Over the Edge

18

I DROVE out of the parking lot and reflected on my dismissal. Souza had fished me out of a sea of experts, using the twin lures of flattery and professional responsibility: I was vital to the case because of both my prior treatment of Jamey and my ostensible brilliance. Now, given the first opportunity, he'd thrown me back like some undersized hatchling, having filled his bucket with more substantive catch. I shouldn't have been surprised. We hadn't really got along; although we were outwardly cordial, there was an unmistakable tension between us. He was a man who thrived on manipulation, a sculptor of behaviour, and I'd proved less than pliable and thus expendable. After all, he had Chapin from Harvard, Donnell from Stanford — full professors both, well published and respected. No matter that they had no problems assuring an insanity defence before examining the patient. They were the kind of expert who thrived in Souza's system.

I didn't regret leaving his team, but I rued how little I'd learned about Jamey. The case had produced far more questions than answers. The only issue that had come close to generating a consensus was his psychosis. Everyone except Sonnenschein had agreed that he was crazy, and even the deputy had relaxed his cynicism after witnessing the damage the boy had done to himself. But the crimes of which he was accused weren't those of a psychotic, as a first-year graduate student had noticed. Souza's quick answer laid the blame — not without some justification — on a dead man. In fact, both his guardians and his peers had seen Ivar Digby Chancellor as a major influence in Jamey's life. The man had steered him from sonnets to securities, from cola to sprouts. But whether that influence had extended to serial homicide was far from clear.

Upon closer inspection, not even the diagnosis of schizophrenia was free from confusion: The disease had run an atypical course, and Jamey's response to medication had been inconsistent. In addition, he'd shown some, though admittedly minor, evidence of drug use. Sarita Flowers and Heather Cadmus were certain he'd never taken dope. But the Project 160 kids thought otherwise. As far as Mainwaring was concerned, it didn't matter, and the inconsistencies could be explained by subtle brain damage. Perhaps the psychiatrist was right, but he'd never carried out a comprehensive neurological workup. And his lack of interest in anything other than dosage levels as well as his slipshod charting weakened my confidence in his judgment.

Then there was the matter of the Cadmus family history — a lineage steeped in psychopathology. Were the similarities among the declines of Antoinette, Peter, and Jamey meaningful? Had the trussing of Chancellor been a primitive attempt at symbolic patricide? Dwight Cadmus certainly merited a second interview.

There were others I wanted to talk to as well. Gary Yamaguchi and the nurses — the gushing Ms. Surtees and the caustic Mrs. Vann. The contrast between the two women was yet another rub: The private-duty nurse had described Jamey more positively than had anyone else. Yet it was she he'd attacked the night he'd bolted. Andrea Vann had viewed him as dangerously disturbed, but that hadn't stopped her from leaving the C Ward nursing station unstaffed that night. And now she'd quit.

Too many questions, not enough answers. And a battered, mad young man destined to live out his days in a nightmare world.

Souza had cut me out before I'd had a chance to look into any of it.

As I ruminated, the Seville drifted toward the Union District, not far from the address Sarita had given me for Gary.

Souza had reminded me of my ethical obligations. I couldn't discuss my findings with anyone, but that didn't stop me from evaluating further — as a free agent.

The building sat in the middle of the block, embroidered at street level with a daisy chain of dozing winos. Bottles and cans and dogshit turned my progress down the sidewalk into a spastic ballet. The doors were rusted iron, warped and dented, and set into the crumbling brick facade of the former factory like a fistula. A band of concrete striped the brick. In it was carved PELTA THREAD COMPANY, 1923. The letters were pigeon-specked and cracked. To the right of the door were two buttons. Next to each button was a slot for an address sticker. The first was unfilled; the second framed a taped-over strip of paper that read R. Bogdan. I pushed both buttons but got no response, tried the door, and found it locked. After driving around through the alley, I saw a rear entry identical to the one in the front, but it, too, was bolted. I gave up and went home.

