painting of a teen with the pupils blurred… there could be a three ring circus behind them but there was no way to get past that matte glaze. No wonder he drank himself to death with absinthe and wine.

Her hands lay flat on the table with her fingers spread as though on display. They were another work of art; long, thin and graceful, those of a Gothic saint that had just blown away a man with a Mac-10 a few days ago.

I finally saw in them. Her eyes turned sad… full of regret, "Look Crash, I've got nothing more. This tub needs swamping out if we're staying on it for any amount of time. Let's not play cat and mouse for a while and get to work."

"You might be right. But we have to talk."

It felt good to fill garbage bags with Casey’s junk. He objected a few time saying, “I need that!”

“What, you need this Styrofoam cup?”

Anna ordered him, “Get back at the helm, Casey. Trust us, you won’t need anything we get rid of,” and I was astounded he obeyed like a scolded child.

We fill several bags of junk and set them on the deck. If it was up to me I’d have dumped them over the side but Anna stopped me.

“The ocean isn’t your dump, you dumb fuck. We can get rid of this shit in port.”

The whole deck was packed and stacked with black plastic bags but there I was… I’d been slapped stupid for a minute, “You’re as bad a Ryan. Shit. He didn’t even want anyone to through fucking cigarettes butts overboard… like a dolphin would choke on ‘em.”

“Who do you think straightened out Ryan about that?”

I was beginning to see why Ryan loved her. Casey shrugged, “As annoying about bullshit as she is you can’t argue with her. I mean, you could argue but you can argue with a brick wall too.”

“Okay, Okay. I get it.” I looked around the Dinky Dao and felt good about how clean she was and still had good lines after all. “I’ll take the helm now. What do you think Casey, you like her?”

Casey’s face was to the garbage bags like he wanted to salvage what he could. Anna had a coiled up the hose we’d used to flush what was left through the scuppers. “He likes it. Don’t you feel better, Case?”

He sat on one of the bags, “Okay, I guess. Where we gonna set in?”

“Monterrey… big enough harbor. We oughta go unnoticed there… ‘cept for hauling this shit to a dumpster.”

As we approached the lights

Acid Interrogation

The sound of coffee poured from urn to cup and the audio-hallucination of each gurgle is a comforting one 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. 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 stared at the pile on his plate. “I’m still not hungry, Crash.”

I must’ve dropped 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. 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.

“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 Craszhinski. You can call me David. I’m not going to harm you.”

“David… I know your name. But everybody calls you…”

“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’re going to get through it together.” Repeating his name set it in… scribed it into his hard drive. I had to replace the persona of Doctor Lawrence Spawn with something closer to eye-level. Larry.

Doc 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 disgusted him but he tried not to offend me, “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…. Craszhinski!”

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 Craszhinski, 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, “Blatva!” A few minutes passed as it soaked in.

“Blatva? 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 Blatva (the Russian brand of the Mafia) was there to welcome their Cold War skills. These characters alone would be tough enough. From what we, as in the USA, should have feared of the Blatva was that the KGB would, and did, take it over sometime in the future. The children would be kicked out of the candy store once the grand play for democracy, Glasnost, was subverted.  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 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 Blatva. 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.”