

TANTRIC ZOO

ROB LOUGHRAN

Published on Smashwords by

BUBBA CAXTON BOOKS,

a division of FOUL MOUTHED BARD PRESS

P.O. Box 2344

Windsor, California 95492

Copyright Rob Loughran, 2011

www.robloughranbooks.com

All rights reserved

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PART I

CRIME, 1987

Sex is natural, but not if it's done right.

—Anonymous

# Chapter 1

COMPLICITY

On Saturday evening March 21, 1987 seven people watched rain accumulate in a hastily dug grave. These seven souls, mostly strangers a mere forty hours earlier, had toiled seamlessly for the previous two hours: digging and scraping and hauling clods of clay and rock from their dead fellow's final resting place. Refreshments, necessary due to the arduous nature of the task at hand, were consumed in silence, and, as if by agreement with their backs turned toward the soon-to-be-interred-corpse.

The body to be buried had been wrapped loosely in a rain moistened, tangerine-and-magenta paint splattered canvas cover-all. When the grave, by tacit and silent agreement, had reached the requisite depth the surviving, culpable seven took hold of the canvas and wrestled the remains into the grave. Ceremoniously and silently, they each dropped a handful of earth onto the canvas shrouded cadaver. And then, unceremoniously and frantically, they buried the deceased. They left the grave slightly concave and unmarked.

Perhaps a prayer for the departed was mumbled or silently intended, but not a word was said aloud. The survivors had hidden a shared secret and a common convoluted future had been embarked upon.

# Chapter 2

TANTRICITY HILL RETREAT

On Friday morning March 20, 1987 two couples arrived simultaneously at the Tantricity Hill Retreat. This coincident arrival is a feat which is almost impossible to accomplish. Tantricity Hill, situated on the cusp between northern Sonoma and southern Mendocino counties is at the end of a rutted and dusty two-track that twisted and bumped through vineyards, orchards, sheep pastures, oak woodlands, and finally a gated single-lane bridge. Couples who journeyed to Tantricity Hill for their three day sex seminar flew into SFO or Oakland International, then perambulated by car northward to Cloverdale—three hours, depending upon traffic—then west on U.S. 128 through the redwoods to Mountain House Road and, eventually, the rustic dirt road leading to the camp. There was no sign announcing Tantricity Hill's existence and most soon-to-be-tantric-sex-students missed the side road and drove to Hopland where the postman, or the bartender at GUNTHER'S DEW DROP INN, would offer precise directions then snicker at the "perverts" as they exited, wondering and secretly envious about exactly what transpired on top of that there hill.

And how much it might cost.

So for the first time in the retreat's seven year history Apple and Altair could perform their solemn and silly indoctrination ceremony for two couples at once: "Welcome," said Altair as he draped leis around the guests' necks. The leis were shipped to Tantricity Hill once a month by a gay couple from Kauai who had attended the retreat nearly four years ago. The wreaths were kept in a freezer, then thawed gently in a refrigerator until draped around the necks of newly arrived guests.

"Welcome, welcome," said Apple.

The four campers were embraced and kissed by Apple and Altair. The foursome stood, freshly garlanded, in the cozy spring sunshine. A slight morning breeze, mildly infused with skunk, ruffled the leis and Altair and Apple's flowing saffron robes.

"Welcome," said Altair.

"Welcome, welcome," repeated Apple. She lit four sticks of sandalwood and handed one stick to each of Tantricity Hill's initiates, bowing. "Follow us, please."

The guests had been warned that only a purse for the women and a shaving kit for the men were allowed into the compound. One couple swung their accessory sacks like circa 1920's Flappers' beaded bags; the other clutched theirs like life preservers.

"We ask," said Altair, "that you bring no suitcases. The first service we bestow upon you is to enter our retreat, our home, with no baggage."

"Please follow us," said Apple.

The couples followed: again, one duo eager, the other apprehensive.

"This," said Altair, with a theatrical, encompassing gesture to his left, "is the sacred pool, Lake Pomo. It is where, on the morrow, we shall all partake of the Water Ritual."

Lake Pomo was, in actual fact, a kidney-shaped, stucco swimming pool fed by a warm underground spring that the land's original tenants, the Pomo Indians, truly deemed sacred. But the Pomos were long gone, relocated to the dusty, wind-blown Stewart reservation east of Carson City, Nevada. The Pomos' sacred, ancestral valley was now an appellation in California's wine industry.

Today, in southern Mendocino County, it's Pinots instead of Pomos.

A clever bit of landscaping and a submerged Sears Best pump circulated the warm spring's water into a pond, and then returned it down an artificial creek bed constructed of native stone that had been removed when the pool was constructed. The water trickled and dribbled down the stones in soothing counterpoint to the sighing, skunky wind. Sleeping in the shade of a chaise lounge alongside the leaf-littered pool reclined a fourteen-year-old, blind Irish Setter named Mary Francis Mulvaney.

"It's beautiful," said Helena.

Her escort, Blake, gazed across the compound at a bench press and a stack of rusting barbells.

The other couple, Arnold and Missy Roach, nodded in agreement clutching still tighter at their hand baggage.

Apple and Altair bowed profoundly and continued the tour past a glass geodesic dome adorned with handpainted symbols and curlicues, a garden, the kitchen/dining facility, and the low dark windowless building, called the Omphalos. This bunker of a building, once inside, created a near total darkness and is where every group met for the culmination of the second day's activities.

Altair led the entourage up to a row of four army surplus Quonset huts. He pointed to the first, painted in alternating panels of magenta and Adriatic blue, and said, "Arnold and Missy, your residence. The Sunset, named for the neighborhood in San Francisco where I was raised." The couple waved meekly and entered The Sunset trailing sandalwood and skepticism into the morning air.

Altair pointed to an adjacent Quonset hut: glossy tangerine and Post-it-Note yellow, wreathed in bougainvillea and grape vines: "Blake and Helena. Your weekend's residence, Golden Gate Park." The two couples embraced, slapped backs, and cheek-kissed.

"We are honored and overjoyed," said Helena, "to be here at Tantricity Hill."

"The pleasure will be ours," said Apple with no hint of irony, insincerity, or double entendre.

The couples clinched again.

Blake and Helena entered the Quonset hut dubbed Golden Gate Park.

Apple and Altair, robes flowing, strode toward their mauve-and-cream painted Quonset. Their hut was named Homedale, for the Idaho town where Apple was born and raised. Apple rattled the beads aside and said, "The other guests are probably lost. Should I call Gunther's Dew Drop Inn?"

"Probably just," said Altair, as he lit a Thai stick and inhaled, "a couple of fifty-ninth minute no-shows."

Altair exhaled and coughed. He inhaled again and, red-faced, passed the smoldering ember to his wife. Apple nodded and accepted the proffered joint. While waiting anxiously for the joint to return Altair said, "Mainstays of the business, my Darling."

Tantric Sex Workshops ($1500 per couple weekend sanctioned pretext for partner swapping, voyeurism, exhibitionism, group sex, and forays into bisexuality) were considered, by the IRS and therefore officially, to be a Self-Help Industry. And in those Self-Help Industries twenty-five percent of the take was in the form of non-refundable deposits. Gung-ho and turned-on go-getters, so excited that they spilled their twelfth gin-and-tonic of the evening when they saw the professionally produced Infomercial on channel 42 at 3:47AM will call that 800 number, recite their credit card number and COMMIT TO IMPROVING THEIR LIVES by signing up for that fire-walking or real-estate-seminar next weekend at the local Ramada Inn.

But when next weekend rolls around, the Raiders are playing the Broncos, it's Susie's baby shower, or you're just too embarrassed to show up at a cattle-call-for-late-night-insomniac/alcoholic-channel-surfing-losers. So you shine it on, and, with luck, they keep just your non-refundable deposit; sometimes they keep the entire amount. These last moment cancellations are, in the industry, called "Fifty-Ninth Minute No-Shows" and every self-help speaker in the world overbooks by 20-25%, counting on the no-shows to make this month's payment on his newest mistress's latest car. Apple and Altair's Tantric Sex Workshop worked precisely the same way. But you had to enroll via registered mail: group sex just doesn't fly as a late night infomercial. Too many self-appointed watchdogs of Morality and Public Decency were TV-addicted insomniacs/alcoholics and Altair's attempted cable spots advertising the sex camp were panned and banned. And, too many spot shadows on the naked campers made, quite frankly, for poor production values.

So he advertised, print-only no pictures, in several popular adult magazines:

TANTRICITY HILL RETREAT

SEXUAL THERAPY AND EXPLORATION 1-800-777-8989

The first ad ran in September, 1981 and less than a year later they were booked solid Spring through late Summer. Altair and Apple didn't print brochures, seek endorsements, or explain precisely what they actually did during the workshops. They planted the four simple words: Sexual Therapy and Exploration in the minds of prospective clients, let the vague but potent phrase sprout and fester, and March through September, cashed a heck-of-a-lot of checks for $1500.

Proving, once again, that the most important and potent sexual organ is, indeed, the imagination.

# Chapter 3

GOLDEN GATE PARK

"'What a dump,'" said Helena.

She smiled and stashed her stylish brown leather handbag in the bamboo nightstand then flopped on the bed. She kicked off her sandals and left them where they fell.

Blake replied, "It's really not that bad."

"I was quoting Elizabeth Taylor in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolfe? The scene where—"

"Elizabeth who?"

Helena shook her head, hoping that once the Tantric sex sessions commenced he'd Shut Up. On the flight from San Diego and the drive across the Golden Gate north to Tantricity Hill, Blake just Yak Yak Yakked. And his blather resembled the idle, inane, self-absorbed chatter of an eleven-year-old girl. Canvassing the same approximate subjects: Lookee that car. Lookee that girl. Lookee that boy. I'm hungry. Are we there yet?

But when you're fifty-two and female you're the victim, not only of sexism, but worse, of cultural ageism. Judging by television and print advertising America is a sun-drenched Eden inhabited by smiling, tanned, buff, energetic people under thirty. Except, of course, for those poor mindless grinning middle-aged dolts who do the constipation, incontinence, and hemorrhoid ads. But since 1983 there have been more people over sixty-five than under twenty and the gap grows every year. Everyone glorifies youth but the greatest percentage of suicide, drug abuse, venereal infection, abortion, clinical depression and violent crime is in the domain of twenty-five-years and younger. But despite these facts the words Old and Young are prejudicial and polarized.

Young is good, old is bad.

Young is beautiful, old is ugly.

Youth is the future, old is the past.

Helena now quoted aloud from memory and the Old Testament: "Gladness of heart is life to a man; Joy is what gives him length of days."

"Huh?"

"Nothing, Blake." She grinned at the young man.

Not maternally.

"Lookee these," said Blake. He rummaged through an array of tinctures arranged on a wicker bookshelf, "Damiana, Muira puama, Clavo huasca, Maca, Dong kwai, Epidemium. Not a bad stash; some really top-shelf herbals. But I brought my own."

"Your own what?"

"Pecker pills."

"That's so nice." Helena ignored him and leafed through a pillow-book version of the Kama Sutra, "Splitting the Bamboo, wow. The Mouse, interesting. The Thousand Thrusts? Perhaps, in my experience, over a three week period." She turned the page and said, "The Bumblebee, oh my."

Blake washed down two homemade "Pecker Pills" pills with a double-gulp of lukewarm Calistoga water. "Did you get a look at that other couple?" said Blake. "Extras from Hee Haw. Grampa, what's for supper?"

"I thought they were sweet. Shy."

"This ain't the place for shy, Annie."

"Helena."

"Let's go swimming, Helena. The pool looks good." But Blake looked sad and simple as he said, "No diving board."

"You go. I've yet to meditate today."

"I saw some weights out there. I'm gonna hump some iron." He kissed Helena, having been paid, he considered it requisite. Blake exited.

Helena rose, stretched; then stripped languidly. First her Chinos, then her scoop-necked Baltic peasant blouse, then her ribbed, strapless tubetop. There was an ambient spring chill in the air and she shivered slightly as she examined her-naked-self in the mirror. Lately, it was as if she were an I peeping at a Her. She felt the same pangs and urges and desires she'd always experienced, but there was an old Her wearing a dissimilar body on that still vibrant Me.

This upset her especially because she felt the passing of physical youth just vaguely. Helena would have been much more comfortable with a more acute and precise sense of loss. The life she experienced inside this timeworn body still throbbed and pulsed with vivacity and excitement.

It's just that her outside, now, needed more naps.

Helena knew it was time to meditate. She slipped into the cool saffron robe laid out for her by Apple and settled onto the bed cross-legged. She breathed quickly in-out-in-out in-out-in-out in-out-in-out in-out-in-out in-out-in-out in-out-in-out: The Breath of Fire. Then she closed her eyes until just a bare, smudged crescent of light occupied the bottom of her vision. "It's time," whispered Helena to herself, "for Rushen."

Rushen meditation is like peeling an onion; delving deeper layer-by-layer. You ask: Who am I?

Helena Noble-Villanueva.

Who am I?

Mother of three children; one dead; but still vivid and alive in my heart. Recently widowed. Recently heartbroken.

Who am I?

A liberal Democrat. Sierra Clubber. NOW member. Non-denominational believer. A daily practitioner of Zen meditation. Miles Davis aficionado. Enjoys sex as a healthy activity, always has. Other turn-ons include: Long walks in the rain and Breyer's fudge swirl ice-cream. Turn-offs include: That film that forms on cups of tea left sitting too long and total global nuclear annihilation.

She smiled, opened her eyes slightly, breathed and re-focused, gently forcing her conscious mind to re-ask:

Who am I?

Frustrated poet. Stifled sexually, lately. I miss my husband, his laugh, his hands, his voice, that spiffy way we spooned together after making love.

Who am I?

Am I bad, coming here? For wanting to do what I plan to do here? Ah, there's my middle-class Presbyterian guilt. More moral recrimination about extramarital sexual activity than life-or-death.

Who am I?

I'm the daughter of Janie and Karl Noble; both deceased, but they are still and always will be my parents. Hmm.

Who am I?

I am her, named Helena. I was Helena before I was born. I'll be Helena following my death.

She relaxed and fell into a world where only her breath existed. No thoughts and no opinions, and no apprehensions. She did not smile; but a slight smile possessed her. And Helena, cross-legged and saffron-robed, looked like a slender, exquisite, fifty-two year-old female Buddha.

# Chapter 4

THE SUNSET

Missy sat with the pillow book edition of the Kama Sutra in her lap. In a voice betraying more horror than fascination she said, "I can't believe people do that." She turned a page and winced, "Or that."

She handed the illustrated text to Arnold who adjusted his wire-rims, stared, turned the book upside down, re-adjusted his wire-rims, righted the book and stared again. "Holy Cow. Look at these guys. All six of them." He showed Missy the book's twisted gymnastic group coupling.

"I can't do that one, Arnie."

Arnold placed the volume, face down, on the wicker table and said, "I'm sure they have a beginner's manual here. Somewhere." He searched the drawers and closet. There was the herbal-erotic-pharmacopoeia, two saffron robes, and a box of quilted Kleenex. "I guess that's it."

"Apparently," said Missy. "Let's go for a walk."

"Good call."

They exited through the gaudy—yellow, orange, purple—plastic beads that dangled in the entryway. They gazed at each other before stepping outside and shook their heads at the lack of a door that locked.

Missy and Arnold were momentarily disoriented in the sunshine. Their eyes adjusted: simultaneously they observed Blake lifting weights by the pool and decided to walk in the opposite direction. They accidentally stumbled onto a path with a small sign: Waterfall —>

They strolled to the promised waterfall, following the creek; it was less a running watercourse than a series of deep pools connected by thin rivulets of water. "Blackberries, I recognize," said Missy, "but what's that?" She pointed at a tangle of red-barked shrubs with tiny white and pink flowers.

"Manzanita," said Arnold. "What variety, I really don't know."

"It's pretty, in a scrubbly sort of way."

"It's nice to be upwind of that skunk."

Through hills as green as Ireland, dotted with regal oaks in the lime-green of new bud, the couple continued in silence and sunshine toward the waterfall.

Leo Tolstoy began Anna Karenina, "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Missy, who had learned Russian as a child from her Grandmother, taught Russian Literature at Indiana State University and had always considered Tolstoy's opening line much more a simple statement of fact than a literary indulgence.

Happiness, not the sappy pabulum of The Walton's or the eternal idiotic mirth of The Brady Bunch, but solid, ingrained contentment seemed to Missy to be identical, no matter how each family expressed it. There was ease and honesty and a communication, mostly non-verbal, that pervaded and permeated the family. She knew that it was beyond language; she'd experienced it with a grandmother who hadn't spoken English, a deaf grandfather, bilingual parents, and a husband mired in the confines of American English with a mid-American accent, vocabulary and sensibilities.

Missy and Arnold had developed the silent sonic communication of a happily married couple: a raised finger or eyebrow communicated more than hours of dialog and debate. Walking alongside the creek they could hear the waterfall and taste the mist. But something, a discomforting unhappiness hung between them. Not a word was spoken until:

"I'm sorry I called us beginners," said Arnold. "Back there in the sex hut."

Missy kissed his cheek and replied, "That's okay."

This short and laconic exchange actually communicated the following subtext to the duo:

Arnold: We've been married nine years and I love you very much.

Missy: I love you too, Arnie.

Arnold: It's just that we haven't made love in over a year.

Missy: I know. Since the miscarriage. I don't know what's wrong with me.

Arnold: If anything's wrong, it's wrong with us, Missy.

Missy: It's just since we've lost the baby, I'm not myself. But I hope we didn't make a mistake in bringing our sexual dysfunction here.

"I'm sorry I called us beginners," repeated Arnold.

"It's over," said Missy.

They arrived at the waterfall.

After several hugs and minutes admiring the cascade Arnold skipped four flat stones across the pool, the final one skittering to the base of the waterfall. "It can't be that deep," said Arnold, "come on."

As they had on their first date, following the Sadie Hawkins Dance at Falls River High School, Southern Indiana, they removed their shoes, rolled up their trousers, and waded hand-in-hand. They kissed and laughed and had a splash-fight.

Arnold let Missy win.

# Chapter 5

CIRCLE RITUAL

"The waters of the Mississippi had escaped the levee," said Altair, "and flooded all the surrounding lowlands. And a Baptist Minister, instead of evacuating, climbed unto the roof of his house. Sitting alongside his satellite dish and chimney he watched the muddy tide rise and inundate cars, fences, and trees." Altair paused and glanced around the circle. Helena and Blake, robed and barefoot, attentive, sat to his left. On his right were Apple, then Missy and Arnold. Mary Francis Mulvaney's burgundy head was enfolded in Missy's robe; she stroked him distractedly. Arnold fidgeted, looking like a saffron-gowned ashram accountant in glasses, black socks and slip-on Hush Puppies. Altair continued: "The Minister's neighbor, in his huge four-by-four blared his horn and screamed through the rain, 'I'm the last vehicle outta town Reverend, you'd better hop-on-in.'

"'God will provide,' said the Minister. And the waters rose to the eaves. Pretty soon, the Sheriff putted by in a fourteen-foot outboard. 'Hop in, Reverend, the flood hasn't even crested yet.' 'God will provide,' said the Minister. And the swirling waters swept away the satellite dish and engulfed the chimney. Then a National Guard helicopter hovered over the Minister, who stood, ankle deep in water lapping over the chimney. The helicopter lowered a life-line. The Minister pushed the life-line away and screamed, 'God Will Provide!' the helicopter chuffed away to find a willing rescuee. Still the Mississippi floodwaters rose, drowned the Minister, sweeping his body down to the Gulf of Mexico. Up in heaven, at the Pearly Gates, the Minister screamed at St. Peter: 'I gave my LIFE in the service of the Lord and I was abandoned in my time of need!' 'Abandoned?' said Peter. 'You idiot! I sent a truck, a boat and a helicopter.'"

Despite hearing the story twenty-one times a year, Apple chuckled sincerely. Helena smiled limply but politely.

Missy was still too shaken by the illustrated Kama Sutra pillow book to relax and enjoy anything but the Irish setter's head in her lap.

Arnold nodded at the joke's comic irony, which was unappreciated by Blake and the dog.

Altair paused a moment, sniffed audibly and said, "God's gifts are all around us. He is always sending help in the form of trucks, boats and helicopters. It's up to us to see them as the gifts they are. This weekend, could be a gift. From Us to You. From You to Yourselves. From Yourselves to each Other. From—"

Apple cleared her throat and stared at Altair.

"—right. Love as a gift to each other," said Altair. "That's our theme this weekend."

Actually it was every weekend's theme; at Tantricity Hill Retreat the only thing that wasn't canned and pre-prepared were Apple's enchanting vegetarian meals. "What does it mean when you say, 'I love the Beatles, or I love Jamoca Almond Fudge ice cream?"

No one answered. Mary Francis Mulvaney licked a paw. An airliner, soundless, left its white scuffs across the bright spring sky.

"It means that we use the word love much too casually. The Greeks had three words for love, Eros, Philos, and Agape. Philos would be the love of the Beatles or a hometown team or a favorite restaurant. The root appears in many English words: Philosophy, love of wisdom. And Philogyny, love of women; from which I suffer." Altair smiled at Apple who had just seated herself after distributing handheld mirrors to Tantricity Hill's acolytes.

Apple slipped her robe up-and-over her head while still seated, cross-legged, on her terrycloth mat. Her gymnastic figure had an all-over tan; her shaved head was crowned with a circlet of wildflowers, predominately poppies, and the only hair on her lithe and lissome corpus were the two tufts of red-brown beneath her armpits. The ivory ring in her belly-button resembled a half-sucked-down Wint-O-Green Life Saver. She luxuriated in the glistering sunshine, leaning back and letting it splash across her like scented water. Apple wore her casual attitude toward nudity and public displays of sex like a Joint Chief-of-Staff General flaunted his medals: something that set them apart from commonplace civilians. Her sky-blue eyes lazed shut as Altair continued:

"Agape is a selfless, Platonic love. The English word agapanthus, love of flowers is also the genus of the Lily of the Nile." He pointed at an agapanthus he had planted in a half wine barrel as a handy teaching aid and reference. Still too early in the season, the pale-green plant's umbrels swayed un-blooming in the breeze. Altair studied his congregation:

Helena had removed her robe, folded it beneath her as a cushion, and savored the sunshine. Heliotropic as a sunflower, she leaned toward Earth's closest star. She closed her eyes and lazed.

Blake stood and pulled off his robe, seeming to expect, if not a smattering of applause, at least a gasp and an admiring nod. He wore a Stars-and-Stripes Speedo and his weight-trained, proportioned build compared favorably with Roman statuary or an Olympic water polo player.

Missy, fully clothed, still fondled Mary Francis Mulvaney.

Arnold fiddled intently with a frayed strand on his left sock.

Altair, done surveying his flock, continued: "Eros is, of course, the root of erotic and eroticism and is named for the Greek equivalent of Cupid: he who inspires physical love. And love, of course, begins with the self." Altair stepped out of his garment, picked up his mirror and repeated, "With the self. And that's where we'll begin our first Tantric sexual practice." As hairless as an apple and brown as a bran and blackstrap molasses muffin Altair approached a statue of a three-foot phallus in the center of the circle. Apple stood and approached a female version. Standing beside their respective exaggerated stone-replicas Apple and Altair raised the mirrors to their faces.

Altair said, "Gaze at your own eyes in the mirror."

Silently, obediently, the couples raised their looking-glasses.

"Concentrate and narrow your vision, squint if need be, to frame your eyes, but only your eyes, in the center of the mirror. The eyes are the mirrors of the soul; but this is true only of humans," instructed Altair. "A greater or lesser ape would reach behind the mirror to capture the ape on the other side. A cat would hiss at the strange feline; Mary Francis Mulvaney, if she weren't blind, would bark at the canine she'd just encountered. Self-awareness and self-identity are strictly and essentially human traits."

"As is," said Helena, loudly, without lowering her mirror, "Narcissism."

"Ha," said Arnold, "nicely played." He lowered his mirror and glanced at Helena, quickly returning his gaze to the mirror after seeing her naked: breasts bared with her legs spread and entwined with the young and hulking Blake.

Altair quickly removed his hand from the stone replica of his tallywhacker, but otherwise ignored Helena's observation and continued, "Concentrate on the physical characteristics of your eyes. Is your pupil solid black? Iridescent purple? Lighter toward the edge? Streaked? Are your eyes all blue or brown or green? What other colors are contained within the predominant hue? Can you sense your identity? Can you catch sight of your soul?"

"Do you have a soul?" said Apple, not missing a beat. "If so, what is its shape? Can you glimpse, even for a tiny instant, the infinite?"

Helena: Wow, a new little quickie-meditation I can use while stuck in traffic or waiting in the 12 Items or Less line at the grocery store.

Arnold: The shape of my soul? That's like when Merlin appeared before the Knights of the Round Table, pointed to Arthur and asked: "Who is this man?" He offered a bag of gold to the knight with the correct answer. One said, "King of England." Another said, "Son of Uther Pendragon." Yet another, "The Once and Future King." Merlin pronounced them all wrong and said, "He is the wind." And the bag of gold disappeared, into the wind.

Missy: The shape of my soul? What the heck? Everyone at Indiana State University warned me about these California mind-games, but just staring at my eyes without thinking, like they were a portion of an independent and discrete landscape, relaxes me. It's not a trance or a trick. Really, it's not. It's...cool.

Blake: Is that a zit starting on my nose? My Pecker Pills always make me break out.

"Now lower your mirrors and stare into the eyes of your partner," said Altair. "Make no facial expressions; reactions, or communication. And above all, no speaking. Does the addition of another ego revise the stillness of your moment? Do you feel the need to console? To control? To act? To do something?"

Helena, still slightly infatuated with the discovery of an effective Quickie-Meditation, had difficulty concentrating for more than two minutes at a time. But she savored the sun on her shoulders and examined Blake's eyes: if taken out of context his iridescent green-grey orbs were vulnerable and beautiful; almost feminine.

Blake, used to isolating and "working" body parts, stared unflinchingly into Helena's eyes. She ceased to be a female client or even a person. After several minutes Blake felt "floaty-floaty-floaty" and almost keeled over. Helena steadied him. He nodded his thanks and they continued the exercise.

Too much playfulness and companionship leaked from Missy and Arnold's eyes and every twenty-five seconds they giggled like third-graders; enjoying the assignment more, perhaps, than two adults should.

After ten minutes, Altair said, "Excellent."

"Now," said Apple, "it's always essential to practice with oneself, sexually, to develop and discover further depths of sensation. The purpose of this Circle Ritual is to learn, while self-stimulating, to orgasm on different levels. Vaginal, clitoral, mental, spiritual."

"For men," said Altair, "it's to learn to hold ejaculation throughout different stages of arousal; which will eventually allow you, and your mate, to travel to greater depths of arousal and ultimate release." At the base of the sculptured schlub sat a white kitchen timer. Altair set it for twenty-three minutes; then placed it on the chiseled left testicle. "For twenty-three minutes we will explore ourselves, simultaneously inviting, and then resisting climax."

Blake slipped out of his Speedo.

Helena, examined Blake's turgid tiller, smiled sweetly, then closed her eyes and began her self-strumming.

Missy and Arnold, still fully-clothed, shrugged at each other and began shuffling beneath their robes for their respective and appropriate parts.

Mary Francis Mulvaney, as if on cue, sniffed twice, headed for the shade of the bench press and began licking herself.

Altair and Apple spoke as they themselves practiced: "Begin your strokes slowly; lightly," said Altair. "Relax. Smile and be frivolous. Resist the urge to stroke faster. Take a breath and continue. Close your eyes. Feel the sweetness and gauge the firmness. If you feel that you are coming, stop, take a breath and relax deeper. Then begin again; subtle, tender; soft." Given the appendage clamped in Altair's left hand it was an ironic choice of adjectives: Soft.

The timer tick-ticked-ticked; Arnold's gown rustled; low moans were heard; the wind played through oaks, the potted agapanthus, the grassy hills. Apple removed her tiara of flowers and placed it atop the stone replica of her hubby. She said, "Play with yourself, ladies. Literally, be playful with yourself. Use it like a treasured toy. It's Christmas morning and you're the first one awake. Unwrap your present."

Missy chuckled.

"You're naughty, opening presents before the adults are up. Investigate; explore the nuance of breath, feeling and pleasure. Treat it as a meditation. Find the point of Om. The stillness and silence."

Tick, tick, tock, tick, tick, tock, tick, tick, tock.

"For the next three-hundred and sixty seconds," said Altair, "take your lover's hand and guide them; teaching them how to touch, precisely, in the preferred way you touch yourself."

They did.

Helena and Blake fumbled into an awkward and mechanical rhythm.

Apple and Altair performed the exercise with the slick, practiced, almost bored proficiency of two Tavern on the Green bartenders blending a pitcher of Herraduras Margaritas during Happy Hour.

Missy and Arnold probed beneath each other's robe. Of the three couples they were the only twosome still maintaining eye-contact. Arnold adored Missy's root-beer-brown eyes; looking into them was like listening to Bach in front of the fire on a snowy evening. Missy smiled with those brunette eyes and communicated to Arnold's slightly bloodshot, jet-lagged, baby-blues: I don't know why, nor do I care why anyone else is here. I want us to learn to make love like we did before. But more important, I want to heal our personal pain and forge a future together. I know we can do it.

That's when a gunmetal gray Mercedes convertible thundered across the bridge over the ravine and rumbled into the Tantricity Hill retreat. The Mercedes skidded to a dusty halt alongside the lumpy black building, the Omphalos. The Mercedes' occupants waited for the dust to settle before they exited and studied the Tantricity Hill tableau through matching mirrored Ray Bans.

"Jesus Christ," said Blake, "it's Devon Adams and Debra Shaffer."

# Chapter 6

CELLULOID HEROES

Debra Shaffer, who had been appearing nude in "A" films since the day of her eighteenth birthday, and on grainy, ill-lighted Super-8 since she was nearly fifteen, raised her eyebrows—still auburn from her latest film—and said, "How rude, starting without us."

"Welcome, I'm Apple. You must be Devon and Debra." Apple made quick introductions

"Welcome, welcome," said Altair. He extended his right arm in a disturbing, vaguely Aryan salute. His left hand still clamped another portion of his anatomy, which was extended in eager ruby salutation.

"You'll forgive me," said Devon, chewing on his mustache, "if I don't shake hands, eh?" The actor flashed a smile intended to dazzle.

And it dazzled.

"Sorry aboot being late, mahn, we missed our connecting flight," said Devon. He pronounced sorry and about like a Canadian and threw in Mahn like Bob Marley. Not a bad Hollywood affectation for an abandoned-at-birth-child and ward of the state from Grand Junction, Colorado. Devon figured since he had no family, aside from a disastrous succession of foster homes and institutions, he'd speak any goddamn way he pleased.

"Let's use, said Altair, "this interruption—"

"What are you guys doing?" said Debra.

"—as a learning tool. Join us," continued Altair, "and my friends will instruct you, as I've just instructed them." He motioned at Tantricity Hill's other campers and then Nodded Solemnly, reminding Debra, vaguely of Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments.

"We're whacking," said Blake. He elbowed Helena, just a little too hard, and said to her in an excited whisper, "It's Devon Adams and Debra Shaffer. Here."

Helena opened her eyes and stood. She glanced at the Hollywood Power Couple. She oozed disdain as she stood and wandered away to the swimming pool, aloof and naked: leaving her saffron robe like a pat of butter melting in the sun.

"We're exploring," corrected Apple. She paused to watch Helena dive cleanly into the swimming pool, then continued, "We're discovering, yes? Examining, if you will, the nature of the flora in our personal gardens."

"Beautiful," said Altair. "Beautiful, beautiful."

"It's Devon Adams and Debra Shaffer," said Blake to no one and everyone. "Here."

"Yes," said Debra, shedding her clothes; shorts and tank-top, no bra or panties beneath. "Indeed, it is Devon Adams and Debra Shaffer." She stood naked and proffered herself to the sun. Standing nude in the Northern California sunshine Debra demonstrated why the millions-of-dollars-per-movie and the annual necessity to acknowledge and award, validate with golden icons, their work in front of the camera, actresses do not receive enough money. If four frat-boys after five beers each saw the fifty-something Helena nude they'd concur:

Nice rack for an old broad. Really pulchritudinous, dude. I bet in her day...

After viewing Apple they'd rhapsodize:

What's a piece like that doing with that burnt out old hippie? That armpit hair is spank. Sexy, lascivious, lubricious.

