Revenant Rising Read online

  Retaining the cutting beyond today rather martyrs him to the insult, but he nevertheless folds it back inside the photo wallet along with the other notes and reminders. He’s pocketing the wallet when Nate Isaacs bursts into the room.

  “Well?” Nate says, surveying a half-circle of chairs recently occupied by top-tier medical staff of Denver’s Fortescu Clinic, “How’d it go?

  “We had a nice chat with them all pretending they weren’t scrutinizing me—weren’t fucking evaluating me. And that’s what I get for wantin’ to show a bit of direct gratitude to the blokes.”

  “Jesus, Colin, can you blame them for wanting to look you over? You’re considered one of their most notable successes.”

  “Must I remind you the credit’s not theirs alone—that the new wing I’m funding’s gonna be called the Isaacs Wing for the Study and Treatment of Noninvasive Brain Trauma?”

  “Must I remind you that I’m accepting the honor under protest because, first of all, the credit’s not mine alone either, and second of all, as benefactor your name should—”

  “Can you spare me the first and second-of-all shit I’ve already heard way more times than I deserve? I thought this argument was left in Portage St. Mary yesterday when we dedicated the trauma center there with your name on it.”

  “Speaking of—I thought yesterday went well, didn’t you?”

  “As well as it could, considering nothing there was faintly familiar to me and what happened there exists only in other people’s memories.”

  “That did occur to me when you finally agreed to attend the dedications . . . It did, in fact, cross my mind that everyone you’d meet would be a stranger despite their knowing full well who you are.”

  “As if that hasn’t been the case for most of my adult life.”

  “I came to the same conclusion.”

  “Bloody brilliant, you are. Now come to some conclusion about why we’re still sitting here nattering away.”

  “They’re sending someone from administration to give us a grand tour of the facility before the noon luncheon with the senior staff.”

  “That’s a treat I’ll have to miss.”

  “But you can’t, it’s in your honor!”

  “They won’t miss my luster when it’s found out the story they want to hear has to come from you.”

  “And where do you intend to be?”

  “I’ll be on my way to Las Vegas with Bemus, actually.”

  “What? You can’t do that.”

  “Yeh, I can. Denver’s not that far from Vegas, and when the time difference is factored in I can damn near arrive there before I leave here. And Bemus—you’re not gonna deny him a little break in the action after all the shit he puts up with day in and day out. And me.” Colin comes out of his chair to animate the argument. “What about me, then? You actually gonna tell me I’m out of line to fancy a taste of something that’s unrelated to the state of my health? Where is Bemus anyway?” Colin gets right in Nate’s face. “Summon him with that pager thing you’ve got set up and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Be reasonable. Attend the luncheon, then we’ll all go to Vegas. I’ll call the pilot and have him file a new flight plan.”

  “No, you won’t. They won’t have serviced the plane yet and you can’t get a fresh crew on such short notice. And I rather look forward to flying commercial. At least the attendants won’t hover quite so close as the bloody lot you handpicked to service me on the private jet. “I say.” Colin lifts a threatening eyebrow and waggles a warning finger. “Are you gonna get in touch with Bemus or do I have to take care of it myself?”

  “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” Nate heaves a dramatic sigh and goes to a phone situated on a nearby console. After he locates Bemus and fills him in on the change in plans, he puts on an especially baleful expression and wants to know how long the rebellion’s been planned and how long it’s predicted to last.

  “No planning’s gone into it. Just entered my mind a bit ago and I don’t see me being gone more than a day. I should be in New York in plenty of time for the big meet on Wednesday.”

  “Should be? You’d better be.” Nate picks up the phone and places another call. A moment or two goes by before it’s apparent that he’s giving orders to someone in his New York office, directing someone there to reserve a suite at the Mariposa Hotel and Casino and book the next available first-class seats on a flight from Denver’s Stapleton Airport to McCarran Field in Las Vegas.

  “Bollocks,” Colin says under his breath, but does nothing to interfere.

