Steven Thomas - Criminal Carma

“No one seems to know. Maybe Ganesha knows, but he’s not saying. Baba’s not even from the same order as Sankarananda. From what I hear, he came out of the Naropa Institute, and that place got to be a real can of worms. Everybody was fucking everybody and a bunch of them died of AIDS. You can call that tantra if you want to, but I don’t want any part of it.”

“Me either,” I said.

“Really?” He cocked his head and gave me a look. “What about Evelyn?”

“What about her?”

“Nothing.” He held up his hands at shoulder height with his palms toward me like someone surrendering. “She’s a cool lady. And foxy, too, for her age. I’m just saying she gets around.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. She pretty much goes with the new flow. I know three or four guys she’s taken home. I guess she’s pretty hot. One of the guys got hung up on her, but she told him she doesn’t want anything serious. Just likes to play around. Which is great. More power to her. It’s a free country. I just don’t reckon this is the place for it, necessarily.”

Ganesha came around the corner from the backyard and walked toward us.

Seeing him, Johnny stuck out his hand, which I shook. He had a firm grip.

“Good working with you, man,” he said. “Don’t tell Evelyn or Ganesha I said anything. I like both of them. I just don’t agree with the way this place is being run.”

“Did everything go okay?” Ganesha asked when he came up to me, holding his clipboard to his chest.

“It won’t leak anymore,” I said.

“Thank you for your help,” he said, and made a pained face. “I’m sorry if I was rude yesterday. It’s just that there has been so much going on around here lately, and we had some problems yesterday… but that’s no excuse. I was at fault and I apologize. It’s nice of you to help. We’ll be having lunch in a few minutes if you would like to join us.”

“I’d like to,” I said. “Have you seen Mary around?”

“She’s fixing the food,” he said, a different kind of pain on his face. “You’ll see her at lunch. Thanks again for your help.”

He turned abruptly and strode toward the front of the house. I went in the opposite direction, along the side of the house and through a gate into the backyard.

An old brick wall enclosed the yard on the Seventh Street side, shielding it from the view of passersby. A hedge of lilac bushes divided it from the yard next door and the one behind it. At the back of the enclosed space was a rose garden with a bench facing a blue-and-white statue of the Virgin Mary. Near the house, several picnic benches had been pushed together, end to end, and the flower girls, now dressed in work clothes, were going in and out the back door, carrying food from the kitchen to the tables. Several volunteer workers were washing their hands and faces with a garden hose while others stood in groups, waiting for the dinner bell. It had warmed up and most people had shed their jackets and sweaters.

I saw Mary’s face at the kitchen window, looking out at the preparations, and waved to her. She didn’t seem to see me, so I went up the back steps into the kitchen.

She was standing by the sink, filling a pitcher with water.

“Hi,” I said. “What can I do to help?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Everything is under control. We’ll be eating in a few minutes.”

She was wearing flip-flops with a rainbow strap, pink shorts that lived up to the name, showing all but the last and most provocative inch of her slim thighs, and a neat little white sleeveless blouse that buttoned up the front. If she had looked any sexier, I would have done an involuntary back flip with my head spinning around on my shoulders. As it was, I felt impulses. Strong, shameful impulses.

Taking a deep breath to constrict my pounding heart, I walked over and stood beside her. “Why don’t we go to the beach after lunch,” I said, taking a shot. “It’s turned into a real bluebird day out there. We could walk over to the Santa Monica pier and ride the Ferris wheel. It’s so clear, I bet we could see the Channel Islands from the top.”

“No,” she said, turning to look at me with no expression. “I don’t want to do that. Please wait outside. Only staff are allowed in the kitchen.”

“Why so cold?” I said, but she ignored me and handed the pitcher to one of the flower girls.

“Put some ice in this and take it out,” she told the girl, as if I had not spoken.

Going back down the steps into the sunny yard, I cursed myself for being too critical of Baba the night before. That was probably what had offended her. If she was invested in his worldview, she couldn’t afford to see him as a phony.

I sat down at one of the picnic tables, feeling angry and unhappy. The Sunday Los Angeles Times was scattered across the red-and-white-checked tablecloth, and a headline in the California section caught my eye: DISCENZA SAYS PACIFIC CITY LAND ACQUISITION NEAR COMPLETE.

I remembered then where I had seen Discenza’s name prior to reading the documents in Baba’s bedroom. He was an often-investigated member of the Venice City Council, allied with the old-school mayor and two other councilmen against a triad of reformers. The article identified him as managing partner of the LLC developing Pacific City and said he had recused himself from voting on matters connected with it. The project had nevertheless been approved at every phase, in spite of strong neighborhood opposition. According to the city charter, when there was a tie vote on the city council, the final decision was left to the mayor. Because he was a voting member of the council, every vote had been a tie, and he had used his extra ounce of authority to nudge the city’s decision in the developer’s favor at each stage. There was no mention of Finklestein or Baba Raba in the article. Since the construction documents were in the public record, Finklestein’s name would be known to reporters and activists, but probably not his local identity as an XXXL guru. The last paragraph noted that there would be an on-site protest against the development later that afternoon.

“Are you reading the rest of the paper?” one of the cheery old ladies asked, looking at me brightly from where she was standing on the other side of the table.

“No,” I said.

“I’m going to move it out of the way so people can sit down to eat.”

Briskly, she gathered up the real estate, classified, news, and travel sections and marched away.

Baba was providing a nice lunch for his karma yogis. Arranged at one end of the long, rectangular table were big bowls of cole slaw, potato salad, and a green salad with romaine lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, black olives, and feta cheese; platters of cheddar and Swiss cheese sandwiches made with thick whole-wheat bread and garnished with avocado, tomato, and bean sprouts; bowls of fresh fruit and shelled nuts; a big tray of some kind of baked whole-grain desert; and pitchers of water, lemonade, and sassafras tea.

When Mary came down the wooden steps with another tray of dessert, the eyes of every man in the yard followed her, some openly, with approving smiles and nudges, others surreptitiously, glancing and looking away and glancing again, trying to capture her image in their minds or hearts or groins.

“Where is Baba?” Ganesha asked her as she set the tray down.

“How should I know?” Mary said. “I don’t run the ashram.”

Ganesha made his pained, apologetic face once more. “Would you please see if he is going to come down? Everyone is hungry.”

Mary walked away without a word, across the yard and back up the steps into the kitchen. So it wasn’t just me she was being rude to.