Seeing Missy undressed they'd agree:

Never would have expected it; what a tight package; what a wanton little wildcat. Those eyes; man, those simpering chocolate orbs. (These frat boys are English Majors who, in addition to beer bottles, open the occasional Thesaurus.)

But seeing Debra naked they would, because they'd seen her, airbrushed and perfect, in magazines and on the Silver Screen—the Totemic Tabernacle of Our Times—they would view her as their property, and criticize accordingly:

Her tushy is a little flat; I've never seen those freckles on her back; what's up with that bush? Does she even own a razor?

They'd drain their sixth brewskies, belch, and feel vindicated; correct and above reproach in their criticism and analysis.

And of all people, Debra would understand. When she was doing porno: literally meeting an "actor" who could memorize seven words, bench press 252 pounds, pass a VD screening and maintain an erection in front of the camera crew, curious onlookers, and the director—not an undemanding feat—she was filled with whimsy and mirth and the hee-hee-hee vibe of knowing that what she's doing is shocking people and paying the rent.

But she never felt so whored, prostituted, downright used as when she shot her first big-budget film. Not movie, not video, not project but MAINSTREAM HOLLYWOOD FILM.

The media owned her. The film company's publicist reorganized and then orchestrated her life. The fans possessed Debra, curious about her every whim, with a zeal that staggered and confounded her.

Who cares? Debra remembered writing in her journal. Who could possibly care this much about a skinny girl from Pismo Beach with a fortunately composed face who is so non-committal about nudity and sex that it's palatable as an occupation? Please allow me to love someone who cares that much about me. Please? Please? Please?

Debra's every turn and gesture and shrug and utterance was photographed and analyzed; scrutinized and reported. She'd been placed in a fishbowl without so much as a little-pink-castle to hide in. And that's why she'd agreed to this weekend getaway; to decide how to tell Devon she wanted out of that fishbowl.

Out of movies.

Out of this professional, arranged marriage.

Out of Devon's control.

And once she admitted, honestly and to herself, that she wanted shucked of the Hollywood Scene Debra realized that she hadn't had an authentic thought, feeling, or emotion for years. Her actions were all calculated to enhance her image. She, now, just wanted to be Debra; if she still, indeed, knew who that was.

Standing nude in the sunshine at Tantricity Hill, vulnerable, impossibly helpless and susceptible, nearly broken, she had an epiphany. She felt for the first time in her life, after becoming all that others wanted her to be; directed her to be, she felt, at last, like Debra. And she realized that Debra was a fractured and shaking little girl.

She, wordlessly, deserted Devon and sat between the still-fully-clothed couple. Debra somehow felt that the brown-eyed female was her Lost Sister: that she had somehow felt the same pain. There was safety, validity and truth surrounding this person she had yet to officially meet. Debra lowered her head to her new soul sister's shoulder and in turn was held like a child.

And Debra cried.

In America nudity is both under-rated and over-rated: Over-rated because we think it means something.

Under-rated because it does mean something.

Sitting with no clothes, not in front of a camera; not for a-purpose-a -drachma a-shekel-a-dollar, Debra melted into the arms of a saffron-robed stranger and felt more at home than she ever did while being adored at the Playboy Mansion, framed by Pulitzer-possessing-photographers, or in her celebrated husband's clutches. But now Debra Shaffer was a sad and shattered little lass reaching out for help. She sat in her birthday suit and wept on Missy's shoulder.

A red-tailed hawk screeched.

# Chapter 7

CHILDHOOD DREAMS

Altair and Apple realized their bluff, their bullshit had been called. This weekend had become something other than a Cloaked-in-Conveniently-Mystical-Eastern-Theology-Sex-Camp for bored and indulgent upper-middle-class Americans.

They just didn't know, yet, what it had become.

"What the holy-heck," said Apple, pacing in her Quonset's small kitchen, "just happened out there?"

"We just lost control," said Altair.

"You just lost control."

Altair bobbed his head in his precise and practiced manner. Throughout Tantricity Hill's history, when a problem arose or the campers had a twinkle of doubt, he would spout some obtuse-moronic-spiritual New Age sexual advice and the demure camper who had saved her maidenhood until her wedding night was taking numbers for sex partners like a Baskin Robbins clerk during a midsummer's heat wave: NOW SERVING #37. The raised-on-Gospel-Baptist who considered homosexuality an abomination was like a glutton at a buffet when he realized that he was adroit and efficacious, gifted in fact, at gargling on another man's wanky-diddle.

The steep price of admittance usually liberated the sexually stifled buffoons. They had paid; and anyone sweating the rent or groceries simply ain't showing up. And by paying they'd assuaged or at least postponed any guilt, responsibility, blame, culpability, regress, reproach, shame or fault involved in licking, touching, or succumbing to any number of innovative and energetic dalliances with folks they'd never see again.

But this weekend was different.

Two people declined to disrobe. Those same two people wore disappointment and tragedy on their faces and they truly expected this weekend's activities—Altair's creation, his boyhood dream, his religion—to alleviate their pain.

Another couple (I wonder what she paid him?) is taking the "cure" and will repeatedly revel in activities they probably wouldn't attempt with someone they loved, respected or even tolerated.

And then the final couple, oozing both celebrity and vulnerability, arrived late and she began weeping.

Altair smiled and said, "But we are actors all."

"What," repeated Apple, "just happened out there?"

"It is time to assert myself. William McCormick, third child of Doris and Patrick McCormick; dirt-poor Irish immigrants to San Francisco, it is time to assert myself and become a God. All deities share the trait that they believe in their power with the belief that is their power. As do I." William, Altair, smiled and intoned, "As do I. As do I."

"Honey?" said Apple.

"What?"

"You have your head up your ass again."

Altair waved away the undeniably true observation and, louder, continued: "Amid actors the best actor wins. And God is the actor who asserts he created the world and, He, has stuck to His story. And this, Tantricity Hill, is my world."

There was such a strident certainty in Altair's voice that Apple zipped-her-lip and sat still, waiting for the sermon she knew was looming.

And Altair delivered, pontificating: "Nineteen-sixty-three in San Francisco was one helluva year. On one side of the City, Beatniks had discovered hallucinogens, became Hippies, and danced in Golden Gate Park; on the other side Hunter's Point Naval Shipyard bustled, preparing ships for yet another protracted and profitable war in the Pacific."

"History?" said Apple. "First theology now history?"

Altair waved away her objection, "The population between the Park and the Point, fresh off a scare from the Cuban Missile Crisis, applauded the Police Action in Vietnam and denigrated the dancing hippies. The blacks in the projects at Hunter's Point had seen marches in the South, violence in the East and anticipated their turn; their time. The Giants and the Forty Niners were just talented enough to break your heart; losing to the despised Dodgers and reviled Rams. High Schoolers from Mercy, Galileo, Sacred Heart, Washington, Lincoln, and Riordan danced on Saturday nights at The Longshoreman's Hall to folk singers, kazoo bands, and future members of the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame: they couldn't tell one from the other nor did they care."

"Earth to Altair?" said Apple. "Sweetie? What the hell are you talking about? Hello?"

"These ritual dances were the foreplay to foreplay. Following these 'hops' they'd hop into station wagons and sedans that were borrowed from parents for the night and drive to Fort Point, the Marina Green, or Lincoln Golf Course. Where they'd park. 'Park'. What a euphemism; a linguistic fig leaf."

"Dammit Altair— "

"And while 'parked' in the large back seats of those commodious automobiles they would woo and wrestle and plead and explore and gratify. In this San Francisco of 1963 lived a boy thirteen years of age."

"You speaking of you in the third person?" said Apple. "Your favorite subject in truly your most annoying style."

"This boy thirteen years of age had heard his two older brothers, and their friends, while smoking unfiltered Camels and Lucky Strikes in the downstairs-blonde-plywood-paneled Rec Room speak of breasts and bottoms and rubbers and putting-out and prick-teases and blow-jobs and hand-jobs and coming. It was all too confusing to this earnest young lad who attended Catholic school and prayed the rosary daily and served at Mass every Sunday. Then one Sunday, sitting attentive, to the side of the altar with the other server, listening to Father Frank's sermon IT happened. Angela di Castelli—the only girl in his seventh grade class requiring underwire support—sat in the church's first row with mama and several black mantilla-ed aunts. Angela didn't make eye-contact, smile, or in any way entice the man-child."

"Wait," asked Apple. "You were the man-child?"

"Me. Yes," said Altair. He continued, "But Nature is nature and Nature called. Beneath his cassock the lump he was told it was dangerous and sinful to acknowledge began to swell. And this staid child tried to think it away, will it away, pray it away. Still, the burgeoning bulge would not diminish." Altair stood, sermonizing, "This ruddy-cheeked American Boy who DID WHAT HE WAS TOLD and SAID HIS PRAYERS and DID NOT THINK UNCLEAN THOUGHTS had a raging erection in the middle of the 9:30 mass. Cassocks, the neck to floor, button-down-the-front, black robes worn while serving Mass, are as spacious as caftans and no one noticed the boy's left hand slip inside and with a butterfly caress—once, twice, thrice—on top of his corduroys, relieve himself. It deflated like a sticky zeppelin. Most boys would have felt a combination of shame for the act and lust for the object: Angela's ta-ta's. But this was a humorless, solemn, obedient boy and feelings neither of lust nor shame were entertained. What he thought, crystalline and epiphaniac, as his member accordioned to normal size, was: When I Grow Up I'm Starting My Own Religion! As if in response Father Frank intoned, with the congregation, including precocious-nubile-pulchritudinous Angela, mama, and the senile aunts: GLORY BE TO YOU, O LORD!" Altair rose and said to Apple, "It is time for me to live up to my potential."

"Holy Wow," said Apple.

"I know," said Altair. "Heavy, heavy stuff. Deep."

"Not that," said Apple.

"What?"

"I like you much better when you're stoned."

# Chapter 8

PAJAMA PARTY POLICY

Debra and Missy huddled together in the Steinhart Aquarium.

And in this cool-and-dappled, revamped geodesic dome, Missy and Debra bonded. "I'm leaving Devon." Debra had wiggled back into her clothes. She lay on her tummy, across a body pillow festooned with pink dolphins swimming through a starfield.

"Why?"

"I don't know," Debra shook her head. "I just don't know, Missy."

Missy noticed Debra wore braces (correcting a minuscule overbite that only Hollywood could consider objectionable) and her smile, which by some would have been mistaken for a haughty or maybe even a dirty-naughty smirk, was the shy smile of a freshman girl the first day of school. "Yes you do," said Missy. "You don't have to tell me. But you know." Missy sat lotus-style, with her robe pooled around her.

"Why are you here?" asked Debra.

Missy said, "We're the same age; we hit it off. You know, it's hard not to empathize when someone collapses, bawling on your shoulder. We all need someone to talk to."

"No. Why are you here? At Tantricity Hill."

"Oh. Here." Missy nibbled a thumbnail, a curse during adolescence that had resurfaced since her miscarriage. "No." Missy shook her head firmly, "You first."

The international film star who never waited for a cab, always flew first class, and never paid for a meal was trumped by the Universal and Unyielding Pajama Party Policy: You wanna hear, you gotta dish.

Debra lit a cigarette; Missy wondered where she could possibly have concealed the smokes and lighter while wearing skin tight short-shorts and an elastic tubetop. "We are here because Devon can't maintain an erection. I've tried everything I know," she rolled her eyes. "Everything. All to no avail. He's tried hypnosis, pills, harmonic crystals around the bed, movies—"

"Those types of films disturb me."

"Those types of films are cheap, ill-lighted comedies, where the punch line is a bodily fluid." Debra smiled, exhaled, and shook her head. "Devon wanted to do it during The Sound of Music."

"That's odd."

"During the scene where the Von Trapps are hiding in the convent."

"That's just icky-creepy-weird."

Debra nodded and looked for a place to extinguish her cigarette butt. The floor, upholstered wall-to-wall in a spongy neoprene presented no prospects so she held the cigarette until it smoldered out and stashed it beneath the stuffed-star-swimming-dolphins. "That's why we're here. I'm here so I can tell my manager of nine years and husband of five years, my own Svengali, that it's over. I'm retiring. I'm running away from him and the show business scene."

Missy plopped down on an elbow, "How come?"

Debra immediately lit another smoke. She exhaled deliberately, knowing that the Universal and Unyielding Code of The Pajama Party (where Vegas got it) was in effect: What's said here stays here. "Something is wrong in my life," said Debra. "Wrong, wrong, wrong."

Missy didn't interject. She waited patiently for Debra to explain.

Debra appreciated Missy's calm silence. Then she continued slowly and honestly, "I have, I am, what every young little female mallrat in America longs to become. Rich, a movie star, with a celebrity husband—"

"And you are beautiful."

"Thank you." Debra smiled her freshman-shy smile. "But those mallrats wouldn't believe that beauty, these days, is like losing a bet with God."

Missy tilted her head, "What can that possibly mean?"

Debra exhaled. "My first boyfriend, Monty, he was seventeen I was fifteen; we went out for almost a year. Then I broke up with him when I started doing skin flicks."

"Skin flicks?"

"Seven minute, eight-millimeter smokers? Porn. You know?"

"No. I don't know."

"Short sucky-sucky, fucky-fucky movies, no dialog. Smokers."

Missy stared at Debra the way Debra had once stared at Algebra.

"Anyway," said Debra, "there were lots of other guys, booze, drugs, parties; who needed a jealous boyfriend?"

Missy shrugged; she couldn't possibly form a response to a question like that, in English or Russian.

"I thought I was letting him down easy, doing him a favor."

"Sounds like it to me."

"He killed himself."

"How?"

"Self-immolation," and to illustrate Debra lit another cigarette. "Set himself on fire on my front lawn."

"Ugh."

"He was a nice guy. He wasn't my first sex, just my first boyfriend; but he cared for me, you know? He cared about me. Ever since then I've had guys who I've kissed, just kissed goodnight after drinks or dancing, leave their wives and children."

"Because of your accurséd beauty?"

Debra nodded. "Before Devon I'd been in love with a few guys. All nice and normal guys, usually not in the business. They've all been sunk by me. Ruined. They spiral into booze, cash in their retirements and sell their houses to try and win me back. My love—" Debra smoked thoughtfully and examined a sleek pink dolphin, "—no. No, not even my love, my sex, my presence has never helped a man succeed. It's a curse. Men break down once they meet me. I thought I'd broke the jinx with Devon, but his last three projects are in turnaround and his penis is babyfood."

Missy flopped forward and shared the pillow, their noses inches apart. She whispered, as if the words might injure Debra, "That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."

"I'm like a piñata. Ornate but hollow. And if not totally hollow, filled with sweets that rot your teeth, cause insulin spikes, and result in obesity. I need to find something that ain't superficial." Debra lowered her forehead to a dolphin.

"Debra?" said Missy.

"Yeah?"

Missy cleared her throat, "Neither man nor nation can exist without a sublime idea."

"Say what?"

"That's Dostoevsky."

Debra smiled and rolled to her right elbow. "So you're smart?"

Missy mirrored the position by rolling to her left elbow: Jan and Marcia Brady in their late twenties. "Smart? No. I'm capable. I'm a good teacher. Real smart people don't make good teachers; they can't entertain other points of view. They are right, everyone else is wrong."

"You just described every great director I've ever worked with. All of them giant pains in the ass. All of them cock-swinging males."

They both laughed soundlessly with their eyes.

Missy, knowing it was her turn to dish said, "Arnie and I were high school sweethearts. We broke up for about a year in college, but it's pretty much been he and I."

"You're lucky."

"I know, and I know it sounds corny but I'm happy being married to him."

"How? Happy? What's that like?"

"Have you ever walked into a room with someone and knew, simply understood that the person with you feels exactly the same way about the people and the situation? Whether it's dread or whimsy or exhilaration?"

"Yeah, yeah. Usually it's with a female friend, but it's happened a few times with Devon and me. It's cool. It's like the great scene in Romancing the Stone where Kathleen Turner and Taylor Holland go into the bar and rate the guys: Too Desperate, Too Full of Himself, Too Pretty, Too Married."

"That's the way," said Missy, "that Arnie and I see the world."

"Jesus Lord, is that possible?"

Missy smiled, "I love that little fart. He's so funny. You wouldn't know it because he's quiet. And he's kind; he's always supported me in my career, actually I'm sort of supporting him right now because his business failed."

"What did he do?"  
He cooked garbage."

Debra sat up and said, "Say what?"

"He developed these segmented polyethylene tents, they're portable, they can be set up behind restaurants. All the organic garbage: coffee grounds, bread, fries, even meat goes into the tent. When a segment is filled it's zipped shut and the garbage cooks. Arnie figures out, from your micro-climate and the type of garbage, the necessary thickness and exhaust configuration of the polyethylene, and in three months, you've cooked garbage from your restaurant into beautiful topsoil for your garden."

"That's a great idea. Ecological, practical."

"He sold a bunch of them in Spain and France and Italy about three years ago. Then, he got an offer to erect entire farms of these tents in Indianapolis and Chicago. To handle city waste; turn it into topsoil for city parks, landfill, public use. Could you imagine Chicago giving this rich humus to everyone in the city for lawns and community gardens?"

"Brilliant."

"That's what we thought, 'til he signed the papers."

"What?"

"The rights were purchased by two sanitation companies who wanted to secure those rights so that these recycling farms would never be built. It would have cut into their land-fill monopoly. We hired an anti-trust lawyer, but those sanitation companies appealed and litigated until we ran out of money and bankrupted Arnie's business."

"Are you sure they weren't film producers?"

"They aren't in the movie business but they did produce a film. On everything gosh darn thing they touched." She shook her head, "Through all this, I got pregnant, and I try not to blame the anxiety and tension of the cooked-garbage-fiasco, but I miscarried."

"I'm sorry, Missy."

"And since then..." Missy sat silently for a full minute. Debra didn't interrupt until Missy resumed, "I've seen all the experts: psychologists, o-b-g-y-ns—you name 'em, I've written them a check. And, and I'm frigid."

Debra and Missy held hands, lightly, lingering.

"Frigid," said Missy. "But the word doesn't describe what happens. Arnie and I will be smooching and playing and stroking, you know," Missy, appreciating the irony of explaining Saturday-morning-Midwestern-foreplay to a former porn-queen, blushed slightly, "and everything is fine and I want to and he wants to and when he tries, SCRINCH."

"SCRINCH?"

"My muscles, down there, cramp up. They Scrinch up. I can't control them physically. I can't control them mentally. They gave me muscle relaxers; those were fun. I took them, waited half-an-hour, jumped in bed, Scrinched up, fell asleep; then woke up an hour later and puked."

"If you've been to all the experts," said Debra, "and you really want to be with Arnie—"

"I do."

"—what do you think it is?"

Missy sat a long time.

A long time.

Then Missy said, "When I woke in the hospital—"

"How far along were you when—"

"I was seven months along when I lost her. I woke up and I just knew. Nobody needed to tell me what had happened. There were all these flowers and Arnie and my mother crying by my bed and all I could think of were these lines from Yevtushenko: When your face appeared over my crumpled life, at first I understood only the poverty of what I have. In Russian, over and over again, I repeated that line of poetry to myself; it was the only way to understand that I'd never see the face of my little girl. And to me nothing else mattered."

Debra returned the favor and held Missy as she cried.

They fell asleep in each other's arms and had to be awakened for lunch.

# Chapter 9

WEIGHTROOM RULES

Devon and Blake spotted each other on the bench press. Devon, shirtless but still wearing his mirrored sunglasses, cranked out repetitions with 175 pounds. He sat up, stretched, belched, reclined and started cranking again. Mary Francis Mulvaney sat nearby and if she were capable of sight, would have appeared to be scrutinizing the boys. Blake, clad only in his patriotic swimsuit, took his rotation on the workout surface as Devon stood silent sentinel and spotter. Aside from the extra 15 pounds of sculpted bulk-and-muscle Blake packed onto his frame, the body-building-boys were the same height, build, and coloring.

They strutted slowly to the slag heap of dumbbells and performed their individual routines: Devon isolating his triceps, Blake concentrating on his forearms. The first words spoken between them since Devon had said, "Spot me on the bench?" were Blake's casual, "Why'd you become an actor?"

Devon had answered that question for The Tonight Show and The L.A. Times. But he had never told the truth.

Until now.

As girlie-girl pajama parties are governed by unwritten but stringent rules of disclosure and confidentiality, so are testosterone permeated all-male gyms and locker rooms. These sporty sanctuaries are today's necessary equivalent of yesteryear's initiation rites and sweat lodges.

The addition of females to a gym is like adding a cop to a reunion of mafia Dons: What you say may be used against you in a court of law. Most women don't realize that men do talk; it's just that the workout needs to be completed, the best shortstop in the majors decided, the NBA playoffs handicapped, and the six-pack emptied beforehand. All this nontoxic, semi-confrontational but detached, sports-and-alcohol based emotional foreplay is crucial to the development and flowering of the male psyche.

"It was right after a dope deal had gone down, mahn. I was like eighteen and had driven over the Rockies to Denver to score. This guy, Mark, led me through the side-door of a house a freaking hog wouldn't live in. Ramshackle boards, assorted street signs, and foundation forms were tacked over holes to keep the wind out. Aboot two weeks worth of dirty dishes were piled in the sink. Cockroaches clicked across yellow linoleum counters. A blue extension cord snaked in through a broken window; they were stealing electricity from a neighbor."

Devon now sat on the bench performing bicep curls. Blake still bombed his forearms with wrist curls. The boys' lifting had slowed in time, like metronomes, to Devon's rich, practiced baritone and the languid pace of his tale, "We followed that extension cord down the hall, past a skanky bathroom. The only clean things in that house were the brand new, big-time locks on his bedroom door. He took aboot a minute to unlatch all the security. Then we went in fired up some hash, exchanged some cash, and I left with my stash. He wanted to finish the pipe, I wanted out of that stink of a sty, so I followed that blue snake back down the hall to the kitchen, mahn.

"But right there, seated on the linoleum counter, playing with the extension cord is this dirty, barefoot child. Her red hair was obviously homecut, with bangs at a forty-five across her forehead. The poor little kid's longer, stray hairs were plastered to her cheek with snot and sweat. Her filthy feet dangled. I smiled at her. Then this chilled me, Blake."

"What?" Blake stopped exercising.

"She smiled back. Comfortable. Friendly even. She was used to people like me. Dealers; maybe even worse. Probably worse. She had moth-yellow teeth and blistered gums. And she had these impossibly proud and pristine brown eyes."

"Holy shit." Blake dropped both dumbbells into the dirt. He squatted forward with his hands on his knees. He dripped sweat and listened.

"And that little kid could have been me." Devon hopped up onto the benchpress and stood on tiptoe, balancing, stretching his calves. "Should have been me."

Blake stood and heard Devon's almost whisper, "I was an orphan. I am an orphan, like that little girl, raised in piece-of-shit houses. Ignored, left to fend for myself. But the way you are raised is the way you are raised. I didn't mind any of that shit when it was happening to me, but when I'd grown older and I saw someone else in that...." Devon hopped down from the bench, "I can't explain it, mahn. But I was somehow shamed into my acting success by that filthy, skittery, brown-eyed child. She had no future. No possibilities. Her life was already over; it just hadn't begun to end." Devon faltered, his voice faded further, not from actor's technique, but undeniable emotion. He continued, "There's so much fucking failure and pain in the world; I couldn't let myself fail, Blake. I determined right there, looking at that poor little girl that I'd do anything to escape the ranks of the ruined. Like that sad little child; the ruined. And I have."

"Yeah you have."

"You can't screw your way to the top, but you can at least screw your way to the middle where your talents might be noticed. And from there, with hard work, larceny, a good agent and the ability to use people like Kleenex, anyone can make it. What are you doing here?"

"I'm an escort."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it's a job, and humping fifteen, twenty rich old broads a year is better than waiting tables, right?"

"If you're really serious about fucking people for a living, you should move to Hollywood." Devon slapped Blake across the shoulder.

"Awesome career advice."

"Yes," said Devon. "It is."

"Let's score some lunch," said Blake. "It smells freaking devastating."

# Chapter 10

APPLE CORES

Apple became a stringent and rigorous vegetarian after she crashed her bicycle at the age of eight. Crashed her bicycle wasn't exactly, precisely, what happened, but had become the family euphemism.

At the age of eight a child is too young to understand marital strife. The child, consciously and unconsciously, can understand screaming and punching and drunken plate-flinging hatred, but they are ill equipped to deal with the rancid and curdled milk of conjugal loathing.

This is a good thing.

To an eight-year-old Mama is Mama and Diddy is Diddy. They aren't, and never were, individuals who made choices, either good or bad, they are simply THE PARENTS. Milk comes from cows, the ocean is blue, and that's Mama and there's Diddy. To expect otherwise would be tantamount to thinking the Wonka Factory really exists or that Democracy works.

So here's how Apple Crashed Her Bicycle:

Apple (that is her given name: Apple Abramowicz) was pedaling home from fourth grade on a wide graveled road just outside of Homedale, Idaho. Past intense and profoundly green fields of alfalfa, acres of stumpy, purple-green leafed sugar beets, and busted stalks of already-been-harvested feed corn. She was humming a Merle Haggard tune when her mother, driving a pick-up with a quart of Jack Daniels clenched between her knees, ran poor little Apple Abramowicz into a ditch.

Her head had been split open and her right wrist suffered a compound fracture. Apple didn't remember any pain from the incident, just the salt-sting of blood in her bright blue eyes and the incredible contrast of dark red blood with the luminous white bone jutting from her wrist.

Luckily momma's latest love interest was riding shotgun and had only been drinking since noon. He patched Apple up and drove her to the nearest hospital, in Caldwell, twenty-seven miles away.

Apple only remembers two things: being rescued by her sweet Mama and dinner that night where she was sickened by the roast beef. In southern Idaho animals are food and food is animals. But since Apple had crashed and bled, a new paradigm had been thrust upon her: I am an animal and animals are me.

And she'd never eaten meat again.

No beef, pork, fish, lamb, rattlesnake, gnu, rat, cat or poultry.

Nothing.

Apple and Altair, in their advertising, didn't announce that meat wasn't served at Tantricity Hill. After the initial surprise at the first meal when guests searched in vain—through bulgur, quinoa, rice, polenta or vegetables—for pork chops or lamb loin or even a hot dog, there was never a complaint.

Apple Abramowicz had journeyed to a world far away from her roots. Raised as an all-American, Bible-thumpin'-Evangelical farm girl she'd become a counter-culture sex-therapist, atheist, vegetarian who had abandoned everything from her childhood except her name and a love of country music. As she prepared lunch the tape player in the refectory belted out some Waylon Jennings.

Today's lunch would begin with Canapés "À La Picasso". Thinly sliced and buttered toasted baguette with olive tapenade and sprigs of fresh-picked tiny-leafed basil, fresh rosemary, savory, and thyme from Apple's organic (of course) garden.

Then Soupe aux Asperges et Ravioles, puréed asparagus-garlic soup with tiny ½" square goat cheese stuffed ravioli bobbing about like mini-marshmallows.

The Plat du Jour consisted of a classic Cassoulet de Légumes. The white beans, red pepper, carrot, garlic, potato, red wine, olive oil, and herbes de Provence were topped with bread crumbs and fresh-picked Italian parsley and cooked in individual, shallow earthenware dishes.

Dessert consisted of Raclette cheese, Fuji apples, and herbal tea.

Apple wiped a droplet of sweat from her bald head and as she opened the oven to test the Cassoulets, she crooned along with Waylon. The little casseroles needed another twenty-minutes to bake, and she needed at least that long to think about Altair.

Religion?

What the heck was Altair thinking?

Apple thought she and Altair were happy little atheist hedonists in their cradle of free, instructive, remunerative love.

Apple nibbled a grape, feeling its cool roundness, its sweet resistance before it yielded to her bite. She thought it was love, finally, with Altair. For all her spunk and beauty, Apple had never dated the intrepid or gorgeous. Realizing her mortality at a young age, thanks to her drunken mother, is why Apple had always been so keenly aware of the discrepancy between a sleek and stylish man's physical and spiritual qualities.

She'd only met males who flaunted their youth and vigor; never one who appreciated it; she doubted if one, outside the realm of mythology, had ever existed: then remembering Narcissus she knew one had never existed. For this reason, she had always chosen somewhat older men. An additional bonus being you can have sex and sleep the same evening. The older guys needed their sleep and weren't waking you at 2:17, 3:47, and 5:23 AM with their testosterone-fueled-fireplace-pokers. She loved Altair; his crazy theories on Life and Sexuality, his wonderful sex-business, his plentiful Yerba Buena. But now he was acting like a twenty-four year-old Divinity Student fresh out of Bible College with a hellfire-fueled-hard-on to save the world.

She tossed the Winemaker's Salad and ate another grape.

Religion?

What the heck is up with that?

# Chapter 11

RECIRCULATION

Following lunch, and kudos all round for Apple's cooking, the members comprising this session of Tantricity Hill washed the dishes. Then they performed a silent Meditation Walk to the waterfall and back. The walk, quickly explained by Altair as they walked past the peculiar black edifice called Omphalos, would enhance their feelings of community. They were to stride in sequence, inhaling through their nostrils each time their right heel hit the ground while chanting silently: Sa, Ta, Na, Ma. They would walk four silent steps holding the inhalation, then exhale on the following four paces, through the nose, while silently chanting: Wa, Hay, Gu, Ru. Robed in saffron, silent and striding in unison, a decisive sense of kinship had been realized almost immediately by Blake, Missy, Devon, Arnold, Helena, and Debra:

Apple is one hell of a cook and Altair is frigging Looney Tunes.

Lunacy notwithstanding, following the walk, they all gathered around the stone schlub and pebbly pudenda for another shot at the Circle Ritual. Like a veteran football coach, insurance salesman, preacher, or tenured professor, Altair had a variety of ready, clever, and illustrative anecdotes at his disposal. He began this introductory diatribe, as he had the last, with a joke:

"A retired couple visited their doctor and she said, 'We have a problem while having sex.'

'What's the problem?' asked the doctor. 'We feel awkward talking about sex,' said the man, 'can't we just show you?' The doctor rolled his eyes, recalled his Hippocratic Oath and said, 'Certainly.'" Altair, not wanting a repeat of the previous, failed Circle Ritual, carefully evaluated his audience: Debra sat, quiet and pensive in her robe; Helena and Devon and Apple were nude; Blake in a red-white-and-blue Speedo; Arnold robed and in black socks, no Hush Puppies this time; Missy still robed, but enjoying the sunshine with her robe pulled down on her shoulders like a debutante's gown and gathered up around near her waist like Lucy Ricardo ready to stomp some grapes. Mary Francis Mulvaney lounged languidly.

Altair continued, "The old couple hopped up on that freshly-papered table and performed like two teenagers on prom night. 'Huh,' says she, 'it didn't happen that time. Might we come back next week?' The doctor, true to his oath, agreed. Every week hence, for three months, the venerable couple returned and performed flawlessly. Then the doc said, 'What's really going on here?' The man said, 'When we try it at her house her husband beats the pudding out of me. When we try it at my house my wife throws cold water on us. A nice motel room costs eighty-five dollars. You only charge sixty a visit and Medicare covers half.'"

Silence.

Even from Apple, the affable Ed McMahon to Altair's Johnny Carson.

The impervious and imperious Altair continued, "The word Masturbation is derived from the Greek roots mazdo, virile member, and turba, disturbance. As in turbulence or turgid. There is an implicit assumption in our culture, as demonstrated in the story I just told that sex is something that, someway, must be paid for: emotionally, psychically, or with currency. Somehow, a debt is owed. This is not true; sex is a gift, given us to enjoy and exult in. This culture also associates a loss of dignity with masturbation. It's dirty, secretive; somehow immoral. Masturbation, should be honored as a natural and normal human activity, not as a disturbance of some divine or social order."

His oration concluded, Altair set the egg timer on the statue's starboard testicle and the Circle Ritual re-ensued.

Nearly half-an-hour later, the ritual concluded, Altair, much like a teacher assigning homework over a long weekend said, "Prior to dinner I have one more task for you. Pair off with a member of another couple and explain to them, as succinctly as you are able, why you are here."

The couples stood and milled about. Debra pointed at Missy and said, "Been there, done that." Speaking quietly together Debra and Missy, this weekend's soul sisters, wandered away to the swimming pool. Missy disrobed outdoors for the first time in her life and, joining the already naked Debra they slipped, together, into the pool.

