Inherent Vice (27 page)

“
Maybe I was really out in Pico Rivera.
”

“
Long as you weren
’
t messin with my
fiancée
.
”
They sat regarding each other quizzically.

“
Dawnette,
”
Doc said.

The characteristic long-stroke reverb of a Harley road machine approached. It was one of Clancy
’
s dates for the evening, with Clancy riding behind him.
“
Everythin okay?
”
she called, though not exactly with keen interest.

Boris cranked down his window and leaned out.
“
This guy is freaking
me out here, Clance, where do you find such heavy-duty hombres at?
”

“
Call you soon, Doc,
”
Clancy sort of drawled.

Doc, remembering the old Roy Rogers song, came back with four
bars of
“
Happy Trails to You
”
as Clancy and her new friend Aubrey thun
dered on out of the lot, Aubrey waving a gauntleted hand, to be followed
shortly by his coadjutor Thorndyke on an Electra Glide shovelhead.

_TEN

BACK AT THE BEACH, DOC COLLAPSED ON HIS COUCH AND
drifted toward sleep, but scarcely had he penetrated the surface tension and sunk into REM than the phone began a god-awful clanging. Last
year a crazed teenage doper of Doc
’
s acquaintance had stolen a fire bell from his high school as part of a vandalism spree, and next morning the
youth, overcome with remorse and having no idea what to do with the
bell, came to Doc and offered it for sale. Downstairs Eddie, who had put
in some time with the phone company and was handy with a soldering
iron, had hooked the bell up to Doc
’
s phone. It had seemed like a groovy
idea at the time, but very seldom after that.

It turned out to be Jade on the other end, and she had a situation.
From the background noise, it sounded like she was at a phone booth out
on the street, but it didn
’
t quite hide the anxiety in her voice.
“
You know
FFO up on Sunset?
”

“
Problem is, is they also know me. What
’
s up?
”

“
It
’
s Bambi. She
’
s been gone now two days and nights, and I
’
m getting worried.
”

“
So you
’
re up rockin and rollin on the Strip.
”

“
Spotted Dick
’
s playing here tonight, so if she
’
s anywhere it
’
ll be here.
”

“
Okay, stick around, I
’
ll be up soon
’s
I can.
”

East of Sepulveda the moon was out, and Doc made pretty good time.
He peeled off the freeway at La Cienega, took the Stocker shortcut over to La Brea. Programming on the radio, appropriate to the hour, included one of the few known attempts at black surf music,
“
Soul Gidget,
”
by Meatball Flag—

Who
’
s that strollin down the street,

Hi-heel flip-flops on her feet,

Always got a great big smile,

Never gets popped by Juv-o-nile—

Who is it?
[M
inor-seventh guitar f
ill]

Soul Gidget!

Who never worries about her karma?

Who be that signifyin on your mama?

Out there lookin so bad and big,

Like Sandra Dee in some Afro wig—

Who is it?

Soul Gidget!

Surfs up, Soul Gidget
’s
there,

Got that patchouli all in her hair,

Down in Hermosa she
’
s runnin wild,

Back in South Central she just a child—

Uh who is it?

Soul Gidget!

So forth. Followed by a Wild Man Fischer marathon from which Doc was delivered at last by the appearance on La Brea of the lights of Pink
’
s. He stopped in briefly for several chili dogs to go and continued on uphill, eating as he drove, found a parking space, and walked the rest of the way up to Sunset. In front of
FFO was a small crowd of music
lovers, handing joints back and forth, arguing with the bouncer at the
door, dancing to the massively amplified bass lines coming from inside.
It was the Furies, known in those days for three basses and no lead guitar, and opening tonight for Spotted Dick. Now and then during lulls, somebody was sure to go running in the door to scream,
“
Play
^‘
White Rabbit
’
!
”
before being tossed back out into the street.

It wasn
’
t long before Doc ran into Jade and the allegedly missing Bambi, lounging in front of an ice-cream store just up the street,
speed-jabbering away, gesturing with gigantic cones precariously stacked
with multicolored flavors of organic ice cream.

