<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 6 Compromising Act There was the sound of gunfire. Mona, the woman in the black dress, was telling Anton, "Our stronghold is under attack. People are coming in from the surrounding streets. Go out and organize the new recruits." She drank a dark red wine called Sangre de Toro. She had a firm figure that looked corseted, and sharp, unsympathetic features. She wore fishnet stockings with her hair sticking out. Anton woke up. The gunfire had ended, and the sirens had begun. He could hear them coming from all parts of the city, converging on a point about three blocks away. He thought of his friends, Blake, Sebastian, Sasha, Cynthia, Doreen, Kliff. Where were they all this morning? Were they safe? Seeing that the sky was bleached bare, the sun just up, he told himself, "It's much too early." He twisted out of his blankets and put on his shoes. He was already wearing his other clothes. He ran his fingers through his hair and made a quick tour of the building. Finding no one awake, he went out onto the street. Most of the shops in the neighborhood were still closed. The only people out so early were refugees from the night before, drunks shambling from doorway to doorway. As he passed the Clarion Cafe, with its wooden tables that looked like they'd been salvaged from a series of garage sales, he noticed that its windows were dark. They wouldn't be open for another hour. The sirens had stopped, having arrived at their destination. Should he see what all the fuss was about? It seemed he was headed in that direction. He cut into a gray alley that began as a series of row houses, followed by the long, blank wall of the Institutional Laundry Company. From a basement window he could hear a dog barking inside the big, empty building. As he turned the corner, he saw flashing lights two blocks away. There were four or five police cars, and it looked like they'd blocked off the whole intersection. As he'd guessed, they were directly in front of the housing projects, known as the Gardens, that were the most violent part of the neighborhood. The Gardens were three-story concrete bunkers with only a few windows, their apartment numbers stenciled in black on the smooth, brown walls. They reminded him of a movie he'd seen of the inside of a Latin American prison. They took up most of a city block, with balconies facing into a central courtyard. Anyone could walk in, climbing the metal stairs on the outside of each building. There were no gates. Still, the drug runners who lived there had Israeli-made weapons. Even police who tried to go in had been shot. The buildings that overlooked the Gardens from across the street were fortified against its hostile culture with metal gates on their doors and windows, electric buzzers and intercoms. It was impossible to get in there unless someone invited you, and how would you ever meet them? They were too scared to go outside. He went into a corner grocery that had opened early. The owner was an Arab man with a round face. He was about fifty years old, shorter than most Americans, with bare, hairy arms. He wore a green apron. There was a TV on the counter. The president, it was saying, had signed another "historic peace treaty." A bomb in a Singapore disco had killed "seven people, including two Americans." Nodding to the grocer, who was calm and self-assured like the TV news, he bought himself a chocolate bar. Shedding the brown wrapper, he stepped into the street, acting idly curious and trying to become part of the small crowd. Looking past the arm of a trenchcoat, he saw that police were escorting a couple of paramedics inside the Gardens with a stretcher. As the medics went in, another group of police came out, leading a young man in a Puma jumpsuit. The man's wrists were shackled painfully behind him, forcing his shoulders up and his head down. There was a cut over his eye. Anton felt sympathy for the young man who was being led away to spend months or years in prison. He wondered if the kid had hurt someone. His face wasn't hard enough for it. Soon he was thinking of his own face, angelic and cruel. He started to walk, glancing over his shoulder at his reflection in the window of an auto parts store. Above the upturned collar of his jacket, he saw a startled expression. His lips were chapped, and his scalp itched. There was no hot water at the squat, so he hadn't had a proper shower in days. He tried to keep his hands away from his head, but ended up scratching furiously behind his ears. He stopped at a pay phone on the next corner. "Vince? How's it going? The sirens woke me up and I couldn't get back to sleep, so I came out to see what happened. There was a shooting at the projects, and they took this guy away in cuffs. Listen, can I come by your place for a shower?" "Couldn't you wait for a while, so I can get some sleep?" Vince said. "Isn't it eight in the