All this subtle business taking place, of course, under a staggering opium high; but they’re all used to that kind of handicap, it can be factored in easily. Eventually Sandy gets a secure feeling that he is talking to a good guy, who is acting in good faith. Manfred, he can tell, is coming to a similar conclusion, and as they are both pleased the meeting becomes even friendlier—a real friendliness, as opposed to the automatic social imitation of it that they began the meeting with.
Still, the basic nature of the deal is not something Sandy likes, and he stops short of agreeing to do it. “I don’t know, Manfred,” he says eventually. “I don’t usually go in for this kind of thing, as Bob probably told you. For me, in my situation you know, the risks are too high to justify it.”
Manfred just grins. “It’s always the high-risk projects that bring in the highest profits, man. Think about it.”
Then Manfred gets up to go to the bathroom.
“So what does Raymond think of this?” Sandy asks Bob. “How come he isn’t doing the pickup himself?” For Raymond has done a whole lot of major drug smuggling from offshore in his time, and claims to enjoy it.
Bob makes a face. “Raymond is really involved in some other things right now. You know, he’s an idealist. He’s always been an idealist. Not that it keeps him from going after the bucks, of course, but still it’s there. I don’t know if you ever heard about this, but a year or so ago some of Ray’s friends in Venezuela were killed by some remotely piloted vehicles that the Venezuelan drug police had bought from our Army. They were good friends, and it really made Ray mad. He couldn’t really declare war on the U.S. Army, but he’s done the next best thing, and declared war on the people who made the robot planes.” He laughs. “At the same time keeping an eye out for profits!” He laughs harder, then looks at Sandy closely. “Don’t tell anyone else about this, okay?” Sandy nods; he and Bob have done a lot of business together over the years, and it’s gone on as long as it has because they both know they form a closed circuit, as far as information goes, including gossip. And Bob appreciates it, because he does love to gossip, even—or especially—about his ally Raymond. “He’s been importing these little missile systems that can be used perfectly for sabotaging military production plants.”
“Ah, yes,” Sandy says carefully. “I believe I’ve read about the results of all that.”
“Sure. But Raymond doesn’t just do it for the idea. He’s also finding people who want these things done more than he does!”
Sandy opens his eyes wide to show how dubious he is about this.
“I know!” Bob replies. “It’s a tricky area. But so far it’s been working really well. There are customers out there, if you can find them. But it’s murky water, I’ll tell you. Almost as bad as the drug scene. And now he thinks he’s been noticed by another group who are into the same thing.”
“Uh-oh.”
“I know. So he’s all wrapped up in that now, trying to find out who exactly is out there, and whether he can come to terms with them.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Sandy says.
Bob shrugs. “Everything’s dangerous. But anyway, you can see why Ray isn’t interested in this smuggling deal. His mind is occupied with other things these days.”
“You bet.”
Manfred comes back from the bathroom. They try a few more puffs of the harsh black smoke, talk some more. Manfred presses Sandy to commit himself to the aphrodisiac smuggling enterprise, and carefully, ever so diplomatically, Sandy refuses to make the commitment. What he has just heard from Bob isn’t any encouragement. “I’m going to have to think about it, Manfred. It’s really far out of my usual line.”
Manfred accepts this with grace: “I still hope you’ll go for it, man. Think about it some more and then let me know—we’ve still got a week or so.”
Sandy looks at his watch, rises. “I’ve got a working day tomorrow, starts in about four hours actually. I should get back home.” Farewells all around and he’s off, into the living room where Tashi, Jim, Humphrey, Abe and Arthur are sitting around talking to people. “Let’s go home.”
27
Tracking back north Jim dozes. He’s sitting in the middle seat, leaning against the right window. Arthur is beside him, Abe and Tash behind him in the backseat. Jim finds it difficult to joke around with Arthur; easier to doze. The act of falling asleep often brings hypnagogic visions to him, and the sensation of falling down a black cliff jerks him awake. “Whoah!” Arthur and Raymond, on the cliffside platform. Snatches of a conversation. Warm body in the ocean’s chill. It’s been a strange night.
Out the window is the single stretch of southern California’s coast left undeveloped: the center of U.S. Marine Camp Joseph H. Pendleton. Dark hills, a narrow coastal plain cut by dry ravines, covered with dark brush. Grass gray in the moonlight. Something about it is so quiet, so empty, so pure.… My God, he thinks. The land. A pang of loss pierces him: this land that they live on, under its caking of concrete and steel and light—it was a beautiful place, once. And now there’s no way back.
For a moment, as they track up the coast and out of the untouched hills, into the weird cancerous megastructures of the desalination plant and the sewage plant and the nuclear facility, Jim dreams of a cataclysm that could bring this overlit America to ruin, and leave behind only the land, the land, the land… and perhaps—perhaps—a few survivors, left to settle the hard new forests of a cold wet new world, in tiny Hannibal Missouris that they would inhabit like foxes, like deer, like real human beings.…
They track on into the condomundo hills of San Clemente, and the absurdity of his vision, combined with its impossibility, and its cruelty, and its poignant appeal, drive Jim ever deeper into depression. There is no way back; because there is no way back. History is a one-way street. It’s only forward, into catastrophe, or the track-and-mall inferno, or… or nothing. Nothing Jim can imagine, anyway. But no matter what, there is no going back.
Humphrey gets them up the empty freeway to Sandy’s place, and they all get out to go to their own cars. Humphrey says, “Listen, the odometer shows about a hundred and forty miles, divide it among the six of us and it’ll be really cheap—”
“Really cheap,” say Tashi and Abe together.
“Yeah, so let me just figure it out here and we can even up before you guys forget.”
“Figure it out and bill me,” Sandy says, walking off toward the elevator. Even Sandy seems a little weary. “We will recompense you fully.” Arthur’s off without a word. Tashi and Abe are emptying their pockets and giving Humphrey their change, “Sure that covers wear on the brake pads, Humph?” “Don’t forget oil, Bogie, that big hog of yours just sucks the oil.” “No lie.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Humphrey says seriously, collecting their coins. “I took all that into my calculations.” He drives off without a blink at Tash and Abe’s gibing, perfectly unaware of it. Jim laughs to see it. The guy is so perfectly unselfconscious! And of his chief characteristic!
As he walks to his car Jim marvels over it. And tracking home he wonders if everyone is, perhaps, unaware of the principle aspect of their personality, which looms too large for them to see. Yeah, it’s probably true. And if so, then what part of his own character doesn’t he see? What aspect of him do Tash and Abe giggle over, behind his back or even right in front of him, because he doesn’t even realize it’s there to be made fun of?