Off Center

CHAPTER ONE

Hollywood. The town of illusion. And confusion. That’s where I was living. Outside my soul. A few blocks north of Sunset. Up a dead end street in an old apartment building which had been converted to condominiums.

I purchased the place last October. The week after I received a job promotion at Image International. Worked myself up the corporate ladder. Mailroom gopher to senior account executive. Lucky me. A little money. A lot of angst.

I was pretty much dealing with life on life’s terms. Buying into myths. Accepting the inevitable. Maturing at thirty-nine the old fashion way. Heartache. Disappointment. Aging. Nothing was making much sense. Especially work. And lost dreams.

The AMA, American Medical Association, its members in Southern California who used laser technology were my new responsibility. Promoting their services. That’s what I did for a living. Help shape public consciousness. Feel good, yes. Look better, oh yeah.

More than half the physicians I dealt with practiced on the westside. Beverly Hills. They were all plastic surgeons trained to charge exorbitant fees for their skills at hiding blemishes. Specialists who created faces by design.

Dr. Alan Chase, I’ll keep you young, one of the city’s leading vanity polishers, was an old friend and client.

I bumped into him during lunch last month at a restaurant on Rodeo Drive down the block from Tiffany & Co. Both of us were by ourselves. Shared a table and talked.

Mostly I listened.

Interjecting a few nods when I could see that my participation was required. Tacit politeness. Calm concern. Damn, he was detailing his love life. Boasting and complaining in the same breath.

Alan wasn’t revealing anything too earth shattering. We had known each other since childhood. His three younger brothers were also doctors and the four of them formed the Chase Medical Corporation.

I started kindergarten with the youngest Chase, Ben. A dermatologist specializing in skin rejuvenation. Remove wrinkles. Who wants them?

The middle brothers, Richard and Robert were identical twins. Richard, a dentist, used the laser to whiten teeth. One visit. One new smile. His older brother by three minutes, Robert, treated varicose veins. Rid yourself of spiders. Forever.

Image International, originator of the Chase brother slogans, bought lunch, and on our way out of the restaurant, Alan in a discreet tone said, I can’t tell my brothers what I’m about to tell you, but you have to promise not to say anything. Okay?

Okay.

Does the name Lynn Whittier mean anything to you?

You know it does.

Did you know she’s my ex-wife’s niece?

I did, but I didn’t even know you and Nancy were officially divorced.

We’re suppose to be signing the papers next month.

Sorry.

That’s the way things go.

I guess.

What I want to tell you is that I ran into Lynn the other night at the market on Beverly Glen and asked her for dinner.

So?

Don’t give me any of your ‘so’s’, Peter Chapman. I know what you’re thinking.

Let’s hear.

You’re thinking because she’s twenty years younger than me and related to a soon to be ex-wife that I’m behaving irresponsibly.

Wrong.

I wish you what you wish yourself.

That’s what I said and began walking towards my office.

Lynn Whittier.

The girl was trouble.

And spiteful.

She had just broken up with Ben . . . ,

I stopped my mind games when Michelle Rillo, Chase Medical Corporation’s office manager approached arm in arm with a broad shouldered tough looking guy who she introduced as her boyfriend. Neil Warner.

The three of us made small talk for a few minutes before I excused myself and again headed for Image International. People watched. Marveled at the men and women succumbing to the manipulation of advertisers’ prototypes.

On the corner of Roxbury and Canon an unmarked patrol car stood out. Parked in a posted NO PARKING zone. Incongruous next to the shiny Rolls Royces passing by.

The driver’s back was turned. I didn’t think anything more about him till I saw the car a few blocks later in front of the building where I worked. Then I caught his profile. Michelle’s friend.

I crossed the street trying to separate feelings and perceptions. Considered options. Marched forward. Noted the drab gray tank’s long row of radio antennas lining its trunk.

Neil swung out from behind the steering wheel and waved me over like we had known each other for more than five seconds. Put a foot up on his bumper. Flashed a badge. LAPD. Los Angeles Police Department. Asked, Could we talk?