Blake pointed to Devon. "We done did that too. Dude, I'm gonna take a nap." Devon high-fived Blake and nodded. He then sat at the base of the female statue, shaded his eyes and stared intently at the splishy-splashing Missy and Debra.

Helena and Arnold shrugged and ambled down the two-track toward the orchard.

Apple and Altair, arguing in hushed and irritated tones wandered off to the Refectory. They entered. Voices rose. A pot banged.

Twice.

# Chapter 12

REVENGE

Helena and Arnold walked in the shady coolness of the overgrown orchard below Tantricity Hill. "I like these trees much better than any of the vineyards," said Helena. "The trees have personality. The vines are so uniform. Standardized. Unvarying. Military, almost. I've always failed to see the mystique."

"They're greengages."

"What?"

"These fruit trees," said Arnold. "They're greengage plums."

Helena smiled at Arnold, "I wouldn't know a plum tree from my family tree. I'm a big city girl."

Arnold explained his interest in organic farming, his garbage-cooking-business, his life in the Midwest, Missy, his bankruptcy, her miscarriage, and their "Scrinching" problem.

It seemed effortless for him to talk to Helena, here and now, in a newly leafed orchard.

They nodded, held hands and continued down the hill. After commenting on Apple's culinary prowess Arnold said, "What's really helped me, after the miscarriage, is thinking about some stuff." He smiled shyly, embarrassed.

"About what?"

"King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. And Merlin."

"How so?"

"Arthur, as a child, asked Merlin if he had always been a wizard. The Wizard smiled but didn't answer the boy's question. He prepared a huge pot of soup made with herbs and roots and mushrooms. It took him hours to prepare. The aroma filled their meager cottage with a sense of comfort and home."

Helena smiled at Arnold's quaint use of the word meager. She squeezed his hand.

While talking, they had almost strolled down to Mountain House Road; they could hear the occasional vehicle potholing past. They turned and headed back up the rudimentary trail to Tantricity Hill. Arnold said in a lost and distracted monotone, "Arthur, who had been chopping and stacking wood all day, ached for a big bowl of the soup. And Merlin scooped him out a huge portion. But as soon as Arthur had gobbled down the first bite, the soup disappeared. All of it. Gone like that." Arnold snapped his fingers and continued, "Arthur hurled his wooden spoon at Merlin, Why'd you do that? I'm starving. Merlin replied, Yes, you are. That's why you must realize the entire banquet is in each spoonful."

Helena stopped and touched Arnold's face, "That story gave me goosebumps."

Arnold nodded as they continued up the hill, "When I was a kid I read everything I could on King Arthur and Merlin and I'd be transported to another world. I had a tough time in school, I wasn't athletic or funny or popular and I used the Arthurian legends and stories to zone-out and escape. But after me and Missy lost our baby girl all the stories returned. I didn't consciously dredge them up; they were just there, filling the void; making up for our loss. I couldn't concentrate on business or anything. I'd think about Sir Mark and Sir Gawain and stories about young Arthur; but the stories had a different resonance. A deeper significance. After the baby died."

They halted halfway up the hill. Arnold picked up a stone and flung it aimlessly into the orchard. A younger woman would have asked, "What's wrong?" or "How can I help?"

But Helena paid Arnold the favor of silence. She leaned against a tree, slipped out of her shoes and ran her toes through the cool, gravelly topsoil. Eventually, after listening to the wind, tossing six more stones and making eye-contact with Helena, Arnold continued, "The legends have helped me realize that I am still a father to my yet unborn child. That spoonful is my banquet. I'm okay with that." He inspected the horizon as if expecting Sir Gawain to appear over the next green hill. "I have to be okay with that, or go nuts. Nuts."

Tall weeds and an ancient rusting cultivator saved the orchard scene from being postcard pristine, but it was quiet and sublime and the couple stood together in stillness for a time before Arnold asked, "Why are you here, Helena?"

She stared across the valley to the two wineries and a barn in the distance. "What's that?"

"Why are you here, Helena?"

She smiled, "Revenge."

"What?"

"Don't be alarmed, child." Helena stared at the ground for a moment before continuing, "You see, sex, at my age is probably the best revenge. I told all my friends with husbands my age that I was coming here. With a young and studly consort, contractually bound to pleasure me."

"You mean Blake's a whore?"

"Gigolo is the actual term, but yes in the strictest sense of the word he's definitely a whore."

They walked down into and up the other side of a gully.

Then Helena smiled, touched the younger man's face again and said, "I've also lost a child; though not a young one. Not quite your age." Anticipating Arnold's question she said, "Two years ago. And I just recently lost my husband to a nasty, nasty cancer. I miss them both dearly. I suppose that's part of the reason I'm here. The other part is the prospect of a naughty, mischievous adventure." She hesitated. "At my age adventures are few-and-far between."

"You're not that old."

"But you are that sweet. Aren't you?"

"Missy thinks so."

Again they strolled in a cozy calm more befitting to lifelong friends than new acquaintances. Helena said, "Arnold?"

"Yes?"

"As you get older; it just gets easier."

"That revenge thing?"

"That life thing."

"How?"

"It just does. Trust me." Helena smiled. "You still don't know if what you do will turn out right; but you realize what it will cost you. That, at least for me, makes it easier."

Arnold noodled his brow in mild confusion but didn't ask any more questions of Helena. They simply held hands again and hiked back through the orchard of white-flowering greengage plums.

# Chapter 13

SQUEAK

Helena and Blake had a normal evening, keeping in mind that Tantricity Hill is synonymous with Creative Copulation. Helena had always been a Sun Worshiper and sitting and stroking herself in the sun all afternoon had made her taut and receptive. Lifting weights had the same effect on Blake, pumping him full of virility and energy and verve. During the spectacular evening meal (the calligraphic menu card read):

Legumes Printaniers et Coulis de Légumes Verts

Potée aux Pois Chiches et au Chou

Quiche Bretonnante

Salade Composée de Pâté de Roquefort et des Pommes

Blake-the-whore had actually charmed Helena with his ingenuousness. He had worked up a prodigious appetite exercising with Devon and he kept nudging Helena and pointing at what they were eating. The first course frightened him with its sea-green color and grassy-citrus smell and he wouldn't taste it until Apple had assured him the sauce consisted of garlic, fennel, fresh chervil ("What's chervil?" "Pungent parsley." "Oh.") spinach, butter and spices. God knows what he thought the chickpea and cabbage stew was made of. Blake enjoyed three pieces of quiche, which he called "Egg Pie", and of course he recognized the greens and apple salad with bleu cheese. As they were sipping tea, she asked, "What do you normally eat?"

He gulped the tea and burned his tongue. "Ow. Ow." He slurped some water and said, "I only eat four things. Granola, In-and-Out and Powerbars."

"That's only three things."

Blake squeezed Helena's thigh, then extended and flapped his tongue flatly between his teeth.

"Oh my." Helena blushed like a virginal sophomore in a co-ed sex education class. "That does make four, doesn't it?"

"Yep."

"Yep," echoed Helena. She felt better since her walk with Arnold. They'd returned to the camp; Arnold helped Apple in the tidy vegetable garden and Helena dipped, nude, in the pool and sprawled in the sun until supper. She finally, truly relaxed, soaking up the sunbeams: here at Tantricity Hill she let down her hair, her guard, and now, finally, her panties for some phallic fun that didn't feature her own fingers or a device requiring C batteries.

Helena decided to make the most of her bought-and-paid for flesh-and-blood sex-toy. They both adjourned to Golden Gate Park and studied the illustrated Kama Sutra Pillow Book together.

And they commenced thusly:

All the floors at Tantricity Hill were soft and pliable and designed for tushy, in addition to tootsy, traffic. They were warm and spongy and inviting, so down on the floor is where Helena and Blake inaugurated their diddling with a position from the Kama Sutra entitled: Widely Yawning. Featuring the man on top, it is a Modified Missionary Mode with the woman spreading her legs upward in a Peace Symbol while her erectile gentleman caller slides in-and-out like a butter churn. From this Helena tucked her knees against her chest, and planted the soles of her feet against Blake's pecs as he, still inserted, knelt. She couldn't have maintained this posture for any length of time, except that she could leg press against Blake as he thrust. Oh my Jesus God, she thought and as they entered the seventh minute in this particular clinch she orgasmed with a muffled-feline-sounding-yippy-yowl.

The score was: Helena – 1 Blake – 0.

Going into Splitting the Bamboo, Helena pulled her right foot off the gas pedal on Blake's chest, lowered it to the floor, and returned it to the pedal. She took her left off the brake, lowered and returned it. She duplicated these maneuvers for an intense, increasingly noisy and sweaty, nine minutes and thirty-three seconds.

Quite intense: Helena- 4 Blake – 1.47777 before he withdrew like LBJ should have from Vietnam in 1967. They sat panting and smiling on the floor. Blake retrieved the book from the nightstand and used his stiff, sheathed, reservoir-tipped meal-ticket to point at a picture.

Helena, panting, rejected Blake's suggestion. He wiped sweat from his nose, turned the page and gestured again with his prod. She nodded and they were immediately onto the bed and into The Pair of Tongs. Helena sat on top and straddled Blake with her knees bent and sat quiet and content for what seemed an age, and then she morphed into The Swing, eliciting an eager groan from Blake. The Swing consisted of the young man rocking Helena up-and-down, then side-to-side and then up-and-down.

Again and again.

From this to the Spinning Top, where Helena placed her legs straight back, ground herself onto Blake and inched in a circle, critiquing the room's décor, all 360.

Three times; in case she had overlooked any little something.

Then two man-on-top poses: The Yawning and The Rising with an engorged, aroused Blake tossing Helena around almost violently. After their final spasmed and quaking orgasms Helena slipped out from beneath her sweaty and spent boy-toy and stood, panting, next to the bed. "If I," she said, "may get personal for a moment?"

"Personal?" Eyes glazed and fading fast Blake propped himself on an elbow, "Lady, if I was up-inside-you any further you'd have needed a labor pain to get me outta there."

"True enough," smiled Helena. "But..."

"But what?"

"Precisely what is in those pills you take?"

"Vaso-something-or-others. In college I had to take Chemistry and I dinked around with an idea for some stiff-dick formulas. Tried them out on some dumb ass weightlifter friends until I came up with this one." Blake's eyes began to close and he reclined on a pillow. "Came up with this stuff. Works pretty good."

"It's worth millions. What you just did."

"It's worth four-hundred dollars. I already sold it to some geek in a suit from Pfizer. What an idiot. He paid me cash. And I still get to make all I want for myself..."

Blake fell asleep. Unconscious and drooling, his right elbow tucked beneath his face he snored slightly and rolled unto his belly. Helena smiled again and slapped Blake's ass.

Hard.

It barely jiggled.

She laughed and said, "Sweet slumbers my paid-for prince. Please dream of older women." She tossed a blanket over Blake, then donned her robe and sandals for a mid-evening stroll around the compound. As she stood in the center of the room, observing her dozing, drool-pooling young lover she recited:

"An amorous maiden antique

Locked a man in her house for a week;

He entered her door

With a shout and a roar

But his exit was marked with a squeak."

# Chapter 14

PARTNERS

Missy and Arnold had also studied the pillow book.

Sexual dysfunction in a marriage, whether male or female, takes its greatest toll not in the lack of sex but more tragically in lack of spontaneity. For the couple, caution replaces passion and reticence trumps curiosity. It is, oddly enough, similar to when your neighbor purchases a mustard yellow Volvo. You didn't know what one looked like until last Thursday and now you see them all over town, at drive-throughs, banks, and the gym.

Only with sexual dysfunction the mustard yellow Volvo is Failure.

You can't get it out of your mind. Even when you say: Stop thinking about failure you're not only thinking but highlighting, featuring, and emphasizing Failure. So reticent Missy and eager but cautious Arnold browsed through the Kama Sutra like a penniless Welfare couple leafing through a Nieman Marcus catalog.

The only thing they could afford, because the price of failure is oh-so-dear, was Congress of the Crow. So Arnold and Missy smiled and kissed. Then they kissed and smiled and dropped their robes and satisfied, gratified, and loved one another orally and enthusiastically.

Reclining in the afterglow Missy told Arnold all about her chat with Debra; how the girls connected immediately and intimately. Arnold related his walk with Helena, including a glowing description of the greengage orchard, the vineyards, and the oak-peppered hills. Then he added his highest approval, with the practiced laconic understatement of a native-born-and-bred-Midwesterner: "I think she's nice."

Missy snuggled against Arnold.

With the temperature at 66o it was just chill enough to cuddle. They laughed and rolled and cavorted and tickled and kissed some more. "Let's," said Missy, "go for a walk."

Atop a hill a half-mile from Tantricity Hill they stood in wind-whipped saffron robes beneath the spring constellations of, east-to-west: Cygnus, Draco, and Leo: Swan, Dragon, and Lion. The scant lights of the compound smoldered like smudge pots beneath them. The night-sounds were a fugue of owls and insects and the ululating wind. The breeze carried a hint of a scent of the Pacific. Missy said, "Arnie?"

"What?" Arnold had been transported by the night.

"I thought this would be more clinical."

Arnold tried to formulate a response, but couldn't.

No matter, Missy continued, "We came here with a specific symptom; an ailment. We filled out the questionnaire. I thought there would be some therapy, some work; exercises. Maybe healing; rehabilitation."

Her husband remained silent.

She said, "It's all so woo-woo."

"Woo-woo?"

"Touchy-feelly-California-NewAge-Express-Yourself-Hippie-Dippie-Cannabis-Huffing-Do-Your-Own-Thing-Bullshit-Woo-Woo. You know?"

Arnold said, "I still don't get Woo-Woo."

"Andrew Fetler said of California, when he moved here from Russia, and this was way back in the forties: 'In our new climate every conceivable religious plant creeps, slithers, entwines, snaps, exhales, twists, breeds in the sun.' That kind of woo-woo."

"It's amazing that you have a quote from some darn Russian for every conceivable situation." Arnold sat, pulling his robe tight. He slipped out of his Hush Puppies and fiddled with his socks. "I like that."

"Arnie," she sat, beside him, biting her finger nails, "what's wrong."

The nocturnal fugue purred over the hills.

"Would it help you," he said, swallowing hard, "if you were with someone else in bed?"

Missy hugged him and looked to the stars. "I don't know. I really don't know."

# Chapter 15

BREAKING UP AIN'T HARD TO DO

( i )

"It's your fault," said Debra.

"I don't know why I married you," said Devon.

"I don't know why I stay married to you," said Debra.

"I fucking hate you," said Devon.

Debra, usually, would fling I fucking hate you back at Devon and the duo would play obscenity-tennis for an hour. But fortified by her heartfelt tête-à-tête with Missy, Debra abandoned the familiar script and calmly told Devon she was leaving him; not for someone else, just leaving. She had expected more histrionics and recriminations and blame and reproach and acrimony; perhaps even a shove or a shake or a slap. She knew from experience that actors, male and female, were a pampered and spoiled and self-indulgent lot. Their tantrums were almost expected; an infantile but tolerated by-product of "talent".

But Devon had also abandoned their customary script.

He sat at the foot of the bed and laughed. He patted the bed; Debra sat. "You know what's really funny?"

"What?" she asked.

"I was gonna tell you I was leaving."

"Huh."

"What do you mean," said Devon. "by 'Huh?'"

Debra didn't respond.

Ignoring Devon she drifted away and remembered as a child in Pismo Beach, thirteen-years-old, being raped.

As she'd played with the memory so many times during the years Debra had become the producer and director; the camera and subject—and she'd finally reduced the memory to a short, soundless, black-and-white snippet: she could do everything to the incident except forget it.

She was a precocious lass and, as she'd told Missy, she was sexually "experienced" before her first steady at fifteen. But for her first time she had been gagged, pinioned into the back seat of a station wagon and raped by a bearded, blubbery, whiskey-breathed old man.

And it wasn't sex; it was violence.

An unmitigated, unrepentant assault.

She resolved right then to never care about anything. She remembered lucidly, the moment she decided to shunt off her feelings. Debra was walking slowly in the fog, home from the site of the attack, and as mechanically as an engineer cinching down valves on the doomed and sinking Titanic she fastened down her emotions. She had been dragged from being a curious thirteen-year-old to a hardened, inured and compromised adult.

If she didn't choose not to feel she'd leak blood and ingest venom forever.

But by separating emotion from sex she realized she could use sex to get anything she wanted. A therapeutic decision that led, ultimately and directly, to her Success.

Simply because sex was what men wanted.

So Debra had been adored as a sex goddess, lauded as an actress, and lionized as a movie star but her greatest rôle, as perhaps it is for all of us, had been her persona. She hadn't felt anything for years. Debra acted as Devon, her current director and agent—just incidentally her husband—deemed fit and apt and apposite.

Until now.

Debra hadn't, until just now when Devon told her she could have exactly what she wanted, ever felt the weight of her life. And its heft and impact had been increased through years of denial.

She said, "I feel like someone just puked on my new dancing shoes."

He said, "Then, it seems, that I win, eh?"

"So winning is what it's about?"

"Yessiree," he said in uncharacteristic, unadorned Rocky Mountain cadence and candor. "Yessiree."

"Well, okay then." said Debra, "I guess that's about it for us."

( ii )

Devon smiled at Debra's pronunciation of us. She spat it out as if it were spoken in her Oscar nominated role of Sylvia Plath in The Bell Jar. The movie had been a labor of love for both Devon and Debra. Devon won an Oscar for directing the emotional, some said saccharine and sophomoric, tour de force. He had filmed in black&white and studiously avoided any nude scenes for his wife of nine years. He had purchased, at no little effort and expense, all the master copies of the XXX smokers she'd filmed during her formative years and destroyed them. He'd purposely and deliberately re-tooled her career, transforming the porn queen—who had once, infamously, portrayed the young Eleanor Roosevelt in Enema Party—into a serious and bankable star. Devon had also been Oscar nominated for The Bell Jar's screenplay, which he didn't so much write as steal from a waiter/writer who worked in an Isla Vista brewpub.

Devon took several "vacations" a year; usually while Debra worked on a film overseas. He had an unpublicized penchant for heroin and he took these narco-trips alone, usually holed up in a five-star-hotel suite, abusing his body with a needle and his production company's credit card on room service meals he couldn't keep down. His drugs arrived by courier and he'd spend up to a month zoned out of his mind on the needle.

Scruffy, sallow, skeletal and spaced-out he could roam California coastal towns without being buttonholed by autograph-seeking-fans. If he did receive a sideways glance it was simply because he looked somewhat familiar, and smelled badly, hygiene and heroine being mutually exclusive activities.

Years ago Devon had, initially at the behest of a handsome and lecherous acting teacher explored homosexuality. But this thing with the young Isla Vista waiter/writer wasn't simply sexual. Timothy, never just Tim, was the most fragile soul Devon had ever met; he was the only man with whom Devon had entertained the possibility of "Having Feelings For".

Which meant, of course, that he had already fallen in love.

At work in the brewpub Timothy cared for his customers; he ministered to them. He loved his parents and had convinced himself that he had inherited the soul of Sylvia Plath when she committed suicide on February 11, 1963: the date of Timothy's birth. He had researched and written The Bell Jar for his entire adult life, honing the movie into a truly insightful and riveting story.

The only mistake Timothy made was giving the script to Devon Adams who re-typed it, changed the title and stage business, added his name and had it in pre-production almost before the wet spots he and Timothy had created on the hotel room floor had dried.

Yes, Devon was in love with Timothy and Love is Love; but MOVIES are, in these fragile and counterfeit American times, Life Itself. Call your brother; pay a visit to your minister, priest, or shrink and you will see flat, boring, stale, and unprofitable lives. Then mention Humphrey Bogart or Harrison Ford or Woody Allen to the anonymous guy or gal on the barstool adjacent yours and experience the passion, the zeal, the ardor which, if invested in marriage, would obsolete divorce. So Devon looked at his forfeiture of a possible relationship with Timothy as nothing more than fit payment for The Bell Jar. Devon bought Timothy's silence with a succession of lies promising money, a producership, and story credits but Timothy, ultimately savaged by the theft and betrayal, never saw the film.

Leaving only a handwritten note for his mother Timothy had killed himself the day principle photography began. Timothy, just like Sylvia Plath, died of carbon monoxide poisoning, with his head in the oven, kitchen doors and windows sealed with wet towels.

Devon sent a personal assistant to the funeral with flowers and an emotional note of condolence for sweet Timothy's belovéd parents thereby, he thought, obtaining closure. But egomaniacal movie makers aren't exempt from guilt; even if they are surprised and confused by that pesky emotion.

Devon couldn't tell anyone about his guilt over Timothy's death and Devon's guilt affected him psychologically and ultimately, sexually.

Thus he and Debra's visit to Tantricity Hill.

And perhaps a divorce from the bitchy-whiney little starlet would be just what he needed to re-introduce rigidity to his floppy-flugelhorn. "Well, okay then," said Devon. "I guess that is it for us." He yawned, removed his shoes, and sat on the bed. "I'm so tired."

"Me too," said Debra.

"Nine years of marriage is eternity in Hollywood."

"Sure felt like it."

"It sure did. Bitch."

Debra laughed, "Fuck you."

"Good night," said Devon.

"Good night," said Debra.

It would be an uncommonly quiet, decidedly non-dramatic evening for these two illustrious, larger-than-life movie stars.

# Chapter 16

FREEDOM OF THE PRESS

Gayle Azevedo's usual notion of "roughing it" was no room service. And yet this morning she snuggled into a sniper's camouflage tent in the wind blustered hills, drawing a map of Tantricity Hill on her letterhead and snapping pictures through a telephoto lens. She had just finished the map by pencil-shading the long, low, black structure that she had yet to see anyone enter.

The editor of The Century City Snitch had received an anonymous phone call, two months ago, tipping her that Debra Shaffer and Devon Adams would be attending a Tantric Slap & Tickle camp near Hopland, California. When she left smoggy-drear Century City a week ago it seemed like the wildest of goose-and-gander chases and when she arrived in Hopland it seemed even less likely.

Yes, there existed in the hills a licensed and legitimate sex retreat, Tantricity Hill, and she booked a lovely room at a local, rustic bed and breakfast. She'd enjoyed surprisingly good food at Hopland's brewpub (they're everywhere, those little bastions of zymurgy) and had fun wine tasting and sightseeing. But Gayle had noticed that Hopland, like many rural towns in her native Oregon and adopted California, had become stratified.

These towns had become the home of the Capped-Tooth and the Gapped-Tooth. In isolated towns that had existed relatively free from development since the end of the Korean War, a 1980's building-boom had occurred. Into these exurbs fled people from the cities and suburbs: Baby Boomers who'd cashed-out a home in metropolitan Portland, L.A., Seattle, or San Francisco and could afford to construct what would have been called Manors in an earlier century. (Gayle referred to them in the Snitch as Starter Castles.) These Capped-Tooths, drove up property values, planted vineyards, eleven varieties of lavender, olive trees and other chichi crops that overran the traditional agricultural mainstays of pears, apples and livestock. Orchards were plowed under and vinified. Livestock had become corporatized along the I-5 corridor that linked California, Oregon, and Washington.

And the Gapped-Tooths were pissed.

Mustard used to come in a yellow squeeze bottle, now the local market had sun-dried tomato, wine-laced, white-peppered, honey-tanged gallimaufry. And jars of capers and cornichones. Endive, kohlrabi, salsify, and leeks had replaced red radishes and iceberg lettuce in the produce bins. But locals had one sacrosanct institution: in all these towns there existed a bar where only Bud flowed from the taps and Johnny Cash, and the Williams, Jr&Sr dominated the jukebox.

Smoking mandatory.

Gayle, herself a gap-tooth from Zigzag—east of Portland on U.S. 26, halfway up Mount Hood—found Hopland's obligatory redneck bar, GUNTHER'S DEW DROP INN, lit her Marlboro and bought a round of Bud for the house. Within a half-hour she had the scoop on Tantricity Hill:

THE BARTENDER: "Everyone talks trash about Altair, but I admire the bastard. I figured out a way to drink for a livin'; he's figured out a way to screw for a livin.'"

BARFLY #1: "At least it's not another winery."

BARFLY #2: "You got that right, but I wouldn't mind if he'd put in a tasting room, I mean, have you seen his wife?"

THE BARTENDER: "That's none too polite, talk like that in front of the lady."

BARFLY # 2: "I'm sorry. Hey Gayle, if you wanna peek at the place, you can see it from my property."

So Gayle having attained access to a perch above Tantricity Hill witnessed the first Circle Ritual, the arrival of her quarry, and the second Circle Ritual, during which she snapped 113 photos.

On the afternoon of the second day, during the Water Ritual, which Gayle referred to in her notes as the "Chlorinated Cluster Fuck", she snapped twice as many pictures before she packed up her tent and returned, happily, to the glamorous smog and snarled traffic of Southern California.

# Chapter 17

SAMSARA CHECKERS

Following Saturday morning's breakfast—fresh fruit and big earthy-tasting mushroom omelets—the group again tidied the Refectory and were bidden by Altair to reseat themselves at the refectory's table. To each couple, Apple and Altair included, he distributed little game boards that looked like a tic-tac-toe diagram. On one side of the tic-tac-toe board were three white checkers; on the other were three blue checkers. "The object of the game," said Altair, "is to replace your opponent's pieces with your own. Unlike checkers, there is no jumping and you can only advance to the back row through the center square."

"Got it, mahn," said Devon.

"How can you," said Debra, "get it? It can't be done. You'll reach a stalemate every time."

Devon studied the board, moved first and was stalemated three moves later by Debra. Three more games, in speedy succession, also ended in gridlock.

The game, as designed by Altair (actually he remembered it from The Journal of Applied Sociology back in his collegiate days), operated like this: If you tried to win, the game would always end in a deadlock. There could be no victor. This contest afforded him the perfect lead-in to his Samsara sermon:

"This little diversion, Samsara Checkers as I dubbed it, can teach us all a vital lesson. The Buddha teaches us that Samsara is living our lives on automatic-pilot. Following, mindlessly, our habits. Our compulsions. The literal definition is Perpetual Wandering. And this game, which we will play after every meal is a paradigm for the greedy, competitive, self-involved wandering our Western culture regards as mature behavior and rewards with wealth and accolades, but is, ultimately an absence and bereavement of spirit. How many multi-millionaire athletes and movie stars have the World seemingly under their control yet lose their souls to drugs and alcohol?"

"About the same percentage," said Helena, "of boozers and users, it seems to me, that don't have the world seemingly under control."

Arnold smiled, Missy laughed. Debra nodded at Helena in agreement. Blake and Devon studied their checkerboards, trying to figure a way to win.

Altair thought for a quick moment, considering the implications of what Helena had said about boozers; percentages; control. Silently he bobbed his head gravely to regain his composure. He wasn't used to entertaining new thoughts while performing as High Priest of Tantricity Hill. But Altair collected himself and continued, "What's the secret lesson we might be able to glean from this little game? Develop a mind that clings to nothing, and you'll see what I mean."

Missy raised her eyebrows at this latest offering of Woo-Woo.

But Devon, a thoroughly transplanted Californian, looked differently at the tiny gameboard and thought before he moved. Debra, too, hesitated and contemplated before tentatively sliding her checker into what would be yet another stalemate. After yet another impasse Devon said, "Aboot like our marriage, eh?"

Debra picked up a blue checker and bounced it off Devon's forehead, "What marriage?"

Radiant, rosy, and sassy from a dawn swim and a jog down to the waterfall, Helena concentrated on the board but couldn't figure any way to break the impasse. Across from her Blake, his mental concentration not sterling on the best of days was especially disjointed and scattered this morning. What Altair had said yesterday and today about life and meditation made good sense to him. What this guy was talking about wasn't a Believe-or-Burn-in-Hell-Some-Old-Guy-with-a-Beard-in-the-Clouds-Religion: it was something you could use. He recalled football season his sophomore year in high school. He played tight end and had to block this huge defensive end. The DE pounded the hell out of Blake. At halftime he asked the line coach, "How do I block this guy?"

"Give a hunnert-and-ten percent!"

"But how do I block this guy?"

"Sell out every play! Balls out! Be a man, that's how! Be a man!"

Blake shook his head, sat down and resigned himself to another half of hurt and humiliation and failure. Then the injured senior who Blake had replaced scissored his way up on crutches and said, "Widen your split a little each play, Blake. The meathead will line up on you and take himself out of the play."

That's how Altair sounded to Blake: sensible advice for a matter-of-fact situation. But that wasn't the only reason his focus was fragmented: that old broad Helena had truly rocked his world last night. Sex was always a majestic, ennobled workout for Blake; sweaty, enthralling, and gratifying. He performed great and knew it, and he used women like the wet nap in the KFC box: open, use, throw away once soiled. But for some reason this old broad wasn't his to throw away; there was something about her he couldn't approach or comprehend. And she dug the sex and responded, but she contained a mysterious something else he could not access. He couldn't name it but she was unapproachable; she existed on a different level.

Maybe, Blake concluded, this is what it feels like to be used yourself.

Blake didn't like this feeling.

Missy and Arnold didn't play one game of stalemate or pay much attention to Altair's bullshitty and breezy oration. They looked at the game. Arnold moved first, but not to the center. Missy occupied the center, one, two, three times and advanced her white pieces to the back row. She then moved first, conceding the midpoint to Arnie whose blue troops soon lined the back file. The high school sweethearts had just intuited that it was a game of cooperation, allowing your "opponent" access to the center square, and ultimately the back row, trusting she'd allow you the same courtesy in the ensuing match.

But that's not what absorbed and tortured them. For Arnold and Missy, last night's discussion of the possibility of therapeutic mate swapping, hung between them as they played Samsara checkers in the subdued and dappled morning sunlight. They faced a crushing dilemma: Would sleeping with someone else afford them a breakthrough and a return to their marital intimacy, or would it simply be authorized and organized adultery?

# Chapter 18

SPLISH-SPLASH, TAKING A BATH

"A traveling salesman knocks on the farmer's door," said Altair. "It is, of course snowing and the salesman's car has just broken down." He stood waist deep in the shallow end of the pool. Missy and Apple, both adorned with multiple leis floating around their necks in the water, treaded water in the deep end. Helena sprawled, happy and stark-naked on a lounge chair next to a robed but barefoot Arnold. Blake and Devon sat, dangling their legs in the pool.

The gang listened numbly, obediently almost. To an idle observer it could have been four well-behaved couples at a clothing-optional church picnic. They all seemed quite placid, domesticated, muted; stunned even. Altair continued, "The salesman explains his predicament to the farmer who says, 'I can't turn you away on a cold night like this. But I have twin sons, they are nineteen and gay and you have to have sex with them both if you want to spend the night.'" Altair cleared his throat, "The salesman says, 'Whoa. I must be in the wrong joke.'"

Altair received a much-needed laugh.

Blake and Devon high-fived. Missy gulped in some water and clung to the pool's edge, coughing and laughing and gagging. Helena rose, took two quick steps and dove into the pool. She glided underwater and broke the surface smiling.

"Good, good," said Altair. He felt back in the groove again. Control had returned; his intended order prevailed. He continued quickly while he had an enthralled audience, "The moral of this little anecdote is that we all need to relax and not worry about how much or what kind of sex other people are getting. Concentrate on yourself; on your partner; on your situation. Are you joining us, Arnold?"

"Yep," said Arnold. He untied his Hush Puppies and removed his black socks. After balling the socks and stuffing them into the left Hush Puppy Arnold stood and slipped the saffron robe over his head. He wore no underwear and his ding-dong dangled, for all to appraise, long and loose.

On the seventh day, God had to be more than pleasantly surprised when he surveyed his creation and viewed the majesty of the Serengeti, the desolate beauty of Antarctica, and the chill splendor of a fjord. As God was, at that instance, so were the people in the pool when Arnold dropped his robe.

Altair, particularly, examined and admired Arnold's ample schlong as the well-hung-Hoosier strode across the deck and hopped with a splash into the shallow end of the 72 pool. Arnold, plentiful rudder a-dangling, swam the length of the pool in a slow, faultless, splashless crawl and joined Missy in the deep end. They kissed and embraced then swam together to the shallows.

"Gather round," said Altair. "Gather round."

Boy-Girl, Boy-Girl, Boy-Girl, Boy-Girl, the couples clustered around Altair and Apple. Holding hands they joined Altair in a circle that widened when their arms were extended. Mary Francis Mulvaney, attracted by the sounds of splashing, settled onto the redwood decking on the far side of the pool. "Close your eyes, and listen to the wind. Listen to the water. Feel the water caress and envelop and embrace you."

"Ummm," said Helena to no one in particular.

