Bruce Wagner - Memorial

Big Gulp wanted sweets and Ray promised he would “make a run” to her favorite shop in Lakewood. She gave him a list: mango ice cream with elaichi, and mishti dahi, sweet yogurt made with jaggery. (She knew he wasn’t strong enough yet, but acceded to make him feel better.) She hankered to watch a Bollywood movie. He said, well, they should try and go before the Friar came home because then they’d have their hands full. A theater near the bakery showed all the latest, Dimple Kapadia and Rani Mukherjee — or he could pick up a DVD. BG spoke of getting a big new bed, one that was “fantabulous.” The Indian ladies were always talking about beds. Ray thought maybe she had a fever.

She recalled her days with the Consul General. Ghulpa cried inconsolably, saying how she missed caring for the 2 little ones. The life of a CG was glamorous but tough. She sympathized with Pradeep’s wife, Manonamani, who hated “going on the town” or even entertaining at home, especially after the 1st child was born. Ghulpa used to commute with the family to LA, looking forward to those trips because in San Francisco she was a gilded prisoner of Pacific Heights — like Manonamani herself. She would visit her cousins in Artesia, and it was almost like being home. She could dare to flirt with the gentlemen and feel a bit alive. (She knew Pradeep had been having an affair with a “wicked Hollywood woman” who was a builder, but it was easy for her to look the other way. Her employer was good to her, and she was of a mind that terrible things came to those who judged another.) Ghulpa was grateful for the opportunity she’d been given, grateful to Pradeep and the Mrs for bringing her to this country, but still she saw her life passing by. Sometimes she even longed to return to Calcutta. She yearned for the great Kali Temple there — as a girl, she climbed upon it until guards chased her down. She was brave in her own fashion, and one day did the unthinkable by running away from Pacific Heights. She left Manonamani a note saying she had not taken anything except her own money and the clothes on her back, begging her not to call the police or immigration and begging her not to worry, that she was so sad to be leaving them and the children like this but feared for the stability of her own mind! She added that it would be “no problem” for them to find someone to replace her.

And then she took a Greyhound to Los Angeles…

WHEN Ray and Ghulpa arrived at the surgical center, there was a woman in the waiting room whose dog was having chemo. She struck up a conversation and was startled to hear that their “baby” had actually been shot, but was too timid to ask any details. Her face relaxed a bit when Ray, noting her discomfort, said it had been accidental and “the Friar” was going to be just fine. In fact, they were there to pick him up. The woman showed off a picture of Pahrump, a feisty-looking King Charles with a tumor. She confessed she’d been telling friends and family he had leukemia because a tumor sounded “so awful.” Ray assured her this was the finest institution of its kind in the world, and they’d patch up Pahrump as sure as they’d patched up his Friar. She listened as one would to an oracle.

“I’m sure of it,” he said, fully convinced.

This time, the Friar was well enough to greet them in a visiting room. He was weak and limped but showed signs of his old self. Ghulpa fussed over him while the technician spoke to Ray about aftercare. She gave him a roster of places that provided hydrotherapy; one was in Covina — not so far away. The woman even suggested a therapist who could “support” Nip/Tuck (that’s what the hospital staff now called him; they got their jollies from his AKA) reacclimate. “He’ll need some help with PTS — post-traumatic stress.” She warned about loud noises, sirens, cars backfiring. All were potential problems. She wrote down “www.dogpsychologycenter.com” on a slip of paper. (BG took it from her to examine.) There was a man named Cesar who could help. If Ray wanted to call for an appointment, the hospital would “facilitate.”

He asked if they could take him home but the gal said he needed a bit more time. Maybe by the end of the week. The old man was crestfallen. He was embarrassed because all he’d been talking about was how he wouldn’t leave without his boy. BG stroked Ray’s neck.

As they left, they passed Cora on the couch.

“Where’s your baby?” she said, expectantly. She was agitated, as if something dire had happened.

“Oh, they want to hold on to him awhile longer. They’re pretty thorough folks! He could’ve come but they want to give him that extra boost. If you ask me, they’ve gotten plumb fond of him, and don’t want to let him go! But he’ll be fine,” said Ray, with a wink. “He’s a champion. And so is—”

Ray pointed a finger at the photo Cora still held in her hand.

“Pahrump,” she said, with a sickly smile. Then her lip began to tremble. Ghulpa rushed to hug her. He knew what the woman was thinking: No one gets out of here alive.

At home, there was a message from the ACLU, saying it was urgent that Mr Rausch call.

OFFERS for work came in that Chess had to turn down. That was harsh. He made sure to pass each one to Remar; proof of income lost. It wasn’t the pills that precluded him from working — it was more the actual driving, turning his head this way and that, getting in and out of the car. Even holding up the camera or pumping gas exacerbated the pain.

Remar also wanted him to round up whatever tax returns he could get his hands on. Chess repeated how that might open a can of worms, but Remar was blasé.

“We’ll see. We’ll reconstruct. No harm, no foul.”

MAURIE came over, without warning.

“How you doin?”

“All right.”

“Listen, Chess. I know what happened was fucked up. But that wasn’t anyone’s plan. You know that, right?”

“I know that.”

“I mean if I had a clue it would have gone down like this there is no way I would have involved you. I thought it would be a goof. A way for us to pocket some bread.” He reached out and touched Chester’s arm. “I’m really sorry. OK?”

It felt like a ploy — Chess wondered if he’d been put up to this by FNF legal, or even a lawyer of his own. He was probably just being paranoid. He actually missed his “bud,” and wished things could go back to how they used to be. That’s how sick I am.

Maurie said he got a gig to shoot a commercial for an Indian casino in Morongo. Was Chess up for scouting? 3 days that’d pay around 4,000. It sounded too good to be true. Chess knew Remar would never give the go-ahead — it was short money and a bad move, the type of thing that might scotch his whole case. Maybe that was part of the Jew’s master plan. The Protocols of FNF.

When he said he couldn’t because his neck was torqued, Maurie turned on him with a fury.

“You’re really being a fucking ham! Get back in the saddle, man! Where’s your sense of humor?”

“I don’t have a sense of humor about possible nerve damage to my spine. Should I be laughing, Maurie? Does that sound, like, Comedy Central?”

“You’re kidding, aren’t you? Is that what the doctor said?”

“They don’t know yet.”

“I can’t believe this! Who’ve you been seeing? Mengele? These people are friends of mine.”

“These ‘people’? At Friday Night Frights?”

“They’ll give you work, man — I already spoke to them. You could work full-time, get your union hours. You could buy a new car. Total medical coverage. Why are you being such a dick?”