Sure, but tomorrow’s better, I answered. Then handed him a business card and said, I’m free all morning.

Why not now?

I have a three thirty meeting downtown.

This will only take a minute. How about it?

I heard my father’s voice from the grave. Answering the question himself. His arm around my mom’s waist. Both of them dead because of bad luck and quirks of fate. Go ahead was the unsolicited advice.

Don’t be stubborn.

The next thing I knew I was inside Neil’s car listening to his plan of giving Michelle a session with Alan . . . , and that he wanted me to make the arrangements for an eye job I didn’t think she needed.

Great, I lied. Why don’t we go over everything in detail the next time we meet up?

Neil turned on the engine and pulled away. Acted like he hadn’t heard a word I said. Drove down Wilshire to the San Diego Freeway. Crossed over four lanes in one motion. Lit a cigarette and offered, I could tell you’re a decent guy.

I observed his features. Early forties. Five ten. Square jaw. Dark wavy hair. Close together brown eyes. Pug nose. Smoker’s skin. Sallow and prematurely lined.

He started talking about himself. Said he was a detective assigned to the Drug Enforcement Unit and needed to make more money than what the department paid. Maybe try a new profession. The pay to keep the streets safe, he explained, isn’t enough compared to the risks.

Then he pointed through the sheet of smog covering the city. Crime and carnage. Everywhere. No one’s immune.

My head was drifting. Sabotaged with doubt. Vying for a place where there wasn’t irrepressible despair. Loneliness masked by denial.

I gawked at the shotgun protruding up from the floor mat wondering why I was being driven further and further away from where I wanted to be.

Became sullen.

And irritable.

We passed a couple of billboards promoting beauty. Subliminal messages designed to play on the consumer’s desire for sex and status. Ad campaigns orchestrated by Image International. And my signature contribution. Sales pitches with toll free numbers.

The absurdity of human contradictions seemed magnified everywhere I looked. Collective alienation. That’s what I saw. Oppression. Suppression. Depression.

I asked, How could you tell I’m a decent guy? For starters, Michelle said you were. And what else.

I’m instinctual. In my line of work you gotta be.

Aren’t you sometimes wrong?

Never.

Liar.

The freeway was becoming congested and Neil exited in a huff. He took surface streets to Manhattan Beach. Then turned onto Pacific Coast Highway going back towards the city. Began asking personal questions.

Are you married?

No.

Are you seeing someone?

No.

You aren’t gay, are you?

No.

How much money do you make?

I do okay.

What about drugs?

Drugs?

Do you do any?

Such as?

Cocaine?

No.

Pills?

No.

Pot?

Sometimes.

My admitting to having an occasional joint caused him to go on a discourse about the evil of all drugs. Chain-smoking while he expressed his point of view. Hyperventilating when I asked what he thought about California citizens voting for the legalized medical use of marijuana.

He began hemorrhaging with rage. Claimed there wasn’t any therapeutic value to cannabis. Dismissed the possible benefits of pot as a bunch of horse shit the users want to promote. Reefer madness.

His was out of control.

I mentioned the new law provided opportunity to collect hard data and find out conclusively if marijuana reduces nausea and vomiting for those undergoing cancer chemotherapy. Substantiate or dismiss other potential benefits of the weed such as possibly improving the appetite of people suffering with AIDS.

He didn’t want to hear anything I had to say by the way he grunted so I shut-up and watched him suck up his nicotine. Weave in and out of lanes like a madman. Then suddenly slow down. Call in the license plate number of the van in front of us.

The Department of Motor Vehicles in Sacramento reported the vehicle as having a current registration. Nothing anywhere about it being stolen. No warrants for the registered owner. Let’s go, I said. There’s time for me to make my meeting.

I’ll get you to your meeting, Peter. Don’t worry. But I’m positive the van’s dirty.

How could you be so certain?

That’s what I do. You write catchy ads for rich doctors. I spot criminals.