  “There. You happy now that you’ve got your way and left me in the lurch?” Nate says after ringing off.

  “Lurch my arse. You’re better at spreadin’ it on thick with dignitaries than anyone I know. And they’ll expect you to act in my stead. They’d expect you to even if I did show up. I’ve spoken my piece to the chief toffs and I’ve written the check, so don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

  Over more objections from Nate, Colin sets out alone for the exit to the car park, where Bemus should arrive any minute. He’s nearly there when he spots a sizable cluster of regular staff gathered outside the door. Strangers they are, but they all seem to know him, some probably quite intimately, and they all deserve the same deference shown earlier to their superiors.

  As though on cue, Bemus drives up, alerts to the commotion, and immediately heads across the macadam separating them. But Colin waves him off and yields to the impromptu meet-and-greet session till all have had a word with him or an autograph.

  They’re’ safe inside the hired Cadillac and driving away before Bemus shoots him a look.

  “You didn’t hafta put yourself through that, y’know.”

  “Yeh I did and I’ll be putting myself through a lot more things you and Nate don’t approve of before the day’s out.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We’re not going to Vegas, we’re going to Los Angeles.”

  “Say what?”

  “You heard me. We’re gonna grab just overnight bags from the hotel here—Nate can bring the overflow when he returns to New York on the private plane—and we’re gonna catch the first flight to L.A. where I’m gonna put in an appearance at tonight’s awards ceremony.”

  “But you told the Icon people you weren’t gonna show, didn’t you?”

  “Nate told them I wouldn’t show. I don’t recall being consulted on the matter.”

  “But I thought cold-shoulderin’ the affair was supposed to send the message that you’re pissed about not being asked to perform.”

  “Yeh, that was probably the original thinking, but it was never my thinking. So are you gonna fight me on this or go along peacefully?”

  “Jeez, I dunno. I’ll be canned for sure if I cooperate and I’ll—”

  “You work for me, not Nate, for chrissake. And Nate works for me, not the other way round. You might want to keep that uppermost unless you’re actually looking forward to being binned,” Colin says between gritted teeth.

  They ride on in a prickly silence that could make him regret sitting up front with the doughty bodyguard cum personal assistant. If this is a taste of things to come, Bemus may indeed have to be canned, as he put it. They’re nearing Denver’s storied hotel, the Brown Palace, before Bemus has anything more to say, and then it’s clear his job’s not in immediate jeopardy.

  “You willing to fly economy and are you gonna be okay with a tourist hotel if I can’t get us into the Chateau or the Royal Poinciana?”

  “Yeh. You gonna be all right with scrounging me last-minute credentials from the event organizers?”

  “Crap, I didn’t think about that.” Bemus glides the Cadillac into a no-parking zone in front of the hotel. “Stay with the car and if someone says to move it, tell ’em you don’t know how to drive.”

  The advice may or may not refer to the outcome the last time he drove in the States and the broad assumption that he never will again. But Bemus leaves the keys in the ignition, a good si
gn. That Bemus is gone longer than expected isn’t automatically a bad sign; name recognition doesn’t always guarantee quick results.

  As the wait drags on, Colin dredges up any number of bolstering thoughts and the best one coming to mind is from a mini-lecture Nate delivered six or so months ago when complete reentry was a sure thing. The exact words won’t come, but the gist of it remains—something about only being a celebrity as long as you remain in the dialogue of popular culture. And that without your work—whether it be a book or a movie or an album—to keep you in that dialogue, you’re forced to rely on exposure. Yes, that’s it. Colin warms to the notion as it reveals that his desire to shake up a live television show will accomplish both dialogue and exposure.

  SEVEN

  Early morning, March 30, 1987

  Hoop Jakeway arrives in Los Angeles during rush hour on Monday morning. He’s both exhausted and exhilarated after three days and three nights on the road. He knows it’s Monday morning because the local radio stations keep telling him traffic conditions are normal for the start of the work week, and he knows he’s never seen this much traffic in his life, normal or otherwise. Hemmed in on all sides by vehicles of every make, model, and description, with none of them going anywhere, he can see why California is picked as the main gathering place for crazies—because you’d have to be crazy to go through this every day.