morning still? That's why I dropped out of college, so I can sleep late." Anton scratched his head impatiently and walked back to the Clarion, which was now open. Seeing the Asian owner with her tired, spotted skin and thinning hair, her broad arms rounding the contours of a threadbare cardigan, he felt right away that his shabbiness belonged there. He respected his elders on principle, especially the ones who had worked all their lives for very little. He went up to the counter and ordered two eggs with ham, toast, fruit, and a cup of tea. He went to sit in the window, which was meant to display dresses or shoes. The windows pushed toward the sidewalk on either side, with a tiled alcove between them. It was possible to sit there like an item for sale and get a close view of the street. He liked the food. The yellow part of the egg broke and swirled toward the ham. He wiped it up with a potato chunk stuck on the end of his fork. Outside, a punk couple stopped to look at the menu. He felt like they were standing over him, so he hunched down, glaring back at them with a surly expression. The guy was tall and gangly with torn black jeans, a black leather jacket, and black boots. The girl had bright red hair and pale skin, and a short skirt over black dancer's tights. He wondered if her legs were cold. They came into the cafe and headed for the counter. The guy had the hardened look of a derelict who sucked his toes at night to keep from going hungry, whose fingers left bruises on a woman's skin when they made love. Anton drifted off to a place inside his head. Words and sketches appeared in his notebook: lyrics, prophecies, dreams, and scattered nonsense. It occurred to him that if he'd stayed in Iowa, he would have been in school at that moment, doing calculus or reading about the Cold War. There was nothing wrong with that, he decided, but it amazed him that he'd spent so much time in a classroom when there was real work to be done. After an hour or so, Kliff spotted him from the street and came in. He emerged from his trance and watched Kliff go to the counter for a coffee. The Clarion had become a second headquarters for them, where they met to discuss strategy for the band. The elderly couple who owned it knew they were squatters. They didn't approve of the squatters' lifestyle, but they considered Trashtown to be good for business, a spark of life in an otherwise grim neighborhood. He'd gotten used to going there when he wanted some time to himself, and Kliff had discovered this. It gave them a convenient place to meet. Kliff would tell him what had happened since the last time they'd talked, and get Anton's reaction before returning to his rounds. While the Psychic Rangers were rehearsing in their attic studio, Kliff would be circulating throughout the city on their behalf, distributing flyers, locating equipment, setting up gigs. Anton felt lucky. How could anyone know his way around Portland as well as Kliff? "He's not a manager, really. He's a kid like me. But he knows the right people, and it seems to be working." He'd been telling Kliff for weeks that it was time to record the band's music. "We've got an album's worth of songs already. We should be recording them now, while they're still fresh. We can produce the album ourselves, but we need a place to work. Can you find us a place that'll show us how to use the equipment, then leave us alone until we're done?" Kliff had laughed when he heard this. "Studio time's precious. The engineer gets paid whether he's at the controls or not. You'll be paying them to learn what they already know. So you're better off letting them do their work. Rehearse each song until you can get it right in a couple of takes, then go into the studio and record everything in a day or two." "We're ready for that, too." "You still don't have the money." "Maybe there's a producer who'll do it because he supports the cause?" "You're dreaming. This is a business. But I'll see what I can do." Now Kliff came to the table with his latte in a tall glass. They sat together in silence as Anton worked on a lyric. Kliff rolled a cigarette, fidgeting as he smoked it. After a while, Anton looked up. He saw that Kliff had foam on his mouth from his latte. "You have sperm on your lip." Kliff grinned and licked it off. "I've got an idea for you. I know something you can do to help your career in a big way. You'll get the resources to do whatever you want—record, tour, distribute your stuff—all in exchange for one compromising act." Anton cocked an eyebrow. "Compromising act?" "Your shows at the squat are amazing, we all know that. But do you notice the same people show up each time? Your core following is two or three hundred people. Each time you play somewhere new, you bring in a few more. After a while, playing around like that, you'll get a few thousand fans. That's the plateau you'll reach, if you're lucky." "What's