Gehry was the only one who got away untainted — that was the true Bilbao Effect, in action!
SEX with Pradeep had a quality of innocence, something lacking in her connection to Barbet. The counsel was all feeling; with Barbet, she was always being hustled or hustling. That was exciting too, though not in the long run.
“Tell me what you know about Lew,” she said after room service came. She tore into her veal as he spoke.
“An unusual man.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“He would have to be. A bit. No?”
“Did he beat up his wives?”
“Not that I know of!”
“How close was he to his brother?”
“Very.”
“What exactly were they doing in India? The brother and wife?”
“Bumming around, in their fashion. On the way to Sri Lanka. The Maldives. They weren’t the Phi Phi-Phuket sort. They’d have been better off if they’d wound up in the Maldives during the Wave. They found them both in a tree, you know — a sundari. The water pushed them up. It was a ‘spirit’ tree, with a beautiful yellow sash around the trunk. I have a digital photo.”
“What is that? A spirit tree.”
“It’s special. It’s ‘recognized’ by the villagers. The monks leave offerings for it, you know, food and water. This tree took the Freibergs in its arms, so to speak. They just hung there. Esther was still wearing her jewels. No one would go near them; they did not retrieve the bodies. It’s actually quite beautiful. In its fashion.”
“What happened?”
“Relief workers finally got them down. There were elephants all around, clearing debris. Even the elephants stopped what they were doing to gather there! Around the spirit tree. Amazing. I was told this story by a very straight-arrow guy who works for Guerdon, so no one made it up. It is not an urban legend. Did you know Lew wanted to cut the tree down and bring it to Napa to replant? I think he wanted it for the Memorial. The government hasn’t allowed it (so far!) because those kind of trees are nearly extinct. He asked me to intervene — I made a few inquiries, but they won’t. They never will. Which is good for you, my Miss Joan, because if they’d allowed it, poof! There goes your Mem. But maybe Mr Koolhaas, with his delinquent Dutch charm, will convince them yet!”
XVIII.Ray
BIG Gulp drove Ray to the West Side to see the Friar. It took almost 2 hours through late-afternoon traffic. Ray kept talking about monorails.
He tired easily and didn’t like to admit that he wasn’t up to driving yet. It was a big car, a Monte Carlo that pulled a bit to the right. BG said he should get something new if the city gave him money but Ray was sentimentally attached. He’d give it a bath and a major tune-up, put on some new radials, patch up the upholstery. No need to trade her in.
Ghulpa looked fine in her royal-blue sari. They parked and she walked him to the entrance. His woman was kind and solicitous. He was proud to have her on his arm.
The hospital was like nothing he’d ever seen. The animals were called “patients” and waiting rooms were segregated for cats and dogs. The facility had an ER yet also treated cancers and genetic conditions. While Ray and Ghulpa waited, someone brought in a sick parrot; a few minutes later came a rabbit in its death throes. He wanted to laugh, but these were the folks who saved his dog’s life.
The plant manager gave them a VIP tour (Nip/Tuck’s shooting had garnered lots of press) of the pristine radiology suite, CT scanners and ultrasound, the ICU, incubators with nebulizers, blood and plasma banks. A dozen fully accredited surgeons were on call 24 hours a day. The manager said he had just come from tending a snake with pneumonia. Ray, dumbfounded and impressed, said, “Well, now I’ve heard everything.”
Friar Tuck wasn’t well enough to be brought out to a visiting room, so Ray said, “Let’s bring the mountain to Mohammed.” He was in a cage and squealed and shook when he saw his master. The old man’s eyes moistened at the reunion. BG stood back with a toothy, lip-sheathed smile. Ray talked to him through the wire, saying “Don’t you worry. You’ll be home in no time.” The doctor said “Friar” was doing real well but Ray winced at the long railroad-track-stitched scar where he had been shaved. They’d put a titanium pin in his hip, and Ray joked he might want to come in for one of those himself. The doctor played along and said he’d do just as good a job as they would at Cedars or UCLA. Ghulpa brought sandesh wrapped in aluminum foil, Nip/Tuck’s favorite. The medical men said that would be OK and the dog took a nibble, almost out of politeness, before spitting most of it out. Then he puked and one of the aides took over and told them not to worry, that it was the taste and smell that “set him off,” and there were lots of things he would need to get “acclimatized” to.
The ACLU attorney met them at the appointed time. He gave the dog a friendly, cursory wave — just another client who stood to benefit from pending litigation. Before they left, standing in the lobby, the lawyer asked the plant manager to “ballpark” what the hospitalization was going to cost, “in toto.” Ray goofed on him. “Now, there he goes — are you talking about Toto again from The Wizard of Oz? Cause that is one expensive pooch.” The manager was hesitant to commit to a hard figure but said “probably in the neighborhood of 15,000.” The Friar would have to go to rehab after being discharged — hopefully someplace close to Industry — for aquatic therapy. All at additional cost.
They followed Mr ACLU to Spago. Big Gulp had trouble keeping up with the silver Mercedes, whose driver yapped away on his cellphone instead of keeping tabs on her in his rearview. Ray slept and snored.
The beautiful Asian hostess greeted counsel like an old acquaintance. She sat them in the bright and leafy garden. The old man thought it an awfully fancy place for an ACLU fellow — weren’t they supposed to be defenders of the poor? He wondered who was footing the bill. They were being treated like they’d won the lottery and Ray wasn’t sure he liked that. After a glass of red, he loosened up and enjoyed the moment. Ghulpa excused herself and the lawyer began to speak of a case—“another break-in”—that had come to his attention. A man was bludgeoning and killing old women, then “having his way” with the bodies, after death. The police interrogated him and asked how the sex was, “on a scale of one to 10.” The murderer said, “A 14. Your eyes would have rolled back in your head.” Ray wondered why he was telling him this, as if it somehow related to his own case. Mr ACLU was probably going to represent that monster. Hadn’t been read his Miranda’s, or whatnot. Luckily, Big Gulp returned before any further history could be provided; the lawyer nodded gravely, summarizing a tacit gentleman’s agreement that she would not be brought up to speed on the details of their mantalk. Instead, he embroidered, saying everyone had a destiny that couldn’t be changed. He directed his words at Ghulpa, because of her Indian provenance. “Karma,” he added. Implicit in the remark was that it was those old women’s destiny to be slaughtered and raped, it was the old man’s destiny to have his door broke down and his dog shot, and the lawyer’s destiny to collect untold shitloads of $$$ for the inconvenience. He’s a slick, lowlife shyster but it’s too late to change horses. Who has the strength. Anyhow, Big Gulp seems to approve, and right now she’s running the show.