Chapter 19. Modigliani Eyes

Arrogant or confident?

Casey and Anna were cozy at the helm where they'd been watching the action when I came out of the cabin. Her eyes were riveted on me while I walked back to the stern to sit and air out what had transpired. The Blatva… it was something I’d heard of but hadn’t paid much attention to. The LSD affects were at that stage where my brains felt fried and my eyes burned from the light reflecting off the seas.

“We’re goin’ to the Bay now, the Boss wants us there,” Casey’s voice interrupted the thought.

“What?” I had begun to wonder what Ryan was doing ashore. I knew he would have something planned but I had been in the dark up to then. It would be easy to get Casey to tell me everything he knew of it. I probed, “I know Ryan wants us in San Rafael but you must know more than me.”

Casey was bubbling with joy to be part of a big plan… that he knew more than me, “I have a good friend, Jimbo. He has an old boat I heard he’s been workin’ on. New canvass and paint. Other than that I gots no fuckin’ idea what Ryan’s up to.”

Anna interrupted, “Speaking of fuckin’ ideas, I want to know what the fuck’s going on with Doc, huh? What’s the plan with him?”

“He’s still tripping pretty heavy. I sent him below to chase the bats from his belfry, I suppose. I’m done with him though… got what I wanted.”

Anna entered the cabin and went straight below towards the berths where Doc was quietly sitting on the bunk.

“I gotta use the head and change clothes.”

I wasn’t sure what she would do so I called out, “Wait, Anna. I’m done with him but you and we need to pow-wow,” and followed close inside.

Casey was watching us from the wheel.

The Dinky Dao had a layout similar to the Sherlock’s except that the Casey’s tub was an unmodified working lobster boat. The Sherlock had the same cabin and berthing configuration. Converted to a popular yacht design, it’s stern wasn’t open for hauling in lobster traps. The cabin was a step up from the deck to the galley. It was about three steps forward of that to a level accommodating a small shower and head. Forward of that space and through a hatch were four bunks… two on each side. The helm was outside in the weather on the starboard side but under the same canopy as the cabin.

Everything about the Dinky Dao was the same except it was in dire need of a paint-job and the clutter everywhere. Empty plastic water bottles, empty beer cans and gallon wine jugs, newspapers, doubled plastic bags stuffed with laundry, and junk… fishing line and flasher lures etc. covered every counter and table top. However, a stack of skin magazines was a conspicuous exception. They were kept, covered in cellophane in a neat bundle in a plastic milk crate under the table I’d cleared for our breakfast.

It was noon by the time I was done with Doc but I was anxious to keep him out of reach of Anna. Once paranoia slips into one’s psychedelicized consciousness it is difficult to sort out which fears are justified and which ones are not. I knew a few Lurps (an affectionate name adopted from the initials for Long Range Recon Patrol) that liked to go into the bush on acid to enhance their environmental awareness. This worked well for real reasons to be safe, “left of the bang”, but it might also account for some of the Geneva Accord violations against innocent villagers. My paranoia told me that Anna had a motive to take out Doc beyond mere revenge. He might expose more than she wished of how she fit-in. I had to keep those suspicions in check, however, because they might just as well be chemically induced fears.

Anna was already stripped down and stepping into the shower. I could see why Ryan was in love with her. Her nudity, while my mind was sucked into cosmic reality, didn’t evoke any desire at all to possess her sexually but I was completely in rapture at the sight of her innocent beauty. My mind raced from big questions to wondering whether women got the same depth of sensual arousal at the sight of a man’s naked body. They might but I suspect not because I don’t see women keeping a neat and bundled stack of old skin mags. I million and one such ruminations passed through that transcendent Bardo as she slipped out of sight into the shower. I went from paranoia to awe in less than a flash… the time it takes for a match head to flare upon striking.

Her shout from below snapped me out of that Bardo of reflection, “Hey! There’s no fucking water!”

She came out and up to the table wearing a weather jacket and nothing more. She knew she was going to be grilled and was prepping herself to craft the best defense she had leaving the jacket open enough to expose the partial curve of her breasts. Just enough to keep me distracted. There is a line from the Bible… hell, I don’t know where to find it. I just heard Thumpers quote it in jail. It says the eyes are the windows to the soul. Anna had been trained by someone on more than that Mac-10. Her eyes suddenly became hard to read and that’s a skill known by only a few amateurs that are unwelcome at poker tables or by specialists in trade craft. I knew full well when the subject’s eyes became opaque and unbreakable.

I broke the ice, “We aren’t playing the school-girl now, are we?”