  The car radio blats minutes-past-the-hour reports like it’s advertising how little forward progress he’s making. But that doesn’t matter much—not yet, anyway—because two hours will have to pass before it’s time to give Cliff Grant the call-ahead he asked for.

  Hoop turns the radio down and casts about for a better way of wasting time than sitting in traffic sucking up exhaust fumes. He decides to get off whatever freeway this is at the next exit, no matter where it leads, and begins working his way across three lanes of cars the way the nearly nonstop drive from Michigan taught him to do. By fearlessly cutting off anyone that’s where he wants to be, he’s able to merge onto the exit ramp for Fairfax Avenue North.

  The avenue is a lot more to his liking even though there’s no scarcity of traffic. For a while he just goes with the flow. Then a white clock tower with a little steeple on it catches his attention. The sign below the clock says “Farmers Market,” about the last thing he expects to find in the middle of the Los Angeles spread and as good a spot as any to pass time.

  Finding a place to leave the Jimmy won’t be a problem because the market isn’t open yet and won’t be for another thirty minutes, according to the money-taker at the gate to a large near-empty parking lot. Waiting won’t be a problem either, because he can use the half hour to work some of the worst cricks out of his legs with a few trips around the lot.

  By the time his legs start feeling better and the vendors start uncovering their wares and firing up their grills, he’s famished.

  Nothing could have readied him for what’s inside the market. As far as the eye can see in any direction are produce stands, flower stalls, bakeries, butcher shops, fishmongers, seafood sellers, candy stores, and places to buy jewelry, fancy clothing, arty treasures, and souvenirs. And there are pizza makers, doughnut makers, sandwich counters, hamburger specialists, and foreign-type restaurants mixed in with the all-American kind that advertise things like BLTs, hot dogs, and pancakes. Even the ice cream stores have more flavors than he’s ever heard of.

  His stomach’s growling now as more and more cooking smells reach him. There are things in this market he can’t even name, so the safe and easy choice is to go with a food he knows—like French toast—and yet it seems a terrible waste to have come all this way for something he could eat at home.

  He’s drawn to a walk-up style restaurant that’s doing a good business. Going by the name and by the appearance of the counter help, he guesses it to be Mexican. The customer ahead of him points to an entry on the menu board and mumbles something when it’s his turn to order. When it’s Hoop’s turn to order he does the same thing, points at the same selection—the one that’s spelled “huevos rancheros”—but doesn’t say anything. The mumbled part must have been important, though, because now the counterman is asking him a question in a language he guesses is Spanish. Hoop shrugs the standard response for not understanding and the counterman replies in heavy-accented English: “I thought ya was one a us. I asked if ya wanted fries with that.”

  Hoop goes for the fries and when his order is up, takes it to one of the tables out in the open, where he shrugs off being taken for a Mexican. All that’s on his mind is how good the food is and how deserving of it he is after nearly four straight days of living on bologna, saltines and peanut butter. He finishes off what he’s figured out was mainly eggs, giant corn chips, mashed beans, chili sauce, and cheese, then hesitates about one second before he goes back and orders another serving, this time with a beer on the side.

  The table he had before is now occupied, so he goes to another that hasn’t been cleared off. There he finds a newspaper someone left behind and leafs through it after he finishes eating. Nothing catches his eye till he reaches the entertainment section that’s full of reports about who the front-runners are in tonight’s Icon race.

  “Tonight’s?” he says under his breath, then checks the date on the paper to see if it agrees with the information he got from the car radio earlier. It agrees: Monday, March 30, 1987 it says, so it’s not an old issue.

  At first, he’s hard on himself for being unaware tonight is the night. Doesn’t he still have the clipping in his wallet that gives the date of the awards ceremony along with the list of nominees—the clipping that brought his mission back to life? And doesn’t he also have in his possession a newer clipping, picked up along the way—one that supposes Colin Elliot to be a sour-grapes no-show because he wasn’t invited to perform at the ceremony? After a while and a couple of long tugs on the foreign-type beer they sold him, he convinces himself this fresh information has no more importance than being mistaken for a wetback.

