Inherent Vice (14 page)

“
Dark and lonely work,
”
muttered Petunia,
“
but somebody has to do it, something like that? Oh, Doc.
”

On the back of the flyer, written with an applicator in hot pink toenail polish, it said,
“
Heard they cut you loose. Need to see you about something. I
’
m working weeknights at Club Asiatique in San Pedro.
Love and Peace, Jade. P.S.—
Beware of the Golden Fang!!!
”

Well, actually Doc wouldn
’
t
’ve
minded a brief word or two with that Jade, either, seeing
’s
how, being the last person he
’
d spoken with back at Chick Planet before he
’
d slipped, as Jim Morrison might put it,
“
into unconsciousness,
”
she could have had a role in setting his unwary ass up for whoever had snatched Mickey Wolfmann and shot down Glen Charlock.

So, knowing them to be longtime Club Asiatique regulars, he headed
directly for the beachfront mansion of Lourdes and Motella, who it turned out this evening were headed down to that very waterfront dive to meet their current hearthrobs, FBI Persons of Interest Cookie and Joaquin, offering Doc a chance to find out why the
federales
should be so interested, while at the same time wrecking any hopes he might
’
ve entertained for some drug-enhanced three-way among just him and the
girls—now, as Fats Domino always sez,
“
never to be,
”
which was how it
usually worked out anyway with these two.

“
Okay if I tag along?
”

Motella gave him a skeptical O-O.
“
Those huaraches are marginal, the bell-bottoms will do, but the top needs some work. Here, have a look,
”
leading him to a closet full of gear, from whose dimness Doc grabbed the first Hawaiian shirt he could see, parrots in psychedelic
color schemes, some visible only under black light, that would have got
ten them second looks even from parrot communities already noted for
their extravagance of feather shades, plus hibiscus blossoms that merely
snorting them would send you off onto nasal acid trips, and tubular
green, phosphorescent surf. A very yellow crescent moon. Hula girls with
big tits.

“
You can also wear these,
”
handing
him a string of love beads from
the Kahuna Airlines Duty-Free Head Shop, which opened whenever the
airplane entered international airspace,
“
but I
’
ll want
’em
back.
”

“
Aahhh!
”
Lourdes meantime in the bathroom, screaming with her nose to the mirror.
’”
Photo courtesy of NASA!
’”

“
It
’s
this light in here,
”
Doc hastened to point out.
“
You look fine, you
guys, fine, really.
”

They did, and soon, togged out in matching dresses from the Dynasty
Salon at the Hong Kong Hilton, the girls, one on each of Doc
’
s arms, proceeded down to the alley, where, locked in a garage with a single dusty window, through the bleared old glass there glowed this dream of a supernaturally cherry vintage Auburn, maroon in color with some
walnut trim, and bearing the license plate
lnm wow.

Driving down the San Diego and Harbor Freeways, the high-spirited
stewardii filled Doc in on a list of Cookie and Joaquin virtues he would ordinarily have zoned out in the middle of, but since the FBI
’
s curiosity
about the boys had provoked his own, he felt obliged to listen. It was also
a distraction from what seemed to Doc the unnecessarily suicidal way Lourdes was piloting the Auburn.

On the radio was a golden oldie by the Boards, in which rock critics had noticed a certain Beach Boys influence—

Thought I musta been hallu
cinating,

Waiting at the light she called to me,
“
Let
’
s go!
”

How am I supposed to refuse an 18-

Year-old cutie in a GTO?

We took off north, from the light at Topanga,

Tires smokin in a long hot scream,

Under the hood of my Ford Mustang, a

427 cammer runnin just like a dream—

[Bridge]

Grille to grille, by the time we hit

Leo Carrillo
[Horn section fill],

And it still, wasn
’
t over by Point Mugu—

Just a Ford Mustang and a sweet GTee-O,

In motion by the ocean,

Doin what the motorheads do.

Shoulda filled-up when I got-off, the San Diego, it
’
s

Been pinned on empty for the last ten miles,

Next thing I know she
’
s wavin
hasta lu-ego,
flashin

One of those big California smiles—

(Doc tried to listen to the instrumental break, and though the horn
section put some nice mariachi harmonies onto
“
Leo Carrillo,
”
the tenor player didn
’
t seem to be Coy Harlingen, just another specialist in one- or
two-note solos.)

