Bruce Wagner - The Chrysanthemum Palace

She poured herself a glass of wine and slunk into my arms. Ah — so this is how it’s going to be until one of us goes quietly or unquietly to our grave… that warm, fuzzy, incestuous, tortured family feeling, the blurring of lines, the love and sex jumble, the caretaker thing, the quick-fix embrace, the sacred Denial. We were like bystanders you see on television after suicide bomb attacks, numbly clutching each other in front of splintered buses and orphaned cell phones. I get it. This is how it’s always been and always would be between us—

She lay like that in the crook of my soul and I smelled her treacly breath, and the scent of her tears too. I did decide to go see Thad, though; I couldn’t have lived with myself without investigating. I knew that Clea was a big girl and there were things I couldn’t protect her from, but now was the time to show my colors — as her oldest friend, former lover, brother-protector. Thad needed to know I was her ally, a force to be reckoned with who would stand up for her in this world and the next. What Clea told me a few minutes later only strengthened my resolve.

She was going to have his child.

THE FIRST THING I SAWupon sitting down (Thad skittered to the bathroom after letting me in, just as Clea had the night before) was a “personalized” form letter on the coffee table:

HOW TO PREEMPT THE IRS “9/11”—AND WIN!

Hi Thad,

I’m Leonard Mednick. Even with their $3,856,978tax lien, Thad, the IRS still remains equipped to vilify… shame… and crash planes into your income and hard-earned nest egg —but they won’t succeed when you learn how to PREEMPT THE IRS’ LEGAL “9/11”!

I’ll wager if you’re like thousands of other taxpayers I’ve helped “liberate” in my 28-year taxpayer advocacy career, you will be more than curious to know the impact that lien will have on you. I’d also bet your bottom dollar ( the IRS will want that too! ) you’d like to learn the location of whatever “sleeper cells” the IRS has in your city limits and how to respond effectively. Let’s start with a little analysis. Ready, Thad? Then get on the couch!

THE IRS LIEN OPERATIVE

Your tax lien is a key IRS “Sleeper Operative.” While I consider the lien the mildest of these terrorists, it’s still a major PAIN IN THE BUTT! It ruins your credit rating and the IRS winds up with a security interest in what you currently own, as well as in any future assets you may come by. It is as if you and your loved ones have been annexed by a country that does not share your beliefs.

Worst of all, this lien applies to your home, car, collectibles and any other asset where you’ve built up equity. Eventually, when you sell or transfer assets, the IRS “sleepers” grab the proceeds or the property! In most cases, even despite bankruptcy, the IRS can and will keep your lien on the books indefinitely! You may as well be told to wear a “burka,” Thad! Worse, your tax woe’s become public. It is as if “bearded” IRS “Qaeda operatives” spray-paint your home, telling the world they know who you are— and they don’t like your “beliefs” or your “freedom” ! “ Thad Hasn’t Paid the Tax — Let’s Give Him a Dose of Fiscal Anthrax!! ”…

OTHER LEGAL TERRORIST TOOLS

If the lien isn’t enough to make you “pull out your troops,” the IRS then resorts to BEHEADING you through intimidation and confiscation. They achieve these goals with the Administrative Summons and either the Levy, the Seizure or both.

The Administrative Summons is a “fatwa” signed by an officer of the IRS “sleeper cell” forcing you to turn over embarrassing information exposing income and asset details. Defy the Administrative Summons and you can go to jail! Leonard Mednick is here to tell you, THAD, you will find yourself in your very own personal Abu Ghraib Prison, with close to all the “hoods,” “unmuzzled dogs,” and “genital humiliation” of the real thing….

He entered the hallway impeccably groomed, but as he came closer I noticed the familiar residue of makeup at his collar. He had only one major scene left: the showdown at the Fellcrum Outback in which the ensign mortally wounds his evil twin. The choreography was complex but Thad said he was looking forward to fighting — and defeating — his own princely self.

“Everyone’s fantasy, isn’t it?” he said jauntily.

I told him I wasn’t sure.

I had the feeling Thad knew why I’d come. There was a formality about him, not only in dress but in manner. He seemed completely sober and suggested we take a drive. I thought it a good idea, as long as I was behind the wheel. The airless suite felt messy and close — like an impoverished theater hosting a mediocre drama at the end of its run.

He asked after Clea as we pulled out of the garage. I told him I saw her the night before and she hadn’t been well. He said, with indifference, that he knew she’d “taken a tumble”—meaning figuratively and literally. We small-talked while he stared at traffic. I asked how the “pitch” was going, devilishly suppressing a laugh at the image of him masturbating in the sanctum sanctorum of HBO. Apathetically, he said there seemed to be “interest.” The man’s hauteur was beginning to grate. Then, for the first time, he spoke of Miriam. She was “quite fond” of me and he wondered if those feelings were “reciprocated.” I felt like we were in an old movie — his prim, folksy inquiry begged serious response. It was funny how he’d turned the tables; suddenly, he was Robert Young. Adopting his own aloofness, I said I wasn’t sure where the relationship was going. He sagely replied that sometimes it was best not to have a destination. He knew she wanted to have kids and asked if I too had those “aspirations.” I told him I might though not at this time. In life and career. And what have you. He said he understood — that he more than understood. I kept my mouth shut. Rightly or wrongly, I assumed Clea had refrained from telling him she was in the family way. But maybe she’d lied to me — or maybe it was true and Thad already knew, and was putting me on as well. He said that having children for the wrong reason was the worst thing people could do. He said he knew that from “experience.” Miriam and I had a wonderful time together. Wasn’t that all that really mattered? Now he was James Mason.

We went to Musso’s for a drink. At the end of the hour, he got the idea to go up to the Observatory. I told him the place was closed for renovations but Thad insisted. (He’d never been.) It was a while since I’d visited and it took a moment to retrace the familiar route in my head: Franklin to Los Feliz, Los Feliz to Griffith Park. There was just no way I was going to consult the car’s GPS.

On the way, I told him I’d finished reading The Soft Sea Horse.

“I was talking to Miriam — about how much I enjoyed it. And one of the things that interested me… do you mind talking about this?”

“Not at all.”

“I was intrigued when she said that you were actually there —in Capri — when your brother passed on. And I–I wondered why you wrote about it… ‘differently.’ Because the book seemed so fearlessly honest. Fearsome. I just wondered why you chose to distance yourself. Why you left the character of that boy behind, in the States.”

The question came from nowhere — instead of confronting him about having struck Clea, my subconscious played out its hand.