Inherent Vice (11 page)

“I’ll
try to keep this brief, and you can return to your guests. Your
husband was planning to endow a new wing for us, as part of our expan
sion program, and shortly before his puzzling disappearance he actually had tendered us a sum in advance. But somehow it just didn
’
t seem
right to keep the money while so little is known of his whereabouts. So,
we
’
d like to refund you the sum, preferably before the end of the quarter,
and if and as we all pray when Mr. Wolfmann is next heard from, why then, perhaps the process can resume.
”

She was squinting, however, and shaking her head a little.
“
I
’
m not sure
...
We recently endowed another facility, in Ojai, I believe..
..
Are you somehow a subsidiary or
...
”

“
Perhaps it
’
s one of our Sister Sanatoria, there
’
s been a program for some years
...
”

She had stepped over to a small antique desk in the corner, bent so as to present to Doc
’
s gaze an unquestionably alluring ass, and took some time rummaging through different pigeonholes before coming up with another publicity shot of herself. This was a photo of a groundbreaking ceremony, with Sloane sitting at the controls of a front-end loader and backhoe rig, in whose bucket could be seen one of those oversize checks that also get handed to winners of bowling tournaments. A personage in a doctor outfit was smiling and pretending to look at the amount, which ran to a lot of zeros, but he was really gaz
ing up Sloane
’
s skirt, which was fashionably short. She was also wearing
shades, almost as if she didn
’
t want to be recognized, and an expression
conveying how much she didn
’
t want to be there. A banner behind her carried a date and the name of the institution, though both were just out of focus enough that Doc couldn
’
t get much more than an impression of a long, foreign-looking word. He was wondering how suspicious it
would make Sloane if he asked the name, when Luz came back in with a
tray holding a gigantic pitcherful of margaritas and some chilled glasses
of an exotic shape whose only purpose was to make it impossible for the servants to wash them without the help of some high-ticket custom dishmop.

“
Thank
you, Luz. Shall I be Mother?
”
taking the pitcher and pouring.
Doc noticed there was an extra glass on the tray, so it wasn
’
t too much of
a surprise when presently he saw reflected in the screen of a mammoth TV in the corner a large, muscular blond person coming silently down the stairs and moving toward them across the carpeting like an assassin in a kung fu movie.

Doc got up to have a look and say howdy, quickly noting that any prolonged eye contact here would mean a visit to the chiropractor for neck work, this party having three feet of altitude on him, easy.

“
This is Mr. Riggs Warbling,
”
said Sloane,
“
my spiritual coach.
”
Doc didn
’
t see them actually
“
exchanging glances,
”
as Frank might put it, but
if acid-tripping was good for anything, it helped tune you to different unlisted frequencies. No doubt these two had actually sat now and then on adjoining meditation mats pretending to empty their heads, just for anybody that might be nearby—Luz, the heat, himself. But Doc would bet an ounce of seedless Hawaiian and throw in a pack of Zig-Zags that
Sloane and old Riggs here were also fucking regularly, and that this was
the b.f. Shasta had mentioned.

Sloane poured Riggs a drink and angled the pitcher inquiringly in Doc
’
s direction.

“
Thanks, got to be back in the office. Maybe you can tell us where to
send this refund, and what form you
’
d like it in?
”

“
Small bills!
”
boomed Riggs amiably,
“
with nonconsecutive serial numbers!
”

“
Riggs, Riggs,
”
Sloane not as grimly as might be expected given the possibility, still open, that her husband had been kidnapped,
“
always making with the tasteless jokes
...
Perhaps if one of your company officers simply endorsed Michael
’
s check back to one of his bank accounts?
”

“
Of course. Let us know the account number and it
’
s as good as in the mail.
”

“
I
’
ll just go pop in the office for a moment, then?
”

Riggs Warbling had appropriated the margarita jug, which he was
taking sips from without going through the exercise of pouring anything
into a glass. With no warning he blurted,
“
I
’
m into zomes.
”

“
Beg pardon?
”

“
I
’
m a contractor, I design and build zomes? That
’
s short for
‘
zona-hedral domes.
’
Greatest advance in structure since Bucky Fuller. Here, let me show you.
”
He had brought out from somewhere a pad of quadrille paper and begun sketching on it, using numbers, and symbols which might have been Greek, and pretty soon he was going on about
“
vector spaces
”
and
“
symmetry groups.
”
Doc grew convinced of unwel
come developments inside his brain, though the diagrams were kind of hip-looking.
..

“
Zomes make great meditation spaces,
”
Riggs went on.
“
Do you
know, some people have actually walked into zomes and not come back
out the same way they went in? and sometimes not at all? Like zomes are
portals to someplace else. Especially if they
’
re located out in the desert,
which is where I
’
ve been for most of last year?
”

Uh, huh.
“
You
’
ve been working for Mickey Wolfmann?
”

“
At Arrepentimiento—that
’
s a longtime dream project of his, near
Las Vegas. Maybe you saw the piece on it in
Architectural Digest?
”

“
Missed it.
”
Actually, the only magazine Doc read with any regular
ity was
Naked Teen Nymphos,
which he subscribed to, or at least used to
till he began to find the few copies that made it to his mailbox opened already and with pages stuck together. But he decided not to mention this. Sloane came sashaying back over, holding a slip of paper.
“
The only number I can find at the moment is for a joint account at one of Michael
’
s S&Ls, I hope that won
’
t present a problem for your people. Here
’
s a blank deposit form, if that
’
s any help.
”

Doc stood, and Sloane stayed where she was, which was close enough
for her to be seized and violated, a th
ought which unavoidably crossed
Doc
’
s mind, taking
it’s
time, in fact, and more than once looking back
and winking. Who knows what lurid acts might have followed had
Luz not reappeared and flashed him, unless he was hallucinating from
tequila, a warning look.