She wasn’t playing alright. She had become robotic and my task was to remind her that she was human; that I was human, and hardest of all, that Doc was human. Her jacket opened to expose more Modigliani flesh but I was transfixed on the opaque eyes. The painter studied eyes. Each portrait displayed a fascination with the deception of eyes. It was as though the painter never quite figured them out. He painted what he saw. There is one painting of a teen with the pupils blurred… there could be a three ring circus behind them but there was no way to get past that matte glaze. No wonder he drank himself to death with absinthe and wine.

Her hands lay flat on the table with her fingers spread as though on display. They were another work of art; long, thin and graceful, a Gothic saint that had just blown away a man with a Mac-10 a few days ago.

I finally saw in them. Her eyes turned sad… full of regret, "Look Crash, I've got nothing more. This tub needs swamping out if we're staying on it for any amount of time. Let's not play cat and mouse for a while and get to work."

"You might be right. Bit we have to talk."

Tourist in another Strange Land

O8/02/16 Twi’s Day (07:56):

I did my laundry yesterday. I enjoyed the whole experience. The first thing that happened was that I had to get change. The lady attendant saw how I was looking for the machine and asked, “Are you looking for something?”

   I don’t exactly know why but I felt just a little intimidated. She was a Hispanic woman and I hate to admit it but it is so. It wasn’t so much that she was Hispanic/native but that she had that natural assurance that Taos was her home… had been the home of her parents, grandparents and so on further back than when the Spanish conquistadors saw the Pueblo and settled the area that had already been settled for over ten millennia. Once more, with only a few exceptions, the laundromat was a mix of varying degrees of that ancestry.

   I got past this intimidation and remembered how well I had gotten along with the Taos Pueblo people and how I too… just like the conquistadors before me… had eventually gotten along with everyone. I answered, “I’m looking for a change machine.”

   She led me to her little office and asked, “How much do you need?”

   I said, “How much would it take for two washers and two dryers?”

   “Two? Is that bag all you have?”

   “Yes, you know, separate the darks from the whites,” I smiled and once more became intimidated having not thought about any implied apartheid until she returned what I call an Indian smile… a blank face to anyone less perceptive.

   “Two still? That bag is small,” she repeated while she took out a roll of quarters. “Maybe seven… eight to make sure.”

   “Seven’s good. I have a buck’s worth on me.”

A good sized man that looked purer bred Pueblo limped by. I took the quarters and set about with the laundry task when suddenly one of the washers began overflowing. One of the only white women in the laundromat called her attention to it, “The floors are flooding! There’s water on the floor!”

    After that there was a buzz of activity. The man with the limp stood by and watched and the two talked while she squeegeed the floor. While she pushed the water out the door the two of them talked casual, very briefly. She said, “You’re dong better.”

   “Yes, I’m alright… a little better every day.”

   “Time takes time. You look good.”

He left her to her task and sat down on the side next to me.

   I was at home.

   This is the part of Taos I love. The old adobes are one thing but the people are another. Everyone in the room was going about with their own business like people do everywhere else but there is a flavor to Taos that is hard to describe… a not so subtle as it might seem at first. For instance, I had a chorizo omelet that morning too. It was Spanish chorizo… not at all like the chorizo I'm used to. It's a solid sausage instead of the greasy California ones I love so much. Probably mush better for ya too. New Mexico is like California but much better for ya too.

   

   In Taos, I am, at first, just another tourist in another strange land.

Arjuna's Colt 45

Most sailors keep a few books in their cabins. In one of the cupboards was a copy of the Bhagavad Gita. I’d read some of it before but I must have skipped over these stanzas Krishna spoke to Arjuna as the sea rolled under my feet. I read between the lines of these stanzas, “The duties of the Priests, the Warriors, the Merchants/Artisans, and Laborers, Arjuna, are passed along through the genes according to the qualities which arise from their own nature” and “Heroism, majesty, firmness, skill, and never a coward, generosity, and nobility, are the qualities of the warrior, born of their nature.” You can’t help but to be what you were born to.Strap on your 45 Arjuna and get in the mix.

The Brahman, the Kshatrias, the Vashyas, and the Shudras… each are noble. I took a deep breath and sighed the sorrow. We are born the way we are. I had been granted a part in the universe I denied. I tried to find peace between the Kshatrias and the Vashyas where no peace could be found.

