36 – the Meeting at the Aquarius

 

 

 They walked slowly. Lance still stunned by the prospect of a party. Dope. Death. Apartment searches and cops. And Dan wanted to party. Trap or not it seemed insane and Lance wanted no part of it. And yet, walking beside Mike along Fountain, he felt strained. A gentle drizzled had started, wetting his face and hands and clothing, the last of winter's touch before the long, hot and dry summer. The chill went deep into him. He tugged closed his coat, but felt naked.

 Mike had less on. A white shirt and ragged shorts. His long blond hair dripped as if with sweat. He didn't seem to notice. Nor did he say much as they walked, except to direct Lance away from the Boulevard.

 "We don't want to be noticed," he said-- something for which Lance was immediately grateful. One meeting with Billy Night Rider had been enough. Yet at the end of this walk, Demetre waited, and now he felt less sure about his options, preferring perhaps a corner of the apartment instead.

 Dope. Death. Let's have a party.

 "Mike?"

 The silent figure beside Lance looked over, the high cheek bones dark under the ruined hair, for the first time looking sharply Indian as if all the Irish blood had been washed away.

 "What?"

 "I don't understand this party stuff. It seemed nuts to me."

 "Dan's fishing," Mike said gruffly and seemed to fall back into his own thoughts.

 "For what?"

 "For Bobo. He's sending the man a message."

 "A message?"

 "That he's got the shipment."

 "But I thought he wanted to hide that fact."

 "Not everyone will read this the same way," Mike mumbled. "Word's out on the street that Bobo's trying to make the town dry. God knows the reason or if it's true. Maybe he wants to cut down on competition or jack up prices. But he won't like Dan's message."

 "How the hell does he send a message by having a party?"

 "By inviting the right people."

 "He thinks Bobo'll come?"

 "Maybe. But I wouldn't if I were Bobo."

 "What would you do?"

 Mike seemed to think this over for a moment, then shrugged. "Send someone to check it out. Then do something to stop it."

 "Like call the police?"

 "No. More likely I'd try to make a deal. Buy the shipment just to keep it off the street."

 "And if he tries?"

 "Dan gets his shot at him."

 "And what if someone else reads the message the same way?"

 Mike stared hard at Lance's face. He didn't ask who. Lance wasn't even sure who he meant, Billy, Demetre, or Buckingham. But all seemed equally dangerous now that he came to it.

 "Then Dan screwed up," Mike said finally. "But let's not worry about it now. We've got things to do."

 Posters for the play Hair marred the outside of the Aquarius theater with green and red, like tattered band aids covering the face of the exotic building. Pink flood lights illuminated the columns as Lance and Mike paused across the street, a pink flamingo among the more serious structures on either side. Even the Ed Sullivan Theater a half block east looked tame with a tamer line of people waiting before its doors.

 The play had a later starting time and its cast hung out in front, dressed in feathers, denim and makeup, a slice of the life that went on nightly a few blocks up Vine on the Boulevard.

 Lance smelled pot and craved a hit, and followed Mike across Sunset into the tangle of shadowed columns. A hand reached out and grabbed Mike's arm.

 "You got any downs, boy?" a black man said, dressed in the tan uniform and helmet of the California Highway Patrol, though the make-up and dilated eyes said he was part of the cast.

 "Afraid not," Mike said, smiling weakly, though his eyes looked annoyed. He dragged Lance out of sight, deeper into the alcove of columns. Urns full of potted plants surrounded them like a jungle, their leaves looking black under the pink light. Some other cast members eyed them with dubious alarm, then shrugged thinking them dealers. There were always dealers here and Lance had come here a few times to score, wary of the equal chance of stumbling on a narc.

 There's a knack for knowing the difference, Dan had told him.

 Lance never had it, feeling as nervous and cloddish now as he had the first time, like a child in a twisted world of perverts and rapists and killers, the faces of each stranger deeper and more troubling than the last. He felt as if anyone with a keen eye could spot him, even hidden as he was in shadow.

 "Demetre's supposed to meet you here?" Lance asked, fingers fumbling open a pack of Marlboros. He barely got it lit after three shaky tries.

 Mike nodded. "But not for an hour yet."

 "Why are we here so early?"

 "To see if it's a trap," Mike said, taking a hit off Lance's cigarette as if it was a joint. "You get to things like this early enough, you can see a trap developing."

 "You think it will be a trap?"

 Again came the shrug as Mike handed back the cigarette. "Can't tell yet. But I've got a feeling it could be."

 He didn't need to name Buckingham, but that seemed to be the magic word, and Lance leaned back against the warm pillar, watching the world begin to take shape, dealers arriving just ahead of the crowds, striking up quick deals and exchanges of cash and dope.

