The Tipping Point of Oliver Bass Page 3

  “You have evidence of this?” I called after him. “The murder, not the hypertension.”

  He said nothing, leaving me alone with the Chinese food, the misty night air and the opinion that this guy was completely at sea.

  Except for the moonlight coming through the window shade, the room was dark. I laid in bed staring up at the ceiling. The cracks were like arteries leading across the room. I closed my eyes, trying to force myself asleep. Twenty-two minutes passed, and sadly, I was still wide awake. I was hoping to drift off into a dream-like state that would take me to a better place than where I was.

  Suddenly, I heard what sounded like a boy’s desperate cry for help. I didn’t react at first. But when it came a second time, I bolted up and looked around the room, expecting to see someone standing at the foot of the bed. Nothing. No one. Just me and the record collection.

  The inevitable came to mind: This was the ghost of Vance’s kid, Alex. Idiotic assertion. I’m a bright / logical person with a 4.8 gpa. I know better than to believe in ghosts or apparitions.

  Nevertheless, I finally opened a stuck window and checked outside just to make sure there was no one trying to pull something over on me. I heard a dog bark in the distance, probably one of those dogs I saw earlier who needs to crap on someone’s lawn. I felt like yelling, “Shut the fuck up, people are trying to sleep!” But my instincts to keep my mouth shut were the best way to deal with it. I think I got an hour’s sleep that first night.

  The Venice Strand was four blocks away. Where the debris meets the sea ... freaks, and Muscle Beach. Welcome to Venice Beach, California. There’s no other city in America quite as colorful, crazy or content.

  At six thirty in the morning it was already jammed with avid fucking joggers, roller bladers and cyclists saddled on their beach cruisers. You could find Vance and me walking among the throng, trying not to spill our lattes or being run down by all those overactive people with an overwhelming desire to make their lives better through diet and nutrition. (What’s that all about?)

  Most of those same people were staring at me and shaking their heads in total disbelief. I’m guessing it was because I was the only one out there wearing long pants, a white dress shirt and a Burberry scarf. It was obvious their stares were attempting to rattle me, make me feel out of place with a look of patronizing superiority. I wasn’t bothered, but actually felt a sense of individualism — freedom from the norm. Fuck them and their bronze bodies and nutritional blended green shakes. I felt like flipping them the finger, but I’m above that kind of behavior.

  Another 500 feet, and still not a word from either Vance or me. There was this underlying conflict between us that seemed to grow overnight. I’m sure it had to do with my questioning his absurd mission of trying to track down his wife’s killer.

  He lit a cigarette; American Spirit I think. I was sensing he was a serious chain smoker. Throat cancer was in his future. Just an observation. I finally broke the deafening silence.

  “So what is it you do when you’re not being a reporter, getting high and chasing after an elusive killer?”

  He took a healthy drag before answering. Almost like a confidence builder. “I live with an enormous amount of guilt, is what I do,” he said.

  “Really? And what do you have to be guilty of? Except maybe a career that searches out and exposes political corruption in America,” I asked.

  He told me that being the last one standing in his family kind of answers the question. He stomped out the fresh cigarette with force.

  “According to Lorraine, you’re the pill that can remedy that,” he said.

  This made absolutely no sense. Lorraine is a licensed therapist who tried to make a difference and failed, yet she put this guy’s mental status in my hands. And the real tragedy is, he was willing to go for it.

  We reached a concrete bench that paralleled the sand. He sat and started to rub his calf. I looked at him quizzically. I said nothing.

  He volunteered an explanation, something to do with a mild form of arthritis. “Walking doesn’t help the cause,” he added.

  “Then why walk?” I asked.

  “I refuse to let anything hamper my lifestyle.” He rubbed the calf a bit more, stood and continued to walk — now however, with a slight limp. This made our trek a long and arduous journey. The sun was up, and it didn’t take long for the temperature to rise. I was hot but refused to remove my scarf or roll up my sleeves. I have a definite image and intended to keep it. I put on my sunglasses — again, more of an image thing than something justified by reason. Vance gave me one of those looks that you get when someone is about to reveal their inner soul, the same reticent look you have when you’re about to give penance. Which, by the way, I’ve never experienced but was told about by a fanatical Catholic girl at my school that I finger fucked once.