Bummed out on the shoulder, couldn
’
t feel bluer,

Here comes that familiar Ram Air blast,

What
’
s that on the front seat, right next to her,

It
’
s a shiny red can full of hi-test gas—

So we grooved, back on down, past

Leo Carrillo
[Same horn Jill],

Grille to grille all the way down to Malibu,

Just a Ford Mustang and that sweet GTee-O,

In motion by the ocean

Doin what the motorheads do....

The girls in the front seat were bouncing up and down, squealing
“
¡
A
toda madre!
”
and
“
What it be, girl!
”
and so forth.

“
Cookie and Joaquin, they are so-o-o bitchin,
”
swooned Motella.

“
¡
Seguro,
é
se!
”

“
Well, actually I meant Cookie is, I can
’
t really speak for Joaquin,
can I?
”

“
How
’
s that, Motella.
”

“
Ooh, like wondering how it must be, getting into bed with some
body, who has
another person
’s
name?
tattooed
on his body?
”

“
No problem unless all you do in bed is read,
”
muttered Lourdes.

“
Ladies, ladies!
”
Doc pretended to push them apart, like Moe going,
“
Spread out!
”

Doc gathered that Cookie and Joaquin were a couple of ex-grunts newly out of Vietnam, back in the World at last though it seemed still
pursuing missions of consequence, having caught wind just before they left of some demented scheme featuring connexes full of U.S. currency
being transshipped, it was believed, to Hong Kong. In-country traffic in dollars ordinarily fetched many long years in the stockade, but with the money now physically in international waters, according to various bullshit artists of their acquaintance, the situation was bound to be different.

They had manifested on to Lourdes and Motella
’s
flight to Kai Tak, heads seriously waltzed around with by Darvons, speed, PX beer, Vietnamese weed, and airport coffee, so as to be broadly incapable of the
customary airplane chitchat and thus, as the ladies told it, scarcely were
the seat-belt lights off than Lourdes and Joaquin, Motella and Cookie,
respectively, found themselves in adjoining lavatories fucking each oth
er
’
s brains out. The frolicking continued through the girls
’
layover in Hong Kong, while the containers of currency grew more and more difficult to locate, not to mention believe in, though Cookie and Joaquin did try, whenever lulls in recreation allowed, to pursue an increasingly halfhearted search for them.

Club Asiatique was in San Pedro, opposite Terminal Island, with a
filtered view of the Vincent Thomas Bridge. At night it seemed covered,
in a way protected, by something deeper than shadow—a visual expression of the convergence, from all around the Pacific Rim, of numberless
needs to do business unobserved.

Glassware behind the bar, which might in some other type of saloon have been found too dazzling, here
achieved the smudged cool glow
of images on cheap black-and-white TV sets. Waitresses in black silk cheongsams printed with red tropical blossoms glided around on high heels, bearing tall narrow drinks decorated with real orchids and mango slices and straws of vivid aqua plastic molded to look like bamboo. Customers at tables leaned toward each other and then away, in slow rhythms, like plants underwater. House regulars drank shots of hot sake
chased with iced champagne. The air was dense with smoke from opium
pipes and cannabis bongs, as well as clove cigarettes, Malaysian cheroots,
and correctional-system Kools, little glowing foci of awareness pulsing brighter and dimmer everywhere in the dusk. Downstairs, for those nostalgic for Macao and the joys of Felicidad Street, an exclusive fantan
game went on day and night, as well as mah-jongg and dollar-a-stone Go
in various alcoves behind the bead curtains.

“
Now Doc my man,
”
Motella warned as they slid into a booth uphol
stered with some tigerskin print in nailpolish purple and vivid rust,
“
remember me and Lourdes
’s
springin for this, so tonight it
’
s well drinks
only, none of that li
’
l umbrella shit.
”
Plenty cool with Doc, considering the income-disparity situation and all.

