THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE (37 page)

Goldman was about to comment on Deuce's setup in the living room when Sorenson said in a forthright tone, 'So Goldman, you still haven't told me what you've been up to these past years.'

The moment had arrived. Goldman had no choice but to lay his cards on the table. He took an unsatisfying sip of his lukewarm beer. How could he begin? Appropriate words were beyond him as he rubbed his clammy palms along his thighs.

Cresting a wave of beer-induced impudence, Sorenson answered for him. 'Let me guess. Nothing too exciting, I'm sure. You threw in the towel at whatever boring UCLA research centre you worked at. Then, of all things, you contracted for the military. Jeez, what a dork. God knows what you helped make at that fort, and all in the name of a better salary. Jesus.'

He appraised Goldman, long and hard, from over the top of his beer. 'I remember you ... you're not unlike me. Cocky and loud most times about how good you are at what you do. Hmm, it wouldn't take long for someone like you to rub an army high-ranker the wrong way ... to overstep the mark, to break the rules.

'You know what I think? I don't think you're on a holiday like you told Carl and Brad. I think something
bad
went down back east and now you're on the run.'

Sorenson chuckled as if little in the world escaped his discerning perception. He swallowed more beer and his raspy voice reverberated with newfound certainty. 'Yeah, the more I think about it, you probably want to sell some newfangled military drug ... so you can drum up some fast cash for the road. And who better to see than me?' His eyes narrowed with piercing precision. 'I mean, why would you bother to see old Ricky boy, who to most people is “that scumbag speed chemist”? I doubt if you want to buy off me ... cause you ain't the dealer type. Yep, my instinct says you're hot, buddy. Definitely hot.'

Goldman all but cringed before Sorenson's challenging look. An edgy silence claimed the balcony of the Spanish-style house. A yellow Lamborgini streaked past on the street outside; all the while Goldman's fingers indented his beer can. He was altogether broken by Sorenson's razor-sharp perception. But dare he confirm what his friend had intuited? He looked down at Sorenson's black Porsche, conscious the longer he delayed his answer the more guilty of Sorenson's claim he would appear. This definitely wasn't a time for the truth and nothing but, nor was it a time for him to be putting in a bad performance.

'You're wrong, Rick.' He shook his head and chuckled, hoping beyond hope he was coming across as an innocent person outlandishly accused of a wrongdoing. 'Completely wrong. I'm not on the run ... Jeez, mate, like I said, I think you've become a bit paranoid in your old age. You've been watching too many movies or something ... anyhow you're right in that I did bring a little
something
with me.'

'I
knew
it.' Sorenson's eyes glinted coldly like a serpent appraising a rival snake. 'You
are
fucking hot!'

'Oh, cut the crap, Rick! Please!' Goldman let out a long breath and put on his best poker face. 'I just brought a little something that I cooked up on the side. An offshoot of a compound we made at the Maryland centre.'

Sorenson smirked, doubtful of the claim. 'As if you'd have that much time.'

'Ever worked for the government?' Goldman asked.

'Nope and I don't plan to, either.' Sorenson tilted his can and swallowed the last of his beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Nah, I'm sitting sweet with Thirteen. Why should I go out on a limb for whatever you're offering?' He leaned forward and flicked a stray cotton thread from off his jeans. 'To release a military drug onto the LA drug scene would be too dicey. Nah, wouldn't be worth it.' The lanky underground chemist crushed his beer can and tossed it into the shrubbery below the balcony, as if emphasizing the finality of his decision. He burped contentedly and flicked his cigarette over the railing as well.

End of story. Period.

Goldman couldn't believe it. He'd flown to California with the high hope of selling his formula to the appreciative likes of Carl Friedman, but had ended up being rebutted in Sorenson's guttery world of crime. Seated on the balcony, he was overcome with disappointment, crushed with wearying desperation. But he couldn't give up. He couldn't back away from what he'd started.

'Come on, Rick,' he said with the affable persistence of a door-to-door salesman used to rebuttal. 'The stuff isn't even scheduled yet. Christ, nobody knows it exists. At least try some and tell me what you think.' He reached into one of his dark cotton socks and pulled out a rolled-up plastic bag. 'Look, I've made up some capsules.'