wrong with that?" "Trust me, you don't want to get stuck at that level. It's not just the financial angle that suffers. In the end, your creativity takes the blow and you give up. You'll get a job running a forklift. It happened to the Pencils, to Goober, and all the rest. Even Boyd Franklin sells insurance now. So you see the point I'm making. We need to get you into some real clubs. Not just for the thrill of it, but so you can go on, get better. It's a survival thing, and there's no reason to waste time." "I agree." "But there's a small obstacle. One man controls all the clubs in this town, and his name is Reinhold." The name seemed familiar to Anton. "You told me about him before, right? Some kind of right-wing crackpot? A narco kingpin?" Visions of mind control and political violence danced in his head. Kliff felt a small panic, but he didn't show it. "It's not a name you would know. Reinhold is just a two-bit promoter who was in the right place at the right time, only nowadays he controls the best venues. He's a power behind the scenes, you might say. And the irony is, he knows nothing about music. So how do you get his attention? How do you get him to back you, and not some other jerk?" "Okay, how?" Kliff grinned. "I used to work for Reinhold. I was part of his harem, I guess you could say, his stable of stars. Before he got into the music business, he was in porn. He made skin flicks for special tastes, and I was one of his protégés." "Why am I not surprised?" "I haven't done a shoot for him in a long time. I've found a better use for my talents. But I promised I'd do one last project, a comeback as it were. I'd decide when and how it would happen. And once I made the film, I'd get a favor in return." Anton's eyes narrowed. "What's this got to do with me?" "If we do the movie, he owes us both. He promotes your career, and you're on your way." "If we do the movie?" Anton burst out laughing. "I knew you'd proposition me sooner or later, but leave it to you to make it a business venture!" Kliff looked away, embarrassed. "So what do you get from it? Besides the sex, of course." "As your manager and friend, your success is my own. And it cancels my debt to Reinhold." "It only gets you more deeply involved with the man." "Maybe." He eyed Anton anxiously. "Will you do it?" "Are you sure this is the best way? Can't we just leave Reinhold out of it?" "No one will book you without Reinhold." "Then why not show him my music! Haven't you got it all backwards?" "I told you, he doesn't care about music. He's into power, plain and simple." "So why do we need him? We're building a community of our own. We've got people who believe in us, who support us, who know what we stand for. Why deal with that prick?" "You said you wanted to play the clubs." "I'm having second thoughts." "People in that world are hungry, too." "They're only hungry for the latest trends. As soon as we start playing the clubs, our message changes. It becomes a transaction for a product. Guest lists, promoters, lines at the door. Club owners line their pockets, and our fans are left in the cold. I can't respect that." "Then how will you survive as a musician? Some things have to be paid for, like studio time for your album." Anton grinned. "Now I see where this is going." "Channels will open up for you, I promise, that I can't even explain now. Besides, it's a lot of cash." "How much?" "Twenty-five hundred for you, and five thousand for me 'cause I'm the star. Since we're in it together, I'll split it with you fifty-fifty." Anton drummed his fingers on the table. "You know I don't like this." "Who can blame you? I was a screen whore since I was twelve. It wasn't just once, either, it was my way of life for years. But you don't have to decide now. Our next step is to go see Reinhold. Promise you'll stick with me just that far. You can always back out later. Like the lady said, 'Just say no.'" • • • Kliff sat at the squat's dining room table, picking a dark, resinous buildup from the wood with his fingernail. Anton lay on the floor, shoulders propped against a cushion, staring at the ceiling. Their meeting with Reinhold was in half an hour. Anton had just noticed a line of blue footprints that traveled up the wall, across the ceiling and down again to the doorframe, where they vanished abruptly as if stepping over a sill. "How did those get there?" he asked. Kliff followed his line of sight. "You never noticed that before? Sasha did it last winter, before you moved in." He described how Sasha had walked upside down on the ceiling, feet covered in paint, supported by friends as paint dripped on them from above. Anton realized that Trashtown's history was full of events that excluded him. Some had happened before his arrival, but it was mostly his own fault. His career kept him too busy to take part in the squat's daily life. His ambitions set him apart. That made him an outsider with