A wave of dizziness washed over him and he braced himself to barf. Chess began to cry, the tears somehow stanching nausea. He full-on sobbed. Laxmi held him and they rocked together, then both began to laugh. That was cathartic and good, and what was special about their relationship. That funny-sad thing they could tap into on a dime. They lit up a bong.
George Sanders was the voice of the man-eating Bengal that kicked the shit out of Baloo when he tried to protect Mowgli, and suddenly the old bear lay on the ground without moving. Chess had forgotten this part: he couldn’t remember if Raymond died or not, and in his stonedness, got briefly freaked. Then, ever so slowly, the bear opened an eye — of course. Of course he was OK. Those were the days before wholesale bloodbaths and glimpses of hell had worked their way into animated kid stuff. But actually, now that he thought of it, Bambi hadn’t had such a far-out time.
“You know what you should do,” said Laxmi, “if it doesn’t work out with that lawyer of yours? You should get an Indian guy. My dad could probably help.”
“For an attorney?” he said, confused. “But he’d be…in India. Right?”
“You may not know it, Chess,” she said, taking a deep toke, holding it, then coughing a mite. “Every—or at least lots of American law firms outsource to Indian firms. Rebar probably has a whole—”
“Remar.”
“Remar probably has a whole fleet working for him already. They call them ‘chutney sweatshops.’ My father said that even Du Pont farms it out. It’s like a 10th of what they’d pay in the States. Why wouldn’t they?”
The phone rang — it was Maurie. Chess gave her a furtive Freemason heads-up.
Maurie mentioned the Morongo casino gig again and how Chess should lighten up so they could go make some bread. What the fuck. Yeah, I’ll go. He probably wouldn’t have assented if Laxmi wasn’t there but her secret presence lent a nice Fuck You to the conversation. Maurie was surprised, and glad to hear it. Laxmi got up to use the head, walking on giggle-suppressed exaggerated tippy toes to drive home the fact of her satisfying private life with Chester. That titillated him, there was something payback pervy about the 3some going on a trip without that arrogant piece of shit knowing what was happening behind the scenes. Not that there was much happening, not yet. Just a little huggin and kissin and smokin.
Chester hoped to change all that. He went online to order Viagra. (He’d thrown the original free samples away out of pride, and didn’t want to call the doc back for a “refill.” Anyhow, the dick-stiffeners were expensive.) It was easy. They even had a “special”—like a clearance. He got Oxycontin, Xanax, and Ambien CR at a discount. Sweet.
LII.Marjorie
SHE bought her daily ticket.
A funny feeling, because the notes and flowers that decorated the liquor store in memoriam were down now, and you had to look hard to see the wires, mostly gone themselves, that once held bouquets in place.
The devout son was behind the counter and the mother nowhere to be seen. The young man smiled and went about his business. It was strange to Marjorie, not that it should have or could have been any other way, but she had the unsettling feeling that Riki had somehow died in a different way — the violence of it had conveniently receded, and now it seemed as if his death had been natural, or he’d gotten the flu and would soon be back, or he’d simply returned to India for an indeterminate amount of time. Marjorie knew it would be poor form to share her little wish-fulfillment fantasy-observations. What right had she to smalltalk about such a thing? Besides, it wasn’t part of their culture to endlessly hash over death; death was so much a part of their world that no one had the need to “kibitz” about it (as Hamilton would say). The Indian people embraced the cycle of life — karma, death, and rebirth — and didn’t need to be inoculated or familiarized or talked down to, or have their noses rubbed in the obvious by meddling, mawkish Westerners. That would be ignorant and presumptuous. But part of her still stubbornly wanted to reach out, and she remembered hearing something on a talkshow, maybe Dr Phil, where an expert said that in times like this, the worst thing a person could say was “nothing.” That had really stuck. Well, she would just have to get over it. She had done her part and given the widow an honorarium and anything else at this point would be self-indulgent. Marj would continue to patronize the shop, as usual, thus actively demonstrating her support. The side benefit being that the old woman could help restore a sense of normalcy, not that it was even possible. And she mustn’t forget: they would soon reap the benefits of her Blind Sister winnings. She needed to ask Lucas when they would be told, and if an exception could be made to inform them earlier. She wondered what % they had coming.
Ever since she gave them the money, the grieving family treated her with what sometimes felt like an awkward obsequiousness, which was perhaps cultural as well. The son slipped small gifts into her hand that his mother had delicately wrapped, packages of sweets or modest scarves of silken fabric. When Marjorie came in, the young man warmly greeted her and never let her leave unescorted, not only for safety reasons but it seemed from deep respect and gratitude. (Another facet of Indian society was to respect the elderly, which was wonderful, because lately, with all the excitement, Marj Herlihy sometimes felt her age.) She had the means to lighten their heavy load, which she did, and Bonita helped her to feel humbly ennobled. My God, look what Bill Gates does with his billions! Say what you like, but he gives away more money than any other person on planet Earth. By helping Riki’s family, she was nurturing her connection to Mother — Mother India, whose arms in which she would soon be embraced.
SHE had given a check to Lucas for the Expedited Award Program and when Marj checked her balance at Wells it reflected the 565,000-dollar debit. She was surprised the State of New York had cashed the monies so quickly but Lucas said he was the court-appointed caretaker and after he explained, it made sense that the faster the check was “converted,” the faster the “upstream” of “shadow monies” would “flow” through Marjorie’s account. It was nervous-making but exciting as well.
There was a message from Bonita on the answering machine asking if she wanted to “do a little New York shopping,” and to “please place a call to the darling bungalow—22B — where Ms Billingsley is currently residing, with her retinue of shirtless manservants, at the very pink and very posh Pink Palace.” She went on to say — it was a long message — that “a little birdie” told her Marj had enrolled in the EAP and after shouting “Congratulations, Moneybags!” reminded her of the dinner at Spago on Saturday night. “Your 1st check should be in by then and honey, let’s splurge! We have got to get our rich asses over to Hermès!”