 The crowds themselves came in drips and drabs. A few freaks dotting a mass of mostly straights. People in suits and evening gowns. Tourists in Hawaiians shirts strung with Japanese cameras. All had come to see how the hippies lived, as if they didn't quite believe the reality walking up and down Hollywood Boulevard. They chewed cigars and spat onto the sidewalk. The exuded perfume and cologne. They waited and paced, dancing around each other with the civility of pigeons.

 Lance felt trapped.

 Each face was a portrait of his uncle's, reflecting the benign, brain-dead families of the suburbs he'd left behind: two-car garages and colored TVs, life lived through a view-finder with a world amounting to little more than a post card home. Reality was the mortgage, hospital bills, repairs to the car. There was no room in that view for pictures of Vietnam, starving people or run-away daughters pimped on the porno meat market. They lived their lives in ignorant bliss-- and he envied them, aching for a mind like theirs which could shut itself off at will.

 If only he could find a job. Maybe the rest would follow...

 And then, among them, floated the familiar black face-- a full head above the crowd. Stark, and yet less so than Lance might otherwise have imagined, somehow managing to blend in with the others despite the height and skin-color, wearing an Hawaiian shirt and carrying himself with the same slumped gait of a working class slob.

 But the illusion dissipated the minute Demetre's gaze caught on Lance, the limbs of the professional cop suddenly taunt under the shirt, making it all an obvious disguise. The gaze shifted and studied the crowd, as if it was the cop who expected the trap.

 Lance turned to tell Mike and found him gone-- his long hair blending into the invisibility of the crowd, even more adept at it than Demetre-- who now bore down on Lance's hiding place fiercely determined.

 Lance tried to follow Mike, but his legs lacked the dexterity to weave through the knees and elbows, and the cop's cool hand easily gripped his shoulder, twisting him again. Demetre slammed Lance against one of the pillar and pressed himself into him, something hard and metallic poking Lance's ribs through the Hawaiian shirt.

 "All right, pal," the cop hissed-- the smell of spearmint thick on his breath. "What kind of game are you playing here?"

 "I--I--" Lance stuttered. "I'm not playing a game."

 "Then why did you leave a message for me at the station saying you were Buckingham? Are you?"

 "I left the message," Mike said, easing back into the shadow as deftly as he had left it, coming to it from a different angle with the light at his back.

 Demetre whirled around, yanking the pistol free of his shirt, his scar growing tight and pale as he squinted to see who had trapped him. "You?" he said as the hand with the pistol fell again to his side. Mike eased an inch closer, his sharp features growing clearer as he neared, drawing a pained expression from Demetre.

 "What the hell are you doing here?" the cop growled, casting a quick glance towards the lighted area in front of the theater, like a criminal looking for witnesses. "Are you crazy?"

 "No," Mike mumbled. He didn't look or sound like the Mike Lance had met on the road, but like a shy boy again, bumbling out the words. "I just needed to talk to you."

 "And get yourself busted in the process," the cop barked.

 Mike looked straight into the man's face, his gaze questioning. "Are you going to bust me?"

 "I didn't say that," Demetre said and shoved the pistol back under his shift. Something sounded from the theater doors and the crowd began to shuffle in. "But there are others in this town beside me. Any one of them would love to have your head for their collections."

 Mike smiled. "But you've already got it."

 "Damn it, boy. I'm serious." The thinning crowd seemed to bother the cop and grabbed Mike and Lance by the arms, dragged them deeper into the shadow. "I'm a cop, boy. I can't go around plotting with you like I don't know who you are. You can't rely that heavily on my guilt."

 "Guilt?"

 "You know what I mean," the cop said, refusing to meet Mike's stare

 "I know you shouted in the court room when the judge took my kid away."

 "It was an inappropriate judgement," Demetre mumbled, looking less and less comfortable. "In any other state but Arizona, it would have come out differently. I forgot myself when I hauled you in. It was a mistake. But you can't expect me to pay for it forever."

 "Not forever," Mike said. "Just one more time."

 "So you do want something from me. What?"

 "Information."

 "About what?"

 "About Buckingham."

 Demetre's face didn't change, but the eyes did, the pupils dilating as they focused finally on Mike's face. "And what exactly did you want to know?"

 "Background. Who he is. Where he comes from. Where I can find him now."

 "You want a lot for your money."

 "Please, Demetre," Mike said. "Let's not make a game of this."

 "No games, Mike," Demetre said, still staring. "But this is the wrong time and place. Tomorrow would be better."

 "Where and when?"

 Demetre stared away into the dark as if working out the details of his schedule. "Can't say right now. I'll leave word at that hippie newspaper for you."

 "All right," Mike said.

 Demetre glanced once more at Mike, then at Lance. A deep crease appeared across his brow as his eyes photographed each detail, they seemed to promise little good and Lance was glad when the man moved on.

 

  Hip Cities main menu

 

email to Al Sullivan