an agenda of his own. The squatters put up with it because, innocents that they were, they had never learned to protect themselves from predators like him. He reached for his notebook and began to write. Breaking out from a faraway prison—it seems like everywhere I go is a prison of some kind. I don't mean to have a grudge against the world, I just do. And then, situations tend to confirm my opinion. Did I ever expect to be in a room with footsteps on the ceiling? Maybe when I was little, then I forgot to desire this. Now the room and I have found each other, but what have I had to suffer just to get here? If I could believe this was my real family. If I could believe I had a family somewhere. Always problems, problems with relationships, but never enough to cut the cord. This world is occupied by people, and if I want to live here, I have to deal with them. Why couldn't I have come as a building, or a tree? But only people are able to act, and not be victims. Is this true? With this comes a fearsome responsibility—what are we going to do with our time? "I told him why we're doing this," Kliff was saying. "Told who what?" Apparently he'd missed something. "Reinhold. I told him you're a musician who wants to play his clubs. He knows you aren't looking for a career in porn. If everything works out on the shoot, he'll set you up. It's a one-time deal for you and me both. Unless you see it differently?" Anton laughed and shook his head. "Good, he understands that. We won't be talking business today. He just wants to check you out, make sure you're right for the part, and that you're okay with doing a project like this. We'll be paid on the day of the shoot, in about two weeks." "Is there anything special you want me to say, or not say?" "Just act like a kid from Iowa, that's what he likes." Kliff got to his feet and Anton followed, taking his jacket from a nearby chair. He ran his fingers through his hair, which was long enough now to fall in his face. On their way out they met Sebastian, who was painting an intricate, rose-covered trellis along the wall of the stairwell. They closed the door behind them and went out into the street. Squeezing past large women with small dogs, they moved through a district of closely packed shops at the edge of downtown. A drab and shoddy concrete structure, a professional building of some sort, loomed over them a few blocks away. Kliff laid out his plans for Anton's career. "Club Omaha's the place to start. It's not much bigger than a shoebox, but once you play there, you'll get gigs at Lizard Lounge, Cosmos, New Jerusalem. Pirate Radio has its eye on all those places, and soon your music will be on stations up and down the coast. By the time you release your album, you'll be ready for a West Coast tour. There'll be videos, product endorsements—" "Now hold on, there." "What's the problem?" "The Psychic Rangers aren't a product. We're a revolutionary band. I don't want to be sold like a bowl of cereal. I want the marketing guys to tremble when they hear our name. I want them thinking, 'The Psychic Rangers are something we can't control.' Because we're doing it without their help. As for folks like us, I want to show them how it's done. They should be saying, 'I can do that. That could be me.'" "Do you think you can get anywhere without hype?" "What we need is word of mouth. We need to travel, play with local bands, set up a network, distribute our stuff." "That's not good enough. You want your music to reach every corner of America. You want it to show up in the shopping malls of your hometown, where it might help a kid like you who got left behind." Anton stopped short. "I did leave someone behind. Someone I care about." Kliff eyed him curiously. "He's fifteen and brilliant. A painter, a visionary. We grew up together—" They were at the door of the concrete monstrosity they'd spotted earlier. "Tell me later," Kliff said. "Right now, we got a date with the man." Anton followed him into a long, narrow lobby with potted palms flanking the entrance. There was no one at the reception desk, so they stepped around it. An owlish man appeared, barring their way imperiously. He wore a blue uniform with brass buttons, its sleeves too short for his round frame. "You are visiting?" he demanded. "Square Peg Foundation," Kliff said. The man raised an eyebrow. "And you are?" "Kliff." The man blinked slowly, unsure what to make of this. "Just tell 'em we're here," Kliff said. The man called upstairs, and after a brief conversation, hung up the phone. Following them to the elevator, he pushed the button himself to make sure they went to the right floor. "I love a man in uniform," Kliff giggled as the doors closed. Anton could feel the moist breath in his ear hole, and laughed too because it tickled. They stepped into a lobby with a black lacquered table, an empty vase, and a lithograph of a ship at sea. Turning first one