Inherent Vice (13 page)

As romantically as he could, Doc sang her a few quiet falsetto bars of
“
Wouldn
’
t It Be Nice.
”

She had learned the technique of pointing her face one way and her eyes another, in this case sideways at Doc, with her lids half shut, and a
smile she knew would have
it’s
effect.
“
Walk me back to the office?
”

outside the hall of justice,
as if remembering something,
“
Do you mind if I just drop something off next door at the Federal Courthouse? It won
’
t take a minute.
”

They weren
’
t two steps into the lobby before being joined, or did he
mean surrounded, by a couple of feds in cheap suits who could have used
a little more time in the sun.

“
These are my next-door neighbors, Special Agent Flatweed, Special
Agent Borderline— Doc Sportello.
”

“
Gotta say I
’
ve always admired you guys, eight
p.m.
every Sunday night, wow, I never miss an episode!
”

“
The ladies
’
room is down this way, right?
”
said Penny.
“
I
’
ll be back in a jiffy.
”

Doc watched her out of sight. He knew her gait when she had to piss,
and this wasn
’
t it. She wouldn
’
t be back anytime soon. He had about a
second and a half to get spiritually prepared before Agent Flatweed said,
“
Come on, Larry, let
’
s find us a cup of joe.
”
They politely but firmly steered him into an elevator, and for a minute he wondered when he
’
d get to smoke a joint again.

Upstairs, they waved Doc into a cubicle with framed pictures of Nixon and J. Edgar Hoover. The coffee, in sumptuous black cups with gold FBI insignia, didn
’
t taste like it accounted for too much of their entertainment budget.

From what Doc could make out, both federals seemed newly arrived
in town, maybe even straight from our nation
’
s capital. By now he had
seen a few of these back-East envoys, who landed in California expecting
to have to deal with rebellious and exotic natives and either maintained a
force field of contempt till the tour of duty was up, or else with blinding speed found themselves barefoot and stoned, putting their stick in their woody and following the surf off wherever it might roll. There seemed
no middle range of choices. It was hard for Doc not to imagine these two
as surf Nazis doomed to repeat a film loop of some violent but entertain
ing beach-movie wipeout.

Agent Borderline had taken out a folder and begun to look through it.

“
Hey, what
’
s at you got there—
”
Doc angling his head amiably, Ronald Reagan style, to peer at it.
“
A
federal file?
on me? Wow, man! The big time!
”
Agent Borderline closed the folder abruptly and slid it into a pile of others on a credenza, but not before Doc saw a blurred telephoto shot of himself out in a parking lot, probably Tommy
’
s, sitting on the hood of his car holding a gigantic cheezburger and peering
into it quizzically, actually
poking through
the layers of pickles, oversize
tomato slices, lettuce, chili, onions, cheese, and so forth, not to mention the ground-beef part of it which was almost an afterthought—an obvious giveaway to those who knew about Krishna the fry cook
’
s practice of including somewhere in this, for fifty cents extra, a joint wrapped in waxed paper. Actually, the tradition had begun in Compton years ago and found
it’s
way to Tommy
’
s at least by the summer of
’
68, when Doc, in the famished aftermath of a demonstration against NBC
’
s plans to
cancel
Star Trek,
had joined a convoy of irate fans in pointed rubber ears
and Starfleet uniforms to plunge (it seemed) down Beverly Boulevard into deep L.A., around a dogleg and on into a patch of town tucked in between the Hollywood and Harbor Freeways, which is where he first beheld, at the corner of Beverly and Coronado, the burger navel of the universe
...

“
What
’
s that? I was lost in thought.
”

“
You were drooling on the desk. And you weren
’
t supposed to see that file.
”

“
Only wondering if you had any copies, I always like to carry some pictures around in case people want autographs?
”

“
These days as you may know,
”
Agent Flatweed said,
“
most of the energy in this office is going into investigating Black Nationalist Hate Groups. And
it’s
come to our attention that you had a visit yourself not long ago from a known black prison militant calling himself Tariq Khalil. We naturally became curious.
”

“
It
’
s the chronology, really,
”
Agent Borderline pretended to explain.
“
Khalil visits your place of business, next day a known prison acquain
tance of his is slain, Michael Wolfmann disappears, and you get arrested
on suspicion.
”

“
And cut loose again, don
’
t forget that part. Have you guys talked to
Bigfoot Bjornsen about this? he has the whole file on the case, way more
information than I ever will, and you
’
d really like talking to him, he
’
s real intelligent and shit.
”

“
Lieutenant Bjornsen
’
s impatience with the federal level is widely remarked on,
”
Agent Borderline looking up from speed-reading another
folder,
“
and his cooperation if any is likely to be limited. You on the other hand may know things he doesn
’
t. For example, what about these two employees of Kahuna Airlines, Miss Motella Haywood and Miss Lourdes Rodriguez?
”