“
Luz, could you please see Mr. Sportello out?
”

Downstairs among corridors leading off to some unknown number of
bedroom suites, Doc, as if just remembering he had to piss, said,
“
Mind
if I use a bathroom?
”

“
Sure, long
as you
don
’
t steal anything.
”

“
Oh, dear. I hope that doesn
’
t mean any of those policemen out by
the pool have been reverting to type—um, that is to say—
”

She wagged a finger no, and glancing quickly around, as if the house
might be bugged, crooked her arm and flexed a bicep, while rolling her
eyes upstairs.

Riggs—it figured. Doc smiled and nodded and for the benefit of any
audience said,
“
Thank you, uh
..
.
muchas gracias
there, Luz, I won
’
t be
but a minute.
”

She slouched gracefully against a doorway and watched him, her
eyes dark and busy. Doc located the door to a palatial bathroom and,
guessing it was Mickey
’
s, went in, and then on into the adjoining
bedroom.

Snooping around, he came across a number of strange neckties hang
ing inside a walk-in closet on a rack of their own. He switched on a light
and had a look. At first glance they seemed to be vintage hand-painted
silk ties, each with an image of a different nude young woman on it. But
these were not exactly vintage nudes. Erect clits, spread pussy lips with sort of highlights on them to suggest wetness, over-the-shoulder invita
tions to anal entry, each goose bump and pubic hair painstakingly set
down in photographic detail. Doc became lost in art appreciation, hav
ing noticed something striking about the faces as well. They weren
’
t just
cartoon features taking on some catalog of fuck-me expressions. These
seemed to be the faces, and he guessed the bodies, of specific women.
Maybe some kind of a Mickey Wolfmann girlfriend inventory. Was
Shasta Fay in here, by any chance? Doc began to flip through the ties one by one, trying not to sweat on anything. He had just come across Sloane
’
s image—inarguably Sloane and not just some blonde—lying back among tangled sheets, arms and legs open, eyelids lowered, lips shining—an almost gentlemanly angle to Mickey
’
s character he hadn
’
t counted on—when a hand slid around his waist from behind.

“
Yaagghhh!
”

“
Keep looking, I
’
m in there someplace,
”
Luz said.

“
I
’
m ticklish, babe!
”

“
There I am. Cute, huh?
”
Sure enough, it was Luz in full color, on
her knees, gazing upward with her teeth bared in what wasn
’
t, it seemed
to Doc, a specially inviting smile.

“
My tits aren
’
t really that big, but it
’
s the thought that counts.
”

“
Did you ladies all pose for these?
”

“
Yep, guy over in North Hollywood, does custom work.
”

“
How about that chick what
’
s-her-name,
”
Doc trying to keep a tremor
out of his voice.
“
The one that
’
s been missing?
”

“
Oh, Shasta. Yeah, she
’
s in there someplace,
”
but as it turned out,
strangely, she wasn
’
t. Doc looked at the couple-three ties remaining, but
none of them had Shasta
’
s picture on it.

Luz was gazing over his shoulder into Mickey
’
s bedroom.
“
He always
used to take me in the shower to fuck,
”
she reminisced.
“
I never got a chance to do anything on that groovy bed in there.
”

“
Seems easy enough to arrange,
”
Doc said smoothly,
“
maybe—
”
At which point, wouldn
’
t you know, came a horrible low-fidelity screech from an intercom speaker out in the hall.
“
¡
Luz!
¿
D
ó
nde est
á
s, mi hijita?
”

“
Shit,
”
murmured Luz.

“
Another time, perhaps.
”

At the door Doc gave her one of the fake MICRO cards, which had his real office number on it. She slipped it in the back pocket of her jeans.

“
You
’
re not really a shrink, are you?
”

“
Y—maybe not. But I do have a couch?
”

“
¡Psicodélico, ése!
”
Flashing those famous teeth.

Doc was just getting in his car when a black-and-white came barrelling around the corner with all
it’s
lights going, and pulled up next to him. A window on the shotgun side came cranking down, and Bigfoot leaned out.

“
Wrong part of town for scoring weed, isn
’
t it, Sportello?
”

“
What—you mean my mind
’
s been wanderin again?
”

The cop driving killed the motor, and they both got out and approached Doc. Unless Bigfoot had been demoted in some strange piece of LAPD disrespect Doc knew he
’
d never begin to understand, this other cop could in no way have been Bigfoot
’
s partner, though he
might be a close relative—they both had the same smooth and evil look.
This party now raised his eyebrows at Doc.
“
Mind if we have a look through that attractive purse, sir?
”

“
Nothing but my lunch,
”
Doc assured him.

“
Oh, we
’
ll see you
get your lunch.
”