Jamey's Canyon Oaks chart had arrived. I locked it in my desk and retrieved Souza's cheque. I addressed and stamped an envelope, sealed the cheque inside, jogged down to the nearest mailbox, and dropped it through the slot. At three-thirty the service called to deliver a message from Robin: Billy Orleans had come into town early and would be at the studio until five. After he left, we could have dinner together. I changed into jeans and a turtleneck and drove to Venice.

Robin's place is an unmarked storefront on Pacific Avenue, not far enough from the Oakwood ghetto. The exterior is covered with gang graffiti, and the windows are whitewashed over. For years she lived upstairs, in a loft she had designed and built herself, and used the main floor as a workshop. A dangerous arrangement for anyone, let alone a single woman, but it had been an assertion of independence. Now the place was alarmed and she shared my bed and I slept a lot better for it.

Both parking spaces in back of the shop were taken up by a white stretch Lincoln limo with blackened windows, gangster whitewalls, and a TV antenna on the rear deck. Three hundred hard pounds of bodyguard leaned against the side of the car — fiftyish, a sunburned bull mastiff face, sandy-grey hair, and a white toothbrush moustache. He was dressed in white drawstring pants, sandals, and a sleeveless red singlet stretched just short of bursting. The arms folded across his chest were the colour and breadth of Virginia hams.

I coasted to a stop and looked for a place to leave the Seville. From inside the studio came deep, pulsating waves of sound.

"Hi, sir," said the bodyguard cheerfully, "you the shrink friend?"

"That's me."

"I'm Jackie. They told me to be on the lookout for you. Just leave the car here with the keys in, and I'll watch it for you."

I thanked him and entered the shop through the rear door. As always, the studio smelled of confifer resin and sawdust. But the rumble of power drills and saws had been replaced by another wall of noise: thunderous power chords and screaming treble riffs resonating from every beam and plank.

I walked to the rear, where the test amplifiers were kept and saw Robin, wearing a dusty apron over her work clothes and padded earphones half buried in her curls, watching a gaunt man assault a silver-glitter solid-body electric guitar shaped like a rocket ship. With each stroke of the pick, the instrument lit up and sparkled, and when the man pressed a button near the bridge, a sound similar to that of a space module leaving the launching pad issued forth. The guitar was plugged into dual Mesa Boogie amps and cranked up to maximum volume. As the thin man ran his fingers up and down the fretboard, it screamed and bellowed. A smouldering cigarette was wedged between the strings just above the fretboard. The windows shuddered, and my ears felt as if they were about to bleed.

Robin saw me and waved. Unable to hear her, I read her lips and made out "Hi, honey" as she came over to greet me. The gaunt man was lost in his music, eyes closed, and went on for a while before he noticed me. Then his right hand rested, and the studio turned funereal. Robin took off the ear pads. After unplugging the guitar, the man removed the cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, then placed the instrument tenderly in a clasp stand and grinned.

"Fabulous."

He was about my age, hollow-cheeked, pale, and pinch-featured, with dyed black hair cut in a long shag. He wore a blue-green leather vest over a sunken, hairless chest and crimson parachute pants. A small rose tattoo blued one bony shoulder. His shoes were high-heeled and matched the pants. A pack of Camels extended halfway from one of the vest pockets. He removed the cigarette smouldering between his lips, put it out, pulled out the pack, extricated a fresh one, and lit up.

"Billy, this is Alex Delaware. Alex, Billy Orleans."

The rocker extended a long, calloused hand and smiled. The nails of his right hand had been left long for finger picking. A diamond was inlaid into one of his upper incisors.

"Hello, Alex. Head doc, right? We could use you on the road, the band's precarious mental state being what it is."

I smiled back. "My specialty is kids."

"Like I said, we could use you on the road, the band's blah-blah-blah." Turning to Robin: "It's fabulous, Mizz Wonderhands. Do some fooling with the lead pickup to get a bit more punch on the high registers, but apart from that, perfect. When can you have it ready for takeoff?"

