I had a view of the other
end of the pipeline in San Diego
that I think I should record, if not for posterity, at least for
me.
Sometime in
the middle of that three week stay, I dropped over to Marvene's
for
a visit. I wasn't invited, but that wasn't always necessary with
her. If she
was busy, she'd say so. This day she had company, but she managed
to convey the
message that I was welcome to stay. In fact it was more than a conveyance
of a
suggestion, it was like a command to hang around. I picked up the
feeling that
she was a little uncomfortable with her guests. This alone was enough
to grab
my attention and interest, even through the catatonic fog that was
dulling my
perceptions at the time.
Her visitors
were a couple that I had met once before at her place. In happier
times when I had dope to sell and no heat hanging over my head in
helicopters. The "he" of the pair was, I gathered from
gossip picked up at the
party, a perennial student named Garfield, who was brilliant and
unmotivated. Or maybe it was brilliant and unstable. I forget which.
The "she"
was named Henriquetta, and she stood about four foot ten on her
crutches. Marvene said she had the face of "quattrocento angel"
and that she
supported the two of them by troubleshooting computer programs for
the various
high tech outfits in San Diego. I didn't know you could make a living
at
something like that. I still don't know what you actually do when
you
"troubleshoot" software or hardware, or whatever it was.
When, trying to make
conversation, I asked 'Quetta to describe what she did on a typical
job, she
just smiled and changed the subject.
Both Gar and
'Quetta looked a little worn around the edges this day in
Marvene's living room. There was an open bottle of wine and a deck
of Tarot
cards on the coffee table in front of Quetta. Marvene was pretty
good at
reading cards. Not that I believe she had a window into the future,
but she
was clever at taking her wide psychological knowledge and sticking
it on the
cards and the person she was reading for, so she sounded like she
was getting
it straight from the supernatural.
As I took a
glass of wine and settled myself in one of the armchairs, she was
just finishing a reading.
Waving her coffee
colored hand over the spread she said: "He's all right. Maybe
not happy, but all right."
Quetta looked
relieved and Gar went to the bathroom. He is one of those guys
who are not rude enough to snort their coke right in front of you
when he
hasn't got enough to share. With his habit and her income, he can't
afford to
be generous. So he's always jumping for the john. The frequency
of his visits
depend on the state of his nerves. I don't know why some people,
who are
nervous as cats to begin with, feel they can level out with coke
and more
coke. As far as I can see, it only leads to paranoia. Why can't
they mellow out
with a little weed? On the other hand, maybe they like that state
of rising
hysteria. I guess it's like sex to them...or a substitute for it.
But I don't
know from personal experience, because as has been noted often,
and by many, I
do not spend my money on cocaine.
So Gar is getting
sweaty and rolling his eyes around like he expects assassins
to leap out of the big Wurlitzer juke box that dominates one end
of Marvene's
living room. Quetta looked at me...like an angel...very sweet and
calm, and
asks: "Did you ever meet my brother, Carlos?"
"No, I
don't think so. Did I ever run into him, Marvene?"
"He's quite
a guy," Marvene said. "If you had met him, you'd remember."
"Colombians!,"
snorted Gar. "They're all crazy as shit house rats."
Quetta made
a little face at him that did not detract a bit from her angelic
aura. "Carlos isn't crazy, Querido. He is sometimes reckless,
but quite
sane...and shrewd. Shrewd and sweet too. That was why I became so
worried when
he didn't come to my birthday party, or even call. I'm all the family
he has
left," she explained to me.
"Where'd
he go?" I asked.
"Quien
sabe?" Quetta shrugged. "That's why I came to see Marvene."
"He's gone,
vanished!" Gar added in a hoarse voice and split for the bathroom
again. We all acted as if four visits in 40 minutes was not worth
a comment. I
took another sip of my wine and Quetta stared at the Wurlitzer.
Marvene had
stacked it with a collection of old Johnny Cash numbers, so we were
being
treated to an endless recital of trucks, trains and tears. I liked
it better
when she put Duane Eddy or Boots Randolph in the machine.
