The Tipping Point of Oliver Bass Read online

  An hour later I was sitting in the corner of the shower wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer shorts with my knees hiked up under my chin. It’s a place and a position that makes me feel secure and safe. I’m sure it’s a womb/ uterus thing. I was on the phone with Sydney, my new friend from school, explaining how they would be sending me off to Venice for the summer.

  “No, Sydney, not the one in Italy. The one near Marina Del Rey, where all the pseudo intellects pontificate while roller blading.” Sydney started to ramble, talking a mile a minute, expressing her deep love and affection for me. I slowed her down and set her straight, quickly pointing out how she just loved my image, my insight, my intellectual capacity, nothing else. Agreeing I was probably right, she thanked me and hung up.

  My father appeared in the doorway, in a fidgety state. Very uneasy. Beads of sweat on his upper lip. This was not a good sign.

  “I have a proposition,” he said.

  “The kind that’s in my favor, or the kind where I’m bribed to do something against my will?”

  He took a deep breath and entered the bathroom, sitting on the toilet seat as if he was about to take a dump. Another breath. Dabbed his lip with a piece of toilet paper. Here was the deal he offered. If I agreed to stay with this Vance Briggs over the summer, in the fall I could go to whatever school I chose, in whatever country I wanted. I liked the offer. There was freedom ahead of me.

  Independence. Self-rule. My kind of lifestyle. I flat-out agreed to it.

  “So, when do I leave for this summer on the Venice Canals?”

  “Next week. Just keep this between you and me. Lorraine doesn’t need to be in the mix on this one.”

  It was obvious he was afraid of her. She fought him on everything and he usually lost the battle. He stood up and walked out of the bathroom. Not once did he ever question why I was huddled in the shower in my under-wear. I felt a world away from his influence. Fatherhood was not his strongest suit. He wasn’t really a giver. Ever since my mother died he had issues with affection and opening up. I suppose I did, too. I am not a touchy-feely, demonstrative, warm and fuzzy type.

  It was the night before moving day.

  I was in my bedroom packing, sifting through a dresser drawer like some thief in search of hidden treasure. Under-neath an assortment of brand-new socks, which I rarely wore, was a wad of cash. At least five hundred dollars in tens and twenties. An emergency fund, in case I had the urge to buy something in the middle of the night or run away at a moment’s notice.

  I stuffed the wad into my pocket, where it created a bulge that looked like I had some sort of ugly malignancy growing out of my thigh. It was cumbersome and obvious. I was just inviting trouble. Encouraging someone to rob me at gunpoint in a Venice back alley. I instead stuffed the cash in a brand-new sock. Safer. Maybe. Probably not. I tossed the sock into the leather messenger bag that sat on my bed.

  What else should I take? I mean, besides underwear. I did a three-sixty around the room and stopped at my bulletin board. There, hidden behind a bunch of obscure, unimportant notes and memorabilia was a photo of me and my mother. The photo drew me closer. I slowly crossed toward it. I was cautious for some reason. I gently took it off the board like it was a Van Gogh painting. I wasn’t more than two or four when this was taken. We were on some beach, sheltered under a faded striped umbrella. I played with a pail and shovel, digging for treasure. My mother, uninterested, read a magazine. I’m sure it was some issue of Cosmopolitan or Rolling Stone. She had a wide, ever-changing range of interests. To be honest, motherhood didn’t suit her. You can sense things even at such a young age.

  I tossed the photo into the bag. Don’t ask me why I wanted to bring it. Something inside compelled me — keeping some attachment to home, maybe. A mother’s security while headed into unfamiliar territory.

  I was making too much out of this. This sudden lack of confidence irked me. I took a deep breath and packed the rest of the things I thought I’d need for what I characterized as summer camp on the canals with a mental case.

  Chapter 2

  The Historic Canals

  LAX was crowded and hectic, passengers disembarking from a host of airlines. Being met by friends and relatives and loved ones. Hugging, kissing, crying, screaming. Me, I was met by no one. No hugging, no kissing. Did it bother me? Not in the least. I was used to being unassisted — flying solo, as it were. I preferred being a loner.