Sorenson whistled and put on a nasal Australian accent. 'Jesus, mate, you're a regular travelling salesman.' Still he bent forward, his eyes bright with curiosity. Goldman had had something of a reputation as an innovative researcher at UCLA. Accordingly Sorenson sensed something extraordinary might be in the offing.

'You can have this.' Goldman offered him a sandwich-size bag containing several capsules. 'Take one, or two, tell me what you think.'

Sorenson hesitated. 'Look ... I can't promise anything.' Nevertheless he took the bag.

'Of course. Listen, ring me at this number.' Goldman pulled out a parking station stub and wrote down Sandy Collins's telephone number on it, copying the number from Collins's black and silver business card. He looked in on the young people lolling inside the house, and thought of Sandy and her exquisite hillside home. Two worlds he wanted kept apart.

'It's probably wise to use a pay phone when you call me.' He handed Sorenson his contact number.

'Don't worry, Goldman. I know what it's like ... but relax. Thirteen gets Deuce to sweep the line each week to see if anyone's listening in.'

'I'd still prefer a pay phone.'

Sorenson looked circumspectly at the capsules in his hand. 'So, what
is
this crap anyway?'

'Well,' Goldman said, 'it's an offshoot that – '

'So you already said,' Sorenson cut in. His right leg shook sharply and his grating back teeth suggested he may have sampled too much of his own product. 'But what does it
do
for you?'

Goldman was unfazed by the interjection. 'Sorry, Rick, I didn't realize the middle of my sentence was interrupting the beginning of yours.'

'Don't be a smart ass, Goldman.'

'Like I said, it's an offshoot, but pretty damn close to its mother molecule all the same. In any case, both drugs have pleasurable psychoactive properties. The mother molecule was designed to induce controllable states suitable for subliminal suggestion.'

'No shit.' Sorenson's eyes widened as he tipped some of the capsules onto his hand. 'This would probably be good for swaying a woman's no.'

Deuce materialized at the balcony door. 'Hey, Rick, I need to talk to you.'

'Piss off, Deuce,' Sorenson snarled. Deuce stared back defiantly, then spun round and made good of the blunt suggestion, leaving a trail of repressed anger in his wake as he headed for the music-making equipment in the house.

'Fucking nosy geek.' Sorenson tipped the capsules back into the plastic bag and pressed shut its snap lock. He stroked the two-day stubble on his chin. 'So the government got into this crap after the Korean War, didn't it? After it found out Chinese commos did mind-control experiments on GIs. I saw a TV doco about it once.'

'That's right.' Goldman hardly wanted to discuss the clandestine activities of his former employer, but knew it was in his best interest to do so. 'Actually the OSS, the forerunner of the CIA, got interested when it learned the medical arm of the German air force had done extensive mescaline tests on Dachau inmates.'

'No shit?' Sorenson tongued his lips. 'Damn, I need another beer.'

'Hey Rick,' Thirteen shouted from the driveway below. 'Holly and I are going down to the track. Wanna come?'

Sorenson looked at Goldman and shrugged with resignation. 'Hey, man, I love the horses.' He leaned over the railing and shouted back, 'Okay, I'll be down in a minute.'

Michelle and Trinda came onto the balcony and Trinda's Siamese cat rubbed itself against Goldman's leg. Michelle gave the impression she wanted to leave. Trinda now wore jeans and acted like she wanted Michelle, her new friend in-the-making, to stay longer.

'Well Rick, I guess it's time we pushed on.' Goldman stood up and grabbed Michelle's hand, causing Trinda's cat to scamper back inside the house.

'Sure, sure,' Sorenson said, struggling to keep his eyes off Michelle.

'Come on, Rick,' Thirteen barked from below. He leaned on the open door of his Chevrolet Camaro RS, the deep gurgle of its 454 race engine filling the yard. Before long he punched the car’s air horn and several Golden-crowned sparrows took flight.

'Jesus, all right,' Sorenson shouted back. He stood up and flashed a smile at his guests. 'Okay, I'll come down and see you off.'

No sooner had everyone left than Deuce stole onto the balcony. He stopped at Sorenson's seat and reached behind a terra-cotta pot of marigolds. He grabbed the plastic bag Sorenson had hidden there when the women showed up on the balcony (the bespectacled youth having seen it all from inside the house). Still smarting from Sorenson's gruff rebuttal, he popped open the Ziplock bag.