Cookie and Joaquin showed up just as the house band was percolat
ing into a zippy version of the Doors
’
“
People Are Strange (When You
’
re
a Stranger),
”
sporting widebrim panama hats, counterfeit designer shades, and white civilian suits bought off some rack in Kaiser Estates, Kowloon, sauntering in in step, one step per beat, each waving a forefinger in the air, down into the echoless reaches of the club.
“
Joaquin! Cookie!
”
called the girls,
“
Oh wow! Dig it! Lookin so groovy!
”
And so forth. Though few men indeed can be copacetic enough with their lives that they won
’
t go for public appreciation like this, Doc also could see Joaquin and Cookie looking at each other thinking, Shit, man, I wonder how he does it.

“
May have to leave in a hurry,
mes ch
é
ries?
rumbled Cookie, burying
one hand in Motella
’
s Afro and getting into a kiss of some duration.

“
Nothin personal,
”
added Joaquin,
“
kind of a short-notice business trip,
”
enveloping Lourdes in a possibl
y even more passionate embrace,
interrupted by a well-known bass line from the band, who were hidden in a small grove of indoor palm trees.

“
All right!
”
Motella seizing Cookie by his necktie, which had a picture
of a florid Pacific lagoonscape in psychedelic colors.
“
Lets get down!
”

In two seconds Joaquin had disappeared under the table.
“
What
’
s this?
”
Lourdes keeping her composure.

“
Some psychological shit from the
‘
Nam,
”
Cookie dancing away,
“
every time people say that, he does it.
”

“
It
’
s okay, folks,
”
called Joaquin, who had spent the war trying to make some money, and wouldn
’
t know a LZ if it ran up and started firing some rockets at his ass,
“
I like it down here—you don
’
t mind, do you,
mi amor?
”

“
I suppose I could think of it as being out with somebody real short?
”
with her arms folded and a bright smile that was maybe a little higher on
one side than the other.

A small perfect Asian dewdrop in the house getup, who on closer inspection seemed to be Jade, came over to Doc.
“
There are a couple
of gentlemen,
”
she murmured,
“
real eager to see these boys, even to the
point of handing out twenties right and left?
”

Joaquin stuck his head out from under the tablecloth.
“
Where are they? We
’
ll finger somebody else, and then we
’
ll be twenty dollars ahead.
”

“
Forty dollars,
”
corrected Lourdes.

“
Ordinarily a sound plan,
”
said Motella, returning with Cookie,
“
except everybody here knows you two and as a matter of fact here comes the folks in question right now.
”

“
Oh shit, it
’
s Blondie-san,
”
said Cookie.
“
He look pissed off to you? I
think he
’
s pissed off.
”

“
Nah,
”
said Joaquin,
“
he ain
’
t pissed off, but I
’
m not so sure about his pardner there.
”

Blondie-san wore a blond toupee that wouldn
’
t have fooled nobody
’
s
abuelita
back in South Pas, and a black business suit of vaguely mob-connected cut.
...
Cranked up,
prickly-eyed, and chain-smoking
cheap Japanese cigarettes, he was accompanied by a yakuza torpedo named Iwao, the spiritual purity of whose
dan
ranking had long been
compromised by a taste for unprovoked asskicking, his eyes sliding back
and forth and his face wrinkling in thought as he tried to figure out who was to be his primary target here.

Doc hated to see anybody that confused. Plus which, the more deeply
Cookie and Joaquin were drawn into discussion with Blondie-san, the less attention they paid to Lourdes and Motella, making the ladies that much crazier and more susceptible to those grand emotional disasters
they shared such a taste for. None of which boded well.

Around then Jade happened by again.
“
Thought that was you,
”
Doc said,
“
though we ain
’
t exactly been wallerin in eye contact. Got your note at the office, but why
’
d you go runnin away like that? we
could’ve
hung out, you know, smoke some shit
...
”

“
Like there was these creeps in a Barracuda that tailgated us all the
way from Hollywood?
could’ve
been anybody and we didn
’
t want to get you in any more trouble than you are, so we pretended we were there for
the B
_J2
shots and I guess that made us a little speedy so when we saw you
we got paranoid and split?
”

“
Better not be negotiating no Singapore Slings over there,
”
Motella advised,
“
none of that shit.
”

“
She
’
s a old schoolmate, we
’
re reminiscing about the prom, geometry
class, lighten up Motella.
”

“
What school was that, Tehachapi?
”

“
Oooh,
”
went Lourdes. The girls were on edge, and strong drink was not improving their mood.

“
See me outside,
”
Jade whispered, high-heeling away.