  It was 85 degrees out and I was wearing a scarf. People looked at me like I was either crazy or hiding the rope burn around my neck from attempting to hang myself. I never tried to hang myself. This was just my interpretation of how people evaluate me at first glance.

  The cab driver, I’m pretty sure, was Persian. But that didn’t stop him from trying to act the part of a seasoned veteran. “Where to, Mac?” he said, under a thick accent.

  I leaned forward in the backseat and spoke slowly and deliberately, hoping he’d understand me the first time. “Venice. The canals. Somewhere off Abbot Kinney. Take your time. I’m in no hurry to face what I’m sure will be a negative experience that will scar me forever.”

  This sentiment caused nothing but a blank stare and a smirk. As he accelerated and pulled away from the curb I took a deep breath. With it came a sigh. With that came, What in the fuck have I gotten myself into?

  He seemed to have found his way, which was a good start. As I made my way along the sidewalk that paralleled the canals, it started to drizzle. 85 degrees. Dark. Overcast. Damp. My first impression of Venice. While dragging my suitcase on wheels along with the messenger bag slung over my shoulder, I looked like a damn tourist in need of a hotel bellboy.

  The residential district surrounding the canals was listed on the National Register of Historic places. It’s a mix of renovated old houses sitting alongside more eclectic modern types. The idea was to recreate the feel of Venice, Italy. In my opinion, they missed the mark. There was not a fucking gondola or an Italian in sight--only weathered rowboats tied up to private docks. But I have to admit there was something about the ambience of this area that kind of stimulated me.

  Coming toward me was what appeared to be an entire kennel leashed to a girl who was being pulled with uncontrollable force. Six dogs took up the entire sidewalk. Except for jumping into the canal, I had no safe place to detour. I stopped dead in my tracks and braced myself, anticipating being trampled by the herd of mutts.

  Just as collision was imminent, the girl got control and brought the dogs to a stop. She was attractive. College aged. Great body. I don’t think she was wearing underwear. Actually, I had no idea. This was just me heightening the moment. It was difficult to talk over the barking.

  “I’d say you got your hands full, miss.” Miss? Why in hell did I call her that?

  “An understatement. This group thinks they own the sidewalk.”

  I nodded then proceeded to tell her how I was not a big dog fan because they expected constant attention. “For me, petting is frivolous,” I said.

  There was a long, strange pause while she gave me the once over and digested my comment. “You have to be Oliver Bass.” That, of course, took me by surprise. Why do I have to be Oliver Bass, and how did she know that? “And you know this because ... ?”

  “I was forewarned,” she said. “Alerted. By Briggs. With a detailed description down to the scarf and sunglasses. I walk his dog.” She pointed to a white ball of fluff with dirty paws, like he had stepped in one of the other dog’s poop.

  “He needs constant attention,” she said.

  “We talking Briggs or the dog?” I asked.

  There was an air of resentment in her voice and her body language was not friendly. Like she had just met up with some sort of asswipe.

  “The dog. He’s become antisocial. Introverted, with serious abandonment issues.”

  We finally got past all the bullshit repartee and got personal. I learned she was a second-year clinical veterinary student at Cornell. I explained how I got shown the door at Berkley Prep. I could tell she wasn’t impressed; trying to maneuver the dogs around me to leave gave it away. She stopped again to hear about how coming here was my father’s idea because he felt guilty ever since my mother leaped off the Golden Gate Bridge. “Needless to say, I missed Mommy and Me class that day.” She gave me a wary look. How could I joke about such a tragedy?

  “You have a unique way of making a person feel, well, uncomfortable,” she said. That ended this historic meet and greet. She muttered something to the dogs like “Let’s get the fuck away from this mongrel” and bolted up the sidewalk with her pack in tow.

  I yelled after her, “You have a name?”

  Without turning around she answered, “Yes, I do.” And just kept on going. Didn’t matter; I was pretty sure we’d meet up again.

  By now the drizzle had stopped. It made no difference in my previous mood. Just left a damp odor in the air. I rechecked my iPhone for the address and continued my trek to a small weathered house about 200 feet on the left. A patinaed wind chime hanging on the porch welcomed my arrival.

