THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE (38 page)

Goldman stared at her bowed head and rubbed his foot against her ankle under the table. She didn't pull away. He swallowed the last of his Chardonney, watched candlelight refract through the stem of his glass. He was developing a taste for alcohol, but his growing consumption didn't rate high on his priority of concerns. All kinds of hurdles had to be overcome before he and Michelle were safely in Europe. Only a fool would deny that. Still he was confident the bond between them would withstand the pressures of what had to be done in the short term for them to remain together. He believed they would pull through this difficult period. Their kindred connection strengthened.

For better or worse, they were together. On the move. Keen for the best. Lovers in a dangerous time.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Saturday, 1st November 1980.

Nine at night. Goldman and Frank Hunter (Sandy Collins's twenty-four year old Australian boyfriend who was enrolled in a screen writing seminar at USC) lounged in front of a large-screen TV at Sandy's Hollywood Hills home.

A sports commentator on the screen was extolling the virtues of a tailback for the Georgia Bulldogs:
“Yes, young Walker is one of the flashiest running backs in the history of college football. He's one of the reasons Georgia replaced Alabama as the top-ranked team in both the Associated Press sportswriters poll and – ”

Uninspired by the commentator's spiel, Hunter changed channel with a remote.

“ –it's still early on in the game, John; but all indicators tend toward the former governor of California defeating Carter by a margin of 51% to 41% in the popular vote.”

“Of course, Patricia, the electoral college vote could still swing either way – ”

Hunter disengaged the sound. 'So, who'll you vote for on Tuesday, Scott?'

'Um, Reagan,' Goldman lied. He had no intention of going anywhere near a polling booth, of leaving unnecessary footprints. 'I couldn't stand to watch Carter sign away more chunks of American defence, like he did with Salt 11 and the Panama Canal Treaties.'

'Hmm.' Hunter shrugged indifferently and surfed more channels. He had little interest in politics, America's or his homeland's (Goldman was surprised Hunter hadn't heard of the Pine Gap Joint Defence Facility, a large-scale satellite tracking station in a remote area of Australia jointly operated by the Australian and US governments). In any event Goldman could only concern himself with the thorny politics of his own world.

In the kitchen, long-standing friends Michelle and Sandy browsed a set of photographs Sandy was preparing for an upcoming exhibition. Black and white prints she'd shot with her Nikon F2A, entitled:
Quotidian Critiques of Industrial Attrition.
Cheerless pictures of exuding chimney stacks and rust-mottled car fenders comprised much of the folder's content.

The telephone rang.

Michelle looked up, grateful for the interruption as she was having a hard time feigning interest in the photographs. She lit a cigarette as Sandy, athletic and tan, answered the call. 'Scott, it's for you,' Sandy said. Her loud drawl bounced off the high-ceilinged hallway. Wearing cotton tights, she scratched her shapely behind. Hmm, Sandy sure is a gorgeous creature, Michelle thought, exhaling a plume of menthol smoke. How Sandy with said looks and newly acquired wealth had downgraded herself to a toy-boy like Frank Hunter was difficult for Michelle to fathom; though it probably had something to do with Sandy being battle-scarred from a drawn-out and bitter divorce. Well at least there weren't any children involved, Michelle mused. Now, for better or worse,  she and Sandy had ended up with Australian men in their lives.

'Hey, Scott, did you hear me?' Sandy skipped back to the photographs strewn across the kitchen table.

Wearing woolen socks, Goldman skidded to a stop on the rosewood floor. He grabbed the handset from off a telephone table beside a glass-brick wall. 'Hello,' he said, with caution.

'Scott, my man. Boom, boom. It's Slick Rick. I've tried the product, and if this little baby ain't the bebop party drug of all time then I'll shut down shop and sell insurance. In a word ... yes. Thirteen and I are ready to do business.'

Goldman could hear background laughter on the other end of the line. 'Are you calling from Thirteen's house?'

'Don't worry, dude, like I
told
you, Deuce sweeps the line each week.'

'I still think it'd be wise not to call me from that phone.'

'Listen,' Sorenson said, no longer in a bouncy party mood, 'make a time and place, bring your recipe and I'll go over it. If it looks legit, we'll buy off you ... on good faith. We're honourable business men, right? Probably the last of our kind.'