Whom Penny had also just been asking about. What a strange and
weird coincidence.
“
Well, what
’
ve these young ladies got to do with your
Black Nationalist COINTELPRO, not I hope just cause they both happen to be of non-Anglo origins or nothin ...
”

“
Ordinarily,
”
said Agent Flatweed,
“
we
’
re the ones who ask the questions.
”

“
Sure thing, fellas, except aren
’
t
we’re
all in the same business?
”

“
And there
’
s no need to be insulting.
”

“
Why don
’
t you just share with us what Mr. Khalil had to say the
other day when he visited you,
”
suggested Agent Borderline.

“
Oh. Because he
’
s a client, so that
’
s privileged conversation, is why not. Sorry.
”

“
If it has bearing on the Wolfmann case, we might have to disagree.
”

“
Groovy, but what I can
’
t figure is, is if your shop is really so focused
on the Black Panthers and all that let
’
s-you-and-him-fight with Ron Karengas folks and so forth, what
’
s with this FBI interest in Mickey Wolfmann? Somebody
’
s been playing Monopoly with federal housing money? no, couldn
’
t be that,
‘
cause this is L.A., there
’
s no such thing here. What else, then, I wonder?
”

“
We can
’
t comment,
”
Agent Flatweed smug and, Doc hoped, lulled by his deliberately clueless cross-inquiry.

“
Oh, wait, I know—after twenty-four hours it
’
s officially a kidnap case, state lines or whatever, so you guys must be figuring it for a
Panther operation
—say they put the snatch on Mickey to make some political point, and get a shot at some nice ransom money too while they
’
re at it.
”

At which the two federals, as if unable not to, had a quick nervous look at each other, suggesting they
’
d at least thought about this for a cover story.

“
Well bummer and so forth, wish I could help, but that Khalil guy didn
’
t even leave me a phone number, you know how irresponsible they can get.
”
Doc stood, put out his cigarette in the rest of his FBI coffee.
“
Tell Penny how groovy it was of her to set up this little get-together, oh,
and hey—can I be frank for a minute?
”

“
Of course,
”
said Agents Flatweed and Borderline.

Snapping his fingers, Doc sang himself out the door with four bars
of
“
Fly Me to the Moon,
”
more or less on pitch, and added,
“
I know that
the Director has a thing about spade penises, and I sure hope you find Mickey before any of that cell-block stuff starts happening.
”

“
He
’
s not cooperating,
”
Agent Borderline muttered.

“
Keep in touch, Larry,
”
called Agent Flatweed.
“
Remember, as a COINTELPRO informant you could be making up to three hundred dollars a month.
”

“
Sure. Say hi to Lew Erskine and the gang.
”

All the way down in the elevator, th
ough, it was Penny that Doc was
worrying about. If the best bargaining chip she had these days was to
shop him to
the
federales
,
she had to be in some deep shit with somebody.
But how deep, and who with? The only connection he saw right offhand
was that both federal and county heat shared a common interest in the stewardii Lourdes and Motella, and their friends Cookie and Joaquin.
Yep, he had best go look into that as soon as possible, not least because the girls were just back from Hawaii and probably had some heavy-duty
dope in the house.

meantime, people were
seeing Mickey all over the place. In the meat section at Ralph
’
s in Culver City, shoplifting filet mignons in party-size lots. Out at Santa Anita, in earnest discussion with a person named either Shorty or Speedy. In some accounts, both. In a bar in Los Mochis, watching an old episode of
The Invaders
dubbed into Spanish, and writing urgent memos to himself. In airport VIP lounges from Heathrow to Honolulu, drinking heedless combinations of grape and grain not seen since the days of Prohibition. At antiwar rallies in the
Bay Area, begging a variety of armed authorities to mow him down and
end his troubles. Out at Joshua Tree, doing peyote. Ascending into the sky haloed in an all-but-unwatchable radiance toward spacecraft not of
earthly origin. So forth. Doc started a file on all these reports, and hoped
he wouldn
’
t forget where he was stashing it.

Coming out of work later in the day, he happened to notice in the
parking lot this tall lanky blonde plus an equally familiar
Oriental cutie.
Yes! it was those two young ladies from that Chick Planet massage parlor!
“
Hey! Jade! Bambi!
”
The girls, casting paranoid glances back over
attractive bare shoulders, ran and jumped into a species of Harley Earl Impala, screeched out of the lot, and smoked away down West Impe
rial. Trying not to take this personally, Doc went back inside looking for Petunia, who, shaking her head reproachfully, handed him a flyer for the
Chick Planet Massage Pussy Eater
’
s Special.

“
Oh. Well I can explain this—
”