I’d settled for the mask of normalcy instead of taking the path. It turned out to be a big mistake. I chose the oblivion of the bottle when I denied the fire… the challenge of creation as an artist. It was the same Warrior/Creator Muse that left me then and this thing in me became numb. Sitting on the deck of the Sherlock in that moment, I understood… it was a flash. When Earhart took his dive off the bridge it was his last chance to get back to his warrior soul. It wasn’t when I chose to drink… it was when I chose to be normal. Creation and destruction, oh Arjuna, are the same beast. This reality shocks normal people with normal lives. Likewise, it’s the karma of most people to live out their lives in peace, to raise families, and participate in society. The merchant/artisan or laborer perfect their own duties to be successful but couldn’t be expected to understand the drive of pro-athletes or Navy SEALs. Nor should they. The odds are a million to one against making it but the drive is there and that drive denied will pull us down the way nothing else can.

There were a few beers in the cabin’s small fridge but I craved a soda instead. I realized I hadn’t the DTs I’d feared since my last drink. I should’ve. I always did when I tried. I had nothing more than the usual hangover and some shakes but it was remarkably easy to quit. It had never been this easy for me before whenever I tried. Shit, it had been a couple years of daily drinking. I’d heard others say the same thing happened to them when they went had gone bat-shit religious. They always attributed it to a miracle… an act of God or Higher Power. It made believers of them. I hadn’t any such an apparition or transcendent experience. I’ve heard it said that positive thinking changes the brain chemistry but that wasn’t quite enough of an explanation for me. It was as though my friends on the Wall had called me to a mission. Maybe Earhart’s spirit was my Higher Power. It did awaken me none-the-less.

Chapter 9. The Inspection

I know how most civilian investigations work. A crime scene is taped off, if there is one, and all evidence on the spot is gathered. No one works alone like Colombo. It takes teamwork. Witnesses are interviewed and from there it goes door to door asking the neighbors; “Where were you when it happened? Did you see anything unusual? Did you recognize anyone?” A list of possible “persons of interest” is compiled and then it’s taken to the interview room at the station. One by one “persons of interest’ are narrowed to a couple of suspects. There’s not much need to go back into the field. Confessions, or leads, are extracted there with varying results.

Sometimes it’s another story with persons of interest who contribute to campaign funds like Doc does. If a simple child molestation accusation comes from an obscure source, like a prostitute, the case might not be filed at all. She is more likely to be arrested and booked for her sins and, added to that, filing a false report. I’ve seen it happen. This isn’t because of overt corruption. More often than not it's a combination of case overload, a simple bias, or bureaucratic laziness. If the witness is corrupt, and that the case has no chance in front of a jury, the matter is complicated.

A murder escalates the concerns of all involved. If the person of interest is a campaign donor and the victim is a cab driver, there is a good chance that the case will go cold. Perry's case would have been lost in a glacier of ice… just another suicide… except that Ryan had a dog in the hunt.

I flatter myself to think that this dog was me but I believe that my friend was in love with Anna.

I had to leave the sanctuary of Anna’s studio to pick up my VA check at the Virginia. Spiderman was at the desk holding up the foldout of the newest Pethouse to the light. I had to slam the ringer to get his attention. He damned near fell out of his chair. Recovering his composure, he said, “I see you Crash, but I’d rather look at this. What do you think, is she a ten?”

I looked at the fold-out a second but asked, “You got my check yet?”

“Say, Crash. Have you been takin’ vitamins or something? You don’t look so bad.”

“I didn’t come here to get married sweetheart, I just want my check.”

He put the magazine aside and pulled the government envelope out of a drawer and slipped it across the counter, “You ain’t drinkin’ are you?”

“It’s only been a week. You think it shows?”

“Yeah, it does.”

“I just have to keep my head clear for a while. At least ‘til a few things get straightened out.”

“I gotta tell you. A PD Detective was here lookin’ for you. What kind of shit did you get yourself into, Crash?”

“Not sure, what did he say?” I knew it had to be Ryan.

“He just asked if I knew where you were stayin’ and if I knew that Anna chick. Man-oh-man, I sure do wish I knowed her better.”

“Hey, you’re starting to drool.” I stepped back and started to walk away. “But thanks Spiderman. You don’t have to tell him I was here.” The thought came to me that Ryan didn’t know where I was hiding out. Anna hadn’t let him know either. I supposed there was no reason to let him know until I had a better idea what I was up against.

I went to the corner to cash my check. John had been doing that since I first moved into the Virginia. I always paid up my tab on the first of the month. I had him cut it off at fifty bucks so that I wouldn’t use up my reserves. That was my way of budgeting a monthly hundred twenty-dollar check. It was a thirty percent disability… the pittance the VA threw my way to delay paying off at a higher rate. It seemed as though the VA was betting most of us wouldn’t have the stamina to endure the delays and obstructions before an appeal came through. Most Vets gave up and walked away… went to prison, committed suicide, or died before an appeal was ever awarded.

John cashed my check… counted it out. I passed fifty back.

