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