Goldman felt unsure about the sudden development, even as an inner voice assured him conditions couldn't be more favourable. 'Okay Rick, sure ...'

'Listen Goldman, I'm busy most of the week. My new lady and I are booked for a sight-see tour of the Grand Canyon. And Friday night we're at a tour launch for the Subway Slaves.'

'The Subway Slaves,' Goldman said. 'Playing at Anaheim?'

'That's them.'

'Hmm, Sandy's got a backstage pass to shoot the gig, and said she can get us in.'

'Okay, we'll meet there then. Should be a good show. In fact, bring your formula along and we can meet later at Thirteen's. That'll give us a few days to get the cash together. It's still what you quoted yesterday at your car?'

'Yeah, of course.' Goldman bit his lip. 'Listen, I'll see you at the Anaheim gig on Friday night, with the recipe.' His clipped tone spoke of him wanting to get off the line, and Sorenson obliged him.

'Sounds good, dude. Well, until then.'

'Yeah, bye.' Goldman re-cradled the handset and studied a Venus figurine on the telephone table. Things looked to be moving his way. With any luck the deal would go down as planned. Though he wasn't without apprehension. Still he was making headway, which of course was preferable to no deal happening at all.

He returned to the glass-walled living room and looked out at the twinkling city lights view. Myriad light sources sharp and piercing like minuscule suns. A moment later the light-dotted panorama proved disorientating. His heart thudded in his chest, his world tilted off-centre, he felt himself disperse into the dark reaches of the night outside. Then just as quickly he crash-landed back in his body, his breath and pulse abnormally elevated. Was he developing some kind of anxiety disorder? He certainly hoped not.

He dropped back in his seat, alarmed by the alien sensation which had raced through him. Hunter was watching an episode of
Charlie's Angels
. Goldman drummed his fingers on the seat’s armrests. The stylish décor of the room, along with the pleasing sight of Farrah Fawcett kick-boxing a bad guy, did little to assuage the chemist's unease. He'd been on the road a week and it already seemed like a lifetime.

Sunday, 2nd November 1980.

Pablo Cavalera hunched forward on a threadbare sofa in his Echo Park apartment. He fired up a glass pipe, its bowl clogged with cloudy crystals. He sucked on the pipe's flanged stem and coughed violently. Whitish smoke billowed from him as if he were carbonizing from internal combustion; all the while a sticky residue lodged itself in the back of his throat.

He dropped the pipe onto a rickety card table in front of him. He brushed aside a lingering trail of smoke and stared at a black and white TV on the far side of the room. A plump cockroach scuttled about his feet and he brought his boot down and flattened the bug on the bare floorboards. Cavalera sensed he was in for a special treat. An electrifying buzz was already building at the base of his skull.

An underworld associate from Cali, Columbia had mailed Cavalera instructions for making the crystals. If one dissolved cocaine into a mix of water, ammonia and bicarbonate of soda, boiled the solution, then plunged its residue into a pan of ice-cold water, and smoked the crystals that formed, one would get “the best goddamn high possible”, the letter stated.

Cavalera would soon find out.

Meantime a rerun of
Lost in Space was
on the tube. Dr Smith was trying to convince the Robinsons he'd acted in the family's best interest when he tried to exchange young Will Robinson for a ride back to Earth with the alien slave trader whom the Robinsons had just forced off the planet. As Dr Smith's voice reached a shrilly register, Cavalera's door bell
shrringed
alarmingly.

Sporting dark hair and a wispy goatee, the American-born Colombian jumped up from the sofa. He wiped his palms across the front of his T-shirt, which depicted Wile E. Coyote humping the Road Runner. GOTCHA! captioned beside the coyote's slavering mouth. Brimming with energy, Cavalera bolted to the door. The walloping hit from the cocaine crystals had validated his friend's claim, and then some. He felt his head lift from his shoulders as his animated eyeball peered through the door's security lens. A second later he issued a deep groan that took the edge off his high.

'Deuce.'

He undid the door's security chains and locks, his skull still prickling from the drug's skyrocketing rush. He couldn't wait to smoke the remaining crystals in the pan, then realized with snickering excitement the pipe's bowl was still coated with a tawny layer of the stuff. Yeah, he felt good all right ... but now he had to deal with Deuce.