  At first glance the place was a dump. It needed paint and some serious landscaping, and even then it’d still be a dump. A small wrought-iron gate was barely hanging on its rusty hinges. The front lawn had bald patches caused by dog pee. In a few words, this place was not a castle overlooking a scenic stretch of water. I blinked, refocusing them in hopes I was in the wrong place. I wasn’t.

  You would’ve thought in that moment that I’d appreciate my lavish upbringing in an upscale San Francisco neighborhood. I sort of feel for people who have less. But who’s to say this guy got exactly what he wanted from life?

  I entered, full of trepidation. The wrought-iron gate seemed to groan as I opened it, so my arrival was no surprise. I took one st
ep inside when a voice seemed to drift out from behind a frayed nylon chaise lounge.

  “Be sure and shut the gate so the dog doesn’t escape.”

  I talked back to the chaise lounge under the chimes. “The dog is on a walk. He’s already absconded.”

  “A matter of principle — shut it,” he said.

  I shut it, with force, trying to make a profound statement that I didn’t agree with his stupid logic.

  “You can always turn around and head back to where ever your negativity came from.”

  I knew a friendly, warm welcome when I heard one. Right out of the chute, I could tell Vance Briggs was a man with extreme psychological issues. He rose out of the chaise lounge slowly and deliberately. He was a handsome man in his mid-forties, with a perpetual five o’clock growth masking his face, tousled hair that could use some conditioner and breath that you can bet reeked of a combo of Bud Light and marijuana. (This was only a personal judgment, but I’m sure I was spot on.) It was obvious he and I didn’t immediately hit it off; hostile with a pinch of antagonistic was more like it.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  He led me into the house. Very lived in. Could’ve used a dust cloth — soaked in gasoline, and then with a match put to it. I couldn’t help but notice leftover take-out cartons and empty pizza boxes on the coffee table. This was my first hint of what was going to be served for supper. He lit a cigarette. It bothered me and I had to mention my disdain.

  “Is the cigarette really necessary?”

  “Only when I feel like a cigarette,” he said.

  Great, I thought. Yet another home where I will die of second-hand smoke. He did however, accommodate me and put the cigarette out in a slice of moldy pepperoni pizza. At least I think it was pizza. Could’ve been a fungal centerpiece.

  “This way,” he ordered. I followed him down a long, narrow hallway that was carpeted, I’m guessing in the mid-‘50s, an ugly, stained brown, which you can be sure was originally beige. We arrived at a door. Taped to it was a crude handwritten sign that looked as if it had been scribbled by either a fifth grader or a doctor. Pretty sure it read, Fuck Off. Leave me out of your life. Not exactly a lyric poem.

  Before Vance opened up, he made this declaration: “My son, Alex, was a rebel. He had a problem with people in general. This was his refuge, his retreat away from the establishment. It’s temporarily yours.”

  I needed to make my own official announcement, explaining that coming here wasn’t my idea, that I was forced by a reprehensible stepmother, who seemed to have some kind of vendetta against me. He just stared right through me for a split second then told me to wipe my feet before entering. I thought to myself, “Why? Does the dog wipe its paws before walking through shit and mud and piss?” Another logic area I decided to gloss over.

  Vance entered first. The room was dark and dank. Smelled of death. Not that I’m familiar with the smell of death. But if death had a distinct odor, this would be it.

  He crossed to the window and lifted the white shade that had yellowed from the sun. The room was surprisingly tidy. The walls were covered in posters: The Grateful Dead at the Fillmore. Dylan. The Doors. John Coltrane. This kid had a wide range of musical interests. I showed no expression whatsoever. It was a conscience reaction. The place was kind of unfriendly.

  Vance tried to break the uneasiness of it all. “Music played an important part in his life.”

  “Not a difficult concept to understand,” I said. I could tell that my sarcasm pissed him off. That was when he set down ground rules. Wanted us to have an honest dialogue, not worry about feelings.

  “Feelings have never gotten in my way,” I said.