  With still another hour to kill, Hoop chances another of the Corona beers he’s fast developing a taste for. It’s not like he’s drinking on an empty stomach, he tells himself and settles down to make this one last longer than the first. This second beer brings on the temptation to get reflective like he was on the last day at the tavern in Bimmerman, and that’s uncalled for because he hardly needs reminding of why he’s here in California. He takes a measured swig from the longneck and prides himself on sense of purpose while soaking up the unaccustomed warmth of a late-March sun.

  After a visit to the men’s room, he returns to the parking lot and checks his estimate of the time against the clock on the tower. He’s not off by much; the clock reads quarter to eleven and his wishful thinking has it closer to eleven a.m., the earliest he can be sure Cliff Grant will answer his phone.

  Hoop kills the final fifteen minutes with a routine inspection of his truck and its contents. He kicks each tire in turn, although he’s never understood what that was supposed to prove. Then he checks water and oil levels and makes certain no one has siphoned off any gas while he wasn’t looking. Inside the car, he tests the seal on the paint bucket, checks the clasp on the tool chest, satisfies himself everything is in order before smoothing out the makeshift pallet of old quilts that saw little use on the trip west.

  At the stroke of eleven by the clock tower, he beelines for the nearest phone booth and calls Cliff Grant. A few bad moments go by before Grant answers on the fifth ring, and a few more go by when Hoop, for want of a pencil or anything to write on, is forced to memorize the driving directions Grant gives him. Afterwards, Hoop has the sharp feeling that if he’d asked Grant to repeat anything or wait till pencil and paper was found, the phone call would have ended right then and there.

  On the drive to the city of Venice Beach where Grant lives, it’s only natural to ask himself why he’s remained loyal to the bad-mannered, smart-alecky reporter for so long. And while he’s at it, he might as well ask himself why, if he
has such a terrible crime to report, he’s never gone to police officials in all this time. Both questions have answers—answers he could say out loud if he wasn’t so busy watching for signs pointing to Santa Monica and trying to guess what kind of trees he’s looking at that have smooth silvery bark, leathery-looking leaves, and roots that coil around aboveground like tentacles.

  He makes the first three turns according to the directions he memorized and homes in on Venice Beach sooner than expected. A few more turns and he’s on the street where Grant said he could leave his car. He finds a place to park between two other cars with out-of-state plates, gathers up his goods and sets out on the last leg of the journey.

  The footpath he’s supposed to use doesn’t show itself right away and that could be because he’s distracted by sight of the Pacific Ocean in the near distance. As he gets closer, he’s even more distracted by the honky-tonk nature of the place. There’s almost too much to take in where every third person on the wooden walkway looks like some sort of freak. And the half-naked roller skaters whizzing by on a paved path must be shameless drugged-up lunatics; there can’t be any other excuse for the way they’re flaunting themselves and tainting his first-ever view of the ocean.

  The only good thing, if there is any, relates to his own appearance. If he was concerned with standing out, he can put that worry aside. In a place where anything seems to go, his flannel shirt, Big Yank dungarees, and engineer boots are only too warm for the surroundings, not too queer. The paint bucket and tool chest don’t make him unusual either; he could be just another vendor bringing trashy trinkets to market in whatever receptacle’s handy, like the guy he just passed who’s selling refrigerator magnets out of a tackle box.

  Done with the two minutes worth of sightseeing, Hoop concentrates on finding Grant’s place. When he does, he concentrates on what he wants to have happen there. It’s not like the evidence won’t stand alone, he tells himself as he steps up to the porch of a neat-enough-looking bungalow. And it’s not like he needs a prepared speech. He already spoke his piece on the phone, way back when he first called Grant to say he had something of interest without saying exactly what. He’s as ready as he’s ever going to be in that department.