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He tracks down to Sandy’s, refusing even to look at South Coast Plaza.
Sandy’s door opens and it’s quiet inside. Angela’s there. “Oh hi, Jim.”
“Hi Angela. Is Sandy—is Sandy okay?”
“Oh yeah.” Angela leads him into the kitchen, which seems odd, so quiet and empty. “He’s fine. He’s gone down to Miami to visit his father.”
“I just heard from Tashi what happened the other night. We’ve been up in the mountains since then or I would’ve been by sooner. I’m really, really sorry—”
Angela puts a hand on his arm to stop him. “Don’t worry about it, Jim. It wasn’t your fault. Tash told me what you did, and to tell you the truth, I’m glad you did it. In fact I’m proud of you. Sandy’s all right, after all. And he’ll be back in a few days and everything will be back to normal.”
“But I heard he got arrested?”
“It doesn’t matter. They can’t make any of the charges stick. Arrests by security cops don’t mean much to the courts. Sandy and Bob said they were just boating out there, and there was nothing to indicate they weren’t. Really, don’t worry about it.”
“Well…”
Angela sits him down, comforts him in typical Angela style: “Sandy wasn’t even to shore when they caught him. It was pretty scary, he said, because they fired a warning shot to stop him, and then they had submachine guns aimed at him and all. And he spent a couple days in jail. But nothing’s going to come of it, we hope. Sandy may have to quit dealing for a while. Maybe for good. That’s my opinion.” She smiles a little.
Jim asks about Arthur.
“He’s disappeared. No one knows where he’s gone or what’s happened to him. I’m not sure I care, either.” Apparently she blames Arthur for getting all of them involved with the sabotage/ drug rescue attempt at LSR; although, Jim thinks, that’s not exactly right. For a moment she looks bleak, and all of a sudden Jim sees that her cheerfulness is forced. Optimism is not a biochemical accident, he thinks; it’s a policy, you have to work at it. “That was damned stupid, what he was doing,” she says, “and he was using you, too. You should have known better.”
“I guess.” They were being used to cover a drug run, after all; what can he say? And in the earlier attacks… was that all there was to it? “But… no, I think Arthur believed in what we were doing. I don’t think he was doing it for money or whatever—he really wanted to make a change. I mean, we have to resist somehow! We can’t just give in to the way things are, can we?”
“I don’t know.” Angela shrugs. “I mean we should try to change things, sure. But there must be ways that are less dangerous, less harmful.”
Jim isn’t so sure. And after they sit in silence for a while, thinking about it, he leaves.
On the freeway, feeling low. How could he have guessed that sabotaging the sabotage would get Sandy in such trouble? Not to mention Arthur! And what, in the end, did he and Arthur accomplish? Were they resisting the system, or only part of it?
He wonders if anything can ever be done purely or simply. Apparently not. Every action takes place in such a network of circumstances.… How to decide what to do? How to know how to act?
He drives by Arthur’s ap in Fountain Valley. Into the complex, up black wood stairs with their beige stucco sidewalls, along the narrow corridor past ap after ap. Number 344 is Arthur’s. No one answers his knock: it’s empty. Jim stands before the window and looks at the sun-bleached drapes. That visionary tension in Arthur, the excitement of action… he had believed in what he was doing. No matter what the connection with Raymond was. Jim is certain of it. And he finds he is still in agreement with Arthur; something has to be done, there are forces in the country that have to be resisted. It’s only a question of method. “I’m sorry, Arthur,” he says aloud. “I hope you’re okay. I hope you keep working at it. And I’ll do the same.”
Walking back to his car he adds, “Somehow.” And realizes that keeping this promise will be one of the most difficult projects he will ever give himself. Since both Arthur and his father are “right”—and at one and the same time!—he is going to have to find his own way, somewhere between or outside them—find some way that cannot be co-opted into the great war machine, some way that will actually help to change the thinking of America.
It’s late, but he decides to drive down to Tashi’s place, to discuss things. He needs to talk.
He takes the elevator up the tower, steps out onto the roof.
It’s empty. The tent is gone.
“What the hell?”
What is happening? he thinks. Where is everyone going? He walks around the rooftop as if its empty concrete can give a clue to Tashi’s whereabouts. Even the vegetable tubs are gone.
Below him sparkle the lights of Newport Beach and Corona del Mar. Somewhere someone’s playing a sax, or maybe it’s just a recording. Sad hoarse sax notes, bending down through minor thirds. Jim stands on the edge of the roof, looking out over the freeways and condos to the black sea. Catalina looks like an overlit sea liner, cruising off on the black horizon. Tashi.…
After an insomniac night on the living room couch, Jim calls Abe. “Hey, Abe, what happened to Tashi?”
“He left for Alaska yesterday.” Long puase. “Didn’t he say good-bye to you?”
“No!” Jim remembers their parting after the drive back. “I suppose he thinks so. Damn.”
“Maybe you were out when he called.”
“Maybe.”
“So how did you like the mountains?”
“They were great. I want to tell you about it—you going to be home today?”
“No, I’m going to work soon.”
“Ah.”
Long silence. Jim says, “How’s Xavier?”
“Hanging in there.” Another silence.
But maybe Abe hears something in it. “Tell you what, Jim, I’ll call you tomorrow, see if you’re still up for getting together. We’ve got to plan a celebration for when Sandy comes back, anyway. As long as nothing happens to his dad.”
“Yeah, okay. Good. You do that. And good luck today.”
“Thanks.”
Jim tracks by First American Title Insurance and Real Estate Company, just because he can’t think of anything to do and old habits are leading him around.
Humphrey is out front, looking morosely at the construction crew that is cleaning up the inside of the building. It’s a mess in there—it resembles fire damage, although it isn’t black. They’ve got most of it cleaned.
“They blew it away,” Humphrey tells him. “Someone blasted it with a bomb filled with a solvent that dissolved everything in there. They got a whole bunch of real estate companies, the same night.”
“Oh,” Jim says awkwardly. “I hadn’t heard. I was up in the mountains with Tashi.”
“Yeah. They got all my files and everything else.” He shakes his head bleakly. “Ambank has already pulled out of the Pourva Tower project because of the delays, they said. I just think they’re scared, but whatever. It doesn’t matter. The project is a goner.”
“I’m sorry, Humph,” Jim says. “Real sorry.” And the part of him that would have been pleased at this unexpected turn—something good coming out of his madness, after all—has gone away. Seeing the expression on Humphrey’s face it has vanished, at least for the moment, from existence. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right,” Humphrey says, looking puzzled. “It wasn’t your fault.”