"In all religions," said Altair, "there is an element of archaic, atavistic, Nature worship. Something primal that is masked and veiled and obfuscated with doctrines and theologies and strictures, but ultimately cannot and will not be denied. Every religion no matter how primitive or refined celebrates a Water Ritual. Whether it is Buddha bathing in front of the five immortal sages before sitting alone beneath the Boh tree. Or Jesus being immersed by John in the Jordan. Whether it's a Southern Baptist dunking or the politely effete sprinklings of the Catholic Priest the rite and symbology survive." He remained silent for three full minutes. The group's fingers all intertwined and they swayed in the sunshine and water. "For the Gnostics, nearly two millennia ago, the water ritual was both a lustratory bath and a magic ritual, where a new name and personality was bestowed on the participants. It is not, as commonly explained by silly preachers to stupid people, a purgation or an aqueous exorcism from some vague impersonal Original Sin but an occasion for renewal and rebirth. Toward that goal each of you will release yourself into the center of our water circle where we will support you as you float. And as you drift and hover in weightlessness you will choose new names for yourselves. You will consciously baptize yourself into a higher realm. A grander consciousness."

As a divining rod bends toward imagined water or hands on an Ouiji board unconsciously guide the magnifying-eye toward the answer they desire:

Missy was propelled, willed, to the center of the circle which contracted and supported her. Naked Missy, otter-esque, bobbed and back-floated, offering her little outty-belly-button to the sky. Hands, both female and male, touched and caressed and fondled her. They rubbed her temples, the soles of her feet; her stomach and the small of her back. And as she dandled in weightlessness her new name came to her in a flash: Catherine Marie. The name she'd chosen and practiced writing so many times. The name her miscarried daughter would have answered to. And with that name Missy vowed to trust and love and laugh and view the world with the simple, sincere eyes of a child. Missy exited the circle.

Then Blake, too muscular to float, was supported by seven sets of hands. At college, Cal State Stanislaus, there existed a  tradition where you referred to others, and were referred to by your "Porn Name". Your porn name was derived from the name of your first pet added to your mother's maiden name. Blake, for the three years he lived in  he suffered under the sobriquet, Ima Cocker-Mann; named for a female black Labrador named "Ima" and his mother's ancient hyphenated surname from the Hebrides. As he floated, he banished that humiliating moniker from his memory and dubbed himself Race Bannon, the indestructible Alpha Male from his all-time favorite cartoon, Jonny Quest.

Helena floated to the center and drifted languidly in the pool. She smiled at Arnold who supported her head and stroked her forehead gently. Helena, after only one day in the sun, had been baked almost Pumpernickel brown. She remembered the last opera she had attended with her husband, right after their son died. In Bayreuth, Germany two summers prior, they viewed Wagner's Nibelungelied. Helena was captivated by the tale within the vast opera which tells the story of Sigmund's sister, Signy. Her husband had murdered her father and brothers and she swore revenge. She locked her murderous husband in the house and torched it. Once he was dead she entered the blazing house herself and died. Helena, now, re-baptized herself in the image of this Germanic avenger: Signy.

Devon felt an unmistakable, gnawing feeling of impoverishment as he floated and reviewed his life: the fact that he wasn't talented enough to play Division I football in college marked his life, in his eyes, as an utter and abject failure. He "walked-on" at the University of Colorado, but was cut. He had never confessed or even admitted this disappointment to anyone. But now, after having been bidden to reinvent himself he floated serenely in the baptismal pool at Tantricity Hill and re-christened himself Broadway. Not for The Actor's Great White Way, but for his hero-of-heroes, his paragon, Broadway Joe Namath. #12. The bold predictor; the great quarterback. Devon loved Joe Namath and envied him his celebrity and his status in American Pop Culture. Plus, Namath looked hot in Hanes pantyhose.

Arnold, bobbing and floating in the circle closed his eyes but had difficulty concentrating on King Arthur because two hands, one faultlessly manicured, the other callused, were touching his enormous schvantz. But the curiosity quickly abated, the hands withdrew and Arnold focused. There is a Celtic French version of the Sword in the Stone that tells of Arthur's misgiving and surprise when he yanked the blade from the boulder that snowy Christmas morn. Fêted by the crowd, he still felt empty inside. He needed Merlin. So he returned to his garret and in the dark, summoned his mentor and friend. But Merlin didn't appear. So Arthur lit a candle and on the bed materialized a forgotten toy from his youth: the slingshot Merlin had made for him of willow and deerskin. He picked up the toy and said, "Thank you, Merlin" knowing The Wizard would continue to guide him. As a child this slingshot was Arthur's most prized possession and now it was a useless memento. So too, Arthur realized, that one day he must put aside the Crown of England even though, today, he desired it more than life. Arnold sunk so deeply into this reverie he nearly fell asleep. He drifted back toward consciousness, and dubbed his new persona, Arthur. Then he smiled: realizing he wouldn't even need new monogrammed towels or hankies.

Debra hadn't the slightest notion of what or who she wanted her shadow-self, her secret-sharer to become. Floating, she drifted in rambling free association and unexpectedly Richard Rose popped into her mind's eye. She had worked with Richard on two films. He was a wonderful character actor; an older man who took his craft, but not himself seriously. His portrayal of Ambrose Bierce, in Voyage of the Snark was amazing: scathing and empathetic and memorable. During breaks in filming he used to read poetry aloud to anyone who would listen. On several occasions he read to Debra. She couldn't recall who wrote the poem but she always would remember:

If only I could nudge you from this sleep,

My maimed darling, my skittery pigeon.

Debra selected the name Pigeon and wished she could write something, anything that would tingle spines as these words did hers.

People in Hollywood are like heifers standing in a field of succulent clover and luscious alfalfa stretching their necks through a three-stringed-barbed-wire fence in order to eat wilted and dusty dandelions out of a ditch. Actors wanna direct, directors wanna produce, producers wanna write, and writers wanna act.

And, it turns out, some actresses wanna write poetry.

# Chapter 19

THE LOCAL HEAT

Mendocino County Sheriff Dana Thorvaold had a serious personal problem with the activities that transpired at Tantricity Hill. She considered Apple and Altair's camp immoral. But Dana's professional problem was just as serious and involved not only curious voyeurs, but aggrieved Christian Fundamentalists hassling the perfectly legal, allegedly therapeutic sex retreat.

And after several years policing the perimeter as part of her job the distinction between the two troupes had waned, blurred and then evaporated. At least the voyeurs got their jollies watching slam-dance-sex from a distance, why it mattered to Bible Thumpers what other people did at a private retreat at the terminus of a private road amazed Ms. Thorvaold, but she'd been called several times to disperse candlelight vigils staged by smug, singing Soldiers of Christ.

Dana's green-and-white Chevy Blazer bounced up toward Tantricity Hill monitoring calls on her police radio. Then she saw the car. They were parked just east of the orchard, on the west side of the road.

Marge Morton in the backseat with God-knows-whom.

The Mortons lived just north of Hopland on forty-three undeveloped acres, surrounded on all four sides by verdant, well-tended vineyards. The property's original house, now in sullen disrepair, was flanked by trailers on each side, several 1970-77 Chryslers on blocks in the front, and quite a few major appliances in the backyard. Mr. Morton married a semi-distant cousin who'd previously been married to his older brother. So he was Uncle-Daddy to one child and Daddy-Daddy to the three others. He had been arrested twice by Dana for accelerating his pick-up truck over the speed bumps in the church parking lot in order to put the head back on his beer. His children comprised thirty-percent of Dana's workload in Hopland.

As she approached the old Buick on foot. Cybele, Damon, and Ross Morton hunkered in ee adjacent plum trees like howler monkeys settling in against the monsoons. They tossed a pair of binoculars back and forth. "Look now," said Cybele. "They're screwin' out by the pool."

"Lemme see, lemme see," said Damon and Ross.

The twelve-year-old tossed the binocs to her brother Damon who took a quick peek and forwarded the glasses to Ross.

Dana said, "I admire the way you guys share."

"Hey, Sheriff Thorvaold," said Cybele, "they are at it again. They is having at it in the swimming pool."

"But two of them left," said Damon.

"And now it's time for you guys to leave," said Dana. "Say hi to your folks for me."

They scampered from the trees and banged on the windows of the locked Buick. Marge Morton's head popped up. Then David Davis, a twenty-five year old gas station attendant. Marge rolled down the window.

"Better have your clothes on David. What are you Marge? Sixteen?"

"Just turned seventeen."

"You should be in school. Isn't this sexual awareness week?"

"I couldn't make it today." She and David, both still fully clothed but rumpled, climbed in the frontseat; the three siblings flowed into the backseat. Marge started the car.

"Why not?" said Dana.

"Cuz my baby was sick. Mama's got her and I took the triplets off her hands." She grinded it in gear and spun gravel down the road.

Dana figured they'd be back after lunch; but her duty protecting tax-paying citizens' rights and privacy had been accomplished.

Sounds of frolic and fancy from Tantricity Hill rolled down the hill and into the orchard. Dana started her Blazer and headed back to town, muttering, "Liberal fucking perverts."

# Chapter 20

A LONG STRANGE TRIP

Apple, in saffron robe and floppy straw hat, weeded around her newly set shallots. From the other side of the garden, Arnold said, "Do you ever mulch with straw?"

"I've tried, but the wind scatters the loose mulch."

"An easy fix," Arnold, usually reticent and never forward with women, approached the gardener, "is to cover the composting material with chicken wire."

Apple smiled and removed her chapeau, "How?"

"Nail both ends of the wire to a two-by-four and it's like Saran wrap over a salad bowl. Or better yet." Near a potting shed were various lengths of plastic and metal pipe: leftovers from the waterfall's construction. Arnold took Apple's hand and yanked her to the shed. He felt flushed; excited and vibrant. "How hot does it get here in the summer?"

"Occasionally over a hundred, but consistently in the nineties."

"It'll take half-an-hour."

Working frenetically, inspired, Arnold, in 27 minutes flat constructed a small "Garbage Cooker" for Apple's organic Eden. With a rock he'd pounded short lengths of 3/8" galvanized pipe into the ground. He cut four ¾"plastic pipes into four-foot lengths with a hacksaw. He then bowed the pipes in an arch and inserted the end over the extruding metal pipes. Then, utilizing a glue gun Apple used for various repairs around the homestead he'd covered the superstructure with plastic garbage bags. Tantricity Hill's new mulch machine was christened by the pile of weeds Apple had just pulled. Feeling confident and virile and strangely luminous and alive, Arnold said, "I've been reading that dirty picture book."

"What book?"

"That Kama Sutra book."

"And?"

"And I need to get out of the sun."

"I'll meet you in the Haight Ashbury."

"Where?"

"The movie stars' hut."

Apple removed her straw hat and waved in the general direction of the lime-and-lavender Quonset.

Arnold and Apple walked separately to the Haight Ashbury: Arnold straight to it and Apple after a detour to the Refectory to check on that evening's supper.

Once inside they removed, leisurely, each other's robes. There was no kissing or sweet talk or romancing. Both of them knew they'd rendezvoused in order to grind genitals, bump bellies, and swap fluids.

He fingered Apple's tart.

She fondled Arnold's ample endowment.

Then they began their tryst with The Large Bee where he reclined on his back and held Apple dangling upon him while Apple gyrated her hips like a busy, busy bee. Arnold couldn't believe he was doing this.

Having sex with someone...not Missy.

The entire half-shady half-sunny hut felt filled and crackling to Arnold, as if stuffed full with static electricity. The tufts of Apple's armpit hair glowed like hallowed votive flames as she maneuvered rhythmically above him. A tri-color psychedelic halo glowed around her bald head. He felt as if he could have sex with Apple forever; if it were possible, he would have climbed inside her.

Which he couldn't, so they rolled over and into the Opening Flower, Standard Missionary Position. Then Arnold proved to Apple that he had indeed been reading "That dirty picture book." He assumed the Locking Position which forestalls culmination and performed the Art of a Thousand Thrusts, literally keeping score of the in-and-out plunges, until a thousand repetitions have been completed. He varied his strokes from penetrating: The Wild Horse, The Crashing Boar, to shallow: The Mouse, The Sparrow, and almost lost his consignment at 537.

But he withdrew and breathed deep, deep.

Deep.

Then Arnold switched from the Locking Position to the time-honored Squeeze Technique, and covered with sweat and spittle and co-mingled pheromones tallied to 1027 before, tugging roughly at Apple's armpit hair he: "Uhhhahhhohohohed."

Apple's response was also burbling, inarticulate and audible.

He rolled over and half-asleep half-hallucinating, Arnold dreamed of galloping through breezy Avalon mists with Arthur and the Lads of the Round Table....

Roused from his medieval reverie, seemingly a few days had passed and Arnold was woozy and floaty-dreamy and disoriented. He sat up and said into the empty hut's interior, "Something weird is going on around here."

A loud, raucous, and extended commotion by the pool brought him back to where he was: Weekend Sex Camp for he and Missy's sexual problem. At the name "Missy" Arnold knew he ought to feel guilt because, O My God, I just broke my wedding vows.

Shattered and obliterated my wedding vows.

But Arnold didn't feel guilt, he felt an intrepid and compelling desire to explore and conquer the world.

Arnold felt exalted.

He smiled at the recent memory of hot sticky sex with Apple and wanted, more than anything, to find his wife and have sex with her.

But despite his world-beating emotions and surging, once again monogamous libido, modesty prevailed and he wrapped a towel around his waist before stepping outside to see what the boisterous hubbub was all about.

What sounded like hand-to-hand combat to Arnold merely amounted to what a Camp Counselor would call "Horseplay in the Pool".

Debra, mounted on Devon's shoulders, wearing Apple's gardening hat—her nose had sunburned—attacked the Helena-Blake combination. They roared and laughed and butted and grappled in the shallow end of Lake Pomo until Debra was dismounted and rudely dunked by the scrappy, wiry, wild-eyed Helena. Debra returned to the surface red-eyed and choking and un-pitied by the conquering Helena. The movie star splashed her husband, Blake, and Helena. Then she swam to the deep end and pouted.

Altair, wearing a tigerskin loincloth and an Oakland A's cap, jumped into the pool, retrieved Apple's hat and challenged the victors to a rematch. A pissed-off and vengeful Debra swam back into the fray and mounted Altair's broad, plump shoulders. Arnold tossed away his towel and dove into the pool. The smaller man climbed onto Devon's shoulders and a three-way battle was joined. The naked Helena, now nearly the color of mahogany, fought literally tooth-and-nail; chomping her eye-teeth into Arnold's forearm and taking five miniature claw divots from Debra's upper left thigh. The fifty-something Helena, fighting from Blake's solid tank-like platform brawled like a soused sailor on shore leave, but Debra grabbed her hair and yanked as Arnold attacked from behind and Helena was toppled into the water. She remained submerged and swam the length of the pool breaking the surface of the consecrated swimming pool with a sudden slurp and a cough. Arnold dismounted and breast stroked towards Helena to see if she were okay.

Debra stood in the shallow end and after kissing and teasing Blake into an underwater erection, jackknifed her legs and climbed aboard. She taunted Devon while holding Blake by the ears, "That's it Blake. All the way in. Oh Christ, you're hard. I should take you home with me."

Devon, watching his wife in co-joined action with his buffed and broad-shouldered new weightlifting buddy, became aroused and turgid for the first time in years. "Hey," said Devon to no one in particular, "Mister Winky works again." He fondled his stiffy and looked around for Apple or Missy, where could they have disappeared to so quickly? He glanced to the deep end of the pool where Helena, hmm...maybe...no...no. Too old. Anyway, she was in intimate conversation with Arnold the big-dick-geek. Oh well, he decided, I'll just wait in line for my wife. Devon waded over and watched Blake repeatedly breach Debra.

Blake, buddy that he was, saw Devon standing by, drooling and white-knuckling his pud, so he withdrew from Debra and handed her, much like a inflatable beach toy, to hubby. Debra resisted with both hands against Devon's chest, but then she smiled and said, "What the hell, one for the road?"

"One for the road."

He inserted Tab A into Slot B.

"You know," said Debra, "for a couple of spoiled and bitchy Hollywood cunts we really did kind of okay together."

"Yeah," I guess we did." Devon looked down, mesmerized by his turgid, re-functioning hydroskeleton.

"Hey Devon," said Blake, sounding just like a child whose fudge-ripple ice cream cone had just toppled to the sidewalk, "do I get her back when you finish?"

"Why don't you," said Debra, maneuvering Devon around by the shoulders so her rear faced Blake, "just stand behind me and stick it in now?"

"Really?" said Blake.

"Sure," said Debra, "I know how you buddy-buddy weightlifters are. You can even pretend it's Devon."

Blake stepped quickly forward, and as Debra winced and inhaled, forced his way into her pooty-poo. Neither man spoke but as they Oreo-Cookied Debra the boys had what would be interpreted as, in any bar in the world—in any language—meaningful eye contact.

Arnold swam up behind Helena just as she began coughing quietly.

Arnold said, "What's wrong?"

"Water. Wrong pipe." She smiled and wiped her face. "I've noticed your wife calls you Arnie. May I?"

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't."

"Thank you." They embraced, smiled, and spoke at the same instant:

"Wasn't," she said. "Breakfast," he said.

"You first," said Helena.

"I'd love Apple's recipe for those mushrooms omelets. What'd she call them?"

"She didn't." Helena smiled slyly and said, "But they were magical. Charmed."

"Huh?"

"Magic mushrooms. It's an old hippie recipe. I remember the taste, and the effect, from the sixties."

"I still don't understand."

"Tantricity Hill," said Helena, "is trippin'."

# Chapter 21

THE OMPHALOS

During Tantricity Hill Retreat's first few years Altair noticed hesitance, reticence, and even fear in the eyes of those entering the light-proofed building with the quilted floor. But ever since Day Two's breakfast menu had been perfected (a finely-tuned combination of dried porcini, morel and oyster mushrooms laced with hallucinogenic psilocybin, amanita muscaria, and panaeolus papilionaceus: too many magic mushrooms produces projectile vomiting rather than euphoria) the clients' hang-ups and self-consciousness dissipated and a rollicking, blacked-out orgy generally ensued.

Skipping like stoned Hari Krishnas, Tantricity Hill's participants vacated the pool area, found Apple and Missy sharing an orange in the Refectory, partook in a dance around the compound, then, much like the indulgent, self-congratulatory scrum at the conclusion of each-and-every Saturday Night Live episode, performed a Group Hug.

And then the Spring Class of 1987 entered the Omphalos.

As any cave-exploring-spelunker knows there is a difference between darkness and the absence of light. This building, black as the heart of a four-term Congressperson, allowed no light to enter. Quite cool, curtained and quilted, entering Omphalos was, once the door was shut and then secured from the inside with a pair of two-foot-tall jade Buddhas, like returning to the womb. But Altair didn't want to call it "The Womb" and offend anyone with "Gender Derived Terminology" so it became the Omphalos: "World-Navel," a word he first encountered in a New York Times crossword.

The Omphalos' inspiration, actually, came from the Disneyland ride: It's a Small World. During his sixteenth summer Altair (then still known as William) had visited The Magic Kingdom with his teenaged cousins. During It's a Small World the lights dimmed, flickered, then faltered—a power failure. As if expecting teensy tiny airstrikes, each diminutive country was totally blacked-out. The war whoops and screams of the blackness-enveloped teenaged patrons gave way to wisecracks and nervous giggling. Then someone, they sat three abreast in the little Disneyboats, leaned back and bestowed upon the young William McCormick a long, soft, lingering soul-kiss. Nothing was spoken; no contact other than oral ensued. The kiss dissipated; dissolved and disappeared. The lights were restored; the grating global songfest resumed. And William sat enraptured, not by the inane, prancing, animatronitons but by the mystery of that stolen-from-kiss. He didn't feel violated, he felt intrigued and captivated and eerily aroused and enlivened. And curious because of the three teenagers who sat abreast in front of him two were male, one female.

And the female was his cousin Susan.

So it was the lingering memory of this crazy titillating encounter, either incestuous or same-sex-tuous, that instigated the construction of Omphalos. The building was little more than a tacked together plywood box wrapped with Army surplus blackout curtains and a plush floor, but the darkness was palpable. You could place your hand in front of your face, eyes wide open, and not see the appendage. But you could feel it. And like the proverbial blind man who can hear a flea fart or discern the movement of a playful kitten in his front yard, you could experience the hand's heat and simply, intuitively, sense its presence. In the same way, when rolling naked in-and-out of embraces and cuddles and clinches the tactile sensations were enhanced and augmented by the mind's eye. The act of one-on-one sex became compounded, by this darkness, into something at once more tangible and ineffable.

The darkness also transformed a writhing amalgam of three or four or more lovers into a writhing, pulsing, groping, living entity. Since there were no shadows, no depth-of-field, vision became monocular, and a bizarre sense of euphoric vertigo ensued. Combined with the chemicals coursing through their brains and bodies this earthly version of John Milton's "Darkness Visible" served to inflame and arouse the group en masse.

Now, the higher than a NASA weather balloon patrons of Tantricity Hill proceeded thusly in the dark:

"Uh uh uh."

"Oh my."

"Who is that?"

"There there. Right there. That's it. Ooooo."

"What is that? My-O-my....Yes."

Smack.

Spank.

Slap.

Slurp.

"I can't believe I'm doing this."

"Me...me...either."

"I've always wanted to do this."

"Me...me...too."

Kiss kiss: "I love you."

WHACK.

Gasp. Grunt. Moan.

Sigh.

Sniggle, snuggle: "I love you too."

"Ahhhh."

After a frenzied hour Apple rose and opened the door, spilling waning and unwanted Spring sunshine into the Omphalos.

# Chapter 22

TEA AND PANISSES

It's always nice to have a nibble after returning from a psychotropic mycelial adventure. Magic mushrooms are tough on the tummy and a light satisfying meal aids recovery. In advance Apple had prepared panisses; dried, then fried, cakes of chickpea flour. To drink was iced Maté, South America's beverage of choice: as stimulating as coffee, but, once again, easy on the breadbasket. Apple had laid out the snacks before she and Altair had guided everyone into the darkness of the Omphalos. Now as everyone stumbled, squinting, back into the light Apple, the lovely and accommodating hostess, steered her Tantric patrons toward the recuperative rations. The third to emerge, immediately following Apple and Altair (who walked straight to his Quonset for some Hennessey) was Helena.

Helena knew, by the smell, what breakfast's main course consisted of before she picked up her fork. She had chewed leisurely, thoroughly, gnashing out the integrity and quintessence from the slightly underdone mushrooms. She'd eaten these fungi before; she'd long ago acquired a penchant for all psylicibes. She hadn't seen a 'shroom in nearly two decades, but she'd enjoyed enough of them to remember what they looked and smelled like. Before they took effect Helena retired to the cool, deserted, geodesic Morrison Planetarium. She meditated, knowing that the hallucinogen would enhance whatever mood she chose to possess at the time the mushrooms overtook her. And her mood, as the drug hit, was this: Helena knew, whatever the outcome, it was right, correct, proper, and fitting for her to attend this weekend session at Tantricity Hill.

Blake, the next to exit, was weary.

Screwing was Blake's profession and he thought this would be another easy job. Another painless paycheck with yet another wrinkled and widowed woman. But this place was getting weird. Like most critters that rely on instinct over ideas Blake knew something was wacko before he could verbally express any concern. Blake, again like most instinctive organisms, when confused, felt better around other instinctive organisms. That meant the Irish setter, Mary Francis Mulvaney.

But how do you play with a blind dog?

Blake pondered this for just a minute before soaring to a solution. He followed Apple's suggestion and grabbed some of those panisses. Then he found a stick. Mary Francis Mulvaney, who liked to hang out in the shade of the gymnasium was roused from sleep and allowed to sniff the stick that had been rubbed with the fried-in-olive-oil panisses. Blake stood and tossed the stick three-feet-away.

Mary Francis Mulvaney retrieved the stick.

Six-feet.

Mary Francis Mulvaney retrieved the stick.

Twelve-feet.

Mary Francis Mulvaney retrieved the stick.

Blake had just taught a blind dog to fetch. He smiled. He was happy as he and Mary Francis Mulvaney played.

In the mottled light of gathering rainclouds, Blake smiled, petted Mary Francis Mulvaney, kissed the setter's head and tossed a stick scented with garlic and chickpea flour toward the swimming pool.

Mary Francis Mulvaney retrieved the stick.

Yes, Blake was happy again.

Missy and Arnold ate their snacks slowly. They sipped iced Maté, made eye-contact and returned to their Quonset. They had just made love for the first time in 14 months, alone-but-together—away from the scuffling and groping scrum—in a corner of the Omphalos.

And they were at it again in the privacy of their Quonset. For a protracted amount of time Missy straddled Arnold and they simply—while inserted and overlapped—stared into each other's eyes. The memory of her Scrinching and their sex-less relationship faded with each minute they sat united and tranquil and at ease with each other, their lives; their future prospects. They coupled and configured according to their pillow book Kama Sutra until they finished and lazed, panting, in each other's cuddling embrace.

But one thing bothered each of them.

The same thing.

"Can I tell you something?" said Arnold. "Confess something?"

"Go ahead."

"I had sex with Apple."

Missy shook her head and said, "So did I."

"You did?" Arnold smiled.

"When you guys were fighting in the pool. We went to the refectory and kissed. Then did, other stuff," Missy shook her head. "It was odd. I was there and not-there all at the same time."

"We were both drugged. We were all drugged," said Arnold. "Helena told me. About the mushrooms in the omelets."

"Just more doggone California Woo-Woo. But this time, chemical."

"Missy?"

"Yes?"

"Did you like it? With Apple?"

"Yes. But..."

"But what?"

"But she doesn't have a weenie."

"I've got a weenie."

Missy smiled.

Debra exited the Omphalos half-an-hour after Missy and Arnold. She walked to the Refectory and said to Apple, "Devon is dead. I thought he was sleeping so I waited there with him. But he's dead. Someone bashed his head in."

# Chapter 23

DECISION

"I'll have to drive into town," said Altair, "and get the Sheriff."

Arnold propped the door open, allowing light into the building and onto Devon's lifeless corpus. The actor's left temple had been creased and crumpled. One of the jade Buddha statues lay nearby.

Devon appeared to be dozing. Simply sleeping.

Arnold checked Devon for a pulse and matched a corner of the statue to the crinkle in Devon's skull.

"Why is there so little blood?" said Helena. She stood motionless but seemed agitated; almost frenzied being this near the dead body.

"He died almost immediately and his heart stopped quickly; it stopped pumping blood," said Arnold. "Devon really got whacked. Hard. Once. Real hard."

"Who would have done this?" said Altair.

Calm and clinical Arnold asked, "What were the Buddhas doing in here?"

"One held the door shut," said Apple. She shook the Omphalos' frame. "Movement in the building would flex the door and let light in. The other one was decoration."

"Where are my keys?" asked Altair.

"Where is your car?" asked Blake.

"We park the truck in the upper orchard on seminar weekends."

"Devon's dead," said Debra. She examined the faces of her fellow campers. "Someone killed him."

"It could have been an accident," said Helena. "He may have fallen and bonked his head on one of the Buddhas." She exhaled and nudged him with her bare foot.

"You touched him," said Blake. He shivered.

"So did you, about an hour ago," said Helena to her escort. "With your lips."

Blake took a sudden interest in his own bare feet.

"Someone killed him," said Debra softly.

"Debra," said Helena, "why would anyone, except you, want to kill him?"

"Why would I want—"

"All of us heard you arguing," said Helena. "Last night. Hell, we read about it in all the tabloids. You two are always fighting—"

"Were always fighting," said Missy.

Debra sat down in the dirt.

Missy sat down alongside, "Sorry."

It had just begun raining big, cold drops.

The group stood still in silhouette: seven pieces of a chess-set in end game. Mary Francis Mulvaney joined the group. The rain ceased momentarily; then began harder. "Tell them, Missy," said Debra. "I told you yesterday. It was over. With me and Devon. I told her it was over."

Missy nodded to the group and snuggled closer to Debra. They embraced.

"It does seem to appear," said Altair, "that he could have bumped his head accidentally." No one in the group corrected Altair. They implicitly digested and accepted the words bumped and accidentally.

And so, the group had, through their silence and unwillingness to contradict Altair, already decided. The group's leader, Altair, continued, "Perhaps we can leave the Sheriff out of this?"

"How?" asked Helena.

"Bury him ourselves," said Altair.

"Debra," said Helena, "could report him missing. He disappears for a couple of months a year anyway."

"How could you know that?" said Debra.

Helena continued, "What if this year he never came back?"

Silence.

An extended silence.

Debra looked at Blake, "I did say I wanted to take you home with me."

Missy said, "This is wrong."

"He's dead; nothing changes that," said Altair. "A tragic but accidental death. Burying him here, now, and I avoid a scandal. Debra returns to Hollywood and in a few months reports Devon missing. Helena returns to San Diego and finds a new, rich husband. You and Arnold go back to Indiana able to make babies."

"I didn't say I wouldn't help," said Missy, thinking of her own scandal after the regents at Indiana State University find out she attended a California-fuck-camp that concluded with a drug orgy and a naked dead body. "I just said it was wrong."

"Missy," said Arnold. "No matter how it affects us, it's not our decision to make." He pointed at Debra.

Debra contemplated her loss and then realized that with Devon "missing" she would re-inherit her own career; her own destiny. With an intoxication and verve born of self-reliance she said, "Apple, where do you keep the shovels?"

# Chapter 24

RETURN

On that Saturday, near midnight, seven people, in a light, earth-kissing rain, departed Tantricity Hill Retreat. Guilty, mortified, changed people. But in self-deluding good-faith, they all were attempting a return to their former lives. They expected, naively and hopefully, that an actual return was possible. They vowed to leave this weekend as they left Devon: unmarked, unmentioned, and hopefully forgotten.

They may just as well have decided to outlaw world hunger, sin, and acne.

PART II

PUNISHMENT, 2008

Others fear what will happen tomorrow, I fear what happened yesterday.

—Ansari of Herat

# Chapter 1

BUD WARHOL

In 2005, following an expensive and protracted legal battle, the Pomo Tribe of the Northern Alexander Valley reclaimed their sacred ancestral lands and honored the cherished memories of their noble forebears by breaking ground on the construction of a big-ass casino.

The sprawling gambling complex: River Run Casino, Las Vegas slick and California wine country cool had garnered numerous architectural and environmental awards for design.

Awards and accolades aside River Run Casino looked like various sized, shaped, and colored buildingblocks a petulant and possibly mentally-afflicted child had tried to hide in the backyard.

The seven Pomo Elders (three real estate developers with a pint-and-a-half of Native American blood between them and four full-blood Pomos who were spending money like hillbillies who just hit the lottery) began RIVER RUN PHASE II in 2008: a luxury resort hotel adjacent to the casino, immediately west of Mountain House Road. Construction had barely begun when a backhoe dredged up the tibia, fibula, and foot of what looked like a human being and the Mendocino County Sheriff called Bud Warhol.

Bud arrived on the scene with his black-and-yellow plastic toolbox and nodded at three workmen leaning on shovels, "Where's the foreman?"

The shortest of the shovel-leaners pointed to a pot-bellied red-faced man screaming into a cellphone and banging a hardhat against his right thigh. Bud walked over and waited for the bossman to finish his call. Bossman slapped the cellphone shut and said to Bud, "Help you?"

"I'm Bud Warhol," said Bud, extending his hand.

"Call me Scooter," said the foreman, ignoring Bud's hand. "You the asshole tells us when we can start digging again?"

"I'm that asshole."

"You don't look like a cop."

"Thank you," said Bud.

Bud Warhol had worked, for the past 22 years, as an on-call anthropologist for the State of California. When Caltrans constructed a new road or bridge or overpass and bones were encountered Bud, or someone else attached to the State Police, was paid to determine whether the remains were human or animal (a bear's digits closely resemble a human's) ascertain the age, and conclude if it is a crime scene, an ancient burial site, a missing persons case solved, or anonymous remains.

Bud quickly staked out the recently uncovered shallow grave and roped it off with fly-fishing line. He hated police tape; the fly fishing line, although fairly expensive was waterproof, reusable, unpretentious, and effective. He had retrieved the skeletal portion of leg the backhoe had dredged up and sifted through the remains in the machine's bucket, for additional bone shards, before he began unearthing the burial site. Bud squatted and worked, alternately, with a garden trowel and a big soft-bristled paintbrush: chipping and dusting, chipping and dusting: uncovering more bone. He worked up from the gash the backhoe had created as Scooter and his shovellers intently watched: Scooter for how soon the skeleton could be exhumed and work resumed; the shovellers for how long they could get paid for standing and watching. After just ten minutes Bud discovered a flap of tangerine-and-magenta-paint-stained canvas. He vigorously snapped-then-yanked the flap of dirty canvas and uncovered the superficially interred skeleton to the pelvis. He tucked the canvas's corner back over the skeleton. "Now," said Bud, "we can get somewhere."