"How's Thursday?"

"Fine. I'm flying up to San Francisco to visit my parents and then back down here for the Friday Forum gig. I'll send Jackie or one of the roadies to pick it up. Now for the fun part." He unzipped one of the compartments on the parachute pants and drew out a wad of hundred-dollar bills.

"Filth and lucre," he said, peeling off thirty or so and handing them to Robin. It didn't change the size of the wad appreciably. "That do it?"

"You gave me three hundred too much," said Robin, counting and holding out three bills.

"Keep it. Perfectionism's hard to find, and I can use the write-off." He hefted the wad and shifted it from one hand to another.

"Don't flash that in this neighbourhood," said Robin.

He laughed and put the money away.

"It would be tasteless, wouldn't it?"

"I was thinking more in terms of dangerous."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess so." He shrugged. "Well, that's why I have Jackie. He's bulletproof. Faster than a locomotive. Eats rivets for breakfast. I hired him after the John Lennon thing. I was nervous; lots of people were. I think he used to break legs for the Mafia or something, but all he's had to do for me so far is glare."

Robin wrote him a receipt, and we walked to the door.

"Good to meet you, Alex."

He picked up Robin's hands and kissed them.

"Keep these in good shape. In today's market visuals are everything. I'll be needing plenty more objects d'art." A diamond-lit smile. "Well, off to S.F. and a reunion with Dr. and Mrs. Ornstein."

I thought of something.

"Billy," I said, "did you grow up in San Francisco?"

"Atherton, actually," he said, naming one of the high-priced spreads just outside the city.

"Were you involved with the Haight-Ashbury scene?"

He laughed.

"When all that was going down I was a good little nerd who wanted to be an orthodontist just like Daddy. I spent the sixties memorising biology books. Why?"

"I'm trying to find out about some people who lived in an urban commune on the Haight."

He shook his head.

"Never my scene, but I can tell you who might know. Roland Oberheirn — Roily O. He's a producer, used to play brass with Big Blue Nirvana. Remember them?"

"I think so. Sitars over a heavy backbeat?"

"Right. And pop Hinduism. They hit gold a couple of times, then got ego cancer and broke up. Roily was one of Ken Kesey's pranksters, heavily into acid, called himself Captain Trips. He knew everyone on the Haight. Now he lives down here, doing independent gigs. I can put you in touch if you want."

"I'd appreciate that."

"Okay. I'll call him tonight and get back to you. If I forget, call me and remind me. Robin's got all my numbers."

"Will do. Thanks."

He fluffed his hair and was gone.

Robin and I looked at each other.

"Rockin' Billy Ornstein?" we said simultaneously.

The next morning I returned to the building on Pico. This time the door was open a crack. I leaned against it and entered.

I was greeted by a flight of wide pine stairs and the aroma of pesto. At the top of the stairs were darkness and the faint muscular outlines of two Dobermans reclining, seemingly impervious to my presence.

"Hi there, fellas," I said, and went up one step. The Dobermans sprang to their feet, snarling throatily. A heavy chain ran from each of their necks to the top stairposts, too long to be of much comfort.

The dogs bared their teeth and started roaring. I couldn't say much for their tone, but the duet was full of emotion.

"Who is it? What do you want?"

The voice was loud and female, emerging from somewhere behind the Dobermans. Upon hearing it, the dogs quieted and I shouted up:

"I'm looking for Gary Yamaguchi."

A purple pear topped with grated carrots materialised between the two dogs.

"All right, honey pies, those are good boys," the pear cooed. The dogs sank submissively and licked a pair of hands. "Yes, sweeties, yes, sugar dumplings. Mama likes when you're alert."

There was a faint click, and a bare bulk crackled to life above the stairs. The pear became a young woman — early thirties, blowsily heavy, wearing a purple muumuu. Her hair was a hennaed tangle, her pale make-up laid on with a trowel. She put dimpled hands on ample hips and swayed assertively.