  Anyway, Vance’s stare lasted a few more moments before he said, “I’m pretty sure Lorraine sees your behavior, your personality, your mannerisms, your critical outlook on life as the same as Alex’s and is hoping that will generate some sort of meaningful breakthrough for me.”

  My God, what a waste of time and fucking energy, I thought. Actually, I just didn’t think it, I said it aloud. Vance wasn’t surprised by my reaction. That’s the exact attitude his son would’ve taken, he said. I fired back in my best combative nature.

  “So then did you just have a meaningful breakthrough?”

  He totally dodged the question, raising a question of his own.

  “You being here offends you, doesn’t it?”

  Damn straight it offended me. It offended my sense of logic. I couldn’t imagine how a man who was dealing with such serious psychological problems could help me earn my father’s respect. Turning my feelings around so that I could win the Nobel Prize for humanitarianism was not in the cards. I am who I am. A rogue in khaki trousers. You notice I called pants, trousers. Pants are for the mundane.

  “You have friends Oliver?”

  Jesus, like, out of the blue he asked me a question like that. Did he think I don’t have friends? He must have, or he wouldn’t have asked. He must think people didn’t gravitate toward me. That I push people away. That I’m a loner. Well, he might be right.

  I didn’t skirt the issue. But for some reason I squinted before answering. Who knows why? Maybe the sun got in my eyes, or I was anticipating being smacked.

  “I’m more of a keep-your-distance-I-don’t-need-you-in-my-life type of guy,” I said. “Like the crude sign on Alex’s door.”

  “How do people like us expect to survive and make a difference if we alienate ourselves from society?” he asked.

  “Obliterate the masses,” I said. He gave me a polite chuckle, which I didn’t need. I could handle criticism.

  Vance realized he was going to have his hands full trying to get close to me and gain my confidence. Actually, I wasn’t sure if he really cared or not. I was still trying to figure him out. The same way you try and figure out the plot of a bad play.

  “How about we grab something to eat?” he said. “In the mood for pizza?”

  No, I wasn’t in the mood for pizza. It was 7 o’clock in the morning. Who eats pizza for breakfast? (Except maybe for obese people with a serious carbohydrate problem.)

  “Sure. Pizza. Great,” I said, just to appease him.

  Sixteen minutes later, I stood with my arms folded in front of the frozen food section of Vons Market, trying to keep warm. Fortunately, I had my scarf, and I blew inside my cupped hands like I was atop the fucking Alps. I watched with amused puzzlement as Vance perused the banks of fogged-up glass cases in search of a large Wolfgang Puck barbecued chicken frozen pizza. Jesus Christ, man, is there no pizza parlor open at seven in the morning? I thought. And it was as if Vance had read my mind. As if he were some sort of psychic.

  “I’d prefer fresh. But this is all we got at seven in the morning.”

  Right before I was about to comment on how I don’t eat frozen foods because of the chemical content, a grubby hand with its fingernails embedded with grime and dirt and God knows what other kind of disease, tapped me on the shoulder. It startled me and I spun around like a top, balking at the sight of a homeless man draped in a garment that you know hadn’t seen a washing machine, ever. He couldn’t have been more than forty. Looked sixty. He was clearly in his own hapless world. He stared at me totally bewildered, as if I were an apparition.

  “Hey, brother, I thought you were dead,” he said.

  Okay, it wasn’t hard to determine this person was not the public relations rep for the Vons supermarket chain. He must’ve had me mixed up with someone else. I hope. I backed off, fearing he might do something crazy. Like hurl the can of baked beans he was gripping like a grenade.

  “You got the wrong guy, sir. I’m still very much alive.” He touches my cheek with one grubby fingernail the length of a javelin. I’m guessing to see if my flesh is spongy and warm and not cadaver cold.

  “Yes you are very much alive, Alex,” he said.

  Vance finally decided to step in and set this man straight. “Dave this isn’t Alex. His name is Oliver Bass.”