"About goddam time." Scooter snapped open his phone, speed-dialed a number, spat in the dirt and scratched his beergut: looking much like the model for a Greek statue dedicated to the god of impatience and overindulgence.

The backhoe operator, like a silent sentinel, observed the proceedings from his perch in the yellow machine.

"May I borrow a shovel and three pairs of hands?" said Bud. He placed the paintbrush and trowel in his toolbox and snapped it shut. The trio of workman stepped silently inside the roped-off burial site. The short one handed Bud his shovel. Bud scraped the shovel's blade across the top of the folded canvas until he hit solid dirt. Like a momma cutting the crusts off a sandwich Bud inched around the fabric's perimeter. Bud tossed the shovel aside and said to the men, "Corners? Please?"

They nodded and each grabbed a corner.

"One," said Bud, "two, three."

At Three they lifted the canvas and disinterred the bones. They stood staring at each other, arms extended, with the skeleton at hip height.

"Shake, please," said Bud.

They shook. Dust and stones dribbled dryly from the corpse's canvas wrapper.

"Shake again." Bud nodded to his left, "and move."

Following Bud's lead they shook the remains again and then shuffled to the left. They stepped over the fly fishing line and set the canvas-draped bones softly and tenderly down. "I thank you all," said Bud.

The impromptu pallbearers mumbled and scurried away from the skeleton. Bud unwrapped the body and waited for the dust to settle. He examined the bones quickly before placing the shattered leg bones and foot where they should have been. Scooter walked up and said, "Can I talk to you?"

"Talk," said Bud.

"What, who is it?"

Bud looked at Scooter's face for the first time. Red from the sun and scotch. Lips chapped. Eyes darting, disconcerted, and scheming. Bud pointed at the skeleton, "He's male. Caucasian."

"How do you know that?"

"Cheekbones for race. Pelvis for sex."

"How long's he been buried, smartass?"

Bud strolled up to the corpse while removing his wallet from a back pocket. He crouched above the skull, opened his wallet and removed a square foil-wrapped package.

"What's that," said Scooter, "a condom?"

Bud fingered a crease over the dead body's left temple, hesitated, then waved the red-and-white package at Scooter. He returned his wallet to a back pocket and opened the moistened towelette from KFC. Bud scrubbed clean a two-inch square area on the recently unburied forehead, leaned over and licked it.

Bud's tongue stuck. He had to forcibly snap back his head to remove it. Then he spat repeatedly into the dirt.

"Why'd you do that?" said Scooter.

"See how long he'd been buried. If the calcium had leached from the body my tongue wouldn't have stuck."

"That's sick," said the backhoe operator. "Licking a dead man's face."

Thank God he only licked it," said Scooter. "When I saw what he pulled out of his wallet I though he was gonna fuck it."

# Chapter 2

COLD CASE

Bud cellphoned Mendocino County Sheriff Dana Thorvaold, who said she'd be there in an hour. That gave Bud time to clean and further examine the unidentified bones. Then return to his maroon F-150 for a body bag. Unlike the black bags seen on television's alphabet-soup of bullshit forensic shows, body bags are an opaque white. Black plastic absorbs too much solar radiation and placing a recently dead or partially ripe corpse in a black baggy would be like slipping it into a moist oven. It would speed decomposition and larval metamorphosis, worsen the smell and soggy-damp everything up. The point was to get the body back to the lab in as close to the same shape as it had been discovered in the field.

As Bud trudged up the path with his bulky white bundle Scooter approached and fell into step with him.

Bud nodded.

"I been on the horn," said Scooter.

"And?"

"How long is this here," he pointed at the skeleton at the top of the hill, "piece-of-crap hunk-of-bones gonna disrupt my construction crew?"

"I don't know."

"Cuz I been on the horn—"

"So you said."

"—and the boss don't like paying me and the crew for doing nothing."

"I understand."

Scooter removed his camo-ball-cap and scratched his bald pate. "Can we get back to work today?"

"That there," Bud pointed at the skeleton, "piece-of-crap hunk-of-bones, upon preliminary examination, might hold up construction for some time. Years, perhaps."

He replaced the camo-cap, "Why?"

"Because it appears as if these are the bones of D.B. Cooper and his last meal was a spotted owl in tiger salamander gravy. In about an hour this place will be crawling with gun-toting FBI agents and tie-dyed, dope-smoking tree huggers."

Scooter opened his cellphone and looked for a number to dial. Then he closed the phone and said, "You're just fucking with me now."

"Yes I am," said Bud. "But whoever this was and however he died it's my duty to determine. And then to contact any living relatives who might be worried. Understand?"

"Yeah, shit. I understand," said Scooter. "Asshole."

Scooter stopped and, again, pulled out his phone as Bud reached the bones and unfurled the bulky plastic body bag.

That's when Sheriff Dana Thorvaold arrived. She made a quick call on her cruiser's radio and strode quickly up the hill. Like small town cops everywhere, she knew everyone. Dana nodded at Scooter, then stopped and shook hands with the backhoe operator and visited the trio of laborers who languished in the shade. They actually stood to greet her and remained standing until she reached Bud and said, "Hit me, Warhol."

"Male. Caucasian," said Bud. "Left handed. Judging from the solid, but not extravagant amalgam fillings he's from a middle class background. Age, late twenties; early thirties."

"How long in the ground?"

"Given the terrain and probable soil percolation and drainage: twenty years, twenty-five, tops."

Dana smiled and unzipped her jacket. She kicked a stone down the hill. "You do that lickety-lick thing?"

Bud smiled, "Yeah."

"Freaked me out the first time I saw it."

"It's as good as a laboratory assay. And it almost made Scooter puke."

"Watch? Jewelry?"

"None."

"Pacemaker, bullet, shrapnel?"

Bud shook his head

"I'll get going the paperwork," said Dana.

"Not that simple."

"Why?"

"By the looks of this crease," Bud knelt on the rocky soil and touched the skeleton's skull, "he died of blunt force trauma to the head."

"Could it have been accidental?" Dana, her gun and nightstick clacking, knelt next to Bud.

"Sure, Dana. Anything could've been something else. But he'd have to fall," Bud ran his left pinky through the groove across the left temple, "straight down onto a blunt ax or a straight stone curb to crunch his noggin like that."

"And there is," Dana tossed a stone into the grave, "an indication of a hasty and makeshift amateur burial."

Bud pointed to the paint stained tarp, "Evidence?"

Dana nodded and stood, "Let's take a walk and see what remains of old Tantricity Hill."

Bud removed a notebook and a pen, "Tantricity what?"

On their stroll up the hill Dana showed Bud the thin, cracked foundation of the old Refectory and where the swimming pool had been filled in. Berry bushes, oak scrub, and manzanita had grown into a tangle where the Quonsets and other buildings had once stood. Dana explained about Altair and Apple and their smarmy New Age foray into sexual experimentation and gratification.

"Yikes," said Bud, overlooking the dry creek bed, "a love thy neighbor camp?"

"Therapeutically speaking."

"Dana, this is a crime scene."

"There's not going to be a follow up investigation."

"But," said Bud, "there's evidence a man might have been murdered."

"Mendocino County is broke. Why do you think I'm retiring in December? I love my job but I'm taking an early out with a seventy-five--percent pension and a tax hit on my 401K rather than gambling on the county going belly up. I'd lose it all."

"How can you ignore a murder?"

"I can't. I'll report it, of course, but it'll be John Doed. It won't be opened as a crime scene. It'll be a cold case Missing Persons. Guaranteed. I'll go through some twenty year old missing persons paperwork—"

"Make it twenty-five."

"—and admit the bones into evidence. I'll be saving you a trip to Ukiah, but that's about it."

They meandered back down the hill. Before they reached the recently excavated grave Bud said, "Who ran this weekend sex playground?"

Dana thought a moment. "A couple. Altair, and his wife Apple."

"What are their real names?"

"Apple's for real. Some long Polish last name. He's William McCormick. I have a file I started, handwritten, years ago."

"Why'd you—"

"I started a file," Dana said slowly, "because they were hassled by Peeping Toms and The Righteous Right. But, shit Bud."

"What?"

"I probably kept the file up to date out of jealousy. He was older, but she's my age and I'm busting my ass chasing speeders and busting up teenage keggers—getting my ass shot at by marijuana growers—and she's having sex for a living."

"Good work if you can get it."

"They were full every weekend. They charged a shitload—"

"How much?"

"I seem to remember fifteen-hundred per couple."

"Couples? So you didn't just show up to—"

"No, no. Not like a hedonistic singles weekend. Altair had a veneer of legitimacy; and it was legal. Consenting adults who passed HIV screenings."

"How many couples per weekend?"

Dana thought a moment. "Three couples a weekend. I think. It's in the 'Jealousy File.' But, and here's the point, they just quit. They had a thriving business. From the early eighties to— "

"Between twenty and twenty-five years ago?"

Dana did the math in her head. "Right in there. About eighty-seven, eighty-eight. They just quit. One weekend they were here and then they weren't and the buildings and parcel were for sale."

"Where can I find Mister Altair?"

Dana stared at Bud, "Do you live under a rock?"

"Should I know him?"

"His book is everywhere. He has a cult following."

"Book?"

"God is a Voyeur. Altair's bestselling book. He runs a clinic called Journeys in your old hometown."

"Whereabouts?"

"Jesus Christ Bud, you gotta get a life. Journeys was featured on 60 Minutes last month. There've been pictures of it, all new and modernistic looking, in Time and Newsweek. It's off of Petaluma Boulevard North; where the lumberyard used to be."

"Next to the old RV lot?"

"That's the place."

Bud and Dana had re-arrived at the grave and unidentified skeleton. Bud leaned over the bones and touched a rib; then the left femur. Then he picked up the skull and scrutinized it as Dana, Scooter, and the crew watched in silence. Bud hefted the skull and repeatedly touched, with various fingers, the creased left temple.

"Why," said Dana, "do you need directions to Altair's place?"

"I'm going to visit and ask Mister Altair a few questions." Still holding the skull Bud stood.

"About what?"

"Real estate. Coitus. Corpses."

"When?"

"Right after I call your boss."

"Please don't bother Sheriff Matteri," said Dana. "He's overwrought. Fiscal responsibilities. Re-election. Approving my request for retirement."

Bud yelled, "Hey Scooter, help Sheriff Thorvoald bag that body and load it into her cruiser."

Scooter stared at Bud.

"Pretty please?" Bud replaced the skull so it lined up precisely with the spine, picked up his tool box and waved goodbye to the crew. "Dana, don't forget that canvas. It's evidence."

Dana shook her head and watched Bud amble down the hill.

# Chapter 3

JOURNEYS

Bud repeated, for the third time, into his cellphone, "All I'm asking is for you to check the dental records on an unidentified missing person, John. Isn't that kind of your job as an elected public official?"

Sheriff John Matteri, for the third time, said, "The Sheriff's Department no longer has the staff for that. File a report and we'll email a Missing Persons to the CHP, State Police, and FBI. If we get a response for what you have told me: male, early thirties, left-handed, six-foot, been missing twenty-five or so years we'll follow it up. But not until then, Bud. We don't have the resources to initiate an investigation."

"Drop by The Dew Drop Inn for a beer tonight," said Bud. "We'll talk."

"You better not go freelancing—"

Bud held the cellphone six inches from his face, "Sorry, John. But we...are..." Bud tapped the phone against the steering wheel, "breaking...up..." He snapped his cellphone shut, flipped on his blinker and exited off 101 South onto Petaluma Boulevard North.

The smaller towns of Northern California have a decided Midwestern feel. Despite the image these towns view in their gilded handheld mirrors and profess in their Chamber of Commerce fliers, they aren't Hip or Progressive or Integrated. They are conservative little whitebread enclaves with Mom & Pop values, tree-lined streets, and an obsessive suspicion of outsiders: even though a substantial number of residents are recently arrived and assimilated interlopers from San Jose, L.A., and San Francisco.

Bud's hometown of Petaluma is such a town.

He'd been born and raised on a dairy farm off of Ely Boulevard South, not far from Journeys' present location. Thirty years ago, long before a lumberyard and the now defunct RV dealership Bud and his older brothers used to ride dirt bikes and hunt rabbits through the fields and creek bed where Journeys stood. Dana had described it as "Modernistic" but to Bud it appeared to be a down-sized, stained-glass and aluminum replica of the Pro Football Hall of Fame. The building, single-storey and octagonal, surrounded a stained-glass tower that rose from its center. Bud drove to the extreme edge of the lot and parked. He surveyed the assortment of vehicles. Several Audis, Mercedes, Acuras and V-8 Chryslers—all new—were arrayed near the building: an upscale clientele was buying whatever Altair was selling. On the freeway side were two mini-vans, a beat-up Kawasaki, and an older Saturn: employee parking. And a baby-blue stretch limo, the boss's, no doubt.

Bud walked across the newly paved and lined lot and entered Journeys.

"Welcome, welcome," said a perky green-eyed greeter. "Welcome, welcome."

Bud read her engraved black-on-gold nametag, "You sure are friendly, Julie."

"It's part of our duty, here at Journeys. What's your name?"

"Bud Warhol."

"Bud's good enough. That's all we need to know." Julie vibrated with a cheerful, expectant exuberance. "You're just in time, Bud."

"For what?"

"The Noon Summit. Gimme your cellphone."

"What?"  
"No phones allowed in Altair's Summits—he's trademarked the term, you know. Summit."

"I did not know. What do they call the tops of mountains now?"

"You're a tease." She dazzled Bud with a smile, touched his arm, and extended her palm, "Your phone'll be safe with me. Go, go, no one is admitted after Altair begins."

Bud surrendered his cellphone and allowed himself to be herded to the central assembly room. Julie winked and shut the door behind him. Bud scrunched down into a cozy-bouncy loge aisle seat and scrutinized the circular auditorium. What appeared from the outside to be a stained-glass football was actually a vaulted five-sided-glass tower. The colored glass allowed in soft filtered and muted sunlight that, as far as Bud could tell, was the only source of daytime illumination. Beneath the tower was a circular stage upon which stood a single stool. The room, maximum capacity perhaps 65 souls, was half full with mostly 40-something males. A young man sat stiffly, alone and serious, in the front row. Bud guesstimated five or six females were present. Two rows down a black-bearded man read, lips moving, what appeared to be a well-thumbed and dog-eared Bible. Bud rocked in his seat, comfy, wondering exactly what the hell was going on here.

Then a panel in the wall retracted and a gray ponytailed, barrel-chested man in a black three-piece suit—blue shirt, no tie—entered. The entire room held their collective breath as he made his way to the stage. When he reached the center of the stage a sudden spotlight found him. He clasped his hands, bowed and intoned, "Namaste!"

Automatically the audience responded, "Namaste!"

The black-bearded man two seats down thrust his Bible skyward in what seemed to Bud to be more an attitude of protest than greeting.

The man who Bud assumed was the eminent but unknown to him Altair boomed once more: "Namaste!" He was rewarded, again, with an identical echoed response.

Bud marveled at the room's acoustics and wondered what Namaste meant.

Altair smiled and walked leisurely around the circular stage making significant eye-contact and nod, nod, nodding at the audience. He completed three laps in this manner and said, "If God were here, HERE; if God were here, right now, what would he say?"

Silence.

"If God were here, right now, what would he say?"

More silence.

"He would say, What would you change in your life that you wouldn't be utterly and completely unhappy when you DIDN'T get it?"

A deeper silence: confused and palpable.

Altair hoofed another two laps. Perhaps sensing puzzlement he said again, louder, "What would you change in your life that you wouldn't be utterly and completely unhappy when you DIDN'T get it?"

The audience sat mutely, confused and in awe. Bud smiled at the entire spectacle but wondered what was going on. Was Journeys a self-help organization? A secular Church? Dana had used the word "cult" but Bud had been admitted to "Namaste Hour" by oh-so-friendly green-eyed Julie without a password, secret handshake, or even a donation request.

"Answer that question," said Altair in a whisper, "and all your questions will be answered." The spotlight clicked off and Altair said again, louder, "All of your questions will be answered."

Altair strode from the stage, quickly, but straight at a wall. Just as he reached the wall a panel slid open. He disappeared through the wall and the panel slid shut. A bald, turtlenecked-and-muscled usher rose from a loge seat and stood with crossed-arms in front of the sliding door. Alternating cries of, "Namaste and Amen" filled the room. People stood and embraced. The black-bearded man slammed his Bible shut and hastened from the room. The others, all in groups of two or three, left smiling, grooving, and it appeared, somehow mightily enriched.

"Yikes Almighty," said Bud.

Bud waited until only the bald usher and he remained in the auditorium. He fished his laminated green-and-white California State Police ID out of his jacket pocket and hung it around his neck. He stood, knowing his every move was scrutinized by the hairless young usher with the tanning booth tan and Gold's Gym physique, and strolled casually to the Starship Enterprise-like door. "Good afternoon," said Bud.

"It is," said turtleneck, "indeed a great afternoon."

Bud extended his hand, "Bud Warhol."

Turtleneck smiled, and performed a long, firm double-clasp handshake with meaningful eye-contact and an ingratiating bob of his head. "George. First names only at Journeys, Bud."

"Right. Julie told me." Bud extracted his hand from George's clutch. "May I speak to Altair?"

"Of course," said George. But he made it, somehow, sound mildly menacing. George fingered Bud's laminate. "This can't be official business. California State Police? Altair doesn't drive."

"How does he get to Safeway or Bed Bath and Beyond?"

"He's chauffeured."

"By you?"

"By me." George placed a palm on the door and it slid open. He stepped aside and motioned for Bud to enter.

Bud stepped into a brightly lit, sparsely furnished room. Altair sat behind a glass topped desk, pecking at a laptop. He had removed his black suit coat and rolled up his blue sleeves. Altair daintily closed his laptop, placed his palms flat on the glass desktop and said, "Welcome, welcome."

Bud nodded and sat in a space-age-looking chrome and white-cushioned chair. He wriggled into a semi-comfortable configuration and smiled.

"May I help you?" said Altair.

"Yes."

"How may I help you?"

"What does Namaste mean?"

"It is a Hindi word of greeting. It means, alternately: Hello, Love, Welcome, Health, Wisdom, Harmony, Godspeed."

"Quite a handy little word."

"Yes," said Altair. "Yes it is."

They settled into a silence that, after two minutes grew taut and uncomfortable. Bud surveyed the room from his space-age chair, his gaze stopping on a full-size stuffed Irish Setter wearing sunglasses, until Altair said, "Any other questions?"

"Why's the dog wearing sunglasses?"

"She was blind."

"I see. No joke intended."

Altair couldn't figure what Warhol wanted, so he said, "Anything else?"

"I wanted to ask you about a parcel of property you used to own."

"Property? Yes. I've owned bookstores, restaurants, yogurt shops—"

"Sex camps?"

Altair stood and looked directly at Bud for the first time, "Who are you?"

"Bud."

"Bud who?"

"I was told first names suffice at Journeys." Bud without standing, removed his laminate and tossed it onto Altair's desk.

Altair studied the laminate before speaking, "I did own a property just south of Hopland. I ran a Tantric sex retreat; licensed and legal. From eighty-two to about eighty-seven. I then sold the property and operated an upscale vegetarian restaurant with my now ex-wife. But I missed helping people; helping them spiritually. I ceded my share of the restaurant and undertook a pilgrimage to India, studied meditation and realized my vocation."

Bud sat and pointed toward the auditorium, "That bullshit?"

Altair laughed and tossed Bud back his laminate. "Yes sir. That bullshit has helped countless thousands of people obtain and maintain sobriety."

"Really?" Bud shook his head.

"May I tell you a story, Bud?"

Bud slid the laminate into his jacket pocket and nodded.

"The Dali Lama," said Altair, leaning forward and balancing his chin on fingertips, "walks up to a hotdog vendor. The vendor says, 'What can I do you for?' The Dali Lama replies, 'Make me one with everything.'"

Bud didn't laugh. "Old joke. I've heard it."

"I'm not finished: The Dali Lama pays with a fifty. He eats his hot dog and stands by the vendor's cart for an hour. The vendor finally says, again, 'May I help you?' 'I paid with a fifty,' says the Dali Lama, 'I'm waiting for my change.' The hotdog vendor closes up his cart and before wheeling away says, 'All change comes from within.'"

"Now that's kinda funny."

"Thank you, thank you."

"Cuz in the addendum he eats the hot dog and the Dali Lama's a vegetarian, right?"

"That addendum is the point of the tale," said Altair, "and the secret to my success in the field of spiritual recovery."

"I am abundantly confused."

"People assume that they can think their way to a change. Or willpower their way to sobriety and a better life by following the Ten Commandments or the Twelve Steps. That never did and never will work. But, when I confront them with a statement or proposition that forces them to abandon the paradigm of the logical mind I make change possible."

Bud stared at Altair nodded twice and said, "So you sold Tantricity Hill to run a meatless eatery and then slid sideways, via the subcontinent of India, into recovery therapy?"

"May I ask you a question, Bud?"

"Sure."

"From whom and when did you hear the name, 'Tantricity Hill?'"

"Sheriff Dana Thorvoald. Earlier today."

"Dana? How is the old dyke?"

"That old dyke's engaged to my partner. Who is, by the way, a man."

"Really?" Altair considered. "No. That makes sense if she went straight it would be with another cop."

"My partner's not a cop."

"But—"

"Roger and I own a bar; my nighttime job. My daytime job I do freelance forensic work for the California State Police and I help out various Northern California sheriff departments. Sonoma, Napa, Marin, Mendocino."

"There's no reason state or local police would be interested in me. I am a California Board certified MFCC and substance abuse therapist. I once owned a sex clinic, albeit bucolic, called Tantricity Hill. There's nothing wrong with the science of sex therapy."

"No there isn't. But I need to ask what you know about a body buried, in a shallow grave, on land you previously owned?"

Altair pushed a button on his deskphone, then stood and made a show of checking his watch. "I'm late for a meeting. Nice talking to you."

George entered.

"My associate," said Altair, "will show you the way out."

George grinned and tossed Bud his cellphone and said, "Right this way, Bud."

Bud pocketed his phone. "Julie was right. Everyone at Journeys is so friendly."

"Thank you, thank you," said Altair.

"But I'm not leaving—"

"When Altair says it's time to leave," said George.

"—without an answer to my question." Bud raised a palm to placate George, then said to Altair, "What do—"

"To answer your earlier question," said Altair, "I know nothing about a corpse located on any property I've ever owned."

"Simple enough," said Bud. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," said Altair.

"Right this way," said George.

Bud, again, fidgeted in the chair, "Forget the body. I'm curious."

George betrayed his military training: mechanically sliding into a Parade Rest posture. Altair crossed his arms, leaned against his desk and said, "About what?"

Bud had learned long ago that if you want an honest answer you need to ask a question that simultaneously probes and flatters. Inquire about a fault and you will get evasion and suspicion. Ask about aptitude, talent, or genius—real or imagined: legal or illicit—and you will receive a proper explanation, "How did," Bud asked, "this sex camp of yours work? It sounds like a fantastic gig."

Altair nodded in his finest papal manner as both Bud and George inclined their heads in expectation of his answer. "It was," said Altair, "absolutely the best fucking idea I ever had."

Then among men, behind closed doors, for the next forty-five minutes Altair, smiling, recalled stoned orgies, mushroom-fueled gang bangs: Kama Sutra memories....

"Yikes," said Bud, when Altair had finished.

"Yeah," said Altair. "All true."

George, still at Parade Rest, felt quietly honored to be in the great man's employ.

"I'll be going," said Bud, without rising from the chair.

"Stop by anytime," said Altair. "Anytime."

"But first I need the names of the people who attended your final session at Tantricity Hill."

"That was—"

"Twenty-one years ago," said Bud. "But I'm not asking for phone numbers or addresses. I just have to file my report so the Mendocino County sheriff can send out an official missing persons memo and then cold case this. I want it done today. We all want it done today."

Altair knew Bud had opened him up by appealing to his vanity; he didn't feel used, he admired Bud for his precise manipulation of human nature. "Today?"

"Yes. Over and done. I have a bar to run."

"There were," said Altair, "three couples. My wife and I. A couple from the Midwest; she taught Russian Lit at a college in Indiana. I can't recall their names."

"No sweat," said Bud.

"Then, at that last session, I tutored my most famous clientele."

"Who?"

"Debra Shaffer and Devon Adams."

"Who?" repeated Bud.

"Movie stars," said George. "She's still pretty frigging hot."

"You should have seen her twenty years ago," said Altair.

"I've never heard of them," said Bud.

"Really?" said Altair.

"I read a lot. History. Professional journals," said Bud. He took up his notebook and pen, "What were their names again?"

Altair repeated the famous names. Bud scribbled, then stood and shook hands all around, "I can find my way out."

# Chapter 4

THE DEW DROP INN

Bud glanced up at the bar's t.v. and wiped a table with a rag. The Dew Drop Inn had been packed; too busy for Bud to watch any of the Thursday night football game between USC and Oregon State. And he'd been distracted all night. Not by the day's most significant event, the discovery of a skeleton just six miles south, nor by the day's most entertaining event, his encounter with Altair at Journeys. But by the troupe of people attending Altair's little shindig.

They were sheep.

They were somnambulant little security seekers who'd follow anyone proclaiming an answer. That irked, bothered, and upset Bud. They were ripe for being taken advantage of: socially, emotionally, politically.

And of course, financially.

Altair spouted pseudo-spiritual shit that stunk like doggy-dew on a grill and they lapped it up like Texas Barbecue. But Bud wondered how Altair separated his flock from their money. Journeys didn't charge admission or pass the hat but you can't build a stained-glass towered meeting room, ride in a limo, or afford a (ex-Marine, Bud guessed) chauffeur-bodyguard like George purely with platitudes. Altair had his hand, somehow, in his clientele's pockets. He'd have to ask Dana more about Tantricity Hill's operation when she stopped by later to pick up Roger.

Bud poked his head into the kitchen to check on Damon. Good old reliable hometown Damon Morton: frycook/dishwasher/busboy. Born and raised in Hopland. The farthest he'd been from home was to Stockton, senior year in high school when he qualified for the State Wrestling Championships. Damon finished third, 163 pound division, and couldn't get back to Hopland fast enough. Bud returned to the bar and checked the patrons' drinks. Each of them, and Roger who stood behind the bar, had their heads inclined to the television looking like eaglets in a nest anticipating some warm regurgitated nourishment. Bud drew himself a short beer and sipped. The front door opened and Dana entered, "Jesus Criminy, I'm too early."

"The game will be over soon," said Roger without moving his eyes from the t.v. "The Beavers are up by two. Four minutes to go."

Dana settled on a stool and said to Bud, "If I ever have four minutes left to live I hope to Christ they are at the end of a fucking football game. It'll be at least half-an-hour."

Bud smiled, "Manhattan?"

"Up, please."

"Shhhh," said Roger.

"You can hear it fine," said Bud.

"I think you'd show more interest since it's our Alma Mater that's—"

"Go Beavers," said Bud. "Rah. Rah."

Roger stared at Bud while he shook and poured Dana's Manhattan.

She sipped.

The game concluded 31 minutes later.

Bud loved the feel of an empty bar, church, stadium or school. He didn't believe in an afterlife, ghosts, spooks or spirits, but something palpable and real existed in these empty places. He could never ascertain if it were the residue of people who had been there or the building's expectation of events yet to occur, but the feeling always haunted him. Now, while he sat at the bar counting the till—with Damon banging pots and pans in the kitchen; Roger and Dana holding hands at a table—he felt at ease in his world of the Dew Drop Inn.

But something bugged him.

Altair.

That slick New Age fakir knew money. He evidently knew how to scare it up by appealing to people's weak spots: first Sex and now Religion. He had run Tantricity Hill, a temple to hedonism; now he apparently operated an actual non-denominational temple dedicated to what did he call it, Spiritual Recovery. If he had an outdoor retreat—little or no overhead—where he made thousands a weekend, why would he up-and-quit?

Bud spun around on his barstool, "Hey Dana?"

"What?"

"How much did you say old Altair charged his customers at Camp Hump-a-Lotta?"

"I told you, as I recall fifteen-hundred a couple."

"How do you know that?" said Roger.

"I researched the place, back in the day. Tried to find a loophole: taxes, licensing, land use, septic, zoning. I wanted to shut him down," lied Dana.

"What happened to live and let live?" Roger touched her cheek, "My little moral avenger."

"I was more outraged by his bad taste than his exhibitionism. There is always a time and a place for sex."

Roger kissed her and said, "Thank God for that."

"How many," said Bud, "couples per weekend?"

"Three." Dana thought, sipped her drink.

"Four," said Damon. He had finished in the kitchen and sat at the bar with a Coke, no ice.

Bud slid Damon his cut of the bar tips and said, "Pardon?"

"There were always four couples at the camp." Damon palmed his tips, pocketed them without counting and nodded thanks at Bud.

"Are you sure?"

"For years we used to climb into the plum trees and watch them," said Damon. "All summer long. Me and my brother and sister."

"No cable?" said Bud.

"No television," said Damon. "The only other entertainment we ever had was watching dad drink and beat the shit outta mom."

"Until," said Dana, "your mom shot him."

"Six times. And the first shot killed him." Damon smiled at the memory of his mama's sweet vengeance.

"So," said Bud, "three couples or four couples?"

"I clearly remember: four sets of titties—eight boobies—every weekend," said Damon.

"That's right," said Dana, "three visiting couples. Apple and Altair make four."

"Man, it was funny. Seein' them fat old bastards humping." Damon touched his beergut and sighed. "But man, that Apple was something."

"Apple?" said Roger.

Dana said, "She runs The Green Frog Café. Out in Forestville."

"She is something," said Roger. "Helluva cook too."

Dana nodded.

"Exactly where is," said Bud, "this Green Frog Café?"

# Chapter 5

NIGHT WANDERINGS

Bud had not slept well since his wife had died.

He lived less than a mile from the Dew Drop Inn and usually walked to work. Returning home, regardless of the weather he'd tramp two or three miles beyond his drafty house on Feliz Creek Road. Tonight Bud strolled, mindlessly, past September vineyards redolent with fruit. He'd doubled his usual distance, oblivious, until shaken out of his reverie by a swirl of fruit bats he'd startled from their midnight feeding. Bud ducked automatically as the bats rose, swirled and settled back into the vineyards to munch more grapes. The moon had barely risen as Bud stopped and viewed the nightsky: looking north he could see through wisps of clouds the bright stars Polaris and Deneb. To the west, Vega. To the east, the bright W of Cassiopeia glittered. Bud, thinking of his wife, dead nearly three years, turned and walked back home.

He had met Anna at Oregon State. An English Major, she took Anthro 101 to fulfill her science requirement: a class Bud team-taught as a graduate assistant after finishing his MS in Anthropology.

Their relationship proceeded typically.

A furtive smile in class; a touch.

A study session.

Then a date, a kiss, some sex.

A picnic; more sex.

An apartment; shared soap and towels.

A fight; makeup sex.

Meet the parents. A promise. A ring; a life.

But no relationship is ever typical when it's yours.

It's your ride, your emotions, your life. Your decision to marry; to not have children. To live happily in a drafty house that is in flood-danger during the winter and fire-danger during the summer. Anna worked at a Co-Op Daycare (the only childless staff member) in Ukiah and wrote at night when Bud worked at the Dew Drop. She had three novels in print, all selling listlessly, and had high hopes for her latest project a Young Adult historical novel about a Russian girl in California, circa 1822.

Anna and Bud were happy together and apart. They didn't need soul-mates, or someone to complete them. As individuals there was nothing lacking. Bud's career with the State Police had him traveling from Monterey to the Oregon border at a moment's notice to examine recently discovered bones and declare them a crime scene or an historical site. Anna was more than at ease with the world when alone. She reveled in the silence and the time to write and read; to think and plan.

Bud and Anna were complete and comfortable with each other. She'd sometimes take a book down to the Dew Drop and snuggle-down at a corner table and they'd spend the night together not talking: Bud social and official behind the bar, Anna solitary and self-contained at her table. It never occurred to them to take a vacation. They couldn't be happier just waking and eating; walking and reading; smiling and loving. The future was theirs.