Marvene continued
the story of the vanishing Carlos: "It seems like brother
Carlos is not only missing, but so is about $300,000, at least half
of which
belongs to somebody else..."
"Not proved!"
Gar shouted from the hall. "That s.o.b. owes Carlos a bundle.
I
mean big bucks. Now he thinks that just because Carlos is missing,
or dead, he
can get everything just because it's in his name."
I was confused.
"What's in whose name?"
"The lawyer!"
Gar said impatiently. "Carlos put everything in his attorney's
name after he got busted. Even the house Quetta lives in. Then after
he was
acquitted, he never bothered to get the property transferred back,
which I told
him was really risky because the damn shyster, by this time, was
into Carlos
for God knows how much. A man with a habit that expensive is dangerous."
"Why did
Carlos lend him money," Marvene sounded pensive. "As you
say, he is
sane and shrewd. So why would he hand over so much shit to a dope
fiend lawyer
with a yen for fast cars and gambling?"
"Here's
this kid from Colombia who gets a lot of money and he meets
this slimy character who happens to have a law degree and looks
like he was
born in a three piece suit." Gar headed for the bathroom again,
shouting over
his shoulder as he almost ran down the hall. "So he got sold
a bill of
goods. He thinks Randy knows all about the good life and which fork
to
use...not to mention the right wine to order in a swanky restaurant."
The door
slammed and shut off the sound of his voice.
"Do you
think Gar is right?" Marvene asked.
Quetta nodded.
"Yes. More that I want to admit. As smart as Carlos is, he
was
taken in by Randy's fast line..."
"Now they're
threatening Quetta." Gar had returned.
"The phone
calls frighten me," Admitted Quetta. "I don't mind dying,
but they
promise to make it so messy."
"See,"
Gar interrupted. "Colombians, are crazy!"
I was still
confused. "Is this lawyer, Randy, a Colombian?"
Gar looked scornful.
"Nah, he's a Wasp with all the right memberships."
"Then who's
threatening to kill Quetta?"
"I told
you!" Gar frowned at me like I was a dull child. "The
Colombians! The
ones that Carlos and Randy were doing business with. See, Carlos
split with
some of their stuff, which wasn't paid for, and Randy hasn't got
the cash to
pay them off, and they think Quetta knows where he is and so they're
after her
ass..."
"Enough",
Marvene was firm. "Enough of this shit. We know from the cards
that
Carlos is all right...wherever he is. Now the important thing is
to see that
Quetta doesn't get hassled." She tightened her lips and looked
grim while she
thought hard. Quetta fidgeted a little on the couch, and Gar managed
to avoid
the bathroom, waiting for Marvene's solution. Finally she shrugged.
"I'll call
a couple of people. I don't know how much I can swing, but at least
we ought to
be able to get Quetta off the hook."
Quetta looked
grateful and Gar blew his nose. "We appreciate anything you
can
do," he said huskily.
Pretty soon
they left. Marvene shook her head wearily. "I sure hope my
friend
has a friend who can help poor Quetta."
"Is it
really bad?"
"Baby,
bad ain't the word. If Carlos don't show himself in the right places
with the right amount of money and a good story about where he's
been these
last two weeks...then Quetta is dead. They don't care if she knows
where her
Bro is, they'll off her as a lesson." She looked disgusted.
"That's why Randy
is acting like the asshole he is. He's scared, and with reason.
Good
reason." She drifted out to the kitchen and started to rummage
in the
refrig\-erator. "Let's see what we can put together here for
some eats. You
hungry, Lawrence?"
"Do you
have to deal with people like that...I mean the kind of guys who
want
to kill Quetta...when you sell my dope?"
She looked amused
as she stuck her head out the kitchen door. "Don't ask dumb
questions, Honey. Now tell me, do you want a ham sandwich or not?"
I had the ham
sandwich. And I felt uncomfortable for a while, about the people
who handle my grass down in the City, and what happens to them and
all. Also I
worried about Quetta. I don't know how that turned out, but I'll
ask Marvene
for sure, when I go south this winter.
After I got
back I quit worrying about all that. I had enough to handle here
at
home.
