Lily had a great sense of humor but I don’t think she ever really got the funny in that story because she drove like my grandmother.
Following her to the restaurant that first day, I got the feeling something was seriously wrong with her car. Like the hand brake was full on, or the engine had fallen out and she was pushing with her feet. Little things like that. She called it cautious driving, I called it coronary driving. It had to be against the law to drive as slowly as this woman did. I couldn’t believe she wasn’t pulling my leg. But she wasn’t—this was her, and from that day on there was no way I could convince her to speed it up. When I drove the car, she was perfectly content at whatever speed I chose. But when Lady Lily herself was at the wheel, you went back to the days of the bullock cart. Only she held a gearshift knob instead of reins.
On the ride over, Cobb stared out their rear window at me. He resembled one of those giant stone heads on Easter Island. Once in a while Lincoln turned and gave a small wave, but until we reached the place it was mostly the old dog and me eyeballing each other through crosstown L.A. traffic.
I didn’t know them, but I liked both very much already. Lily was smart and talked too much. I imagined waking with her, the greyhound taking up half the bed. Lincoln would come in sleepily and sit on a corner warmed by sun falling across blue blankets. What did she look like in the morning? What did they think of me? Would I see them again after today, or would something happen to spoil it and make it go away? I was a romantic and believed in instant recognition, instant affinity. Why couldn’t this happen? I’d had luck before and therefore faith that it wasn’t a one-time thing.
From the outside, Crowds and Power was so low-key and cool that I first mistook it for a warehouse. Then a parking attendant hurried over to Lily’s car and I knew this must be the place. A warehouse manned by parking attendants. It was blue-gray cinder block, and only when you looked closely did you see the small salmon-colored neon sign saying the name of the restaurant. I have nothing against subtle or cool, but in L.A. they try so hard to cool you right into oblivion that it is often both noisome and silly at the same time.
“Here we are, Max. What do you think?”
“It’s hard to tell it’s a restaurant. No big, uh, fanfare or anything.”
“Well, you should have seen it last month! No face is better than what we had. Wait’ll you meet Ibrahim. Come on.”
The parking attendant jogged back to us and I saw he was Oriental. Lily said something in what sounded like the same language she’d used earlier at the museum. The two of them smiled.
“Max, this is Ky.”
“Hi, Ky.”
“Hello, Paper Clip. Hello, Max Fish-ah.”
“You know me?”
“Ky knows everyone famous in L.A. That’s his way of studying to be an American. Right, Ky?”
“This is right. I do not understand your cartoon but you are famous, so it must be very good. Congratulations.” He bowed deeply and took my car without another word.
“What’s with him?” We walked toward the restaurant.
“Just what I said. Ky’s Vietnamese and wants the green card here. He thinks America will like him more if he memorizes its famous people.”
“That’s the oddest thing I’ve heard today.”
“Not so odd. What’s more important in America than being famous? Famous is best, notorious is second best. Come on.”
The moment she opened the door, the voice spat out like a zap of static electricity, sharp and crackling with speed and random inflections.
“You think you’re a skyscraper, Ibrahim. You think you got a World Trade Center imagination. Forget it. You’ve got one floor, ace. A molehill. You’ve got a strong antenna, Ib, but all the stations’re coming in jammed. What you’ve got is enthusiasm and money; they can only buy you material. Popcorn and oil, but no heat to cook it up. Gays are supposed to have taste, man. Arabs have money, gays have taste! Thank God you’ve got me.”
The speaker was short, dark, and handsome. He might’ve been an actor in an ethnic movie about Brooklyn neighborhoods or Italian immigrants. But because he was so short and spoke so fast he also sounded like a stand-up comic who told cruel funny stories about his family and himself. He was scolding another dark man, much taller and rounder, with an unmistakably Arab face. This bigger one wore a wonderful expression—a combination of love and shame and enjoyment in one. He listened carefully. By the look in his eye some of what was said registered, but mostly he was just happy to be near his haranguer.
“Oh, Gus, put a cap on it,” Lily said, and walked straight up to them. The little guy swiveled on his heel like he’d been challenged to a gunfight. The Arab stood where he was but his face glowed even more happily.
“Hollow, Lily! It is your day off. Why are you here?”
“Hi, Ibrahim. I brought a friend to see the place. Max Fischer, this is my boss, Ibrahim Safid, and his partner, Gus Duveen.”
Ibrahim threw both arms up over his head. “Hollow, Mox!”
Gus scowled and said disgustedly, “Max, not Mox. How are we ever going to get the fucking camel out of you? How’re you doing, Max? Hi, Lil, Finky Linky.”
Lincoln stepped forward and took Gus’s hand. “We went to the museum and saw a car accident.”
“Probably a happening in the museum and some art school geek got a goddamned grant to do it.”
Lincoln looked puzzled. “Whaaaat?”
“Forget it. Lily, guess what. Ibrahim wants to re-dec-o-rate.” He turned to me. “My partner is passionate about two things—me and this restaurant. Once he knew he had me, he started wooing this place into becoming famous. He gives it whatever it wants—face lifts, hair transplants, tummy tucks… In the last two years it has had three entirely different decors, but now we have reached the end.
“I promise you, Ibrahim, if you change this restaurant again I’m leaving. I will not share a bathroom mirror any longer with a man who has no faith in his own judgments. I don’t care if you can afford it.” Narrowing his eyes, Gus gave his lover a look that would have made Medusa look away.
“Stop it, Ignaz. Fight when you’re at home.”
Later, Lily told me she called them Ignaz and Krazy Kat because they were both so much like the characters in the famous comic strip: Duveen never stopped throwing “bricks,” while Ibrahim never stopped looking at him with love or, when he was really mad at the other, absolute affection.
Luckily there weren’t many people in the restaurant, so Gus’s blast wasn’t heard by many. Those who did looked up and calmly down. I got the feeling they’d heard it before but paid it no mind.
“Who’s cooking today, Ibrahim?”
“Foof.”
“Oh good! You can eat anything, Max. Foof is cooking.”
“Foof? Great. Who’s Foof?”
“Ky’s girlfriend. They met at the Immigration Bureau and have been living together ever since. She alternates cooking with Mabdean.”
“Mabdean?”
“Mabdean Kessack. He’s from Cameroon.”
“Very good at vegetables. But he does not like meat, so it is a bad idea to order it on a day he is in the kitchen,” said Ibrahim, hirer and boss of meat-hating Mabdean.
Mabdean lived with Alberta Band, one of two waitresses at Crowds and Power. The other being her sister Sullivan, who, in her off-hours, performed with the infamous theater group Swift Swigger. Want more? These Band women were the daughters of none other than Vincent Band, the revolutionary/suspected murderer/bank robber extraordinaire of the 1960s, who is serving out his life sentences in San Quentin prison but may be due for parole any day now. According to the Bands, Father would eat the world alive if and when he ever got out.
We finally ate lunch, but what did we have? What was said at the table? Did I speak? The restaurant was a fire storm of energy, tempers, goings-on. Customers knew each other, food came when you weren’t expecting it. Foof the cook appeared wearing a chef’s hat and a T-shirt saying “Butthole Surfers.” It pictured two circus clowns giving the finger.