  So as not to disrupt this man, he gently explained that I was a guest of his for the summer. Dave expressed a sigh of relief. For a second, he thought he was experiencing some sort of divine intervention, he said. I found out that Dave had been living on the streets for 16 years and had survived by begging for loose change, food donations and an occasional pair of clean underwear. Dave nodded proudly, then wiped his nose with one of his sweat-stained sleeves.

  To be honest, I had an instant problem with Dave. He was what living in free America is all about— abandoning all pretenses of trying to succeed and surviving on handouts from those who do. I made the mistake of saying that aloud. This seemed to really irk Dave, who took umbrage, then threw the can of baked beans at my head, nearly hitting its mark. I ducked and it shattered the glass door of the frozen food section. Dave lunged at me with a knife — I think he got on aisle nine. Vance, thank God, stepped in and restrained him.

  This guy was the perfect candidate for a Thorazine drip. My adrenaline had elevated to an incredible level. It was like I was suddenly in a Brian De Palma movie. Like The Black Dahlia. I have no idea what made me think of that. Nerves and fear, I guess.

  Vance tried to comfort me. “This is a side of Dave I’ve never seen.” That, of course, didn’t make me feel relieved. Then Dave, like nothing unusual had just taken place, checked his watch. I noticed right away that it was a pricey Tag Heuer. This sent a red flag in my direction. How does a man dressed like dirt afford a two thousand-dollar watch? I can’t help notice how he looked at it like it was his best friend. With an incredible passion. I believe he was drooling. Fucking weird.

  Dave muttered, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an appointment to piss at the free clinic.” What did that mean? He had the clap? A bladder infection? He took Vance by surprise and hugged him as if he were going off to war and never coming back. When they broke, Vance slipped him a twenty.

  “A little something to keep you afloat for a few days,” he said.

  “Thanks, man,” Dave responded. “You’re my hero. My savior. My Santa Claus in May.”

  Then, while gripping the twenty, he slid closer to me, leaned in and spoke in a hushed tone as if he were giving away trade government secrets.

  “I was Phi Beta Kappa. So don’t think for a moment you’re immune to this life, slick,” he said.

  He turned and walked away like he had just told the Queen Mother to go fuck herself. I watched as he made his way up the produce aisle. He snatched a Pippin apple for the road. No one batted an eye. They just nodded, waved and said hello like he were a rock star. If I did that, they’d arrest me for shoplifting and make me pay a hefty fine.

  Vance explained, “He’s sort of a legend around the canals.” Not to appear snobbish and unsympathetic toward the plight of the homeless, but all I wanted was a shower. I never got the pizza because Vance gave his last twenty dollars to Dave and his credit card was maxed out, and I wasn’t about to pay for a frozen breakfast.

  It was 3:30 A.M. I was fast asleep. I left the window open to get fresh salt air in my lungs. The sun had a few hours before rising. I was awakened by the same outlandish nightmare, where my body washes out to sea, and I go under just as I witness my mother trying to free herself from a fisherman’s hook. My thrashing and screaming woke Vance and he came rushing in, wearing Hanes boxer briefs and a torn Black Sabbath T-shirt. Even at three in morning, I was aware of ugly apparel.

  “You okay?” he asked. “I thought I heard you call out for your mother.”

  “Bad dream about getting food poisoning from Chinese food,” I said. He asked if I always slept on the floor or if I just fell out of bed. I side stepped the whole bed issue and went straight to how death and being in a room that exudes loss of life makes me really tense and uneasy. He assured me that his son, Alex, died in a car crash on his way home from a friend’s party where the buffet consisted of OxyContin, cocaine, heroin and a wide range of amphetamines. I actually felt a sense of relief.

  “If you haven’t guessed by now, I’m obsessed with death. Some people bowl,” I said.

  “Is there anything you’re not wary of?” he asked. “Consider me a professional skeptic,” I said. I went into the bathroom to pee. Vance kept talking from the bedroom.

  “You know, Lorraine said the whole idea of you and me is to hang out and get acquainted. Exchange points of view, ideas and fucking recipes if it opens up some sort of avenue to our subconscious and reveal why we are the way we are.”