  Vance nodded knowingly. He understood my meaning. “I’ll be on the porch smoking a joint. It’s how I get through the day. Welcome to my world.”

  He left me alone in this morose sanctuary to his dead son. I sat on the edge of the bed and took the lay of the land. The shelves were jammed with various books from art to philosophy, poetry to J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye and Kerouac’s On the Road. But my main focus zoomed in on the neatly stacked 45 RPM records from a bygone era. The ‘50s and ‘60s— this kid obviously had a serious obsession for rhythm and blues and the soul searching that came with it. I could tell he was a risk taker and I liked that of him. Alive he must’ve been a real work of art. I say that in a positive way.

  I did the unthinkable and went through his drawers. Maybe out of boredom. Maybe to get some insight. They were well organized. Socks matched up, T-shirts neatly folded. One drawer was dedicated to backstage concert passes. One stood out from the rest — Paul McCartney at the Staples Center in 2006. No doubt it was his father’s press influence that facilitated this. I wanted to take it, but that’s not my style, stealing from a dead kid.

  I thought I was done prying when something possessed me to pull out another drawer. I tugged at it. Seemed to be stuck, so I yanked harder. This did the trick. The drawer easily opened and what must have been a hundred loose photographs cascaded onto the floor. As I scooped them up, I noticed they were all pictures of human anatomy. A hand, arms, legs, toes. Some were taken from mannequins, others were close-up shots of living people; he even had a few prosthetics and horses’ hoofs and animal paws.

  Okay. No doubt: This Alex was one fucked up kid. I pose the question — who in their right mind has such a collection? Only a psychologically mixed up teenager. You can bet drugs played an important part of this twisted hobby.

  As I started to replace the photos I noticed one particular black and white that didn’t belong, of two whole people. I studied it closely. It was a picture of a young boy about four or five and a woman, who I assumed was his mother, sitting on the beach playing in the sand under an umbrella with a pail and shovel. Of course, this piqued my curiosity. This mimicked my picture.

  I quickly shoved the picture back with the rest and shut the drawer. I think it upset me. My breathing was a little rapid so I stood there for a moment trying to comprehend what I just discovered. It was without a doubt Alex and Vance’s wife Kate. Coincidence or was I meant to find it among the stockpile of body parts? I vowed not to open another drawer for fear what I might discover. Maybe someone’s head.

  Dusk. A couple of hours later and I was sitting on the porch with Vance eating Chinese takeout. I have to be honest, Chinese was not one of my favorite foods. Vance was a master at handling chopsticks. I went traditional — a fork, my fingers when the food required and a polite, “No thanks, I’m not about to stick whatever that is in my mouth.”

  “You’re not a big fan of Moo Shu pork, I take it?” he said.

  “Has anyone ever died from tainted Chinese pork?”

  “Can’t swear by it, but I’m sure they have,” he said.

  It was then, at that very moment, it occurred to me — I might be a card-carrying hypochondriac. The conversation turned to what my summer job would consist of. Filing, pulling weeds or just someone for him to eat Chinese food with? He took a drink of beer. It was like he needed to wash down the MSG in order to speak. He took a breath, then looked me straight in the eye. Then took another breath. I thought, this must’ve been some sort of unconventional job he wanted me to do. Like, take more pictures of body parts.

  “You’re here to help me solve a possible murder investigation I’m covering,” he said.

  Okay, it took a long time for this to digest. What the fuck was he talking about? Was he serious? Was he aware I wasn’t some character out of a Dashiell Hammett novel? Was he stoned? (Well, that was a given.) I came back with a highly intellectual, thought-provoking, “What?”

  “Aren’t you the least bit interested to know whose murder?” he asked.

  “Not really,” I said.

  “My wife’s murder.”

  There was a natural pause until I posed my next obvious question.

  “Wait, I thought she took her own life? Leaped to her death off a ledge at some institution for the mentally blemished?”

  “I’m thinking she was helped. Nudged. Think about it, Oliver Bass. No rush for an answer. I need to take a pill for my hypertension.” With that, he got up and went back inside.