Bruce Wagner - Memorial

BIG Gulp drove Ray to the West Side to see the Friar. It took almost 2 hours through late-afternoon traffic. Ray kept talking about monorails.

He tired easily and didn’t like to admit that he wasn’t up to driving yet. It was a big car, a Monte Carlo that pulled a bit to the right. BG said he should get something new if the city gave him money but Ray was sentimentally attached. He’d give it a bath and a major tune-up, put on some new radials, patch up the upholstery. No need to trade her in.

Ghulpa looked fine in her royal-blue sari. They parked and she walked him to the entrance. His woman was kind and solicitous. He was proud to have her on his arm.

The hospital was like nothing he’d ever seen. The animals were called “patients” and waiting rooms were segregated for cats and dogs. The facility had an ER yet also treated cancers and genetic conditions. While Ray and Ghulpa waited, someone brought in a sick parrot; a few minutes later came a rabbit in its death throes. He wanted to laugh, but these were the folks who saved his dog’s life.

The plant manager gave them a VIP tour (Nip/Tuck’s shooting had garnered lots of press) of the pristine radiology suite, CT scanners and ultrasound, the ICU, incubators with nebulizers, blood and plasma banks. A dozen fully accredited surgeons were on call 24 hours a day. The manager said he had just come from tending a snake with pneumonia. Ray, dumbfounded and impressed, said, “Well, now I’ve heard everything.”

Friar Tuck wasn’t well enough to be brought out to a visiting room, so Ray said, “Let’s bring the mountain to Mohammed.” He was in a cage and squealed and shook when he saw his master. The old man’s eyes moistened at the reunion. BG stood back with a toothy, lip-sheathed smile. Ray talked to him through the wire, saying “Don’t you worry. You’ll be home in no time.” The doctor said “Friar” was doing real well but Ray winced at the long railroad-track-stitched scar where he had been shaved. They’d put a titanium pin in his hip, and Ray joked he might want to come in for one of those himself. The doctor played along and said he’d do just as good a job as they would at Cedars or UCLA. Ghulpa brought sandesh wrapped in aluminum foil, Nip/Tuck’s favorite. The medical men said that would be OK and the dog took a nibble, almost out of politeness, before spitting most of it out. Then he puked and one of the aides took over and told them not to worry, that it was the taste and smell that “set him off,” and there were lots of things he would need to get “acclimatized” to.

The ACLU attorney met them at the appointed time. He gave the dog a friendly, cursory wave — just another client who stood to benefit from pending litigation. Before they left, standing in the lobby, the lawyer asked the plant manager to “ballpark” what the hospitalization was going to cost, “in toto.” Ray goofed on him. “Now, there he goes — are you talking about Toto again from The Wizard of Oz? Cause that is one expensive pooch.” The manager was hesitant to commit to a hard figure but said “probably in the neighborhood of 15,000.” The Friar would have to go to rehab after being discharged — hopefully someplace close to Industry — for aquatic therapy. All at additional cost.

They followed Mr ACLU to Spago. Big Gulp had trouble keeping up with the silver Mercedes, whose driver yapped away on his cellphone instead of keeping tabs on her in his rearview. Ray slept and snored.

The beautiful Asian hostess greeted counsel like an old acquaintance. She sat them in the bright and leafy garden. The old man thought it an awfully fancy place for an ACLU fellow — weren’t they supposed to be defenders of the poor? He wondered who was footing the bill. They were being treated like they’d won the lottery and Ray wasn’t sure he liked that. After a glass of red, he loosened up and enjoyed the moment. Ghulpa excused herself and the lawyer began to speak of a case—“another break-in”—that had come to his attention. A man was bludgeoning and killing old women, then “having his way” with the bodies, after death. The police interrogated him and asked how the sex was, “on a scale of one to 10.” The murderer said, “A 14. Your eyes would have rolled back in your head.” Ray wondered why he was telling him this, as if it somehow related to his own case. Mr ACLU was probably going to represent that monster. Hadn’t been read his Miranda’s, or whatnot. Luckily, Big Gulp returned before any further history could be provided; the lawyer nodded gravely, summarizing a tacit gentleman’s agreement that she would not be brought up to speed on the details of their mantalk. Instead, he embroidered, saying everyone had a destiny that couldn’t be changed. He directed his words at Ghulpa, because of her Indian provenance. “Karma,” he added. Implicit in the remark was that it was those old women’s destiny to be slaughtered and raped, it was the old man’s destiny to have his door broke down and his dog shot, and the lawyer’s destiny to collect untold shitloads of $$$ for the inconvenience. He’s a slick, lowlife shyster but it’s too late to change horses. Who has the strength. Anyhow, Big Gulp seems to approve, and right now she’s running the show.

He said his work for the ACLU was “mostly pro bono.” Ghulpa didn’t know what that meant but this time didn’t ask. His main practice was libel and defamation and he taught at Loyola one night a week. Ray wanted to make sure the lawyer was aware that he hadn’t yet agreed to sue the police. He said that he was. And he knew Ray liked cops. He told the couple “the action” wasn’t personal, everyone made mistakes, he wasn’t an enemy of the men in blue, on the contrary, he was a big supporter (Who does he think he’s kidding?) but in this case a lawsuit could very well make another wrong-door break-in less likely to happen. He made it sound like suing the police was Ray’s civic duty. The next time, there might be kids in there, he said. Children could get killed. It was all about forcing cops to be more “fastidious” with their intelligence. Ray wasn’t the 1st person to have his door busted in by mistake. It happened mostly to inner-city families — to moms and babies — and was often “racial.” Again, he looked toward Ghulpa. The police (in this case, “the LAPD, with an assist from the Sheriff’s Department, Industry Station”) needed to be held accountable. With an increasing sense that the Indian wore the pants and was on the money trail, he was careful to remain inclusive as he spoke, head oscillating between the 2 like a space heater. The attorney clearly couldn’t have cared less about the details of their living arrangement but intuition told him that the woman in the sari would be his best advocate.

BY the time they got home, it was 9 o’clock. Ray said he was “toast.” Ghulpa made sure he took his vitamins and medication; he’d inadvertently skipped the afternoon dose. She fed him dal soup and tea with basil and cloves, then “pressed” his feet. A cultural thing. Boy, it felt good. She rubbed cinnamon oil on his calluses and gave him powdered seed of bastard teak with gooseberry juice. It will make you young again.

The landlord knocked, apologizing for the lateness of the hour. A man in a suit had stopped by earlier with a note; she didn’t feel safe leaving it at their door. BG grabbed the envelope and smiled, waving the woman away. After the landlord left, she accused her of intercepting a private “communiqué.” She held it to the light to see if it had been “tampered with.” Watching her, he smiled. “That’s a busy body,” said Ghulpa, carefully separating the words.