Bruce Wagner - Memorial

At 3 in the morning, she riffled papers on her nightstand to show Ray a clipping about attacks on human beings in Bombay. (Funny how the Indians lumped lions, tigers, and leopards all together — they seemed to mean the same thing.) The cats came at dusk and crept into tin shanties and orphanages to steal their prey, just like in the stories her parents told her. 14 people had been killed since the beginning of the year. Ghulpa was particularly bothered by the fact that some fatalities were the result of leopards leaping onto victims from their perch in trees. It made her shudder. That detail wasn’t particularly alarming to the old man; what got him was the part about folks being snatched while they “squatted outside, answering nature’s call.”

A well-to-do lawyer had been half-eaten while jogging near Film City, where the Bollywood movies were made. Evidently, the pitiless beasts liked hanging around the backlots. Big Gulp looked toward the poster in the living room, as if suddenly worrying about the safety of the famous “Mr B,” her supercoiffed matinee idol. (She sometimes called Ray “Mr B” too, but the B was for “Bapu.”) Ghulpa spoke of their child, averring she would never “show it” India. “Either you are eaten by devil-tigers or washed away by monsoon,” she said, and Ray wasn’t sure if she was altogether joking.

He almost told her that cougars ate people right here in LA, then thought better. The bones of a boy had just been found in Big Bear, a 9 year old presumed killed by a mountain lion; they could tell by the bite marks on the skeleton. The theory was he’d been attacked in the woods then dragged to an isolated area. In fact, Ray had just read about some rangers who were monitoring pumas not so far away — about a hundred miles. They heard pitched cries for 3 hours but couldn’t tell if it was fighting or breeding. (The rule is they’re not supposed to interfere.) “The mortality beep” came at dusk — the collar around the animal’s neck emits a sound when there’s been no movement for 8 hours. The rangers hiked over and discovered that the male had killed his mate, who was in heat; she was probably just protecting her kitties. He weighed almost twice as much but she put up a helluva battle. Sometimes, the rangers said, males kill their own sons, just because they consider the turf — all hundred-and-35,000 acres of it — to be theirs alone.

Finally, Ghulpa slept. He padded to the kitchen with the offending India Post and fetched some cold filet from the fridge. He sat at the small Formica table and got carnivorous, throwing some of his favorite ruffled potato chips and Heinz 57 into the mix, washing everything down with a can of Coke. He felt good — like a big old mangy cat himself. His dog was back, his woman had the seed of life in her, and the city was going to make him rich. Raymond Rausch had his hundred-and-35,000 acres but was in no mood for a kill.

What did it matter that he was a lion in winter?

It’s good to be the king.

He flipped through the paper, ending at the classifieds.

BRIDES WANTED

JAT SIKH PARENTS

Invite correspondence for their handsome son.

Seek U.S. citizen, family oriented bride

For their 28 yrs, 5′9″ son, family well settled

In California.

Son is working on H1.

Please reply with biodata

And photo must

Caste no bar

Contact P.O. Box No. 79-M-145

c/o India Pacific

Caste no bar — neither cast ye your pearls before swine…

The winds were at it again, and the trees outside, such as they were, shook like false prophets. He fell into troubled dreams himself — he’d placed an ad for a bride and felt guilty to be disrespecting Big Gulp. She was his partner, had been loyal, selflessly nursing him through hard times, she’d pressed his feet and laughed at his bad jokes. So why was he advertising for a bride? And why was one of the candidates already sitting in a new home he’d bought with their settlement, high in the hills where the pumas keened? He had used the City of Industry monies to acquire land, behind her back, and a ranch house up in Angeles Forest — knowing Ghulpa was terrified of wildcats, and knowing that was where they grabbed kids off their Schwinns. What had she done to deserve this? Why had he treated her this way? The doorbell rang. Another bride arrived. Ghulpa belligerently served lukewarm tea to the growing crowd. This time, the bride was a man, and Ray had mixed emotions. He got queasy and tried to remind himself he was dreaming. Then the old man felt better for BG’s sake, because her mood lightened. She was jealous no more. But Ray was bewildered: the white-veiled newcomer was his own son — the bride was Chester — and that made him cry softly in his sleep, tears keeping him in the shadowland of awareness, as a febrile knight held hostage by a moat. He was worried about waking Ghulpa though not actually awake himself.

THE lawyer arrived and Ray was surprised when the Friar bared his teeth. He was ready to be called Nip again, adjusting to being back home. (Come morning, he vomited, peed, and trembled nonstop. Thank the Lord he would soon begin rehab.) Ghulpa had to put him in the bedroom behind closed doors, because it looked like he was about to attack between fits.

The meeting was short. Mr ACLU was upbeat. The city’s offer had “bumped” to 375,000 but he still felt they could do better. Ray turned to Ghulpa and she grew morose, the way she did while contemplating matters of a serious nature, such as monthly budgetary concerns or the troubles of a cousin, be they astrological, physical, or romantic. She asked the attorney if any harm could be done by “going back on the table.” He seemed happy with the query and said, “Absolutely not. If you’re asking if we’re in danger of them rescinding the current offer, I can tell you the answer right now: No. They will either agree to pay more, or stay at the same place. I think they’ll go up. It may take a few weeks, but things are moving pretty quickly — that’s indicative of the open-and-shut nature of this case. So even if they say they won’t pay more, my hunch is it’ll be a bluff. Let’s keep our poker face awhile. Trust me, they will not want this in a courtroom.”

Ray cut the folderol.

He asked the gentleman what he recommended.

“I recommend that we do as Miss Ghulpa suggested. You are wise beyond your years,” he said, in a complimentary aside. “I recommend we go back to the table. We have nothing to lose and everything to gain. It is my asseveration they’ll step up. This isn’t about being aggressive. This isn’t about greed. The issue at hand is the city making right a rather reprehensible wrong. They have the resources for this sort of thing, Mr Rausch — you won’t be picking anyone’s pockets! If you like, we can even designate some of the monies to a charity, say, an animal fund. The Friar Fund — how does that sound?” he said, with a wink. “A scholarship for veterinary students…it’s win-win. Everyone can win, and that means the city as well, because they are admitting to a large mistake, and in this country, people need to be accountable. We seem to have strayed from that notion — accountability has become a dirty word. In some circles. My own personal feeling is that mistakes need to be admitted to, corrected, and compensated for. That’s democracy. We concede culpability, then move on. That’s the moral imperative. That’s the high ground.

“So: how’s everyone feeling? Do I have your permission to return to the table?”

THE chick from “My Favorite Weekend” called, right while he was sitting on the couch trying not to panic about the spastic bundle-bolt of electricity shooting from his elbow to the middle of his biceps. Also, he’d taken 3 Percocets and was just starting to get a buzz, but hadn’t eaten anything, so there was nausea attached.