"What do you want with him?"

"My name is Alex Delaware. I counselled him years ago, and I need to talk to him about another one of my patients who was one of his friends."

"Counselled? You're a therapist?"

"Psychologist."

She lit up.

"I love psychologists. My first two husbands were psychologists. You married?"

"Yes," I lied, keeping it simple.

"No matter, you can still come up."

I hesitated, gazing up at the Dobermans.

"Don't worry" — she laughed — "they won't eat you unless I tell them to."

I trudged up warily, ankles tingling in anticipation.

The stairs ended at a large landing. To the left was a splintered door; to the right, an open doorway. From the doorway came strong wafts of basil.

"Ms. Randee Bogdan," said the woman, saluting. "With two e's." We shook hands briefly. "Come on in, Dr. Alex Psychologist."

She waddled through the doorway. Inside were three thousand square feet of studio. The walls had been painted deep salmon. One of them held a linear display of sea turtle shells polished to a high gloss; the others were bare. The floor was black lacquer; the skylit ceilings were a clutter of exposed ducts painted hot pink. The furniture was eclectic, a studied mix of Deco, contemporary, and serendipity: grey Chinese vases; Lucite nesting tables; pink fainting couches piped with taupe; a high ebony armoire inlaid with abalone; a rough stone garden urn filled with silk amaryllis; lots of empty space. Apparently casual, very expensive.

Dominating the centre of the studio was an enormous industrial kitchen, stainless steel and spotless. Racks of copper pots hung from an iron rail. The counters were hammered metal with insets of marble for rolling pastry. Cauldrons and pans simmered on a nine-burner Wolf range. The smell of basil was almost overwhelming. Randee with two e's walked into it, lifting lids and peering into the cauldrons. Once or twice she sniffed and tasted, then shook a dash of something into whatever she was brewing. I picked up a pink satinised card from a stack on the corner: CATERING BY RANDEE and a Beverly Hills exchange.

"That's the answering service," she said, licking one finger. "For class. The bowels of the operation is right here, pardon my anality."

"Did Gary live next door?"

"Uh-huh," she said distractedly, looking for something on the counter, cursing cheerfully until she found it. She held it up — a piece of paper which she proceeded to read out loud: "For the Malibu soiree of Mr. and Mrs. Chester ("Chet") Lamm. Cold winter melon soup, gosling salad with raspberry vinegar, a nice sweetbread and truffles teaser, pike and crayfish quenelles, blackened chicken with ze leetle tiny pink peppercorns, the always chi-chi pasta pesto, of course, and to top it off, lightly baked goat cheese and a daring cucumber-pineapple sorbet. What a hodgepodge — pretty fucking dreadful, huh? But to the nouvelle-nouvelle beasties crass is class."

I laughed. She laughed back, bosoms rolling.

"You know what I'd like to be cooking? Burgers. Bur-fucking-gers. Greasy home fries, a good honest salad — no radicchio, no endives, plain old Caesar Chavez iceberg."

"Sounds good."

"Ha! Try peddling that for a hundred a head."

She jabbed a fork into a pan, and the tines came up enmeshed with pink pasta.

"Here, taste this."

I leaned over the counter and opened my mouth. The stuff was laced with basil to the point of bitterness.

"Great," I said.

"Absolutely. The lady can cook."

She offered me other samples. Even in a hungry state the experience wouldn't have been welcome. But after the hearty breakfast I'd shared with Robin it was downright assaultive.

After more false praise from me and self-congratulation from her I managed to get her talking about Gary.

"Yeah, he lived here, along with a bunch of other freaks."

"Lived?"

"That's right. Past tense. Someone broke in last night and trashed the place, and he split. Fairly typical for the neighbourhood, which is why my place is alarmed. I was doing a party at A and M records, came home around one, and found their door all smashed in. My alarm hadn't been tripped, but I called my parents and borrowed Nureyev and Baryshnikov anyway. For insurance. They're real killers — last year they eliminated parenthood from a burglar's future — and I've been leaving the door open, hoping the creeps who did it will return so I can turn my sweeties loose."