“No Crash. You can get me later… when you’re back on your feet.”

I looked at my feet, peeled off fifty bucks, “I’m on my feet John. Here, take this. I’m okay, really.”

John took the money, “You know; that cop friend of yours, Detective Ryan, was here first thing this morning… banged on my door before I opened. He says it’s urgent.”

“I know. I’d appreciate you don’t know anything… right.” I passed three quarters over the counter and he passed back a pack of generic unfiltered smokes.

“I can’t lie to a cop, Crash.”

“You don’t have to lie except by omission.”

I was halfway to Gutierrez Street before I realized I hadn’t bought a pint from John. It felt good. Two more steps and I wanted to turn around… Maybe go to the Ofice to see Nancy. I didn’t have to struggle much though. It felt like a big hand was on my shoulder guiding me away. It wasn’t long before I was on the breakwater lighting up a smoke and listening to the surf pounding away under me as I sat on the concrete bench taking in the sun. I knew what the big hand was and the feeling was vivid… like the way I felt watching Adrian breech and come out of the Elaine’s vagina fighting. It was a feeling of awe, fear, and beauty. That’s when I saw Ryan coming towards me from the Yacht Club.

I patted my hand on the wet spot where the spraying surf left a puddle as he approached, “Don’t sit here unless you want to get your butt wet.”

“Walk with me to Mizz Sherlock, Crash. You in the mood for some fishing?”

Mizz Sherlock was a clean boat of about forty-five feet… nothing fancy about her. The old Chrysler marine engine that powered her could be pushed to twelve knots max… cruises at ten. The cabin was big enough to squeeze in a gateleg table for eating that dropped down for a third berth and a chart table for plotting a course. It even had a shower below next to the head.

Under the forward hatch was the usual two berths. The most modern feature on it was a marine radio scanner and 1950’s radar screen. There was no fish-finder sonar, or RDF. A compass, sextant and clock was good enough for him. It was a comfortable cabin and the boat was made to hold up under the conditions of damned near any seas.

We didn’t need to talk as we boarded and cruised out of the harbor. I knew he was going to fish for something more than Yellowtail and that he would be patient. The sea-air away from the harbor was different… just as fresh and all… but there was something about it. It was fresh in the nose… like the sweet smell of freedom. I’d sailed a skiff around the sloughs of the Sacramento River and San Francisco Bay before I was drafted. The Navy wasn’t taking high school drop-outs and draftees back then. I could have been on Swift-boats. But the Army took anyone then and I found a home there.

I tossed the pack of smokes into the churning wake. It was a compulsion. I don’t know why I did it but it felt right… something like pouring out that beer.

We set up our poles and took turns at the helm. Ryan opened a cooler and pulled out two cans… a beer for himself and offered me one.

“You got a soda or something?”

“You quit drinking too.” He wasn’t asking. It was like he was reading it from a report.

“No. Just laying off a bit. Who told you that?”

“A little sparrow… ‘sides, smokin’ and drinkin’ go together.”

“Shit, you get around. So does fishin’ and drinkin’.” Not knowing how to drink one, I gulped down the soda and tossed the can off the stern. “I didn’t really quit. I’m just putting some time between drinks, if you know what I mean.”

Ryan scowled and pushed five-gallon bucket next to me, “Put ‘em in here next time.”

He cut the motor and we just drifted with the current. He continued to look at me with a scrunched brow.

A weight pressed my chest and caught in my craw, so I let it out, “Anna’s in trouble.”

“I know,” he dropped his beer in the bucket as his line went taut and his pole bent nearly to the waterline. He yanked the pole from its rod holder and hollered, “It’s fishin’ ya know. Sometimes the little ones fight harder than the big ones. You don’t know what you’ve got until you pull it in.”

The reel on the pole zinged the line out…. Ryan’s body leaned back with the pole in both hands… “It’s not a Yellowtail!”

“How can you tell?”

“A Yellowtail won’t take it to the bottom. Gotta be a shark. We’re fishing with too light a line.”

“What do you have, the Loch Ness monster?”

“I might as well… we might be in for a long… long… haul.” Ryan didn’t look as excited as I thought he would be. He was calm, “Damn. I was looking forward to some sushi.”

“The day isn’t over yet.”

“I was fishin’ for bait. This bugger is going to take more than we’re rigged for. Fortuitous… let’s talk about that.”

“About Anna, or this fish?”

Ryan pulled the line back from the tip of the rod, took out his Buck knife, and cut the line. The pole snapped back upright, “You tell me. Anna’s too smart to get big headed. She’s in a trap she got into as a small fry and now she’s upped the ante.”

