Bruce Wagner - Memorial

Money shouted. Money sang. Money talked.

Money walked.

She remembered how Raymond used to read to them from The Jungle Book. One Halloween, he gave Chess a wig and red Speedo; the little boy trick-or-treated as Mowgli while their father comported in a raffish Baloo jungle bear number. (Maybe that memory wasn’t even her own. Maybe it was Marj’s, as-told-to.)

2 months later, just days after Christmas, he was gone.

JOAN got a call from Trudy, the original Travel Gal. After a light skirmish of How are you? s, Trudy advised Joan she had just returned from “a little vacation,” and heard from a coworker that Marjorie had expressed interest in going to Mumbai. Trudy said she tried Marj at home but couldn’t reach her, and was “just checking in to see if everything was OK.” She had tagged along with her mother once when the Travel Gals arranged an anniversary cruise to Alaska; her adoptive father was sick and Joan offered to help with planning, along with lending moral support. That was back when she was seeing more of her mom — she felt to blame for being somewhat of a stranger since Hamilton’s death. Add that one to the list. It should have been the other way around — she should have seen less of Marj while her husband was still alive, and more of her now. Whatever. It was all moot. She told Trudy she’d get hold of Mom and they’d come in together. Frankly, she was irritated the woman had phoned. She hated the folksy hard sell.

Besides, Joan had no intention of going to India with her mother, Pradeep, Thom Mayne, John Frankenheimer, Salman Rushdie, or anyone else you could think of. She needed to bag the Freiberg Mem and get her ass in gear, finish the maquette, have Barbet sign off, then fly it on up to Lew. The whole high-dollar dog-and-pony thing. She needed to wash that Mem right out of her hair and soak up the world press that would accompany her honor, propelling her to new worlds: the tony gallery rep for gouaches and watercolors, the crazy-cool furniture line, sex-sizzled signed and numbered condos, Sunday-magazine profiles, Robert Wilson collaborations, Taschen/Rizzoli Joan Herlihy: Builder book pub parties, and international university master classes. If everything turned out like she wanted, she wouldn’t be able to sleep for the next 10 years, let alone travel for pleasure or familial obligation.

Maybe her brother was on to something when he brought up the ticking clock. She had stopped taking birth control pills like her gynecologist told her to every few years, and hadn’t had a period in nearly 3 months.

Which was normal.

But now she had that same feeling she’d had years ago with Pradeep, a few weeks before she miscarried.

Through Lawyer, Deputies Issue Apology

for Wrong Door Break-In

By CHARLTON WOOLTON, Times Staff Writer

8 deputies who broke down the wrong door of a City of Industry residence, mistaking it for a narcotics distribution site, apologized Friday through their lawyers for the damage, including the shooting of a family dog. Doctors said the early-morning break-in was a contributing factor to a heart attack suffered by the apartment tenant Raymond Rausch, 76. He was hospitalized for 5 days. Both Mr Rausch and the dog, “Friar Tuck,” have since recovered and been released from their respective caregiving facilities.

“These fine deputies that stand with me today wish to offer their unqualified and sincere apology to Mr Rausch,” said attorney Emmerich Pitori, general counsel of the Los Angeles County Professional Sheriff’s Assn.

Sheriff Phin Oldwalder said he could not recall any other law enforcement officers in Los Angeles delivering mea culpas for a controversial police action. “This has never happened in this county and this speaks well for the integrity of these deputies.”

The apology came at a news conference at the Los Angeles Athletic Club, called after an outcry from the ACLU. Mr Rausch has so far declined to take legal action, and somewhat colorfully characterized himself as a longtime supporter of “police and firemen.”

“Sometimes we simply do not have the time, when the safety of the community is concerned, for due diligence when it comes to intelligence sources that have in the past been tested and deemed reliable. Each one of the deputies, to a person, wishes things would have been different and certainly wish the information they had been given that night had been more accurate.”

Hours after the break-in, a correct address was verified, and deputies made an arrest just blocks from Mr Rausch’s Mercantile Road residence. Washington Lamont Birdell III was taken into custody for possession of narcotics and firearms.

IT was “all good,” according to the ACLU attorney.

Ray hated that phrase. It sounded juvenile and disrespectful.

2 members of counsel showed up at the apartment to cynically explain the timing of the Oldwalder press conference, saying it was “no accident,” and how the Sheriff was “well aware” they were “smack in the middle” of negotiations. But the old man didn’t find anything Machiavellian about it, once the 10-dollar adjective had been provided. To the lawyers’ silent consternation, Ray said he felt the police were being sincere. The legal team was really hurting because Ghulpa couldn’t provide necessary backup, seeing as she had to wrangle the Friar, who’d been chasing his tail, throwing up, and crying all day — stopping just long enough to viciously curl his lip at the suited men. Ray felt like doing a little of that himself. She finally got Nip to the bedroom and slammed the door behind them.

The offer had gone from 3-seventy-five to half a million, but they were almost certain the city would settle out at 7-fifty. To Ray’s and everyone’s surprise, the unseen Ghulpa shouted, “We’ll take it!” The visitors looked at Ray, and that was that.

Sold, at half a mil.

After a moment of readjusting ties and briefcases, the men were compelled to say it would be wise to go to jury, yet also acknowledged the wisdom of a settlement, for the sake of closure. Ghulpa emerged. The lawyers reiterated their position, this time more convincingly detailed and commonsensible, but she held ground, reaching out for her partner’s hand. He squeezed it in solidarity. Then one of the fellows said, “Good! Great! Terrific,” and Ray began signing a stackload of papers. BG made everyone chamomile.

There were so many documents, at one point Ray took a breather and sat back in his La-Z-Boy with a grizzled, sleepy-eyed grin. He had cadmium-yellow curry in the crook of his mouth and Big Gulp reentered from the kitchen with a damp cloth to roughly wipe him while she affectionately clucked. 30 minutes later, the whole crew hustled their happy asses out of there.

After they left, Ray told her how he’d visited Allied Trains while Nip/Tuck was getting a bandage change — the memories of bringing Chester to that place. He cautiously broached the name Lionel as a possibility, if they were to have a son. “Chester” didn’t feel right; she understood, and quietly agreed. (The cousins would probably wind up doing the christening anyway.) Ghulpa softly repeated: Lionel. What does it mean? she asked. Well, he said, inadvertently bobbling his head the Indian way — it’s the name of a train. His eyes widened and he smirked like a big, sweet clown while she kept the same blank look. “It’s the name of a famous toy train! But also,” he added, with utmost gravity, “the name of a very legendary actor: Lionel Barrymore. You know, come to think of it, Gulp, Lionel Barrymore was actually the American ‘Mr B.’ ” He was improvising, but had to admit that was a pretty good one. He probably should have thought it all through beforehand. Ghulpa didn’t seem entirely convinced.