"When did the… freaks come home?"

"About two. That's their usual schedule: sleep until noon; panhandle in front of the Biltmore; come home and party until morning. I heard them, peeked through the door, and watched them split. Your counselee looked pretty scared."

"Any idea where he went?"

"Nah. There's been a tribe of them living there free — one of the freaks' fathers owns the building — coming in and out. They wander around, putting down everything, thinking of themselves as tres bohemian."

"Artists?"

"If they're artists, the stuff on the stove's haute cuisine. Nah, they're little kids playing nihilist. Punk stuff, you know: Life is meaningless, so I'll solder spikes in my hair and shoot speed while Daddy pays the rent. I went through the same thing in college, didn't you?"

I'd spent college studying by day and working my way through at night. Instead of answering, I asked another question.

"Were they heavily into speed?"

"I'd assume so. Isn't that what punks are into?"

She lowered the fire on one of the burners. I remembered Gary's boast to Josh and said:

"He told someone he was going to have an exhibition in one of the downtown galleries. Any idea which one?"

She put her finger to her lips and licked the tip.

"Yeah, he told me that, too. We passed on the landing one night and he insulted my food — that's the kind of little shit he is. I told him to shove his little Buddha head up his ass even if it did mean bending sideways. He liked that. Smiled and gave me a flyer for this so-called exhibit; he was one of a bunch of other freaks showing their trash at a place called Voids Will Be Voids. I said, 'Terrific, putz, but you're still just a little snotty freak to me.' He liked that, too; said something lewd." She shook her head. "Can you imagine doing it with one of those little freaks? Yucch."

I asked her how many kids had lived in the studio.

"There was him, his little girlfriend, blonde Valley Girl type, didn't look more than fourteen; Richard the Rich Kid, the landlord's boy; his babe, plus assorted hangers-on. The last week or so it had been only Yamaguchi and the blonde because Richard went on vacation somewhere and the hangers-on went with him. What are you expecting to get from him anyway?"

"Information."

"Don't count on it. The kid's not into helping others."

I told her she was probably right and thanked her for letting me come up.

"Do you mind if I look around his place?"

"Why should I care?"

"Could you keep Nureyev and Baryshnikov at bay while I do it?"

"Sure. They're really sweethearts anyway."

I left, and she called out after me:

"For your sake, I hope you've got nasal congestion."

Her parting shot was more than bombast. The studio smelled like an undermaintained outhouse. Most of the space was a jumble of rancid clothing, clotted food, and nasty-looking stains. The toilet was stopped up, and brownish gunk had overflowed onto the unpainted plank floor. The furniture, if you could call it that, had been knocked together from plywood and sawhorses. Whoever had broken in had upended and shattered most of it. A workbench, similarly fashioned, held an acetylene torch, an assortment of templates and moulds, fish bones, a decapitated Barbie doll with the head lying off to one side, and charred chunks of plastic. One corner of the studio was devoted to six-foot piles of newspaper, sodden and mildewed, another to a collection of roach-infested cookie boxes and empty soda cans. I poked around for a few seconds, finding nothing, before the stench overtook me.

I exited to more basil, hollered a good-bye, and walked stiffly between the Dobermans. They grinned and growled but didn't move as I made my way down the stairs. Once outside, I inhaled hungrily; even the smog smelled good.

As I unlocked the Seville, a hand settled on my shoulder. I whipped around and came face-to-face with one of the winos, a black man whose tattered clothes had grimed to the point where they matched his skin. The boundaries between cloth and flesh were indistinguishable, and he resembled some naked feathered cave creature.