And then an aneurism. A frenzied ambulance ride. An operation.

A funeral.

On his walks he used to say aloud, "I miss you. I love you." He didn't say it anymore, but he felt it. Bud was continually amazed that, even as the pain faded, his memories of Anna remained so bright and reliable and accessible. He had always assumed, for whatever reason, that love depended on physical proximity. And that it was somehow more fragile.

# Chapter 6

GOOGLE ME THIS

"Yikes."

Bud had Googled "Debra Shaffer" scrolled down past movie and newsmagazine gossip sites before he clicked on "Worship" and a pastiche of explicit photos appeared. The photos featured a bouncy-smiley-happy-impossibly-nubile young blonde having sex with an incredible number and cross-section of studly men. Beneath each photo loomed a gold button labeled GALLERY.

Bud clicked on a GALLERY, looked for more than a moment but less than a while at the ill-lighted pornography and then clicked BACK. He visited a few Bio/Filmography sites and familiarized himself with Debra's past and present career. She'd been married to Devon Adams since 1978. They'd had a tough time for the first four years as he tried to mold her career, Svengali style. He monitored the roles she read for and generally dominated her life: personally and professionally. But in 1988 he'd relented and allowed Debra her "Artistic Freedom" (the precise term employed by every website Bud visited).

Debra and her career subsequently flourished.

She acted and produced. Then Debra directed: first herself, and then other actresses in films she didn't star in. Her career credits proved her a reliable and bankable Hollywood presence. Since 1998 she'd taken to writing and handed the directorial reins back to Devon. They were currently working on a late-middle-aged romantic comedy—Shirley, You Jest—being shot in Santa Monica. Bud read the movie's synopsis several times and he vowed he'd never pay to see a movie where grown-ups acted like they were in junior high school. Then he smiled thinking about all the money he'll save.

He printed out times and locations where Shirley, You Jest would be filming later that week and after returning to Debra's WORSHIP gallery, for more than a while but less than a stretch, Bud Googled "Devon Adams".

Bud visited several sites, until he'd corroborated all the information he'd already gathered about Debra. There were less than half as many sites for Devon, but that made sense to Bud because Devon was clearly Ricky Ricardo to Debra's Lucille Ball. Bud minimized the webpage and played two games of Spider Solitaire. He yawned, finished his beer and checked the time: 1:13 AM.

Bud maximized the webpage and scrolled down to a final "Devon Adams isn't Devon Adams!" website. He clicked. The site was maintained by the retired editor of the Century City Snitch, Gayle Azevedo. The website's banner ran above "BEFORE-1986" and "AFTER-1989" pictures of Devon. The banner was a short, simple single-spaced conspiracy-thesis statement:

Devon Adams disappeared in 1988 and has been replaced by an imposter who lives with Debra Shaffer. Devon, an adopted orphan from Grand Junction WITH NO LIVING RELATIVES has vanished. Perhaps he's been replaced; perhaps he's simply retired from the public eye. But the man now living with Debra Shaffer is a pretender, a sham, a substitute Devon. Check the BEFORE/AFTER photos on this website.

I'm certain you will agree.

G. Azevedo

Bud jotted down the phone number and email contact info for Gayle Azevedo then walked to the kitchen for another beer. He readied the coffee pot for tomorrow morning and returned to the computer with his Amstel. He sipped and compared the BEFORE and AFTER photos. The men wore shades and leather jackets in both: the two pictures were unposed and obviously sniped by a paparazzo. The AFTER photo showed a more fit, athletic and heavier man. Bud estimated by 25 pounds. But these Hollywood actors hire a personal trainer and a nutritionist and bulk up to play Hercules or an athlete and slim down to play Christ or an AIDS victim. Bud finished his beer and flipped through pictures on the rudimentary, outdated and under-maintained website until he reached several B&W shots of a group, naked, in a swimming pool. The unlabeled pictures, judging by the blurred depth-of-field, were shot through a powerful telephoto lens. From the angle they were snapped from above, on a neighboring hillside. But what intrigued Bud was the view across the valley from the swimming pool: the vineyards, orchards, road, and clumped oaks.

It was the vista Bud had seen that morning.

The vineyards occupied more of the hillside, the orchards less, and the oaks had matured but he'd seen that same panorama from the construction site where he'd unearthed the skeleton.

Bud clicked VIEW and ZOOM and zeroed in on the swimming pool. Even in black&white Bud immediately recognized Debra Shaffer, because of course, she was naked. After squinting and imagining a gray, instead of brown ponytail, and allowing for 40 fewer pounds Bud identified an equally naked Altair. "So this is Tantricity Hill in action," said Bud,

He flicked on his printer and while the HP spat out 8"x11"s Bud snagged another Amstel. As the photos rolled out he scrutinized them. All naked, all the time: cavorting, consorting, and casually interacting.

A willowy gray haired lady appeared in just a few shots, usually in the company of a short, mildly paunchy younger man with translucent skin and a Godalmighty huge pecker. Two well-built guys were prominent, obviously the focus of the entire shoot. One Bud identified as Devon, the other, stockier man could have been his younger brother. Then two youngish, beautiful women seemed to enjoy each other's perpetual company. One with long dark hair who wore a straw hat and the other with a knockout figure and a bald head. "And that," said Bud to himself, "makes four couples. Altair you are a lying, sententious ponytailed shitweasle."

Bud closed down the "Devon Adams isn't Devon Adams!" website, Googled Hotflights and finished his Amstel while tomorrow afternoon's tickets to LAX printed.

# Chapter 7

THE GREEN FROG CAFÉ

Bud had been awakened at 10:07 by the sound of branches scraping the bedroom window: much too late to open the Dew Drop by 10:30, but he'd get there when he got there. He pulled the shade and opened the window to a profusion of rose tendrils, blossoms, buds, and thorns. Years ago Anna had planted a climbing rose on either side of the window and trained them, year-by-year, to creep up the side of an overarching trellis to meet in the center. Since her death the garden had fallen into a mild disrepair—Bud watered, hoed, mowed, fertilized, and weeded regularly—but this year the roses had grown out of control. In dire need of a major pruning they grew madly and bloomed profusely. At the slightest breeze the overloaded trellis rattled and thorns scraped the house and windowscreen. Bud rolled out of bed, realized he'd slept in his socks and said, "I have to cut that bugger back and tie up those runners." He started coffee, shaved, and then poured a cup to take into the shower. As he Lathered, Rinsed and Repeated he thought about the bones he'd exhumed yesterday. To find a male Caucasian body a half-mile off an isolated road was, in Mendocino County, not an unusual occurrence. Hopland, the tiny hamlet that was little more than a bump and two bends in Highway 101 as it headed through the far northern vineyards of California's wine country should have had a sign, Bud thought, that read:

HOPLAND, CALIFORNIA

GATEWAY TO THE EMERALD TRIANGLE!

With a big lighted green sign: A cannabis sativa leaf rampant.

The Northern California counties of Mendocino, Humboldt, and Del Norte produced some of the finest marijuana in the world. It was also both the best and the worst kept secret in the world.

It was the worst kept because everybody knew that everybody else grew. Two communal greenhouses maintained by a hamlet off the Eel or Trinity Rivers would net enough tax free cash to bankroll the entire town for a year: groceries, a new truck here-and-there, health care. Hundreds of these tiny (POP. 400-900) towns existed in the beautifully ferned and isolated hinterlands of the emerald triangle.

It was the best kept secret because the DEA's war on drugs would lose funding and credibility if they simply arrested everybody involved with the production and sale of marijuana in Northern California. When a "farmer" came into a Santa Rosa Chevy dealership to buy—cash—a new van the salesman isn't going to phone the Feds. He's going to write up the deal, take the fragrant cash and make damn sure he's the one who gets to vacuum out the trade-in.

The DEA would be out of a job if they did their job because they'd have to arrest everybody from Eureka to Sacramento: the entire population of Northern California benefits from the drug trade. Hardware stores, farm and building supply, restaurants, computer and electronics; but particularly legislators, lobbyists, and law enforcement depended upon this criminal-cannabis-cultivar.

Effort and cash was expended by the government to make certain that a crop grown more-or-less in the open and used by all strata of society remained unlawful. And so the symbiotic dance between growers and government thrived.

But people being people and money being money, dope deals were brokered and reneged and bodies—usually young, white, and male—were more than regularly composted in quiet and sheltered locations from the 101 corridor to the wild beaches of the Pacific Coast. Bud had seen his share and identified several milk carton runaways. And he would have happily conceded that yesterday's bones—male and Caucasian—were a drug-war casualty. Except the bones fit too closely with the untimely and unexplained closure of Tantricity Hill.

And then, of course, Altair's obvious lie.

Bud rinsed his coffee cup in the shower and left it upside-down on the bathtub to dry, bachelor-style. He stepped from the shower and toweled off. He'd have to take the truck to get to the Dew Drop in time. And later that afternoon, on his way to the airport in San Francisco, he planned on dropping in, unexpected, on Altair's ex-wife at the Green Frog Café.

"You're the owner," said Todd Smith. He looked up from the S.F. Chronicle he perused on the front step of the Dew Drop Inn, "and you're late."

"You're the mayor," said Bud, "aren't you worried about the good townspeople of Hopland seeing you waiting for a bar to open?"

"Nope."

Bud smiled and resisted reminding Todd that he was only the co-owner of the Dew Drop. Roger and Bud, who met tending bar at the Beaver's Pond—a dive sports bar—in Corvallis, had purchased the Dew Drop from Roger's father Gunther. Bud had planned to tend bar, build up the clientele and sell his half to Roger. But a funny thing happened: Bud happened to fall in love with tending bar in a small town and working part time for the state police.

Bud opened the door and both men entered. Todd plopped onto a barstool and spread the newspaper across the bar. Without being asked Bud poured a vodka-and-Diet Coke for the mayor. Todd would drink anything, with anyone at anytime, but his eye-opener of choice was a Skinny Russian. As Bud filled his well with ice, cut lemons and limes, dusted backshelf bottles and swept Todd read the headlines aloud:

"War in Afghanistan drags on, American casualties increase...

"Trouble between Israel and Iran, Israel and Palestine, Israel and Syria...

"President's approval rating low...

"Immigration and welfare problems proliferate...

"Giants lose to Dodgers..."

Bud said, "That's why I don't read newspapers."

"Why?" said Todd.

"Change 'Afghanistan' to 'Vietnam' and that newspaper could be from the sixties or seventies."

"My-o-my," said Todd, "aren't you a ray of sunshine."

"I'm not disappointed or even complaining." said Bud. "You're the asshole who buys a paper everyday."

Todd rattled the ice in his empty glass and said, "Up yours, Bud."

The mayor had three more Skinny Russians and left, Bud noticed, looking livelier and younger than when he'd arrived. Bud signed for two deliveries, produce and beer, and helped Damon prep for the Friday lunch rush. They sliced tomatoes for BLTs, onions for cheeseburgers, and potatoes for fries. Those were the only three food items the Dew Drop Inn served. Judging by business Bud and Roger didn't need to expand the menu and this Friday was no different. Various local drunks wandered in and out before noon. Bud knew what each of them drank and which of them needed a straw in the first drink because their hands shook too badly to raise it to their lips without spilling most of their precious and necessary morning liquor. All these transactions were performed with little or no dialog and paid for in cash. Shortly after noon a few tourists appeared; both just-passing-through and local campers who'd been there all week.

Between 12:00 and 12:45 most of the regulars: both of Hopland's realtors and employees from the bank, gas station and nearby tasting rooms appeared and downed sandwiches, fries and cocktails. At 12:57 Bud said, "Hey Damon?"

"What?" he flipped two burgers and added aged white cheddar.

"I'm leaving and you're promoted. To, um, Day Manager." Bud unstrung his apron. "The lunch rush is over; Roger will be in around five."

"But I don't know how to tend bar."

"Can you open a beer?"

Damon nodded solemnly.

"What," said Bud, "goes in a gin-and-tonic?"

"Gin and tonic."

"You're fine. Just remember to ring-up everything."

Again, Damon nodded with solemnity.

"That way you and one friend can drink for free."

"Gotcha."

Bud placed a key on the bar and scurried to the door, "I don't know why you'd need it, but there's the key to the joint."

"Thanks," said Damon to Bud's back as he left the kitchen. "I guess we'll talk about benefits, health care, and profit sharing later."

"Yikes," said Bud.

Seven miles west of US 101 and two miles from the town of Forestville the Green Frog Café looked like a fresh-baked yellow-and-white layer cake someone had placed carefully in the middle of a redwood forest. "What an odd location," thought Bud, "for a restaurant. No foot traffic. No discernible parking." He maneuvered his car between two redwood trees and crunched through the leaf-litter to the front steps of the farmhouse-turned-restaurant. The white-trimmed, egg-yolk colored front door had a sign written in calligraphy:

The Green Frog Café

Vegetarian Cuisine

HOURS

6:30 – 8:30 Weds – Sun

Reservations Required

All Misbehaved Children Will Be Given a Double Espresso and a Puppy

Bud smiled and knocked.

No answer.

He walked around the old, but adoringly maintained two-storey farmhouse. A pea-gravel path lead around the building through beds of veggies and herbs. Staked tomatoes looked wiry and wilted but held bright late season fruit: red, orange, yellow. Basil and rosemary; oregano and Italian parsley grew profusely, almost wild. Plants Bud didn't recognize grew in raised beds and hung from baskets and window boxes. Bud weaved through the patchwork garden to the back of the restaurant and a concrete slab with multicolored recycling bins. He walked up three steps and knocked on a screendoor, "Hello?"

No answer.

Bud opened the door and heard muted country music and the "snick snick" of someone chopping on a cutting board. He walked past a dishwashing station and marveled at how immaculate and orderly the dishracks, glasses, and plates were stacked. He entered an impossibly small kitchen and saw that the "snick snick" came from a woman chopping zucchini. Years in a kitchen had taught Bud never to approach anyone with a knife from behind so he walked through the kitchen and waved his right hand to get her attention. She finished dissecting the zucchini and said, "Yes?"

She wore faded blue jeans and dayglo green Adidas running shoes; a white tanktop and a black apron with red and green apple cores. Short, thick reddish-brown hair framed her face.

"Delivery?" she asked.

"Comically laconic, whenever possible," said Bud.

She placed the knife on the cutting board and said, "Cute. But I'm busy. What do you want?"

"Are you Apple Abramowicz?"

"I am." She folded her arms across her chest. "What's this about?"

"Where you the co-owner and operator of Tantricity Hill—"

"How much does Altair owe you?"

"Nothing. I'm Bud Warhol and—"

"Any relation to Andy?"

"Distant cousins, actually."

"Really?"

Bud nodded and fumbled for his laminate. He extended it for Apple to inspect.

"State police?"

"On loan. I'm an anthropologist—"

"Quickly, please. I have a restaurant to open."

Bud scrutinized Apple: Trim. Mid-forties. Braless, no-makeup; casually beautiful. And her hands. Never had he seen such ugly hands on as stunning a woman: they were nicked and scorched and raw-red working-kitchen hands. "Yesterday, I found a body on your old Tantricity Hill property."

Apple looked away, walked to the sink and fumbled with a liquid soap dispenser. Speaking down into the sink, "We haven't owned that property for twenty years."

Bud waited for Apple to finish her scrubbing. "More accurately I found a body in your property. Appeared to have been buried there about twenty years."

"I don't know what to say."

Bud asked her about Tantricity Hill and she told him the same lies, in nearly the same words, as Altair. Three couples instead of the four Damon had told him about and Bud had seen on Gayle Azevedo's website. He nodded and examined Apple. The way she stood nervous and ill-at-ease. He supposed she wasn't as good at lying as her ex-husband. A result of cooking rather than preaching for a living. Bud wanted to see what she looked like telling the truth, he asked, "What's Tantric sex?"

"It's an ancient erotic practice that's associated with Kudalini yoga. It's spirituality through sexuality."

Bud noticed Apple's shoulders drop and her breathing deepen. Not yet the truth, but not so forced a lie. "Why'd you give it up?"

"Altair, in his book, says he evolved out of it. But I think he got tired of watching other men fuck me." Her blue eyes challenged him to respond.

"I see," said Bud.

"Now," said Apple, "if you'll pardon me?" Apple motioned Bud to the back door.

"You run an immaculate kitchen. It's beautiful." He extended his hand, Apple shook it with a strong callused grip.

She nodded and opened the screendoor. Bud stepped outside and stood on the bottom step. Apple stood there, he thought, like a Maxfield Parrish nymph all grown up. "I like the name of the place: Desperadoes Waiting for a Train?"

"Thank you," she said. "I love Guy Clark."

"So do I," said Bud. From Apple's attitude; the way she breathed fully and her slight smile Bud knew that it was the only truth she'd stated, besides her name, since they'd begun talking.

The truth; she looked good telling it.

# Chapter 8

LA LA LAND

Bud hated Los Angeles.

He considered it the land of smog and smug. Invariably, if you asked a Southlander where he lived (whether a Ronald Reagan worshipper from Orange County, a SAG card holding realtor from Westlake Village, a pimp from Long Beach, or a Deacon who ran a Church/Woman's Shelter/Pawnshop/Recording Studio on La Cienega Boulevard) they would smirk dismissively and say, "L.A." as if that explained it all and for some reason you just don't get it. There's an assertion—by those who live there—that a "Special Something" exudes visibly and automatically from anyone who lives south of Santa Barbara and north of San Diego.

And you are honored to be in their presence.

So after a patdown at SFO that finished just short of a "Happy Ending" Bud enjoyed his flight over the sere brown desolate coastal range. After a plunge into the miasma of LA's smog Bud's rental Ford was mired in traffic. On the passenger's seat lay a precisely folded Santa Monica street map and the shooting schedule for Shirley, You Jest. Supposedly post-rush-hour, the traffic was immobile and the auto exhausts rose in a visible thickening funk. Bud had been stationary for four-and–a-half minutes on Santa Monica Boulevard before he looked up at a huge billboard festooned with Altair's face. Altair's unruly real-life graywhite hair had been airbrushed to a silver-platinum sheen and braided into a faultless plait. He wore a cushy black turtleneck and held in both hands a copy of God is a Voyeur. At the bottom of the billboard block letters proclaimed: GOT GOD?

"That's enough," said Bud. He shifted to PARK and dug in his carry-on for the laminate. He hung the shield on the rearview mirror, put the car in gear, backed up the few feet he could, waved amiably at the lady in the car behind him with her middle finger extended, and drove across the sidewalk to the corner where he turned the wrong way down a one way street. He headed west four blocks, against traffic, pulling over for several cars which were, at best, only mildly surprised to see a vehicle driving toward them head-on. He continued toward the ocean through an increasingly shabby neighborhood until the street dead-ended at a grassy palm tree studded park about four blocks long.

Bud could smell the ocean.

He drove around the park and entered a beachside neighborhood pristine as a postcard. He parked, consulted his map and located where, according to the schedule Shirley, You Jest was shooting a scene at an ocean side miniature golf course. Bud strung his laminate around his neck and walked the remaining three blocks to "Par"cific Putt-Putt.

Like most movie sets Shirley, You Jest had descended upon and overrun the shoot's location. Vehicles clogged the streets and an army of grips, sound-techs, and extras hung out while the director of photography stood alongside the leading lady with a light meter. The leading lady, Bud recognized from his online research, was Debra Shaffer. She stood, for some reason in a wedding dress, chin-up, putter in hand staring at the camera while the Hawaiian-shirted director of photography clicked and sampled Santa Monica's seaside sunbeams. Bud surveyed the set until he saw the name Devon Adams stenciled on the back of a director's chair. Bud walked up to a blue-uniformed security guard and waggled his laminate, "I've got news on tomorrow's logistics for Mister Adams?"

The guard nodded him onto the roped-off set.

Bud stood a few feet behind the Devon Adams-stenciled chair. He exhaled sharply and bounded up to the director, "Well I'll be goddammed, Devon Adams." Bud extended his hand.

The director sat up, stared blankly for a millisecond then shook Bud's hand and oozed vapid Hollywood charm, "Hey Buddy. It's been—"

"It's been a while," said Bud.

"Quite a while."

"Actually we've never met before. I just wanted to make sure you were Devon Adams."

"Of course I'm Devon Adams. Why?"

"I need to talk to you, Devon. I found a body yesterday. In Mendocino County at a former Tantric Sex camp."

"Then," said the director, "you don't know me?"

Bud looked at Devon wondering if he could truly be that stupid. He stared into Devon's unlined face and decided if they were the same age he'd have to ask Devon what vitamins he took because he looked physically vibrant, despite the lack of mental acuity. Bud resolved to proceed simply. He sat in the empty chair next to Devon. The director adjusted the bullhorn in his lap. "I have to identify a dead body and I think you can help."

They sat in silence nearly a full-minute. The director comfortable and serene in the hush until he said, "Help with what?"

"The body?" said Bud.

"What body?"

"The dead body I found yesterday on the grounds of a sex camp you attended twenty years ago."

He raised the bullhorn, slowly depressing the button and said, "Debra?"

She raised her hands in a "What?" gesture and the director waved her to approach. Debra dropped the putter, pulled up her wedding dress and began walking. But the director of photography stopped Debra, repositioned the actress on her mark and took another light reading. Debra shrugged and waved to Bud, apparently assuming he was press.

Bud returned the gesture and said slowly to the director, "Did you attend a Tantric sex retreat a couple of decades ago?"

"We did. Me and Debra. My wife. Attended."

"Tell me about it."

"Wonderful." He tapped the bullhorn in his lap and spoke as if he had been made to practice and memorize his response, "A holistic and integrating experience. For both of us."

"Do you remember any of the other couples who attended?"

"There were two other couples," he said. "Apple and Altair and a couple from Indiana. And us of course. Making three couples in all."

"Three?"

"Three."

Bud persisted, "The couple from Indiana? What were their names?"

"Arnold and Missy. She taught Russian Literature at the State University."

"Remember their last name?"

"Hey," he pointed at Bud's I.D. "Are you a cop?"

"I'm attached to the California state police, but I'm an anthropologist."

He considered for a moment, then picked up the bullhorn, "Debra, what is Arnold and Missy's last name?" Debra pointed at Bud and shrugged quizzically. The director said through the horn, "He's an archaeologist."

Bud waved again and smiled.

Debra, not wanting to yell and strain her voice, placed her right index finger on top of her right thumb, placed them to her lips and puffed.

"Smoker?" said the director.

Debra shook her head NO-NO and puffed harder.

"In-haler?"

Debra stared at her husband like he was a toilet that had just overflowed. She continued her pantomime as the director of photography once again repositioned her. Bud grabbed the bullhorn and said, "Roach?"

Debra placed her right index finger on her nose and pointed to Bud with her left index digit.

"Thank you, Debra," bellowed Bud. He handed the bullhorn back to the director. Debra blew Bud a big fat wet phony Hollywood kiss.

Bud caught it in his left hand and placed it on his heart. He backpedaled from the set as the director bullhorned, "Places everybody."

* * *

Gayle Azevedo lived in a circa 1950s neighborhood that had seen a steady decline until the 1980s, when it hit rock bottom. Drugs proliferated, punks and junkies roamed and property values plummeted. In the mid-1990s "Flippers" began buying houses on the cheap; they remodeled and landscaped, investing their sweat-equity. They flipped the houses for a profit and turned the neighborhood into an affordable mildly-gentrified district. Gayle had owned her house since the early seventies, bought a .38, in the 1980s, buried her husband in the late 1990s and lately enjoyed her cats, her scotch, her neighborhood, and her retirement from The Century City Snitch.

Bud found parking right in front of Gayle's house. He rang the bell, introduced himself and was invited inside. After he'd accepted a beer, and thanked her for seeing him on such short notice Gayle said, "You've seen my website. I don't know why you traveled all the way from Hopland to visit."

"I'm old school. I want to see the actual photos you've posted on the site. Ask you under what circumstances the pictures were taken. Get a feel for the situation."

"Fair enough," said Gayle. "I'm a bit of a Luddite myself."

"You have a website. You're not behind the times." Bud glanced over the top of his beer-glass and studied the seventy-something retired editor/webmistress as she swirled the ice cubes in her scotch.

"A static website these days is Luddite. Everything is wireless and on the go with real time Tweets, and Twits, and Twats." She smiled. "Websites are so fifteen minutes ago. You want to see pictures of when?"

"From the shoot you did of Debra Shaffer and Devon Adams at Tantricity Hill—"

"March, eighty-seven. I followed them up there for the paper." She pointed at Bud's beer, "Another?"

"Please." After visiting the set of Shirley, You Jest Bud had checked into a Red Roof Inn. He called from the room to confirm his eight o'clock with Gayle and then walked across the street to Las Guitarras for a better than average combination plate dinner. While waiting for dinner, alone in a circular booth that could accommodate a college basketball team he called Roger at the Dew Drop asking him not to tell Sheriff Matteri, if he stopped in, that he was down south tracking down an I.D. on the body. The Sheriff had already threatened to replace Bud if he did anything more than disinter what they point him at and fill out a toe tag.

Precisely what Bud was now seeking: a name, an identity, an answer.

Gayle returned with two Michelobs, a bottle of scotch, a shoebox, and a stack of newspapers. She plopped down on the couch next to Bud, slurped some scotch and poured Bud a beer. She spread the stack of Century City Snitches on the coffee table. "Rags like this used to fill a void. The Hollywood Reporter was too sanitized and the tabloids were too sleazy. The Snitch was an actual newspaper that reported entertainment news. Movie openings, contract disputes, divorces, trips to rehab: but not in a lurid fashion. Like Entertainment Tonight in print form."

Bud hid his ignorance of what Entertainment Tonight might be or do behind a drawn-out drink of beer.

"This is the Devon Adams file." Gayle splashed more scotch over her melting ice cubes and drank. She opened the shoebox and removed rubber-banded stacks of black&white prints. "An interesting guy. Quite smart for Hollywood, which would make him assistant manager material at your local Home Depot. Here's the prints from the Hopland shoot."

Bud set his beer aside and dried his hands on his thighs before accepting the photos. He removed the rubber-band and fanned them out across the stack of Snitches. "Yikes, I feel old."

"How's that?"

"Devon looks great. I just talked to him three hours ago. He looks nearly the same today as he did twenty years ago." Bud placed his finger on a photo, pointing out Devon.

"That's not Devon. That's the gigolo who was drilling the old broad." Gayle's right pinkie descended, pointed, and clarified: "That's Devon."

Bud said, "So if Altair—"

"Ponytail?"

"Yeah. If Altair is up to Devon's chin that would make Devon just under six-feet. Medium build. Are you sure that's Devon? That's Devon. Not him."

Gayle became prim; professional: "That is Devon Adams. The Devon Adams that showed up at Hippy-Dippy Fuck Camp, Hopland, California with his wife Debra Shaffer." Gayle drank and refilled her glass, apparently she didn't like it to dwindle below a certain level. "Here's the guy—I never found out his name—about ten, twelve years younger who left Camp Libido with Debra and has been, ever since, impersonating Devon Adams."

"Really?"

"Yes. I told the FBI—showed them the nudie pix—and they treated me like a mildly deranged Hollywood star-fucker and kicked me out of their office. Every year, for thirteen years I tried to report it. But "Devon" had been seen here-and-there around town with Debra and no one believed me. You do know that the original Devon was—"

"Adopted, no kin?"

"Yes."

"I read your—"

"Website. I finally gave up on the FBI and started that Devon Adams isn't Devon Adams! website. I get thousands of hits a month from; what would you call them—"

"Mildly deranged Hollywood star-fuckers."

"Yep."

"I used to monitor the site's chatroom but those pathetic online losers make me sick; such bored, pathetic lives. I started the site to solve a mystery, hell, maybe a crime. But I just don't care anymore."

"It's difficult to care."

"Why do you?"

Bud told her about the casino construction site and the recently disinterred skeleton.

Gayle said, "You think the bones are Devon's?"

"All I know is that everyone involved with Tantricity Hill has been lying to me. Except you."

They tinked glasses. "Anything I can do to help?"

Bud picked up a b&w of Tantricity Hill's class of 1987: Apple and Altair. Debra and the "Director Devon" Bud had spoken to. The man Gayle had positively identified as the real Devon Adams. The couple, Missy and Arnie, from Indiana. And the lanky, sun-bronzed older woman. "May I have this?"

"Have. Keep. Cherish."

"Thanks Gayle."

"My pleasure, Bud Warhol. You're good company. Anything else?"

Bud picked up a picture of Apple stepping from the pool. Taken with a tight-focused telephoto lens, her back to the camera, bald head glistening, water dripping from the hollow of her back and butt cheeks, she flashed a saucy You might catch me but you won't keep me glance over her left shoulder at whoever was pursuing her. "May I have this?"

Gayle glanced at the naked-glam-cheesecake-action-shot and smiled at Bud, "She's quite a peach, ain't she?"

"Actually," said Bud, "she's an Apple."

# Chapter 9

EXES

Altair arrived at The Green Frog Café just as the last diners had been served their entrees. He caused a minor stir: the dining room became hushed as Green Frog patrons whispered and pointed at the local author who had recently been seen on Letterman, The View, and Good Morning America. He sat at the wine bar and ordered a glass of Sheldon Petite Sirah from Cheryl. The waitress poured Altair a wineglass full and asked him if David Letterman was as big an asshole as he seemed. Altair assured Cheryl that indeed he was.

He quickly finished his first glass of wine and motioned to Cheryl for another. She poured him a second glass and said, "I'm running a tab. Boss' orders."

"Business is business," said Altair.

A bell dinged and Cheryl left the bar to see what the kitchen needed. Altair sipped his Petite Sirah while cataloging his problems: First, that cop Warhol. Sniffing around and stirring up shit. Hopefully he'd get distracted and Altair and Apple had seen the last of him. Second, he was tired of dealing with drunks.

The only thing keeping him from switching from the rehab business back to sex therapy, online merchandising, or politics was that stupid ass book. If it just weren't selling so well he could close Journeys and never have to speak with another whiney-ass, self-pitying boozer as long as he lived. Except maybe in a bar, drinking: their natural habitat, where they were far less irritating than as smiling ill-adjusted and unhappy abstainers in the general population. Tonight, after his evening Summit he visited Journeys' seven residential patients. At Journeys the group Summits were simply a loss leader for Altair's residential program which consisted of seven in-house "guests" in seven cozy private rooms. He didn't accept "just stopped" recovery patients because he didn't want the medical or legal responsibilities of dealing with a patient in withdrawal. Instead he booked people who'd been sober for at least 90 days. Most of them lied to Altair about how long they'd been dry, but he didn't care—three days, a week, a month, whatever—he just didn't want someone dying from a Grand Mal seizure and ruining his track record.

And his record was impressive.

Over ninety-seven percent of the people admitted as residents completed Journeys' forty-five day program. The program consisted of not leaving the premises and not drinking for forty-five days. Altair provided food and lodgings commensurate with a two-star French hotel. He equipped each guest with an AA Big Book and, surprise, the Summits/therapy were optional. The reason for his phenomenal success was simple.

Greed.

The program cost $10,000 but each resident had to write an additional check to Altair for $45,000 which was forfeited if they left early. Each resident essentially bet on himself (all Altair's clients were men—the program that stressed not talking about your problem and not sharing in a group environment repelled the chicks and just appealed to the guys) a $1000 a day that he could stay clean. Whether they remained sober Altair didn't care, but a lot of Journeys graduates did: just climbing out of their alcoholic stupor for 45 days was enough to straighten them out. So Altair grossed $70,000 every six weeks and all he did was sign paychecks for kitchen and housekeeping staff and "work" about two hours a day: thinking up different topics for the Summits and delivering the speeches and bidding the residents good-night.

But holding the hands of these people, pissed him off. These people whose lives were out of control to such a degree the only thing: not family, not love, not self-respect, but a personal-ransom of $45,000 could cause them to quit. And the worst were the religious ones, like this current black-bearded proselytizing redneck Bible-thumper in room two, who thought themselves "sinful" and "unworthy" and either cried or smiled a lot.

Altair was so fucking tired of the entire bullshit operation. If only he weren't clearing six-figures a month in royalties...

Apple exited the kitchen in the clean chef's jacket she donned every night after service for her tour of the dining room. She nodded at Altair and made her rounds of the tiny, elegant, eight table restaurant. Chef Apple shook hands, accepted compliments and exchanged organic gardening tips with her happy and healthy clientele before she joined her ex-husband at the wine bar. "Pretty cavalier behavior," she pointed at Altair's glass of wine, "for a rehabber."