Anna hadn’t told me enough to know how much Ryan knew or how much I should let him know. I wasn’t comfortable between these two loyalties. No wonder I drank. The beers in the cooler started to look damned good. I cracked one open but didn’t take a sip. I just held it in my hand like Linus’ security blanket.

Ryan’s eyes were on my beer, “Your old boss is into some pretty sick shit. Worse than that, he took that bimbo with him and now it’s starting to cave in on all of them.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Perry.”

“Anna told me. I was in jail at the time… you know?”

Ryan busied himself re-rigging his gear, “I think I’ll put some live squid on it. Change it up. You probably don’t know what’s been going on. I don’t think you even cared until a week ago. Am I right?”

“That I care? Yeah, I suppose I do. Ryan, I think I’m coming alive. I feel it. I’m done with all this bullshit… it isn’t self-pity and all. I just didn’t give a shit.” I watched Ryan finish hooking up the squid and cast out with only a light flick of his wrist. I set the beer in the holder on the gunnel and took the helm. Ryan didn’t have to tell me to take the helm and I began cruising just fast enough to create a wake. I looked back in time to see a Marlin clear the water. It was a good sign the day would be a good one. I shouted over the throbbing motors, “So, Anna’s the live bait? Why are we fishing if you already have a bead on Doc?”

Ryan reeled the squid towards the boat in front of where we saw the jumper and, as an aside, he shouted, “You know there’s Great Whites out here too. Funny thing about them. They have some sort of instinct… At the Farallons, a friend… a marine biologist, told me. I don’t know what it is but, if you kill one… well, the old ones… the big ones… they skedaddle and don’t come back for a long-assed time. Maybe all you got to do is kill one. Folks don’t know that.”

“You aren’t going to let me know more?”

“About fishing? Crash Craszhinski, you’ll know more when I know more. Try to remember, this crap will take time and patience. You stay close to Anna; she can help us out but we don’t want to scare off the big ones. I don’t trust her story. Her heart is good but she’s a compulsive liar.”

“Then, I take it that you’re not going by the book this time?”

“I am. But the book we’re going by hasn’t been written. Circumstances always warrant an exception. I have to tell you, something smells bad at the station. Might go up near the top of the chain of command in the DA’s office. Someone’s stepped on my earliest attempts to investigate.”

“So, Ryan,” I was intrigued now. Ryan was going rogue. That wasn’t his style. I had to probe, “I need to know what we’re getting into.” Still not sure what anything he said was about, I added, “I’ve never liked working with ARVN’s commanders in the Embassy. Too much like catch and release.”

Ryan’s rod dipped a couple of times, “Sometimes they tease the crap out of ya.”

I cut the engines as soon as I heard the reel’s shrill r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r’s. He yelled, “That ain’t a Great White!” He planted the butt of the rod under his belly and the fight was on. I could see why Hemmingway loved Marlin fishing so much. It could be compared to a fifteen round boxing match. It looks like I had a ringside seat for this bout. The line went straight down, pole bent… keeping the line taught, Ryan reeled and released it… brought it closer and letting it go further. The line changed directions a dozen times before the fish breached in a graceful leap coming back down on the line as sure as a fencer’s parry and lunge. The pole sprung back straight and the line went slack… the fight was over… the Marlin won.

Ryan laughed, “That was one smart asshole! Took lessons from Douglass Fairbanks for sure.”

“It was more like Liston and Clay… over in the first round,” I sniped, but one of the things I especially liked about Ryan was his quick acknowledgement of his adversary’s prowess. My stomach started to churn and I realized how hungry I’d gotten.

Ryan pulled up his line and relieved me at the helm. “Yeah, but don’t it give you a rush? Let’s go over to the oil rigs and get us some lunch.”

All in all, it wasn’t a bad day. Ryan had snagged one and let it go. Another just plain got away.

He snuggled the Sherlock idling in the shade under Platform B casting distance from the stanchions where we lobbed our lines to the bottom. Within minutes we were both hauling in a couple of nice rockfish and calico bass. I was afraid we were going to have sushi but Ryan pulled out the propane Hibachi from a space under the deck. We filleted our catch and had them on the grill on the spot. I couldn’t remember a time in the past several years when I felt life had been so sweet.

After eating, Ryan stood at the helm, fired up the old Chrysler and said, “This isn’t catch and release. We’re dealing with great whites and Anna’s our bait.”

Mizz Sherlock rounded past the sand spit buoys, sea landing jetty, and into its slip on Marina One. I dropped the bumpers, jumped off and set the bow line to the cleat when Ryan stopped me. “Don’t tie up the stern. You’re not staying.”

“What’re you talking about, Ryan?”