'Pablo, my man, how's it hangin'?'

'Deuce, you little flogger, or have you finally managed to get it in?'

'Cut the crap,' Deuce said. 'I've got something hot.' He pushed his glasses up along his nose and looked about the apartment with the officious air of a detective with a warrant. He dropped onto Cavalera's sofa and pointed at the tinny-sounding television.

'Turn that down, bro. I've got something here that's gonna interest you.'

'You're gonna need more than your hand-beaten stick to interest me.'

Deuce
tssked
impatiently and jabbed his finger at the black and white set.

A grinning Cavalera killed the volume. For three months the duo had profited from a loose-knit partnership, having met at Whisky A Go-Go on Sunset Boulevard. After downing a jug of beer during the ear-splitting set of Profound Hatred, an up-and-coming death metal act, they’d gone outside to Deuce's '64 Impala and snorted speed, before driving off to a Compton warehouse party. In the early hours, surrounded by a sea of empty bottles and a ragtag army of dedicated party-goers, Deuce and Cavalera had agreed to pool their resources in the hope their partnership would reward them with a mountain of tax-free dollars.

It was still early days and their collaboration had yielded some result. From unauthorized access of a database connected to the Pacific Southwest Regional Medical Library Service, Cavalera had obtained the address of a San Diego chemical supply house that stocked cartons of human growth hormone ampules. Fast Cash Boys had broken into the supply house and emptied it of all such ampules. From the aforementioned database, Cavalera had recently uncovered an East Los Angeles warehouse with a large inventory of Quaaludes. The prescription drug having become the sedative of choice on America's ever-profitable party-circuit.

'I've got something with a bucket load of potential.' Deuce reached into his leather jacket and produced the capsules he'd stolen from Sorenson. 'There's money to be made here.' He tapped the side of his nose. 'First off the rank money. From what I heard this stuff's from a military plant back east. The point is, it's supposed to be one helluva high ... and apparently it's good for putting women in the mood.' Deuce looked down and cringed at the squashed roach near his foot.

Cavalera looked shrewdly at the bespectacled youth, his intoxicated brain abuzz with what he was hearing.

'An old friend of Sorenson made this stuff, from what I eavesdropped.' Deuce dropped four gelatin capsules onto the card table, and cast a disapproving glance at Cavalera's glass pipe. 'I say we try some of these capsules, and if the stuff's any good we should try replicating it, using your Merck Index Database and your alleged access to a polarized light scanner.' Deuce snapped his fingers and leaned back on the threadbare sofa, awaiting a response.

It wasn't long coming.

'Nah, it'd take too long,' Cavalera said. 'Reverse pharmacology is still an infant science. You can acquire your target molecule easy enough, but working out how to replicate it would require a topological index database the size of ... nah, forget it.'

A self-taught chemist with a Mensa-qualifying IQ, Cavalera lit a cigarette and stared at Deuce. 'For Chrissake, you must have something better than this?' He gestured flippantly at the capsules on the table. 'You still owe me for that growth hormone heist ... and now I've found you a warehouse full of Quaaludes.' He blew out a quivering smoke ring and drummed his thigh. 'Come on, you little flogger, give us something we can sink our teeth into. This is fast becoming a one-sided relationship.'

Deuce sighed and pushed his forever-slipping glasses up along the bridge of his nose. He glanced about Cavalera's grotty apartment, looking for all the world like his balloon had just been popped. 'I thought you would've shown more interest in trying to replicate this stuff.' He watched a galloping roach duck under the television. 'So what was all that talk about replicating synthetic molecules? That's what it was then ...
just talk?
'

'Don't put an attitude on me, you little fuck.'

'Ah, screw you.'

'No, screw you and your whole inbred family.'

'Nah, fuck you.' Deuce gnawed at his thumbnail. 'Jesus Christ, how am I gonna get my hands on that goddamn formula? God knows how, but I'm gonna make a copy of it. And when I do' – he looked up with blazing eyes – 'I want
you
to start making the drug from someplace out of town, preferably someplace back east.'

'Ah, for Chrissake,' Cavalera sputtered in protest. 'Someplace back east?' God, he needed another hit on his pipe. His weedy business partner was nothing if not boring – no wonder the ladies stayed clear of him.