way, then another, they passed a series of black doors with brass plaques before coming to one that read, "Square Peg Foundation." Kliff rapped sharply. "Come in," said a woman's voice. "Kliff, darling, how are you?" Immediately the phone rang. "Excuse me," she mouthed silently. "Good afternoon, Square Peg Foundation." Once she was done, she returned to Kliff. "I'm sorry, Mr. Reinhold had to take this call. He's doing the financing for his new project." While they waited, Anton studied the silvery wood paneling, the bottle-green carpet, the gray metal desk with its knickknacks and geegaws. "This place is tacky," he thought as the receptionist filed her nails. Eventually a door opened, and a man in a cheap suit poked his head out, beckoning them inside. "Come in, boys," he called jovially. A film of perspiration dotted his upper lip. "Come in," he said again, waving a hand thick with silver rings. Closing the door behind him, Reinhold circled his desk to sit behind it. Seated opposite him, Anton and Kliff could see the river over his shoulder. Its surface was gray and wide, obscured by mist. Bridges rose on granite and steel trestles, arching their backs like the skeletons of giant reptiles. Reinhold took a glass decanter from the bottom drawer of his desk. Removing the stopper, he poured a dose of amber liquid into each of three small, thick glasses. He replaced the stopper, offering his hand to Anton. "Reinhold," he announced. "Anton Dupree." Grasping the hand firmly, he rose from his seat. He felt self-conscious, like he was meeting his girlfriend's father for the first time. Reinhold got to the point. "This film is meant for a specialized audience with certain tastes. The presence of women would be distracting to them, so it's necessary for us to display sexual acts that take place when no women are present. Are you okay with this?" This seemed reasonable to Anton. He shrugged and said, "Sure." "Because for some guys, sex without girls is like a contradiction. They get on the set and they don't know what to do. They think it's physically impossible. And when you explain it to them, they get all freaked out." "No, really, it's okay. As long as it's not a snuff film, that's going a bit too far." Reinhold had begun his career in the snuff business, but Anton had no way of knowing that. So Reinhold laughed easily and said, "Fine, then it's a deal. And remember, my people are experts. They've done this hundreds of times. Just follow their instructions and you'll come up smelling like roses, I guarantee you." • • • An unmarked van pulled up in front of a warehouse on an otherwise deserted street. Anton and Kliff got out, along with Reinhold and an assistant. The day was cold and drizzly. As they stood on the sidewalk in overcoats and scarves, Anton felt like one of Hitler's henchmen. He imagined how Himmler or Gšring must have felt—power was its own reward, the strong ate the weak because they could. He could sense something satisfying in this outlook. "Where are the others?" Reinhold said to his aide. "They're already inside, setting up." Reinhold motioned to Anton and Kliff. "You boys go ahead. Grab some of this equipment." The back of the van was open now, and cases of equipment were being handed out. Each carrying a case, Kliff and Anton headed toward the building. "Send a couple of boys to get the rest of this stuff," Reinhold said to his assistant. The aide nodded and followed Anton and Kliff through a doorway. "Get this van around back with the other one," Reinhold told the driver. "Visibility is not an asset here." Anton and Kliff crossed a large storeroom that was completely empty and climbed a flight of concrete stairs, which brought them to a corridor with doors spaced far apart. Stopping at one of them, Kliff typed some numbers into a keypad. The door clicked open and they walked into a flood of light. They were in a large room equipped as a sound stage, the set of Rough and Tumble starring Anton and Kliff. People were scurrying in all directions, positioning lights, setting up microphones, rehearsing camera movements, taking sound and light readings. They were taken in hand by a woman of about thirty who seemed to be in charge of things. She spotted them from across the room and surged forward saying, "Kliff! How are you?" Grasping both his hands in hers, she kissed him on the cheek. "I hope you've gotten over that nasty cold?" He grinned, smoothing his ratty moustache with one finger. "I'm fine, Velma. But some of that blow would do me good. Drains the sinuses." "Of course! Let me take your coats." She gestured impatiently as the boys shucked off their overcoats. Craning her neck, she spotted a crew member who was standing idle. "Danny! Don't stand around like some slack-mouthed Mormon. Take the boys' coats to the—" She found a spot, pointed. "Hang them up over there." Danny whisked the overcoats from her imperious arm. She turned