His eyeballs were the colour of rancid butter; the irises, filmy and listless. He was anywhere between forty and eighty, toothless, stooped, and emaciated, the caved-in face coated with an iron-filing beard. His head was covered with a greasy ski cap worn over his ears. Pinned to it was one of those cute I LOVE L.A. buttons with a heart substituted for the word love.

Slapping his hands on his knees, he laughed. His breath was a blend of muscatel and overripe cheese. I winced; this was the morning for olfactory torture.

"You ugly," he cackled.

"Thanks," I said, and edged away.

"No, man, you really ugly."

I turned, and the hand landed on my shoulder again.

"Enough," I said, annoyed, shoving it away.

He laughed harder and did a little dance.

"You ugly! You ugly!"

I turned the doorkey. He came closer. I compressed my nostrils.

"You ugly, you ugly. You also rich."

Oh, Jesus, what a morning. I reached into my pocket and gave him whatever change I found. He examined it and smiled woozily.

"You real ugly! You real rich! I got somethin' for you if you got somethin' for me."

He was breathing on me now, showing no inclination to leave. We were ignored by the other winos, already locked in alcoholic torpor. A pair of Mexican boys walked by and laughed. He leaned closer, giggling. I could have pushed him aside, but he was too pathetic to manhandle.

"What do you want?" I asked wearily.

"You lookin' for that li'l Jap kid wit' the nails in his hayed, right?"

"How'd you know that?"

"You ugly, but you not smart." He tapped his scrawny chest. "Mudpie heah be smart."

Ceremoniously he held out his palm, a palsied mocha slab, mapped with black lines.

"All right, Mudpie," I said, pulling out my wallet and peeling off a five, "what is it you want to tell me?"

"Sheeit," he said, snapping up the bill and secreting it among the shapeless contours of his rags, "that buy a song an' dance. You ugly an' you rich, so why don' you give Mudpie his due?"

Ten dollars and some haggling later he let it out: "Fust you come yesterday; then you be back, sniffin' and snoopin'. But you not the only one. There be these other whi'e boys lookin' for the Jap, too. Ugly but not li'e you. They real ugly. Whupped with a ugly stick."

"How many were there?"

"Dose."

"Dose?"

"Li'e in spic talk — Uno, dose, you unnerstan'?"

"Two."

"Righ'."

"When was this?"

"At nigh', mebbe the full moon, mebbe the half-moon."

"Last night?"

"Seems to be so."

"How can you be sure they were looking for the Japanese boy?"

"Mudpie be sittin' round the back, in the dark, havin' dinnah, you unnnerstan', an' they walk by, be talkin' gonna get that lil slant. Then they go in and jimmy that doah and come out later sayin' 'aw, shit, aw, fuck.'"

He laughed, cleared his throat, and shot a gob of phlegm toward the boulevard.

"What did they look like?"

"Ugly." He cracked up. "Li'e two whi'e boys."

Another ten changed hands.

"One be skinny, the other be plump, you unnerstan'? They be wearin' black leathah."

"Bikers?"

He looked at me with stuporous incomprehension.

"Motorcycle riders?" I pressed. "Like Hell's Angels?"

"Seems to be."

"Were they driving motorcycles?"

"Could be." He shrugged.

"You didn't see what they were driving?"

"Mudpie be makin' himself scarce; they Nazi types, you unnerstan'?"

"Mudpie, is there anything else you remember about them — how tall they were, the way they talked?"

He nodded sombrely.

"A'solutely."

"What is it?"

"They ugly."

I found a phone booth near Little Tokyo and put a call in to Milo. He was out, and I left a message. Half a phone book dangled from a chain in the booth. Fortunately it was the second half, and I found Voids Will Be Voids listed on Los Angeles Street, just south of the garment district. I called the gallery and got a taped message, an adenoidal male sneeringly informing the listener that the place didn't open until 4:00 P.M. That left six hours. I had a light sushi lunch and headed over to the main Public Library on Fifth Street. By 12:30 I was seated at the microfilm viewer, squinting and spinning dials. It took a while to get organised, but soon after that I found what I wanted.