He reached into the glove compartment and removed a desktop size siren. Checked his department issued revolver. Cautioned me to stay seated and to keep an eye on the rear.

You never know.

I refrained from screaming. Watched in horror as he put the siren on the roof. Felt my chest pound. Brain compress. Decompress. Uttered a few expletives. Waited for the nightmare to end.

CHAPTER TWO

I looked out at the ocean and found more chaos. Dispirited from the yesterdays, I tumbled while images of heaven and hell fought for dominance. Life and death. States of delirium. That’s where I resided. Dodging demons. Praying for salvation.

Neil’s driving turned me around. He sped up. Then escorted the van to the side of the road. Grinned and asked, Don’t you just love it?

Not one bit, I answered. Not one little bit.

Sit tight and enjoy yourself. I’m going to do some investigating.

Yeah.

You do that.

Neil walked to the driver’s side window and poked his head in. Smelled the strong odor of grass. Fresh skunk. Impossible not to whiff. Even from a distance. Stepped away. Gun drawn. Ready for action. Ordered the guy out.

Hands up!

I couldn’t believe I was witnessing this crap. I hated it. Crucifixions. And destiny. Invisible forces that controlled the future. I wanted a reprieve. Opportunity to float on a cloud. Escape from purgatory’s grasp.

The driver obeyed Neil’s commands. Didn’t resist being frisked. Tried talking himself out of trouble. Volunteered he was a mule. Knew nothing about nothing. Five hundred bucks and an ounce of quality pot was his pay.

That’s all.

I sat in amazement. Borderline comatose. Listened to Neil read from an index card the guy’s rights. Place him in handcuffs. Tight enough?

The prisoner was around thirty five. Wore jeans. T-shirt. Thongs. Stringy strawberry blond hair tied in a ponytail. Tattered tie-dyed headband. Earring. My height and built. Around six feet. Slender.

He wanted to run but was too stoned to do anything but stand still. Duck from the seagulls dropping shit on his head. That’s the kind of day he was having. Detained by a turbocharged cop who could sniff pot with the best Gestapo dogs in town.

Neil was thorough and came out of the van near prancing. Proud of himself for his discovery. Chuckling while dropping a kilogram-size brick of marijuana to the ground.

The charges came next. Driving under the influence of narcotics. Possession of a controlled substance. Transportation of marijuana.

Going back into the van, Neil opened the hatch and started lining up bundles of weed. Cellophane wrapped. In four to six pound blocks. He came back to the car after he was done and pulled behind the van. Dumped the evidence into his trunk. Grilled the suspect. Origin?

I don’t know.

Destination?

I don’t know.

Who hired you?

Some guy in Douglas.

What were you doing there?

Fooling with some trailer-park whores.

Douglas, Arizona. Neil knew of the place. Identified it as one of the more corrupt towns along the 1,900 mile U.S.-Mexican border. An outpost for smugglers operating out of Agua Prieta, Mexico. A terrain known for its underground tunnels.

The suspect told Neil that he drove the van through Tucson. Smoking his pay. On Interstate 10. Then to Los Angeles. Receiving instructions via cellular phone calls.

Neil checked around thinking there might be unwanted company closeby. Up the road. Filming events. Walked over to me after he was comfortable he wasn’t in the line of a sharpshooter’s rifle and bragged the bust netted four hundred pounds. Street value two million.

Minimum.

The guy in handcuffs inched away from the van and interrupted Neil’s self-flattering evaluation and pleaded, Come on, man. Keep the load and let me go. Come on. Whatta you say.

Fuck you and shut-up is what I say, Neil retorted. Another word and I’ll knock your head off. The guy sunk to his knees out of helplessness as I glared at Neil and whispered, I don’t want to be a part of this. Get me out of here.

Just relax, will you? I’m not done.

I am and I’m telling you right now, I plan on testifying on this guy’s behalf.

You do, do you?

I’ll swear under oath you pulled him over on a hunch. Not probable cause.

I don’t understand you, Peter. I want us to be friends.