Goldman looked across the street at a 24 hour steakhouse, its front windows ablaze from the westering sun. Michelle had gone into the eatery in search of a pay phone, wanting to know if Carmen was okay. God knew where her friend's snowballing addiction had taken her in the past week.

Goldman ventured inside the bookshop behind him. Potential buyers browsed shelves of different categories. Two teenage girls tittered over an erotic master and slave novel; a scholarly looking gent was absorbed in the diagram-packed pages of a Carl Sagan book advocating Darwinian evolution; and an elderly woman looked genuinely moved by a new Mills and Boon release. Nearby a freestanding cardboard-display for Sidney Sheldon's latest seller
Rage of Angels
was a small table-display for Stephen King's new novel
Fire starter
. Goldman picked up a copy and read the back sleeve blurb. A menacing novel about a sinister government agency, a fateful drug experiment ...

He slapped the book down. The plot seemed only too analogous of his present plight. Hardly ideal reading at all. He stared through the bookshop window. Michelle stood in the middle of the street, looking like a porcelain figurine amidst swishing cars and buses. He dashed outside, gladdened when she stepped onto his side of the street.

'Carmen's phone's been reconnected.' Michelle radiated relief as she looked along the busy sidewalk. Workers hurrying home and sprightly youths out for a night on the town forced her and Goldman to one side. 'Her brother picked up, apparently he put Carmen in rehab a couple of days ago. Thank God ... I really worry about that girl.' Her eyes moistened as she flicked back her fringe. She stared at a black and white Valentino poster in the display window of a clothing boutique. 'I really love her, you know. She's like ... my best friend.' She bit her lip and toyed with a topaz ring on her hand. 'I rang Terence too, but there wasn't an answer, not even his machine. I hope he's all right. He's in worse shape than Carmen.' She released a tiny sob. 'God knows we're a dependent generation. The most spoiled brats yet.' She sniffled and wiped her face. 'Okay, I feel much better now knowing Carmen's all right.' She forced a smile and pecked Goldman's cheek. 'Come on, enough of me and my problems, let's go eat.'

Michelle looked out from the window table at the restaurant she'd chosen on La Cienega Boulevard. She seemed oblivious to the Friday-night crowd on the other side of the sound-hampering glass. Burning candles in a matt-black holder cast a pleasing light over her and Goldman's table.

'Listen, Scott, nothing's going to stop me from going to Milan. I've got another chance with Alexis Models and I'm
definitely
taking it.' She grabbed a large lobster claw, twisted the knuckles apart and proceeded with a slender fork to pluck out the soft white meat. 'Okay, so I'm nudging twenty-four, but that's not too old, not really...'

Goldman stared absently at the strips of salmon and the sparse vegetables on his hexagon-shaped plate. He poured Chardonney into his fluted glass and drank most of it straight off. All the while he listened to Michelle bare her soul, listened to her spell things out in black and white. 

'... and I always come out second best in relationships. Compromised and emotionally bruised from not standing up for myself. Well, not any more. And I'm not sacrificing my chance with Alexis Models, either. I'm definitely going for it.' She looked up from her plate, her eyes round and direct. 'I do like you, Scott, you know that, but I'm going to Europe – with or without you. So you better find a passport because I'll be over there for an indefinite period.' This said, she glanced out the window then returned to her meal, looking uncomfortable in her role as a soldier of will.

Her silence, laden with declaration, pressed in on Goldman.

'Okay Michelle. It's not like I haven't heard this before. I am, you know, aware of
our
situation.'

'Well, I'm just letting you know where
I
stand.'

'Okay, okay, so now I know ...' He turned from his pecked-at food and stared out the window. On the street a frizzy-haired girl in a short red dress slid into the passenger seat of a Ferrari Dino. Most likely a hooker, Goldman thought, as the high-performance roadster tore away from the curb. The grim-faced man behind the wheel looking for all the world like he was kidnapping the young woman.

Goldman had a strong feeling someone in Fast Cash Boys could get him a fake passport. He could almost feel the crafted document in his hands. 'Listen,' he said with confidence, 'I don't think Italy will prove a problem. Rick'll get me a passport, I'm sure of it. He says he knows someone who can point me in the right direction.'

Michelle toyed with what remained on her plate. She looked up and a cautious smile flitted across her face. 'Yeah, well, let's hope so.' She returned to her meal.