  I ended his sermon with a flush and re-entered the room to find him holding my mom’s photo.

  “Put it down,” I said with a great deal of hostility and authority. He did, slowly and methodically. As if I were a cop asking him to step away from a victim. “I don’t like people touching my personal things,” I added.

  “I’m guessing this is a trust thing,” he said.

  He was right, but why should I admit to that?

  Then out of nowhere: “Did you morn your mother’s death?”

  I took a minute before answering. I could’ve used five minutes but I wanted to get this conversation over with. “If you mean did I throw myself on her coffin and weep, no. I wasn’t sensitive to grief yet. Besides, they never found her body after she leaped off the Golden Gate,” I added.

  “That’s a cop-out,” he said.

  “Every person handles death in their own way,” I said.

  Vance thought it was unnatural not to show emotion. My feeling was that if you spit on the sidewalk after someone dies it’s showing emotion. He, of course, thought I was being illogical.

  “Thank God for illegal Mexican nannies,” I said. “They were the glue that kept me together. I would’ve cried for one of them if they had committed suicide.”

  “You ever contemplate suicide?” he asked nonchalantly, even though it was a reasonable enough question. It didn’t take me but a second to answer.

  “Never saw the value in it. You?” Unlike me, he took a few beats before coming to a conclusion.

  “Mostly in the evenings when the house is empty and quiet and life outside is still and a bottle of sleeping pills are close at hand.”

  Okay, I’d had enough of this theme. My teeth were starting to clench. So far we’d managed to cover homicide and suicide and illegal nannies. Which I’m sure was all part of his plan to make me feel at home. I never got back to sleep.

  The very next day we took a short trip to a warehouse on Ocean Boulevard that was converted into office space. A brick and steel structure that once housed a shipping company but now was home to artists, writers, photographers and any other person who considered themselves a creative type. There was even a courtyard, overgrown with bougainvillea and potted plants surrounding a Spanish tile fountain that trickled and looked like it came straight from a hacienda. The whole place was airy and comfortable and kind of reeked of creative juices.

  “My office is in the corner,” he said. He moved on, I stayed put, still a little mesmerized by the Mexican flavor of the courtyard. I think it brought back fetal memories of my mother’s kitchen floor.

  “You coming or do you want to drop a penny into the fountain and make a wish?” he said. Truth, five dollars probably wouldn’t help make my wish come true. I snapped out of my reverie and joined him at a weather-beaten door with wrought-iron hinges.

  Just as he was about to open the door, this girl, maybe a woman — I’m not that good at guessing people’s age — approached. She was attractive and had the distinct aroma of oil paint. She gave Vance a serious hug. One of those embraces where she flattened her breasts against his chest. First thing that came to mind was he had been banging this babe ever since his wife died. Her jeans were covered with paint splatter. I’m guessing from burnt umber to cadmium red. She was definitely one of those artist types who rented one of the studios. Her eyes were nearly all pupil and she wavered trying to stay upright. She was clearly on something and it was more than the caffeine from her coffee.

  “I missed you, Briggs. You haven’t been around much.” She broke her hug and her breasts went back to their natural form. She waited for his answer. Vance shifted uncomfortably, searching for a response that wouldn’t require a long explanation as to why he’d been absent. He switched gears.

  “This is Oliver Bass, a friend from San Francisco. Oliver, meet Heather Wilcox. She is one helleva painter.” There was no hugging between her and me. We just nodded. She then kissed Vance on the cheek. “I expect a dinner out of you, Briggs.” She turned and walked off. Vance clearly checked out her ass as she went. I kept any sort of obvious sexualized comment to myself. She did have a terrific ass though. Tight.

  We made it inside. The office smelled of stale cigars and whiskey. It was dark and musty. Vance flicked on a desk lamp, just enough light to notice the place was a complete sty. Old newspapers piled high in a corner, overflowing bookshelves, backed-up mail pyramids in the doorway. This is where he spent endless hours exposing the monopoly of oil companies, political corrupters, corporate wrongdoers. Where he offered gin and cigars to whistle-blowers. His sanctuary of destruction.