What about your prisoner?

What about him?

Are you going to let him go?

I can’t do that.

Yes, you can.

You want me to give him a ‘talk and walk’ plea bargain right here?

Sure.

Why do you care what happens to this guy?

I don’t want to see a marijuana offender incarcerated. It’s that simple.

But he’s a criminal. Don’t you see that?

We all are to some degree.

That’s debatable, but for argument’s sake let’s say I do let him go. What do you propose I do with the evidence?

Anything you like.

How about I sell it and make some real money? Is that acceptable with you?

Sure. Why not?

Cause I’m a cop and cops are suppose to obey the law.

Then throw it in the trash.

Millions of dollars?

Then do whatever. I don’t care. Just let the guy go.

I’d be remiss in my duties if I did that.

You’re going to stand here and tell me you’ve never given someone a break?

I’ve made concessions, but never for a scumbag like this guy. Look at him looking up at the mountains like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s a hippie for Christ sake. And I don’t have a need for any of them.

Give him a pass, Neil.

I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give this guy a flier if you promise to help me sell the pot. How’s that?

No way.

You can’t use twenty per cent of the buy? A couple hundred thousand or so, cash?

What are you driving at?

A partnership.

Why get me involved?

Cause if I release this guy, you’ll own me.

Get out of here. I’m not a blackmailer. If you let him go, I’ll think you’re the greatest guy on the planet.

That’s what you say now. Later you’ll be saying something else.

No I won’t.

I can’t take the risk. You have to get dirty too.

Be a nice guy. You’ll feel better about yourself.

Save that ‘I’ll feel better about myself’ babble. I do you a favor. You do me one. And profit.

Forget it.

I began walking. Ignored the prisoner’s pleas. Help me, man. Help me.

Keep going.

Distance yourself from these people.

All they can do is hurt you.

Spread their poison.

Don’t look back.

As hard as I tried moving further down the road, I couldn’t. For some crazy reason I had guilt. And money cravings. Wondered about the past. Generations of Chapmans. Where I began and where I’d end. Assumed responsibility for the prisoner’s freedom. Kept hearing his cries resonate. Spent my ‘co-coordinator’s fee’ in a heartbeat.

I turned more by accident than on purpose. Saw waves and palm trees. Breathed in the coconut oil that hung in the air. Caught a glimpse of water and fantasized about sex. Laying horizontal atop the hot sand. Naked. With a lady I loved. No more strangers. And one night stands. That’s what my life was becoming. Imperfect beginnings.

Neil was looking right at me while I was trying to figure a way to make up for some sins and let God know I wasn’t completely selfish. He said, You don’t have to do much to earn your pay either. Just mention the deal to Alan. Tell him the merchandise is his for a million two. He’ll thank you for the opportunity.

How could you be so sure?

Besides Michelle telling me, I’ve heard word on the street he’s a buyer.

And if he is, you’ll make a small fortune and live happily ever after. Is that the complete picture?

Close enough.

Fine, Neil. I’ll approach him. But if he’s not interested, don’t expect me to be an intermediary with someone else.

Done.

We shook and while our hands were still joined, I realized I was in battle against the devil. Blindsided by fate. Forced to make an unconditional stand so that I would have the chance to look in the mirror without looking away.

That’s all I really wanted.

Life with honor.

CHAPTER THREE

Neil went over to his prisoner and uncuffed him. Told the guy he was free. Fend for yourself. I don’t want you. Then fumed, Beat it before I change my mind.

The moment was surreal. Almost like I was having a bad dream. Strapped in a bed covered with upright needles. Prickly reminders that I was serving penance. Paying for my human foibles. Given a speck of light in between blackouts.

I looked towards the ocean and a throng of bikini clad beauties were parading up and down the sand . . . , reminding me how alone I was. Girls. I wanted to be with one. Sharon. My ex-wife. I still couldn’t believe she had affairs during our fifteen month marriage.

We’re friends now. Kinda. She’s always trying to fix me up. Calls the office a