"I help problem drinkers, said Altair. "Just like a coach—"

"I've heard the spiel: Bill Walsh knows how to instruct and as a result Jerry Rice knows how to perform," said Apple. "I called you because—"

"Bud Warhol?"

Apple stared at her ex-husband, "How—"

"He buttonholed me yesterday at Journeys."

"And apparently, he's found Devon's body."

"He's found a body. Warhol knows nothing. If we all stick to our stories we'll be fine. He doesn't know anything."

"He knows I'm lying."

"How?"

"He can tell."

"How do you know?"

"I can tell that he can tell." Apple reached across the bar and poured herself a glass of house white, "And if he knows I'm lying he knows exactly how full-of-shit you are."

Altair drank and repeated, "If we all stick to our stories we'll be fine."

Apple drank and said, "Debra called me."

"Holy shit," Altair finished his wine in a gulp. "When?"

"Three, four hours after Bud visited me. She's freaked out."

"Why?"

"Warhol was talking to Blake."

"Oh shit. Did Blake—"

"Devon apparently told him Arnold and Missy's names."

"Did he mention Helena?"

"No."

Altair considered a moment, "So dickhead Warhol will make a few calls—"

"He flew to LA today. What if he visits Arnold and Missy in Terre Haute?"

"Then they tell him the story in person. We stick to our story and we're fine. Please Call Missy and—"

"Tell her to stick to the story?"

"Yes."

Apple walked behind the bar to refill their wineglasses. She smiled and waved good-bye to departing diners, sipped her wine and said, "Altair? Which one of us killed Devon?"

"I don't know. I know that I didn't. You didn't. I've always thought Debra: the arguments, her career."

"As the years pass it feels more and more like we all killed him."

Altair was silent.

"If the cops," said Apple, "show up again—"

"Cop. Not cops. And Warhol ain't much of a cop. He owns a bar in Hopland and does piecework for the State Police."

"I'll volunteer information and cut a deal. I will, Altair."

"We all agreed—"

"Seven people who barely knew each other."

"—to stick to the story."

"I'm not losing this restaurant. Someone killed Devon and if it comes to them or me it's going to be them." She pointed at Altair's glass: "Pay Cheryl for five glasses when she returns."

"Five?"

"You bought your ex-wife a drink. No harm in that." Apple left the bar and walked toward the kitchen.

"Apple?" said Altair

"What?"

He held up his wineglass in a toast. "You look great."

Apple said, "Get over it."

Altair had never gotten over it.

In that heart-of-heart where personal truths exist: that place which makes us ourselves and no one else ever sees; in that place Altair would always love Apple. She was the best woman—the best person—he had ever been with.

Intellectually.

Personally.

Sexually.

He would always love her. In fact he had written God is a Voyeur to impress her with his depth and insight. His growth and evolution. To somehow win her back.

Altair, over the years at Tantricity Hill, had observed that White Christian Males liked to see their wives mounted and diddled by other men. Altair chewed on this phenomenon and developed the theory that led to God is a Voyeur: the inordinate interest and pleasure these WCMs derived from watching their wives partake in sex with another male had nothing to do with their wives or even the sexual act. It was a Self Actuating Theology; making sense of all the Christianity they'd been spoon-fed, fork-fed, and shovel-fed before they had been given an opportunity to think on their own: they became the Christian God they worshipped so fervently and blindly.

By simply staying out of sight, as did their own God, and witnessing the foibles and follies of the beings that they professed they loved above all else, in this case their wives; they actually became that selfsame, invisible Christian God.

Hmmm.

After being whammied by this insight, the only truly original thought Altair knew he'd ever entertained, he had written God is a Voyeur in a feverish three weeks, never bothering to rewrite, except for a quick spellcheck. He self-published and, a decade-and-a-half later, dusted off and distributed the unsold books (for free) at Journeys. It caught the eye of a Bigshot New York Publisher taking the $45,000 challenge-cure. Grateful for, and still slightly addled and disoriented by his recent venture into sobriety the publisher ignited his company's formidable PR machine and God is a Voyeur became a publishing phenom. But even though Altair had become an international celebrity he was no closer to winning Apple back.

His only consolation is that she would never find out that the real reason he closed Tantricity Hill wasn't Devon's death, but because, unlike the White Christian Males who inspired his book, Altair had actually gotten tired of watching other men fuck his wife.

# Chapter 10

THE FORM OF A THOUGHT

Viewing the Dailies was somewhat of a ritual for Debra and Blake.

After they returned together to Hollywood in 1987, as Debra and Devon, Debra went to work while Blake settled effortlessly and swiftly into Devon's lifestyle. Blake resembled Devon enough so that all he had to do was remember to wear brown-tinted contact lenses, be seen working out, and not speak during public appearances and he fit the persona. Devon had been such a moody and mercurial personality; due in equal parts to temperament, immaturity, and heroine use, that people had skillfully deferred to or blissfully avoided him for years. All Blake had to do is escort the dazzling Debra to social events and screw her brains out occasionally: precisely what he'd been doing as a gigolo for the past eight years, albeit Debra was a much richer, younger and firmer version of his former clients.

But what really brought them together as a couple was reviewing the Dailies on Debra's projects. "Dailies" are all the raw unedited film—sometimes synched to sound, sometimes not—that had been shot that day and they were crucial for a director to review and study. If a shot were nailed the director could cross that scene off his storyboard and concentrate on orchestrating the next day's shoot. If a miniscule error were noticed in the Dailies the director would call an assistant or a producer and re-arrange tomorrow's shooting schedule so they could reshoot early and stay on schedule.

Blake had a perceptive and unexpected eye for what is called continuity. Is the actress' hair exactly the same in subsequent shots of the same scene? Is the actor's beer mug filled with differing amounts of beer in successive takes? How many rounds has that Beretta with a nine bullet clip fired before the detective reloads? Blake's photographic memory bordered, Debra thought, on the cusp between genius and idiot savant. But his talent was undeniable and in that first year he caught many minor and several major errors in Debra's directorial debut. After that she insisted he view all Dailies in any project she was involved. They spent hours of mutual enjoyment poring over film in their private screening room.

They had just reviewed the Dailies for Shirley, You Jest when Debra moved from sitting to kneeling in her plush loge chair and said, "What are we gonna do about this problem?"

"We don't need to reshoot the whole scene," said Blake. "We can CGI the wedding veil blowing away in the wind."

"Goddamit Blake, pay attention." Debra lit her third and final cigarette of the day. A pack of Marlboro menthol 100s a week is all she allowed herself. "We were talking about the cop."

Blake reached across his armrest and caressed Debra's thigh. "That'll be okay too."

"How? They found the body. You told me they found the body, right?"

"Yeah, but, listen to me," said Blake. "It will be alright because I'm Devon. He's never been missed. He's always been here with you, Debra. The Bud Warhol guy called me Devon. Everyone knows I'm Devon."

"I called Apple and Missy today. I tried Helena but couldn't reach her."

"Huh?" Blake's circuits had been overloaded.

"If a cop—"

"Archaeologist."

"—whatever, comes to see us he's going to call or visit everyone else involved."

"So why'd you call them?"

"To tell them to stick to the story we agreed on."

"Ah," said Blake.

Debra and Blake sat in silence. Their movie theater accommodated twelve: it was a cozy soundproofed, air-conditioned, and softly lighted sanctuary. But something vague, in first an outline and then in the form of a thought, had invaded Debra and Blake's safe haven. But Blake held the thought nearly five minutes before he said, "Debra?"

"What?"

"Did you kill Devon?"

"No." She looked at her husband—a bought and paid for husband that she'd somehow learned to love—in the eyes and said, "Of course not. I couldn't kill anyone."

"I know that. But, but if you—"

"If you look at it logically," said Debra, "I'm the only suspect. The only one to gain from Devon's death."

"Yep."

"Who would kill him?" asked Debra. "Who there knew him?"

Blake touched Debra's face. She twisted away from him and huddled in the loge. Blake hit MENU on the remote and searched. He found "Bewitched" on Nick at Night and settled back in his chair to watch.

Debra curled into a ball, rested her head on an armrest and gnawed on the knuckle of her right index finger.

# Chapter 11

POSHLOST

Bud landed in Indianapolis and rented another Ford for his 77 mile drive southwest to Terre Haute. Corn stubble, like a yellow-brown ocean, covered fields on both sides of I-70. The vista broken only by the occasional barn and off-ramp Bud rolled into the outskirts of Terre Haute shortly after 2:00 pm and pulled into the parking lot of Dott's Diner. He stretched and walked two laps of the parking lot before being greeted earnestly by a fresh-faced, pigtailed young lady sitting behind the register reading a hard bound copy of God is a Voyeur. Bud stared. "Anything wrong?" asked pigtails.

"That book," said Bud.

"You've read it?"

"No."

Pigtails handed Bud a menu, waved in the general direction of the counter and returned to her reading. Bud sat and immediately an ice water and a cup of black coffee were served by a woman Bud supposed could only be Dott. He opened the menu and marveled at how many ways pork chops could be prepared. Bud ordered a baked pork chop with homefries and green beans. He sipped his coffee and made a running total of his expenses: parking at SFO, a flight to LAX, a rented Ford, an econo-suite at Red Roof Inn, dinner at Las Guitarras, breakfast at LAX while waiting for his flight to INDY, another rented Ford, this repast at Dott's, lodging tonight and a return flight to SFO. Way above his per diem.

Sheriff Matteri was gonna shit.

He'd probably disallow half of the expenses and deduct the other half from Bud's pay. He sipped coffee and said, "Yikes" to no one in particular.

According to Professor of Russian Literature Missy Roach's profile on the Indiana State University's Faculty webpage, she and her husband Arnold lived on Elm Street in Terre Haute, just off 15th Avenue. Predictably, Elm Street was tree-lined, tinged with fall color and seemed straight out of a Frank Capra movie. Bud felt it surreal that he'd invaded this microcosm of Americana—while digesting a pork chop and green beans—to investigate a 20 year old murder.

He drove past the Roach's house, parked a block away and returned on foot. There were no balls or bikes on the front lawn; no basketball hoop in the driveway. If Arnold and Missy had children, Bud figured they'd be older. The front garden was trim: summer's snapdragons were fading and wilting next to mums that were just showing color: rust, red, and orange. Before Bud knocked he closed his eyes and summoned up the photographic images of the people he supposed to be Arnold and Missy. He shivered at the impolitic and prurient fact that he had seen the couple fully naked before meeting them. Bud fixed the images of their faces and used his background in forensic anthropology to age them 20 or so years. A bag here; sags there. More heavily pouched eyes; a plumper jaw; receded hairline. He knocked hoping they were both home. He'd checked Missy's teaching schedule and she didn't have a class but that's no guarantee she wouldn't be out-and-about.

Bud knocked again and waited.

The door opened slowly with a clang and a clunk. An honest-faced man, who by Bud's hypothetical aging of Gayle's photo would have to be Arnold, opened the door. He stood smiling, supported by two aluminum crutches clamped to his forearms. "Good afternoon," said Arnold. He looked past Bud and down the street, apparently amazed that a lone pedestrian would knock on his front door in the middle of the afternoon. "May I help you?"

"Arnold Roach?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to speak to you and your wife Missy."

Of all the places in the world only in middle-America would someone not respond with a justifiably suspicious, "About what?" or an understandably angry "Get the hell off my porch!" But Arnold opened the front door of his house wider and said, pleasantly, "Please come in."

Bud entered. Arnold shut the door silently and scissored down the hallway on his crutches, leading him to the family room and, Bud supposed, the "good" couch. Bud sat, relieved the couch wasn't wrapped in plastic, and said, "My name is Bud Warhol—"

"Any relation to Andy?"

"Distant cousins."

"Really?" Arnold deftly unsnapped his crutches and plopped into a maroon recliner. He wasn't wearing a cast and walked reasonably well, Bud wondered why the crutches?

"Yes, but I never met him."

"How can I help you?"

"I'm with the California State Police—"

Arnold held up a hand to Bud and yelled, "Missy?"

She appeared around the corner a moment later, brown eyes beaming, "What?" to Arnold, and, "Hello," to Bud. Missy remained standing, looking plumper but younger than Bud had projected.

"I'm with the California State Police," repeated Bud as he leaned forward with his ID.

"You're a long way from home." Missy sat on the maroon recliner's arm, next to her husband. "What do you want?"

"You are the Arnold and Missy Roach that attended an adult sex seminar. A sex camp in eighty-seven?"

Arnold looked at Missy, wide-eyed.

Missy looked calmly at Arnold. She patted his shoulder and touched his cheek.

"I can see," Bud said to Missy, "that the girls have called you."

"Girls?" said Arnold.

"Why in the world," said Missy, "should I speak to you, a stranger in my home, about something that happened so long ago?"

"So you did attend a seminar at Tantricity Hill, Hopland, California?"

"Yes," said Arnold.

"Enough," said Missy. "Mister Warhol, will you please leave?"

Bud stood, "Who did you attend the seminar with?"

Arnold looked at Missy before he answered, "Two other couples."

"Satisfied?" said Missy.

"No," said Bud. "There's a catch. A corpse from twenty years ago. On the property and I need to ask you about it."

"And you have. And now you may leave." Missy escorted Bud to the front door. She watched from her front lawn until he drove away.

Bud decided to skip dinner and get drunk in his room at the Ramada Inn. He stopped at a liquor store for a pint of brandy and a six-pack. He called Roger's cell from his room and was informed that Damon had taken complete charge of the kitchen and bar at the Dew Drop Inn. He'd hired two younger siblings, Cybele and Ross, and trained them as dishwasher/busser so Roger had been hanging out with Dana. Bud told him he'd be back in town tomorrow, then opened a beer and channel-surfed to see if ABC or ESPN had a Saturday night college football game on later. His only luggage was a laptop and his shaving kit so he slipped off his shoes, reversed the bedspread (he'd examined hotel rooms with a Woods light and knowing that sperm fluoresces up under ultraviolet light Bud vowed never to sit on the upside of a hotel bedspread) and settled in. He drank a quick beer, sipped a snort of brandy and had just opened his second beer when he heard a knock. Bud answered the door with beer in hand.

It was Missy.

"Please come in," said Bud.

Missy entered and stood like a schoolgirl in the vice-principal's office. Bud clicked off the t.v. and offered her a chair at the kitchenette. He didn't speak; knowing she'd come to talk, and she'd talk in her own time. "Is that brandy?" asked Missy.

"Yes."

"May I?"

"Certainly."

Missy unscrewed the top and drank three sippy-swallows. She replaced the bottle on the nightstand and sat primly on the bed, making eye-contact with Bud: "There is a word in Russian," she said, "that Nikolai Gogol uses repeatedly in Dead Souls."

Bud remained standing, beer in hand.

"That word is poshlost. It is untranslatable but it can be rendered as self-satisfied inferiority. Ever since we left Altair's I have been suffering from poshlost." She reached for the brandy, offered it to Bud—who waved it away with his beer bottle—and drank. "Altair's 'cure' worked, by the way. I was frigid, for a variety of reasons, before our California adventure. We now have two boys, a year apart, Freshman and Sophomore, both at the University in Bloomington."

"Congrats. Seeing you and Arnold I'm sure they are good kids."

"There was another, an additional, couple there that weekend. Blake, who is now—has been impersonating—Devon, and an elegant and charming older woman. Helena."

"I know," said Bud. "I've seen pictures of the entire group."

Missy nodded. "Altair and Apple had this dark room and we were all in there. Together we were in there. And one of us didn't come out." Bud felt Missy's anguish. She reached for the brandy, then decided not to drink. She stared at Bud with her mahogany brown eyes, "So we buried him and made a pact never to tell. That is when my poshlost began."

Bud respected Missy's disclosure by not interrupting.

"Unlike Arnie's MS which will get worse year after year, poshlost begins terrible and worsens. The guilt of this secret has undermined my life: my marriage to Arnie, my career, my beautiful boys." Missy stood and kissed Bud's cheek, "I apologize for following you back to your room. But I thank you for listening; I can go home to my husband now and be the wife he deserves."

Missy left, the click of the door unusually loud. Bud fluffed the bedspread to remove the indentations where Missy had sat. Then he sat, drank, and watched college football. A red-blooded American male's dream.

Goddam, he missed Anna.

Bud reached for the brandy bottle and noticed a folded blue post-it note beneath it on the nightstand. He unfolded the note and read the name Helena Noble-Villanueva, with a phone number and an address in Hillsborough, California. The blue post-it was signed "Missy." Bud phoned Helena, who agreed to meet him tomorrow afternoon. Then Bud drank more brandy, called a travel agent and dipped deeper into his per diem.

After the game, and almost all the beer and brandy, he opened his laptop and researched Journeys. As Altair had claimed it was a licensed Alcohol Rehabilitation Facility but he only accepted seven patients at a time. Bud would have to stop by unexpected and ask "First Names Only" Julie how Altair ran the joint.

Bud poured the last dribbles of brandy down the sink and finished the beer as he confirmed a six AM. wakeup call with the concierge.

# Chapter 12

SATISFACTION

Helena's house in Hillsborough overlooked Mills Creek Canyon Park, less than a half-hour west of SFO. Only it wasn't a house. Helena's domicile was an ornate and cavernous structure that looked like a museum with a mailbox. Bud parked his F-150 in the circle driveway and walked past potted hydrangeas and fuchsias to the nine-foot high, mahogany-inlaid front door. He felt shabby in the jeans and gray t-shirt he'd been wearing for two days. Bud anticipated this meeting with Helena, perhaps some final lies and a fizzled end to this casino-corpse affair then a return to the Dew Drop Inn. He pushed the doorbell and chimes echoed within the building.

The door swung open. A sandal wearing, suntanned, gray-haired woman wearing a diagonally striped aqua-and-peach caftan looked over Bud's rumpled clothes and said, "You must be the cop."

Bud nodded; she reached for the laminate that hung around his neck to confirm her conjecture. "Your last name is Warhol. Any relation to Andy?"

"Yes. Obliquely."

"Come with me."

He stepped into the marble-floored vestibule. She took his hand and pulled him down a hallway wide enough for his F-150. Paintings crowded the walls. Bud knew diddly-squat about painting but he recognized pictures that would be called Dutch Master, American Primitive, and Italian Renaissance. The hallway snaked through the house. They stopped in front of an original Andy Warhol. "What do you think?" asked Helena.

"I think it's a picture of a huge goddam banana."

"I'm rather relieved you're not impressed with your namesake's work." Helena smiled. "My late second husband was." She motioned down the hall. "Otherwise his taste was so polished."

Bud exhaled, "Helena, do you know why I'm here?"

"Yes. Apple called. And Debra. And Missy."

"Ah," said Bud. "The Sisterhood."

Helena extended her hands from beneath the caftan, "Just don't take me out of here in handcuffs."

"I'm an anthropologist, not a cop."

"The Sisterhood somehow received the impression that you are affiliated with at least one law enforcement agency," Helena pointed to Bud's dangling laminate. "Despite the ludicrous ID."

"I do play up my affiliation with the California State Police, sometimes, when a bug crawls up my ass."

"And just what kind of insect has invaded your precious orifice?" They continued down the hall to a sprawling kitchen with panoramic windows overlooking the distant hills of Mills Creek Canyon Park.

"Bodies with a cracked skull in a shallow unmarked grave. Then being lied to by everyone."

"I won't lie to you Bud."

"Thank you."

"Missy told me you know about Blake becoming Devon?"

"Yes."

"Blake was my escort that weekend."

"I know all that," said Bud. "I need to know if the body in the grave is Devon's."

"It is."

"Then, how did he die?"

"That's simple," said Helena. "I killed him."

Bud stared at the lady in the striped caftan. Calm to the point of serenity; confessing to murder in her kitchen. "You realize—"

"I knew it would come to this one day," said Helena. "Bud, would you like a beer?"

"Please." Bud had guzzled water on the plane to alleviate his Ramada Inn hangover. Helena's admission, tranquil as she was, had raised his pulse; the beer would finish off the remains of his headache. She handed him an opened Becks dark and Bud said, "You realize you've just confessed to murder. I haven't coerced you in any way and you are not obliged to continue without a lawyer present.''

"You really are an anthropologist, aren't you?"

"Yes I am," Bud drank. "Why?"

"A cop would never paraphrase my Miranda rights."

Bud had a beer in the kitchen and Helena opened another for him before they wandered the grounds: arboretum, tennis courts, swimming pool. Helena, slowly, unbidden, told her story: "My son Timothy—a gentle soul, a sweet child—fell in love with the poetry of Sylvia Plath as a teenager. He never went beyond silly stupid saccharine sophomoric Sylvia. He was obsessed with her: infatuated with the romance of her suicide. He studied English Literature and screenwriting in college and turned his fascination with Plath into a script, The Bell Jar."

"Debra Shaffer starred in the movie."

"Directed by Devon Adams," said Helena. "Devon stole the script from my son Timothy. Broke his heart. Which lead directly to my son's suicide. To shorten a long story I hired a detective to snoop into Devon's life, found out he was heading to Altair and Apple's. So I went as well. That's where I killed him."

"So Debra knew?"

"Of course not." Helena laughed. "They all thought Debra killed the sonuvabitch herself. None of them knew. I just tweaked their guilt and nudged them into burying the body, then covering up the death. If I hadn't told you I probably would have gotten away with it."

"How," asked Bud, "did you kill him?"

"I had brought poison with me—such a cliché, the woman's way—but I ended up bashing his skull in with a jade Buddha. During group sex. In the dark."

"How did you know, during a dark orgy, that it was Devon?"

"What a naïve question for a grown man to ask," Helena said with a lopsided smile.

"Yikes," said Bud.

"Yikes indeed," Helena nodded and stood silent. They had stopped in front of the pool. An Adriatic blue lap pool surrounded with Italian cypress. Helena kicked off her sandals, sat, immersed her legs and flutter-kicked her feet. The wind whipped through the trees. Fall leaves were blown into the pool.

"Why have you told me?" Bud squatted, eye level with Helena.

"I don't know."

"Guilt?"

"Goodness no. In fact I wish Devon were alive right now."

"And all this had never happened?"

"No," Helena surveyed her domain. "So I could have the satisfaction of killing him again."

"You can't mean that."

"Perhaps I'd feel differently if I'd been punished. Perhaps if killing Devon had actually made me miss Timothy less."

"I don't know what to say to that." Bud extended his hand to Helena. "You ready?"

They drove north on the Bayshore Freeway, through the scabrous urban sprawl that passes for civilization in the 21st century. Helena had taken nearly an hour to pack which put them into bumper-to-bumper commute traffic on 19th Avenue in San Francisco. They inched, stoplight by stoplight through Golden Gate Park and across the bridge into Marin County.

They hadn't spoken a word.

But it wasn't a silence of defiance or recrimination or discomfort: it was simply not talking. South of San Rafael Helena switched on the radio. Larry King droned in his brusque and scratchy voice: "Welcome to Larry King Live. Tonight's guest is the author of God is a Voyeur Altair....Altair, do you have a last name?"

"No. Last names are just another label that this domineering society—"

"Right," interrupted Larry. "You've sold a lot of books but you've also ruffled a few feathers in organized religion. Feathers on some pretty influential and powerful birds."

"They need ruffling."

"No argument there but your book virtually rewrites the entire concept of God asserting that The Almighty is little more than a Peeping Tom and humanity—"

"Humanity is the proper vessel of divinity and therefore God—"

Helena reached over and switched the radio off. "That man oozes bullshit from his very pores."

"Larry King?"

"Him too." Helena gazed out the window, "Bud?"

"Yes?"

"May I ask you a favor?"

"Sure."

"We pass the Green Frog Café on the way to the Mendocino County Sheriff, don't we?"

"We don't pass it, but Apple's place is between here and there."

"Can I spend tonight at Apple's? I won't jump bail."

"You're technically not under arrest and—"

"I promise. Apple's a dear friend. I haven't seen her for a while. I probably won't see her for a good long while."

"I'll think about it."

"If you think about it seriously I'll put in a good word for you."

"What's that?"

"I can tell you're sweet on Apple. You light up when you hear her name."

Bud handed Helena his cellphone, "Give her a call."

Apple and Helena looked like mother and daughter as they embraced in the kitchen of the Green Frog Cafe. Oblivious to the wheeze of the dishwasher and the banging of pots they hugged, silent, on the verge of tears. Bud knew that these two women shared a bond that ran deeper than the collusion over Devon's corpse. Something strong and inimitable existed between these gals. Bud stood there, staring, holding Helena's overnight bag when Apple said, "Cheryl will find you a table in the dining room. We'll be right out."

Bud held up the bag.

"Put it behind the wine bar," said Apple.

Helena, arms still around Apple, looked at Bud. He stared at the ladies and said, "I'll just put this behind the wine bar."

It had been nearly forty minutes and Bud was on his second glass of wine as Apple and Helena approached the table. He said, "I thought you made a break for it."

Helena smiled and sat.

Apple leaned in close and said, "You are lucky I have customers in the dining room." She poked him, hard, in the chest. Twice. Bud gazed down at her and suddenly wished he wasn't wearing a grubby t-shirt and three-day-jeans. Apple caught Bud's gaze, then patted his chest and sat next to Helena, "Dinner's coming right out."

Bud sat and said, "What took you so long?"

"I had to explain to Apple," said Helena, "how and why I killed Devon."

"Apple, you really didn't know?" asked Bud.

"No," said Apple. "We all convinced ourselves to believe we covered up an accidental death and burial."

Cheryl poured wine and served three spinach salads. They sipped and ate quietly until Apple said, "That's bullshit. I always thought Debra did it."

"Why didn't you tell me that on Friday?" said Bud.

"I'm curious," said Apple, "have you always had a hard-on for corpses?"

Usually when asked, as he often was at a jobsite disinterment, why he was fascinated with ancient femurs and buried bone fragments Bud would make a series of weak and tasteless jokes, "Of corpse I've always been fascinated", "I was bone to do this work", or "I'll get back to you tomarrow." But tonight Bud studied Apple over the top of his wineglass. Blue eyes, brown hair, self-assured: this woman made his heart go pitty-pat. A feeling Bud had missed; a feeling he wanted again. Bud placed his fork down and quietly quoted Voltaire to Helena and Apple: "Because one owes respect to the living. To the dead, one owes only the truth."

"I'll drink to that," said Helena, raising a wineglass.

"You ladies have catching up to do." Bud stood and said, "I'll see you tomorrow. Around nine, Helena?"

"Thank you, Bud."

"Why are you thanking him?" said Apple.

"He could drive me up there right now," said Helena.

"For Cheryl," Bud dropped a twenty on the table. He walked through the tiny restaurant, Apple following him with her eyes.

# Chapter 13

NIGHT SUMMIT

While waiting for the nine o'clock Sunday night Summit at Journeys to begin Bud had an informative and amiable chat with Julie. She explained about the $45,000 deposit the seven "residents" of Journeys had to ante up. Julie also identified the seven men as they, singly and in three pairs, entered the meeting. Bud thanked her and turned to enter. She grabbed his sleeve and said, "Wait, gimme your cellphone."

"Not allowed in the copyrighted Summit." Bud handed it over.

"Correct," Julie smiled, stood on tiptoes and said, "I hope tonight's meeting helps you, Bud."

"Thanks," said Bud, "but why do you say that?"

Julie whispered, "Because I can smell wine on your breath."

Bud sat in back where he could survey the audience. About the same number and demographic: mostly male; forties and fifties. Two females paired off together. The same bearded Bible Thumper prayed ferociously while waiting for Altair to appear and somehow help him. "How fluffy, hokey, and bizarre," said Bud. He then thought about how concerned Julie was about him. That tonight's Summit would help him specifically. Did he need help? He spent last night alone in a hotel room with a pint and a six-pack. Tonight he attended a recovery workshop with booze on his breath and two glasses of wine in his gullet. Sometimes he had a beer alone at the Dew Drop Inn as he attended to the books between shifts and he always drank beer alone at home after work. But since Anna died he ate and slept and read and showered alone as well.

Bud's introspection was interrupted by Altair's entrance. The Star Trek door opened and Altair bounded like a game show host down the aisle and up onto the stage. The audience clapped but was silenced by Altair's Elvis-esque karate-chop. He spoke, "Nietzsche said, Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger. But I say fuck Nietzsche because he's never around when you need him."

Assent sounded through the audience. The black-bearded resident once again thrust his booked-marked Bible skyward.

Altair continued, "Nietzsche also said, God is dead. But I say fuck God because He's never around when you need him." The assemblage roared in agreement for a reason Bud couldn't understand. The bearded-Bible-boy sat erect and stared at Altair. "The only person around when you need him is you. If you want anything: more success, better sex, an effortless sobriety it depends on you. Only you. In fact the only way to worship God is to worship yourself because—"

Altair placed a cupped hand to his ear and the audience intoned, "Because God is a Voyeur."

"What?" said Altair.

"God is a Voyeur!"

"What? What?"

"God is a Voyeur!"

Altair jumped from the stage embracing and high-fiving and back-slapping his congregation. Everyone except the two women, Bud, and the Bible-thumper joined in the two minute scrum. When Altair returned to the stage he spoke in a forceful whisper that Bud supposed indicated sincerity. In that whisper he invited the flock to participate in a "share" on tonight's theme.

"Theme?" said Bud. "Fuck God and Nietzsche? This should be good."

Bud listened for 45 minutes as a succession of sincere men, some distraught and weeping, addressed tonight's theme by talking about bitchy wives, ungrateful children, and fucked-up jobs. Bud concluded that if tonight's theme were global warming, children's literature, or geography the open-mike sharing would address bitchy wives, ungrateful children, and fucked-up jobs. Then Bud stood and said, "I'd like to share."

"Bud," said Altair. "Welcome, welcome."

"I can't understand why you," said Bud, "would deliberately cover up a murder. But neither can I see you knowing as little about this as you pretend to know."

"This needs to be discussed in private," said Altair. He motioned Bud toward the Star Trek door. To the audience, "Continue the share in my absence."

Bud was impressed with Altair's aplomb and dignity. Bud had called him out in front of his boys and Altair handled it impeccably. He followed Altair into the office. Altair sat in the space age chair and offered Bud his desk. "It seems," said Altair, "that you have now become the inquisitor."

Bud sat on the edge of the desk, "Tell me what you know about Devon's death."

Altair tersely told what Bud already knew to be the truth. He seemed genuinely shocked, then impressed, when told that Helena had murdered Devon in the dark, during the orgy. Then Altair untied his ponytail and said, "I need your help." With his hair down Altair seemed older; weaker, vunerable.

"Doing what?"

"Do you want to save a life tonight?"

"What?"

"If you want to save a life tonight argue with me. Loud."

"Why?"

"Because five out of those seven guys out there I've won over; the odds are pretty good that they'll never drink again. But the two who are undecided will come over to my program if you attack me. They've been here with me forty-three days. They will defend me because their uncertainty over you is greater than any doubts they still have about me. It's straight-and-simple child psychology."

"But I accused you of covering up a murder in front of them and—"

"It doesn't matter what you said, it's that you challenged my intrinsic authority. Shout at me. Please. Yell and scream. Then leave through the auditorium. I swear you will have saved two lives tonight." Altair whispered, "Please. I am full of shit, but these people buy that shit because they need help so desperately."

Despite his basic distrust of Altair and all ministers, salesmen, and politicians Bud decided to argue with Altair. But first he said, "Tomorrow you will be contacted by the Mendocino County Sheriff and—"

"I will cooperate fully. Pay the fines, do community service."

"It's more serious than that."

Altair gathered his hair back into a ponytail and stepped immediately into his character, he bellowed: "How could it possibly be more serious!"

"It is," said Bud, "I mean IT IS!"

"Do YOU mean to question my integrity?" Altair picked up a glass water pitcher and threw it at the wall. It clunked and splashed, but didn't shatter.

"What integrity?" Bud threw a stapler and reached for the telephone console.

"Not the phone, please," said Altair. "Get out! Leave now!"

"God is not a voyeur, but you are a fucking miscreant sonuvabitching windbag shitweasle!" Bud shrugged and walked toward the door.

Altair gave him the thumbs up and opened the door. Bud stormed through the shocked auditorium, jogged through the lobby and into the parking lot. He was pulling into his driveway in Hopland before he realized he'd forgotten his cellphone at Journeys.

# Chapter 14

YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT

Bud wheeled the F-150 into the grove surrounding the Green Frog Café at 7:38 AM. The restaurant was empty and dark. He walked around it twice, checked his watch and said "Shit, they took off."

"No they didn't." Apple jogged up behind him.