“
Why, Doc!
”
cried Jade with a tiny warning frown,
“
what are you doing up here?
”

“
Yeah,
”
Bambi drawled,
“
we had you figured for more of a Herb Al-
pert and the Tijuana Brass person.
”

Doc cupped one ear in the direction of the club.
“
Thought I heard
somebody playing
‘
This Guy
’
s in Love with You,
’
so I hurried over. No?
What am I doing here anyway? How are you girls tonight, everything copacetic?
”

“
Bambi got us passes for Spotted Dick,
”
said Jade.

“
We
’
re double-dating,
”
Bambi said.
“
Time ol
’
Lotus Flower here got fixed up with a class act, and tonight Shiny Mac McNutley is it, baby.
”

A snow-white chauffeured Rolls pulled up at the curb, and a voice
spoke from within.
“
All right girls, stay where you are.
”

“
Oh shit,
”
Bambi said,
“
it
’
s your pimp again, Jade.
”

“
My
pimp, since when?
”

“
You didn
’
t forget to sign that letter of intent, did you?
”

“
You mean all that paper in the bathroom? nah, I wiped my ass with that, it
’
s long gone by now, why, was it important?
”

“
Come on you two, quit fucking around and get in the car, we got some business to discuss.
”

“
Jason I
’
m not going in that car, it smells like a patchouli factory,
”
said Bambi.

“
Yeah, come on out on the sidewalk—on your feet like a man,
”
snick
ered Jade.

“
Guess I should be runnin along,
”
beamed Doc.

“
Stick around, Barney,
”
said Bambi,
“
enjoy the show, you
’
re in the entertainment capital of the world here.
”

As Jade told it later, this pimp, Jason Velveeta, probably could have used better career counseling when he was younger. Every woman he ever tried to mistreat had handed him his lunch. Some of them, usually ones not on his string, did give him money sometimes because they felt sorry for him, but it was never as much as he thought they owed him.

Reluctantly, in a cloud of patchouli, Jason stepped out onto the sidewalk. He was wearing a white suit, so white it made the Rolls look dingy.

“
Need you girls inside the vehicle,
”
he said,
“
now.
”

“
Be seen riding with you? Forget it,
”
said Jade.

“
We can
’
t afford to lose that much credibility,
”
Bambi added.

“
Ain
’
t all you stand to lose.
”

“
We love you, babe,
”
said Bambi,
“
but you
’
re a joke. All up and down
the Strip, Hollywood Boulevard—hey, there
’
s Jason jokes written in lip
stick on toilet walls out in West fuckin
Covina,
man.
”

“
Where? Where? I know a guy in West Covina with a bulldozer, one word from me he
’
ll tear every one them shithouses down. Tell me the joke.
”

“
Don
’
t know, sweetie,
”
Bambi pretending to snuggle close and smil
ing widely at the pedestrian traffic.
“
You know you
’
ll only get upset.
”

“
Ah, come on,
”
Jason despite himself pleased by the public attention.

“
Jade, should we tell him?
”

“
Your call, Bambi.
”

“
It says,
”
Bambi in her most seductive voice,
‘“
If you
’
re paying any commission to Jason Velveeta, you can
’
t shit here. Your asshole is in Hollywood.
’”

“
Bitch!
”
screamed Jason, by which point the girls were already running down the street, Jason in pursuit, at
least for a step or two till he
slipped on a scoop of Organic Rocky Road ice cream, which Jade had thoughtfully positioned on the sidewalk, and fell on his ass.

From somewhere Doc experienced a surge of sympathy. Or maybe
something else.
“
Here, man.
”

“
What
’
s that?
”
said Jason.

“
My hand.
”

“
Man,
”
creaking to his feet.
“
Do you know what
it’s
gonna cost me to
clean this suit now?
”

“
Bummer, really. And they both seemed like such groovy chicks,
too.

“
You were looking for company tonight? Believe me, we can do better
for you than those two. Come on.
”
They began to walk, and the Rolls
crept along at the same pace. Jason took a withered joint from his pocket
and lit up. Doc recognized the smell of inexpensive Mexican produce,
and also that somebody had forgotten to remove the seeds and stems. When Jason offered him a hit, he pretended to inhale and after a while
handed it back.

“
Righteous weed, man.
”

“
Yeah, just saw my dealer, he charges high but it
’
s worth it.
”
They
walked up past the Chateau Marmont to Hollywood Boulevard, and
every once in a while Jason accosted a young woman in some
sub-Playboy
idea of an alluring turnout and got insulted, screamed at, punched, run
away from, and sometimes mistaken for a potential customer.