to Anton and offered him a firm handshake. "You must be Anton, the new boy." "Yes, ma'am." His eyes darted this way and that, entranced by all the activity. "Velma Briggs," she said, indicating herself. "And don't call me ma'am." He blushed. "It's second nature, I guess. I'm from the Midwest." "So how does it feel to be a movie star?" He chuckled. "If you can call it that." "It's a select audience, of course. Maybe fifty people will see this film. But they're important people. Japanese, in this case, and fond of American youth. Sometimes, impressing the right fifty people can go further toward advancing a career than—" "An appearance on 'Oprah'?" "A lot further, you'd be surprised." She was businesslike now. "Enough of this, let's get you boys freshened up." She led them to a corner with armchairs and mirrors. To the assistants she said, "Take care of these boys. Get them anything they want. We're rolling in thirty minutes." She wished them luck and turned to go, but paused for a moment. "I hear you're a musician?" she said over her shoulder. Anton's thoughts were elsewhere now. He shrugged and nodded. "What do you play?" "Bass. I write my own songs." "The next time you do a show, will you tell me? I'd like to see it." He looked at her questioningly. "You've got a quality I don't see every day. Sincerity, intensity—something." Overhearing this, Kliff's face lit up in a grin. Annoyed with herself now for her candor, Velma turned abruptly and walked away. Reinhold came into the room, still in his overcoat. Anton spotted him through the melee. The crew stiffened to attention, going through their routines with more precision and less banter. His powerful voice carried across the set. "What's the scenario for this one? Not another boudoir melodrama, surely?" One of the aides handed him the script on a clipboard, explaining the action briefly. He raised his eyebrows, stroked his chin and nodded. "Kliff as 'The Executioner'? Animal masks? I like it." He congratulated the man with a pat on the back and strolled over to where Kliff and Anton were being prepared for their parts. Stripped down completely now, they were having their bodies painted in tribal style. Kliff had a tattoo on his shoulder, and a nipple ring. Reinhold walked up behind them, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. Anton jumped slightly when he was touched, gritting his teeth. Kliff seemed to be used to it. "How're my boys? Feeling fine?" He snapped his fingers and gestured to one of the assistants. Immediately a mirror was presented with piles of cocaine and marijuana, pre-rolled joints, and all the necessary utensils. Kliff started on the cocaine, cutting himself a line. Anton picked up a joint and lit it nonchalantly. Reinhold gave him a supportive squeeze. "That'll heat you up! That'll give you gumption." Anton winced. The assistants continued to dab color onto his body. He stared at Reinhold curiously. "I know it's your first time. But trust me, son, you're in good hands. This is a first-class operation all the way. You understand what's expected of you, of course?" Anton swallowed. The weed was disorienting him, and Reinhold's presence made him nervous. "I guess so." "Good, because we don't want any fuckups on the set, no last-minute chickenshit. Anyway, Kliff is no virgin to all of this." He let out a surprising giggle, high-pitched and shrill. "He's done it so often, he could do it in his sleep. You're the best, aren't you Kliff?" He giggled again, stroking Kliff's arm possessively. Kliff flushed and looked away. "I guarantee it, a veteran of the art. You'll break in the new boy, won't you, Kliff?" He smiled and told Anton, "He'll take you through it step by step." • • • After the shoot, they retreated to an antechamber to count their earnings. Anton was delirious at the sight of so much cash, and he was high on cocaine. Rubbing it into his gums had made him particularly wild. "Forgive me," he told Kliff, "but this whole situation feels like we're in a dream. In fact, my life in general has been pretty surrealistic lately." A fiery unguent they'd used as an aphrodisiac still tickled him down below. He was stiff from it even now. He felt relaxed and alert, as if after a good workout. He was relieved that things had gone well, that he'd been up to the task, but the rush of new sensations left him confused. He wasn't sure how far he could trust his feelings, knowing he was capable of such sharp bursts of pleasure and pain. "I may never see myself in the same way again," he thought to himself. By way of consolation, Kliff handed him a wad of hundred-dollar bills. "Look at it this way, it's all among friends." He nuzzled Anton playfully behind the ear. "Besides which, we're rich now. You'll have the chance to realize your dream, and I'll help you, like I said. Now let's get out of here and go celebrate." <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>