Bud jumped. "I thought I was alone."

Apple wore her dayglo Adidas with an oversized black cotton sweatsuit. She sweated freely but hardly panted.

"Running?" said Bud.

"No, flying." She flapped her arms and smiled, "Helena promised you she wouldn't leave. And I live here."

"Where?"

Apple pointed to a path; a bare crease in the foliage. "Back there. About fifty yards in. My house."

"Cozy."

"Very." Apple gathered her sweatshirt and wiped her face, exposing a sliver of her jogbra, her stomach, and sweatpants that clung low to her hips. She took a long while to wipe her face. "Follow me." Apple dropped her sweatshirt and led Bud around the restaurant and up the path. Her house, bristling solar panels, dominated a natural clearing. Helena sat on the porch with a green ceramic mug of something that steamed. She waved at Bud and Apple.

"Apple?" said Bud.

Apple stopped and turned, "What?"

"I want to ask you out."

"What makes you think I'd say yes?"

"The way you wiped your face. With your shirt?"

"What about it?" She parked a hand on her hip.

"We're both old enough to know, that in front of men, there is nothing accidental that women do with their bodies."

Apple suppressed a smile and said, "I'll think about it."

But Bud knew the by way she walked the final fifteen feet to the porch she had just said yes.

The emotion was evident when Helena and Apple hugged goodbye. Apple remained, waving, in Bud's rearview until he turned right on River Road and drove, leisurely, to the freeway.

Bud and Helena settled into their comfortable silence until Helena saw a sign on US 101 that read: UKIAH 42mi

"Ukiah," said Helena. "That's where we're headed?"

"Yes. About forty-five minutes. Are you okay?"

"I just realized something."

"What?

"Ukiah," said Helena, "is Haiku spelled backwards."

"I never noticed."

"Bud?"

"Yes?"

"I'm just fine. Thank you for asking."

Bud nodded and they settled once again into their oddly comfortable silence.

Bud pulled the truck into the parking lot on Low Gap Road that overlooked both the Sheriff's offices and a perfectly manicured Little League field. "Here we are. I hope—"

"Don't say a word. I always knew that one day it would come to this."

They exited the F-150 and briefly touched hands while walking to the Sheriff's office. Bud held the door for Helena and followed her in. Sheriff Matteri stood and said, "Goddamit Bud, you're up to your neck in shit this time."

"Hi John. Nice to see you too."

"Yeah, well we're gonna be seeing a lot more of each other," said Sheriff Matteri.

Bud looked blankly at Helena.

The Sheriff walked up to Bud, spun him to face the door and said, "You are under arrest for the murder of William McCormick."

"Who?" said Bud.

"Altair," said Sheriff Matteri.

# Chapter 15

NAILED

George Petrakis worked hard. Since he'd been hired as Altair's bodyguard he worked 18 hours a day, six days a week, with Sundays off. Of course three hours a day, again six days a week, was time spent in the local gym lifting-squatting-chinning-dipping-running-and-grunting. It was essential to a bodyguard's effectiveness that he look intimidating as hell and Altair kept George on the clock for his bodybuilding. George's daunting size also helped because his side job was to bug-the-shit, quietly and surreptitiously, out of Journeys' seven resident patients. Altair encouraged George to name call ("boozer" "wetbrain" "whiskey-dick") and mock—anything short of physical contact—in order to entice a resident to quit and forfeit his $45,000 bond. Altair considered it part of therapy to provide an atmosphere that was not 100% supportive. That's what the drinkers are returning to, right? For his efforts George received 20% of the forfeited monies: a nifty $9000 bonus for every quitter that checked out before the stipulated 45 days. These bonuses, one or two every 90 days, and the $312 a day Altair paid him fed George's bankroll but, lately, had been leaving him empty inside.

It is said, "Once a Marine, always a Marine" and George had never seen combat. These days, with the shit-mess that the world was in, he thought more-and-more about joining Blackwater and heading over to the Middle East to ply his trade; utilize his combat skills. This is what was on his mind Monday as he entered Journeys on Monday morning at 7:07 AM. He flirted with Linda, the receptionist, and double-checked with her to see if any residents had checked out since Saturday.

"None," said Linda. "Isn't that fabulous?"

"Fabulous is the word," said George. He leaned over the chubby-but-doable Linda, "How long has Altair been here?"

"He's not here."

"He wasn't home when I swung by to pick him up."

Linda smiled, "I haven't seen him."

George felt something was wrong. Altair loved to be ferried around in his baby-blue limo. To be seen around Petaluma in his chauffeured ride was a source of pride and pleasure to Altair. He rarely went anywhere without George driving him. "Linda," said George, "any visitors?"

"No."

"Disturbances?"

"Quiet as a country church."

George felt alive; his senses vibrated. He stalked across the lobby and into the auditorium. The windows let in just enough fall sunshine for George to see that nothing was wrong but he kept his defenses up, anticipating, as he opened the door to the office.

And he smelled blood.

Metallic, acrid, unmistakable.

He entered the office. The furniture had been pushed and stacked, quite neatly, against the walls and in the precise center of the room lay Altair.

Dead.

Crucified.

Altair, spread like Jesus on the cross, was nailed to his office floor. Unlike Jesus, four nails had been used: one for each hand and foot. Big nasty six-inch nails pounded through skin-and-flesh-and-bone into the floor underlayment. Altair had been gagged and judging from the rips on his palms and the tormented rictus on his face he had struggled before dying.

Pooled and partially coagulated blood covered most of the floor.

Again, unlike Jesus, Altair was not going to rise from the dead. George leaned over the body. What was in Altair's mouth beneath the gag? He squatted as near as he could without tip-toeing the blood and examined Altair. Underneath the gag was a cellphone: jammed into Altair's mouth.

"Fuck me backwards," said George. He whipped out his cellphone and dialed 911.

# Chapter 16

THE SUSPECT

"Cuffs?" said Bud. "Are they necessary, John?"

"Too tight?" said Sheriff Matteri.

"Yeah," said Bud.

"Good. Where the hell were you last night?"

"Home. Asleep."

"Before then."

"The Green Frog Café with—"

"Myself," said Helena, "and Apple Abramowicz."

"Who the hell are you?" said Sheriff Matteri.

"She's a friend of mine," said Bud. "Why am I in handcuffs?"

"I have twenty-three witnesses that place you at Journeys, last night, in Petaluma," said Sheriff Matteri. "The same twenty-three witnesses say you confronted Altair. In public. Challenged him."

Bud began to speak, then decided against it.

"Then you and Altair had a shouting match. In his office. Right?"

"It was staged," said Bud.

"The shouting escalated into an altercation. People heard—"

"A water pitcher; a stapler thrown. Staged. Again on Altair's suggestion."

Helena looked sideways at Bud.

"Then, this morning, Altair's bodyguard found him dead in his office with—"

"Didn't Altair," said Bud, "return to the Summit after I left?"

"—dead in his office with your cellphone in his mouth."

"My cellphone. In his mouth?" said Bud. "Why the hell—"

"How was he killed?" asked Helena.

"He was gagged and, he was; he was crucified," said Sheriff Matteri.

"On a cross in his office?" said Bud.

"On his office floor. Six-inch nails. He did not return to the meeting. All twenty-three people agree. They heard the exchange between you two, heard crashing and saw you exit, red-faced and pissed, through the auditorium."

"Did they see me bring a hammer and nails into the office?"

"No."

"Then how and why am I under arrest?"

"How do you explain your cellphone in his mouth?"

"My cellphone? I left it with Julie."

"Who is Julie?"

"John. Please. The cuffs?"

Sheriff Matteri removed the cuffs. Bud sat down, massaged his wrists and explained Julie, Journeys' first-name-only no-cellphones-allowed Summit hostess. Bud also explicated how the recent discovery of bones at the casino was Devon's body. About his trip to LA and Terre Haute, Indiana. He omitted his detour to Hillsborough and Helena's confession.

"So Altair was covering up?" said Sheriff Matteri.

"For two decades."

"Could the wife, last night—"

"No," said Helena. "She was with me."

"Who are you again?" said the Sheriff.

"She," said Bud, "is a freelance writer who wanted to visit the offices. Background. Ambience. You know."

"Liar," said Sheriff Matteri.

Bud shrugged.

The Sheriff said, "What the hell do we do now?"

"I don't know," said Bud. "Where's Altair's body?"

"You don't have to come in with me," said Bud. He was double parked in front of the Sonoma County Coroner's office.

"Good," said Helena.

"Slide over and keep driving around the block. The nearest parking space is a mile away."

Helena slid over and adjusted the bench seat forward so she could reach the pedals, "Why didn't you tell Matteri that I killed Devon?"

"I don't know," said Bud. "You don't mind doing laps while waiting for me?"

"I woke up this morning planning on doing time."

Bud turned and ran across the lawn and up the steps.

The coroner had bungeed Altair's arms to his torso.

"He was in partial rigor. With his arms out, like to here," County Coroner Gene Eggers extended his arms in imitation. "From the crucifixion. We had to bungee him down to fit him into the cooler."

"Bizarre."

"You think they had that problem with the original Jesus?"

"It wasn't mentioned in the Bible," said Bud. "But neither was money with In God We Trust written on it." Bud unsnapped the bungee restraining Altair's right arm. It rose slowly, nearly up to shoulder level. "Yikes."

"Time of death, two AM-ish. Strap that arm back so we can fit him back in the fridge."

"One minute." Bud snapped on some latex gloves and examined the wound in Altair's right palm. The metacarpals were crushed; pulverized and scabbed over. Bud examined Altair's head for trauma. "No blow to the noggin. But there's no way he was awake for all four nails."

"I hope to Christ—no joke intended—he wasn't. We're still waiting for the tox screen."

"If it's not too late run a marker for M-99."

"Animal tranquilizer?"

"Big animal tranquilizer."

"They should screen for that, right?"

Bud nodded and combed through Altair's long gray hair. "Have you had a chance—"

"I unbagged, bungeed and put him on ice." Gene gestured around the morgue. "As you can see we're a one man operation these days."

Bud examined Altair's face and scalp. He thoroughly examined both sides of his neck for an injection mark. He palpated the corpse's clavicles and combed with his fingers through Altair's white chest hair. Tapped his sternum. "I was just talking to him, like, fourteen hours ago."

Gene didn't respond; no response was expected.

Bud re-examined the nail wound in Altair's right palm. "That's some gruesome way to die."

Again no response was expected.

Bud ran his right index finger down Altair's ribs, across his well-insulated obliques to the right tip of his pelvic girdle. Bud stopped, stepped back and stood for a minute, silent.

"What are you looking for?"

"I don't know."

"Is something wrong?"

"Beside the fact that Petaluma, California has had the first crucifixation since the fall of the Roman Empire, no." Out of professional thoroughness and curiosity Bud examined the holes in Altair's feet. "This body's clean. No hair or obvious blood spatter from the murderer. An extremely clean crucifixion." He shuddered, removed his gloves and said, "Thanks Gene. Stop by the Dew Drop and I'll buy you a beer."

"How's business?"

"I don't really know," said Bud. "See you."

"Bud?"

"What?"

"Why was your cellphone in his mouth?"

"Again," said Bud, "I don't really know."

Bud waited less than two minutes before he saw Helena veer around the corner in the F-150. She whipped the truck over and popped it in PARK. She extended the seat back before she scooted over to the passenger side. Bud hopped in and merged into traffic.

"Are you hungry?" asked Bud.

"No," said Helena, "is it too early for a drink?"

"As the song says, It's five o'clock somewhere."

"I've never heard that song."

"It's on the juke box in my bar."

"I'll have to visit."

Bud pointed, "There's a cop bar right up here."

Although it was 10:51 AM they were far from the only people in the bar. Helena ordered a Long Island Iced Tea. Bud had black coffee and a shot of Bushmills. They sipped in silence until Bud asked, "Have you read Altair's book?"

"God no," said Helena. "Remember, I experienced the man's smarmy bullshit firsthand." Helena drank half her Iced Tea through dual straws. "Forgive me for speaking ill of the dead."

"I'm sure Altair would be the first to forgive you."

"As oddball and self-indulgent as the old fuck was he had a certain charm and effectiveness. Happily, his crazy-ass sex therapy worked. Devon attended because of limp-dick-itis and he went out with hard-on. Missy had a sexual hang-up that he cured: she and Arnie have the two sons."

"Last night, he had me—he talked me into—staging the fight so as a couple of his residents' cure would take." Bud glugged some coffee and poured in some Bushmills. "Yikes, this is turning into a wake. To Altair."

Helena raised her glass, "To Altair."

They drank in silence until Bud said, "How long were Apple and Altair married?"

"Probably fewer years than they've been divorced," said Helena. "I was wondering how long it'd be before you mentioned her."

"How'd I do?"

"Better than I thought you might." Helena raised her glass again. "Since you didn't hand me over to the law this morning—"

"I was cuffed this morning."

"—do you mind dropping me off at Apple's?"

"No, but let's get down to Journeys first."

"Welcome, welcome. Again," said Julie. She shook Helena's hand, then turned to Bud and whispered, "I know you didn't kill him."

"But how did my cellphone—"

"At the nine o'clock Summits the phones are left in a box at my desk. Sometimes the shares go on for hours. I lock up and leave after everyone is admitted. Someone just took it."

"Do you know I'm a cop, Julie?"

Julie slapped Bud on the arm, "No you're not."

Helena smiled and turned away before Julie could see.

Bud pulled his laminate from his back pocket and showed the young lady.

"That," said Julie, "doesn't look so official, Bud."

"Is George here?" asked Bud.

"I'll get him. You're starting to freak me out. And, you smell like booze again." Julie glanced at Helena. "You both do."

Julie paged George. The bodyguard appeared almost immediately. "Hey you," said George, offering his hand. "I've been talking to cops all morning. Kinda wondering when you'd get here."

"First off, I'm sorry. You and Altair were tight."

"He was an alright boss. Of course my previous employer was the United States Marine Corps."

"What did the local cops have to say?"

"Julie," said Helena, "could you show me around? I'm an old friend of...Altair's ex-wife." The ladies left for a guided tour that would not include Altair's police-taped office.

"They interviewed the seven residents," said George. "All seven were apparently tucked in all night long. No one saw or heard anyone do anything. The locals started giving me some shit about security and surveillance. I pointed out that security cameras in a recovery facility violate anonymity and defeat the purpose of coming here. Dipshits. Fucking boyscouts." George rolled his shoulders and stretched his torso as if he were ready to step into the batter's box. "I actually inspected the residents' laundry. Nothing. They all have private showers; all of which had been used."

"The rise and shine routine."

George nodded. "After I saw the mess in Altair's office I checked the facility's dumpsters. There had to be blood spatter." George mimicked pounding nails and shuddered.

"You found the body?" asked Bud.

"Grisly. Real bad."

"I saw it at the coroners." Bud thought a moment. "Last night Altair mentioned it was the forty-third day of this rehab cycle."

"Yeah."

"Has anyone left this morning?"

"That would be convenient. But no. They're all here. They all appear to be shaken up. They held their early morning Summit without Altair. Solemn. Tearful."

"Is there a graduation ceremony tomorrow?"

"There usually is. Altair gives a speech, basically an advertisement praising Journeys and the staff and the fine work—"

"Then the residents drive home?"

"All but one of this group drove in and they'll drive home. Diplomas in hand. New lives awaiting."

"Where," asked Bud, "are their cars?"

George smiled, "I could use a walk."

"Wait," said Bud, "may I have a printout of their names and addresses?"

George walked around Julie's desk to the computer. He sat—posture perfect—and keyboarded until the proper screen appeared. "When they first arrive I park their cars, personally, on the southside of the property. After I search the vehicles for contraband."

"Drugs and alcohol?"

"I haven't bought booze or weed for a party since I've worked here." George handed the printout to Bud. "You should see all the shit they bring to rehab. In fact, if you need some prescription—"

"Show me their cars?"

Bud and George exited and walked across the paved parking lot and through a stand of eucalyptus trees to a dirt field. "This lot used to be a lumber yard," said Bud. "We hunted rabbits here with bows and arrows. In ten years we never harmed a living creature. I may have stepped on a bug, once." They approached a row of vehicles you'd find parked in any Safeway parking lot in Northern California. Bud handed the printout to George and said, "Tell me which car belongs to which name."

For the next half-hour they walked from car-to-car and George told Bud who owned which vehicle, where the car's owner lived, and why he entered rehab. Bud quizzed George on how they fared during rehab: George's knowledge of each resident was intimate and exhaustive. After they'd finished Bud pointed at a silver 1999 Isuzu Trooper and said, "The owner of this car killed Altair."

"You're full of shit," said George.

"What time are they given their keys and diplomas tomorrow?"

"You're serious?"

"I have a suspect. I want to follow him home."

"Noon. Tomorrow."

"I'll be here."

# Chapter 17

CONDOLENCES

Julie thinks you have a drinking problem," said Helena.

"She's a sweet kid who's looking at the whole world through rehab lenses," said Bud as he turned off River Road and into the Green Frog Café's non-parking lot. "When she falls in love the world will be sweetness and poetry and when he breaks her heart it'll be poison and soul-sickness unto death."

"What if he doesn't break her heart?"

He pulled under a Douglas fir next to a black Lincoln Town Car. "Then she never gets a chance to grow up."

Helena said, "There simply isn't any other way, is there?"

"None that I know of."

They sat in the truck, quiet until Helena said, "Are you going to turn me in?"

"I may have to. Being a sworn officer of the court and all that."

"I know." Helena punched him in the shoulder.

"Are you going to be in town a while?"

Helena motioned up at the trees swaying in the wind. A gray squirrel chattered and leapt through the fern underbrush. "This is town?"

"Yep."

"I'm not leaving the country, but while you and George were chatting I arranged for a car to take me back to Hillsborough." She pointed at the Lincoln. "Is that okay?"

"It'll ultimately depend on what Matteri wants to make of the case."

"When's re-election?"

"Precisely. He might need a fresh scalp on his belt."

"I'll say goodbye to Apple and get my bag." Helena kissed Bud on the cheek. "You're a sweet man, Bud Warhol. But you'll understand when I say I never want to see you again."

"I'm glad we had a chance to have a drink together."

"Me too. Goodbye, Bud."

"I may have to call you about Devon."

"I know."

Helena exited the truck and climbed into the Town Car. The driver motored slowly around the restaurant and parked near the footpath leading to Apple's house. The driver stood by the car, staring into the trees, with a practiced serenity Bud would have found difficult. Bud watched for nearly twenty minutes before Helena and Apple appeared. Helena carried her own bag. She placed the bag near the car and as she and Apple embraced, the driver tucked the bag into the trunk and waited, patient and tranquil behind the wheel. There were hugs and lingering touches but no tears between the women. The black car started and rolled down the driveway past Bud. Helena didn't return Bud's wave.

Apparently she had already said goodbye.

Apple either ignored or hadn't seen Bud.

She made the walk to her restaurant preoccupied, with her eyes down and shoulders slouched. She entered the Green Frog Café from the rear. Bud reached for his cellphone, again, before he remembered it was State's evidence. "I need to get a new one," he said thinking of his cellphone stuffed in Altair's mouth. "I don't want that old one back." Bud left the truck unlocked and walked up to the restaurant. Just like on Friday Bud knocked on the screen door and said, "Hello?"

And again, he wasn't answered

Bud entered.

Apple stood over the sink filling a stockpot with water. She wore her kitchen uniform: white tanktop and a black apron with red and green apple cores. Bright green Adidas. She turned off the tap and looked up, not smiling; not smirking: thoughtful, in a sweet and distant way. She acknowledged Bud and turned the tap back on. "Since you're here," she said, "would you mind?" Apple grabbed one of the stockpot's handles. Bud grabbed the other. She said over the running water, "Usually I'd horse it over to the stove and finish filling it bucket-brigade style with a pot."

"What's that smell?"

"Smell?"

"Aroma. Fragrance. Bouquet."

Apple turned the water off. "Back left burner on three?"

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

They hefted together and wrestled the stockpot onto the stove. She clicked the burner on high, dumped a half-handful of kosher salt into the water and covered the pot. Bud stepped out of her way as she swung the oven open and removed a tray of perfectly roasted vegetables. "That's my mirepoix. Beautiful."

"Mir-a-pwa?" Bud gave her a blank look.

She stirred the roasting pan. "Onions, carrots, celery, a little fennel and garlic. Fresh parsley. It'll make a week's supply of stock for soups and sauces."

"My cook just fries the hell out of everything."

"Helena said you owned a place in Hopland."

"I proudly serve hefty burgers and greasy BLTs to drunks."

"Great demographic; the inebriated diner."

"Especially when I'm the one selling them the booze."

Apple laughed.

Bud said, "I'm sorry about your husband."

"Altair hasn't been my husband in a long time. But thank you." Apple assembled an herbal sachet. She said while slowly arranging the herbs like a miniature bouquet, "Helena said you saw the body."

Bud paused before he said, "He'd been brutalized. There's no other word for it. But I'm certain, Apple, I'm absolutely convinced, he wasn't conscious for it all."

"Again, thank you for that."

Bud nodded.

"The water'll boil in half an hour. I add the veggies and herbs and bring it back to a boil. Then it simmers for a few hours and cools before I strain it."

"So?"

"You said you wanted to ask me out."

"I do."

"So ask me out."

"Where do you want to go?"

Apple pointed out the restaurant's back door, "My house."

The first time they made love it was intense, but clumsy and a bit awkward. After a chat and a cup of coffee they returned to Apple's bedroom and they were both overly greedy and used each other to grind and manipulate for their own self-satisfaction. The third time, after a nap for Bud and a trip to the restaurant for Apple to check on the stock, they connected. They guided and tantalized; complied and fulfilled.

Immediately afterward Bud lay there, panting before his second man-nap, thinking he wanted to tell Apple that she was absolutely the best fuck he'd ever had. He felt used and satisfied; fulfilled and a little sore and he wanted to say something, but you certainly can't blurt that out to a girl, not while you're both still sweating and slightly leaking fluids.

She might take offense.

But when Apple rolled over, kissed his chest and placed his hand on her plump, warm, perfect little ass Bud said, "You are the best fuck I've ever had."

Apple looked up from beneath her red-brown bangs, "Thank you. You ain't so bad yourself."

Bud smiled and kissed her forehead. He wanted to say something else. Something sweet and Hallmark-y: something without the word "fuck" in it. But there wasn't enough blood in his brain to think, focus or for that matter, to maintain consciousness.

He awoke and they dined on vegetarian minestrone and warm, homebaked focaccia. There wasn't much chit-chat: they were hungry and they ate. Clean-up was minimal and they washed-and-dried leaning against each other at the sink. They hugged in the middle of the kitchen, swaying, no music playing. Finally, Bud said, "I can't spend the night."

"I don't want you to," said Apple. "But why can't you?"

"I have to get up early. I'm playing bounty-hunter tomorrow."

"Isn't that what you've been doing?"

"This week I've been doing forensics. And history. And social work. Tomorrow I'm following the guy I think killed Altair."

Apple pushed him away, "Aren't you scared of the crazy sonuvabitch?"

"I wasn't. Until right now." Bud sat down at the kitchen table. "I've never pursued a murderer before. I've never spoken to a murderer before."

"Except for Helena."

Bud considered, "So I'll be fine."

"Seriously, Bud. Aren't you scared?"

"Apple," said Bud, "I am scared shitless."

# Chapter 18

RED DIRT ROAD

Cars are designed to tell lies about their owners. Sports cars say: "I go this fast." Four-wheel-drive trucks say: "I'm this powerful." Luxury cars say: "I'm worth big bucks." But the silver 1999 Isuzu parked in Journeys parking lot told a different set of lies. According to the information George had printed out the Isuzu belonged to Peter Rathman of San Rafael. But the Isuzu showed wheel-well rust that could only come from salted roads. The dust on the rear window was red-tinged so Bud knew Mr. Rathman lived in the Sierras—Placer, El Dorado, or Amador County.

Bud followed the silver Isuzu Trooper from Petaluma through Sonoma, Napa, and Solano Counties to US 80. Peter Rathman pulled off at Dixon, for gas Bud supposed. Bud took the next exit and waited for the Isuzu, old enough to be distinctive and obvious, to pass before he merged and settled in five cars behind. As he followed the black-bearded Bible-thumping graduate of Journeys across the Yolo Causeway and through Sacramento Bud asked himself for the first time, "What the hell am I doing?"

As Rathman motored up the slope of the Sierras to Auburn and took the Foresthill Ravine exit Bud grew quiet. His palms began sweating, his mouth was dry, and his vision was focused on the Isuzu. South of Auburn the traffic quickly thinned out. Past the dam it had soon dwindled down to a maroon F-150 tailing a silver Isuzu Trooper.

That's when Bud remembered he didn't even have a cellphone to call for help.

Ten minutes past the dam the Isuzu slowed and Bud ran up close on his bumper, making eye-contact with Rathman in his rearview mirror. Twenty minutes past the dam the Isuzu braked hard and turned left without a signal, down a red dirt road. Bud continued straight about a mile before he flipped a U-turn. He stopped and read the roadsign marking the red ribbon of dirt: "Thornton Road." He headed back to Auburn for the cops.

The real pistol-toting cops.

Bud was in over his head. He didn't relax until he saw the gently curving roadway across the dam. That's when the Isuzu powered out from the dirt side road and smashed into the driverside of the F-150.

# Chapter 19

SHOWDOWN

The airbags that saved Bud also pummeled him.

His right arm, which had been resting on the steering wheel, hit him across the throat. The side-curtain bag had certainly saved him from serious head trauma but had exploded in his left ear and he was stung and numb on that side. The tinkling glass gave way to the sound of ticking metal and fluids running out onto pavement. Bud's F-150, certainly heavier than the Isuzu had still been pushed nearly off the road and into the manzanita scrub. Bud did a quick neurological check: thumbs to fingers 1,2,3,4,5. Look right; left; up; down. His throat had been hurt, but he could breathe. After his quick-check he looked up to see Peter Rathman standing in front of the truck holding a black pistol. A trickle of blood streamed down Rathman's left temple. "Out, out, out," he said. "You've been following me."

Bud raised his hands and said, "I'm getting out. First, I'm going to undo my seatbelt. Okay?"

Rathman was agitated. His lips quivered as he mumbled to himself. The pistol shook. "You've been following me."

Bud tried the driverside door. It was jammed. He yelled, "My hands are up. I'm scooting over and leaving on the passenger side. My hands are up."

"You've been following me." Rathman had that same crazed-and-consumed look Bud had seen at Journeys as he thrust his Bible skyward and prayed. "You've been following me."

Bud lowered his right hand to the door handle and bumped the door open. Rathman switched the pistol from right-to-left hand; then back again. Bud wished he knew enough about firearms to see if the safety were on or off. Then Bud almost smiled. Even if the safety were on he wasn't going to rush the bad guy like a movie cop and disarm him. Then Rathman said again, "You've been following me."

And Bud knew he had one chance.

Bud slid out of the truck and raised his arms higher. He forced himself to smile and breathe more calmly. He channeled his fear into confident enthusiasm. He stood tall, beamed at Rathman and said as he approached, "Yes, I've been following you! My brother! I've been following you so that I too can do the Lord's work! You have slain the infidel blasphemer and I will follow you. For you, O my Brother, are an anointed and true soldier of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Embrace me for I will follow thee and find the Lord!" Bud approached Rathman quickly, smiling—making eye contact—and with one thought, If he kills me it's with one bullet, not four nails. Bud smiled broader, neared Rathman and said, "Embrace your Brother in Christ!"

And Rathman did.

As Bud felt the pistol flat against his back he slammed his knee into Rathman's crotch so hard he cracked his kneecap against Rathman's pubic bone. The gun clattered to the pavement. Bud kicked the gun to the side of the road and stomped on Rathman's chest and stomach until he curled and squirmed like a worm.

Bud grabbed Rathman's belt and dragged him to the far shoulder, away from the F-150 and the pistol. Bud considered kicking him in the face; or another shot to the balls. Instead he bent over Rathman and whispered, "Whatever happened to 'Thou Shalt Not Kill?' It's the only thing in the whole goddam book that doesn't need an interpretation."

Bud stepped into the roadway to flag down a passing car knowing he was lucky to be alive. He decided to stick to old bones and cold cases.

# Chapter 20

CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE

Mendocino County Sheriff Dana Thorvaold walked into the Dew Drop Inn at 1:32 PM on Thursday. Barely a week had passed since she and Bud had dusted off Devon Adams' body at RIVER RUN PHASE II. "Good afternoon, Dana," said Bud

"Not so good," said Dana. She sat on a barstool.

"What's up?"

Dana tossed an envelope on the bar. "A subpoena."

"For me, special delivery?"

"Yep."

"Did you read it?"

"Yep."

"What's it say?"

"It says you are to be deposed as to the identity and disposition of a male Caucasian discovered on so-and-so date at such-and-such a site."

"'Disposition?' As in natural causes or suspicious circumstances?"

"Yep."

"Which means that Matteri is feeling some re-election heat and needs to wrap up a 20 year-old cold case for some votes?"

"Yep."

"What happens if I ignore the subpoena?" Bud poured himself one-third of a draft beer. "You want some coffee?"

"No thanks," said Dana. "You'd be sentenced for contempt of court. You'd do thirty days and it wouldn't do a heck of a lot for your career."

Bud drank and re-filled the glass. He smiled, "When are you and Roger getting hitched?"

"Second week in December."

"Which is more than thirty days from now?"

"Shit, Bud. You can't."

"Thirty days county time? I could do that."

"Why?"

Bud thought of a sexy restaurateur in Forestville. He thought of a silly and vain couple in Hollywood. Of a man with MS and his beautiful wife and children in Terre Haute. All of their lives would be disturbed and distorted—if not destroyed—because of a mistake in judgment 20 years ago. Bud thought of a vibrant older woman, who purposely rained down vengeance to punish the man who ended her child's life. A woman who had confessed and would go to jail if need be; she believed that profoundly in her deed.

Bud drank his beer, "I owe someone an apology."

"About what?" said Dana.

"'Thou Shalt Not Kill' is open to interpretation."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Nothing." Bud tossed the subpoena back at Dana.

"You sure?" she picked up the envelope and offered it, once again, to Bud.

"Tell John to shove it up his ass. And you come back later. We're having a going-to-jail party." Bud drained his beer. "Damon, get your ass out here. We have to talk."

# Chapter 21

THOSE THIRTY DAYS

Sheriff Matteri called Bud that night. He threatened, cajoled, and pleaded. All to no avail.

Everyone got drunk for free at the Dew Drop Inn and Apple spent the night at Bud's.

Damon received a full set of keys to the restaurant. With benefits, health care, and profit sharing.

George joined Blackwater and shipped off to Iraq.

Dana continued to bug-the-crap out of Roger with wedding details. He kept trying to talk her into eloping.

Altair was buried at the family plot in Colma. Larry King attended the funeral. Altair named Apple as executor and sole beneficiary, in a notarized letter that also stated he'd always loved her.

Julie, with Apple's blessing, took control of the new non-profit Journeys. Helena's lawyers helped Julie and Apple work out the details; Helena also began looking for a summer house in Sonoma County.

Blake ("Devon") and Debra's movie wrapped and a gala premier had been scheduled. They invited Gayle Azevedo.

Construction resumed at RIVER RUN PHASE II.

Missy and Arnold's sons transferred home to Indiana State University to be closer to their father and mother.

Devon Adams remained a John Doe and his bones were donated to Mendocino Community College.

Peter Rathman confessed to murdering Altair. He detailed how he faked a drinking problem in order to stalk Altair and do the "Lord's Work." He hid the murder weapons—a syringe and the hammer—inside a toilet tank. Peter injected Altair in the right palm while shaking hands after a private late-night consultation. He obliterated the needle hole during the crucifixion. He had stuffed a stolen cellphone in Altair's mouth to create confusion. He pleaded guilty and eagerly awaited sentencing.

Bud began serving a 30-day jail sentence and a 90-day administrative leave concurrently. On his first day in jail he introduced himself to his cellmate and settled in. In the community room that first night, instead of watching television he rummaged through the "Library": two cardboard boxes full of coverless Sports Illustrated, Popular Mechanics, five Nora Roberts paperbacks, and a new copy of God is a Voyeur. He read it twice. Altair didn't deserve to be crucified, but he was full of shit. On the day of his release Apple picked up Bud in a new maroon F-150 she'd purchased with royalties from God is a Voyeur. She had already bought him a toothbrush to keep at her place.

Bud couldn't wait to get back to the Dew Drop Inn.

THE END