“
Tough business, huh,
”
Doc remarked.

“
Ahh, lately I been thinking I should just get out of it, you know?
What I really want to be is a movie agent.
”

“
There you go. Ten percent of what some of those stars make—
whoo-ee.
”

“
Ten? That
’
s all? You sure?
”
Jason took off his hat, a homburg, also
dazzling white, and looked at it reproachfully.
“
You haven
’
t got a Darvon
on you? maybe some Bufferin? I have this headache.
...
”

“
No, but here, try this.
”
Doc lit and handed over a joint of Colom
bian commercial proven effective at stimulating conversation, and before

Jason knew it he was speed-rapping about Jade, on whom, if Doc was not
mistaken, he had a sort of crush.

“
She needs somebody watching out for her. She takes too many chances, not just this Hollywood drive-up trade. Like, these Golden Fang people, man—she
’
s in way too deep with them.
”

“
Yeah
...
now
..
. I
’
ve heard that name someplace?
”

“
Indochinese heroin cartel. A vertical package. They finance it, grow
it, process it, bring it in, step on it, move it, run Stateside networks of local street dealers, take a separate percentage off of each operation. Brilliant.
”

“
That sweet young thing is dealing smack?
”

“
Maybe not, but she was working at a massage place that
’
s one of the
fronts they use to launder money.
”

If so, Doc reflected, then Mickey Wolfmann and the Golden Fang might not be all that unconnected.

Shit, man
...

“
Whatever you do,
”
Jason was saying, maybe more to himself,
“
keep
clear of the Fang. If they even begin to think you might get between
them and their money, best you go looking for something else to do. Far
away, if possible.
”

Doc left Jason Velveeta down on Sunset again, in front of the Sun-Fax
Market, and ambled back downhill, thinking, Let
’
s see—
it’s
a schooner that smuggles in goods.
It’s
a shadowy holding company. Now
it’s
a Southeast Asian heroin cartel. Maybe Mickey
’
s in on it. Wow, this Golden Fang, man—what they call many things to many folks
...

Cars drove by with the windows down and you could hear tambourines inside keeping time to whatever was on the radio. Jukeboxes were playing in corner coffee shops, and acoustic guitars and harmonicas in little apartment courtyards. All over this piece of night hillside, there
was music. Slowly, ahead of him someplace, Doc became aware of saxo
phones and a massive percussion section. Something by Antonio Carlos Jobim, which turned out to be coming from a Brazilian bar called O Cangaceiro.

Somebody was taking a tenor sax solo, and Doc, on a hunch, decided to
put his head inside, where a sizable crowd were dancing, smoking, drinking, and hustling, as well as respectfully listening to the ensemble, among
whom Doc, not too surprised, recognized Coy Harlingen. The change from the morose shadow he
’
d last seen up at Topanga was striking. Coy
stood with his upper body held in an attentive arc around the instrument, sweating, loose-fingered, taken away. The tune was
“
Desafinado.
”

When the set ended, a curious sort of hippie chick approached the piano, her hair short and tightly permed, her outfit including a Little
Black Dress from the 1950s and interestingly high stiletto heels. In fact,
now that Doc looked closer, maybe she wasn
’
t really a hippie chick after
all. She seated herself at the keyboard the way a poker player might at a promising table, ran a couple of A-minor scales up and down, and without much more introduction than that began to sing the Rodgers
& Hart lounge classic
“
It Never Entered My Mind.
”
Doc was not a great
admirer of torch material, had in fact been known to discreetly with
draw to the nearest toilet if he even suspected some might be on the way,
but now he sat confounded and turning to Jell-O. Maybe it was this
young woman
’
s voice, her quiet confidence in the material—howsoever,
by the second eight bars Doc knew there was no way not to take the lyric
personally. He found shades in his pocket and put them on. After an extended piano break and a repeat of the refrain, Doc on some impulse turned, and there was Coy Harlingen at his shoulder, like a parrot in a cartoon, also wearing shades and nodding.
“
I can sure relate to that lyric, man. Like, you make these choices? you know for sure you
’
re
doing the right thing for everybody, then it all goes belly-up and you see
it couldn
’
t have been more wrong.
”