"No idea."
"We can't locate Azarian exactly. We know he was here and we know he flew to L.A. We figure he's gone back to the community group he's involved in that wants to rush new money into the ghetto and either rebuild from the ground up or destroy from the top down. But we can't locate him exactly. We don't know street name and house number."
"Does anybody know what the product is? I mean exactly."
"We won't know exactly until Pepper gets his mitts on it and goes into the lab."
"Who was it who went crashing through this building one night? Breaking doors and stomping people. I mean exactly who was it? This one apartment wasn't touched. I think that means it was some kind of Happy Valley operation. But who exactly?"
"We've got a runaway contingent, Bucky. Their specialty is violence. Mindless violence. They talk about it all the time. When they're not talking about it, they're doing it. Mindless mindless violence. In a roundabout way that's what got them interested in wholesaling dope. Mindless violence is getting expensive. They need money to keep going."
"I wonder how they define mindless," I said.
"It defines itself. Mindless. In a way I can see what they're doing. Mindless violence is the only truly philosophical violence. They're scrupulous in avoiding any and all implications, political and otherwise. They have no real program or rationale beyond what I said. Mindless. I guess they're trying to empty everything out. Some of them have even taken new names. Bruno, Rex, Corky, Spot and King. They need money for mindless violence. We need money to maintain our privacy."
"You're all living together, is that right?"
"We're the Happy Valley Farm Commune," he said. "We still think that idea has a chance of working. We still talk to each other, group to group. We still live on the same floor of the same tenement. But now they've got two apartments and we've got two apartments and we're in the process of putting up barricades just to play it safe. We're not on bad terms with them. The rupture is a rupture in ideology. But since we're dealing with mindlessness we think it's a good idea to be extra mindful so we're putting up barricades in the hall between their quarters and our quarters. Privacy has its risks. Monkeys raised in isolation grow up violent."
"Rhesus monkeys," Maje said.
"Rhesus monkeys isolated at a certain phase of their development grow abnormally aggressive when that phase ends and they're exposed to other monkeys. They like to attack defenseless infant monkeys. Man the primate goes through similar phases. It may be that Happy Valley's life-style of privacy, isolation and so forth has spawned this outbreak of violence in half its members. Man the primate has been violent for only forty thousand years. What started it was abstract thought. When man started thinking abstractly he advanced from killing for food to killing for words and ideas. Maybe with mindless violence we're going into a new cycle. No more abstract thought and no more concrete thought. Violence for nothing."
"Nonviolence," I said.
"Personally I look on it as faggot violence," Bohack said. "Sexual connotation aside, something becomes faggot-laden when you remove all meaning from it. If there's one thing I learned in the six wasted months I spent in junior college being groomed to play football at USC, it's that violence without historical weight is basically faggot violence and basically ludicrous and a lot easier to ignore basically than the intense programmatic kind of violence that comes from having an idea to defend or some kind of historical impetus to support, like the idea of privacy or the impetus of privacy or the program of privacy. Rex and Spot and the others go flashing through buildings and careening off walls and shrieking at innocent victims and this demonstrates one of the possible results of the kind of intense inner-directed life we've been into, but not by any means the only result or the exclusive result. I played left tackle on defense until I realized my violence was faggot-laden."
"Laden with faggotry," Maje said.
I began to nod my head, trying to find a counterpoint to Bohack's nonstop bobbing. His slight diffident voice, never cresting, seemed to belong to an alternate entity, a small man lodged in his chest cavity, the square root of Bohack, a chap who wore shabby three-piece suits and combed his hair to one side. There was a sound in the darkness outside, rainfall, a sudden tumult over the city, strange, coming down like fury released, the passion of a summer's rain. Longboy scratched his straw head and then moused around in bulky pockets before coming up with a bent cigarette butt. He had the stale rangy look of someone who drives other people's cars coast to coast. He wore jump boots and a field jacket. Maje wore a lumber jacket identical to my own.
"What's in that airline bag?" Bohack said. "Just out of curiosity."
"Bubble gum cards."
"I'll tell you where we're located on the spectrum," he said. "Everybody misinterprets what Happy Valley is and where we're at. We get nothing but faulty interpretation on these subjects. First, what is Happy Valley? Happy Valley is the Happy Valley Farm Commune. We're defining ourselves as we go along. We're seeking our identity. That's why we came to the city. We came here to find ourselves. Second, where are we located on the spectrum? Okay, I have this to say. To heck with the environment. To heck with fresh vegetables. Heck with the third world. Heck with all idea of religion, God and the universe. We believe in the idea of returning the idea of privacy to the idea of American life. Man the primate has given way to man the mass transit vehicle. Mass man isn't free. Everybody knows that who's got one iota of common sense. Happy Valley is free. Free and getting freer. There's no land left. You can't go out West to find privacy. You need to build inward. That's the only direction left to build. We're building inward. We're hoping to wholesale dope to make the money to build inward. This isn't an easy concept to explain, understand or defend. But we believe you're the last person we have to defend ourselves to. We're your group-image, Bucky. You've come inside to stay. You've always been one step ahead of the times and this is the biggest step of all. Demythologizing yourself. Keeping covered. Putting up walls. Stripping off fantasy and legend. Reducing yourself to minimums. Your privacy and isolation are what give us the strength to be ourselves. We were willing victims of your sound. Now we're acolytes of your silence."
"What are your plans for Hanes?" I said.
"Well find him," Maje said.
"Then they'll find him," Longboy said.
"Belly up in shit's creek," Maje said.
Longboy kept blowing on the gnarled butt to keep it lit. He never put it to his mouth to smoke. He merely whistled into its tip, forcing an occasional glow, man the primate making fire, a brown hem appearing on the paper as the heat bit in.
"Whose picture is on those bubble gum cards?" Bohack said.
"Watney's."
"Mind if we take a look? Just out of curiosity. Maje, go look."
"I see bubble gum cards."
"Whose picture on them?"
"Watney's," Maje said.
"Tear one card carefully apart, separating front from back."
"I don't know if they're thick enough to tear that way."
"Tear," Bohack said. "Pretend you're tearing apart an English muffin. Gently. Little by little."
"Here we go."
"What's in there?"
"Nothing."
"Take five more cards and tear them the same way. Front from back. English muffins. Easy now."
"What are you looking for?" I said.
"I'm not sure," Bohack said. "But Watney is Watney, a man with a reputation for being unpredictable. I'm sorry we've had to encroach on Bucky Wunderlick like this. But at least it's just about over now. We're on the verge of freeing Bucky Wunderlick from connection with the product and we won't have to encroach anymore."