Something for Nothing (17 page)

Martin wasn't all that crazy about Eleanor, but meeting her had been a godsend for Martin's dad. Martin's mother had died about a
year earlier (pancreatic cancer—random, out of the blue), and his dad had been completely lost. He just couldn't fend for himself. Everyone had been relieved when he found Eleanor, especially Martin. It had bothered him to see his father so lonely—mainly, he knew, because on some level he was exactly the same. He talked a big game, but he knew that if something ever happened to Linda, he'd dry up and blow away.

The head doorman waved to Martin.

“How are you today, Mr. Anderson? Hello to Mrs. Anderson and the kids.”

He always remembered Martin when he came to visit, and when he said hello he made it seem like Martin was a part of the more upscale part of San Francisco—like he belonged.

As usual, his dad took forever to answer the door. Martin could see him peeping through the eyehole at him, and he listened as he undid the various locks: the upper bolt lock, the push-in lock on the handle, the chain lock. Finally, he opened the door and stood there looking at Martin, smiling.

“Here he is,” he said. “My son, the big shot.” Then he turned and shuffled back toward the living room. The sunlight streaming in through the sliding glass door silhouetted him as he walked away from Martin.

They sat for a while, shooting the shit. They talked about the kids for a minute or two, but his dad wasn't all that interested. Never had been. “Kids,” he said, shaking his head. And that was it. He changed the subject to the A's, whom he disliked. “They don't have it this year,” he said. “They just don't want it bad enough.”

His indifference about the kids drove Linda crazy, and for a few years Martin had been put off by it as well. But lately Martin had begun to appreciate it. There were other things to talk about, for Christ's sake. And besides, his dad hadn't been all that interested in Martin and his brothers when they were growing up, so why start now? Wasn't it a little late for that?

Half an hour later they were in a place in Chinatown his dad liked.
It was just one room, and they only served the side orders they brought around on the carts. Martin liked this food okay, but he would have chosen something different, that's for sure. Italian at Vanessi's or Little Joe's, or a seafood place, maybe. At least those places had some atmosphere. This place just had a few little fountains with rocks and bubbling water, some hanging things that looked like calendars with Chinese writing on them, and the waitresses in the kimonos, or whatever they were called. But the place was popular, you had to admit that. Today, as was usually the case on a weekday, there were a lot of white-collar types grabbing a quick lunch, probably glad to get out of the office for a few minutes.

“So when is your boy Nixon gonna give it up?” his dad asked, slurping at his hot and sour soup.

Martin rolled his eyes and shrugged. Suddenly everyone was giving him a hard time about Nixon—even people who'd voted for him, like his dad.

“Hey,” Martin said, looking at the pictures of the food on the menu. “I don't remember you campaigning for McGovern. Or Humphrey, for that matter. You're as much to blame as I am.”

His dad shook his head. “The nerve,” he said. “‘I'm not a crook, and I don't know anything about the missing part of the tape. Must've been someone else. Maybe my dog Checkers ate it.'”

Martin laughed. “Checkers,” he said. “Jesus.”

He took a few sips of his soup, but he didn't like it. The texture was weird. He put down his spoon.

“Okay,” Martin said. “It's true. The guy's a crook, and we all know it. And he knows we know it. But seriously, what would happen if he resigned? I mean, you can't just switch presidents, can you? Wouldn't the markets bottom out? What would the Arabs do? And what about Vietnam? What would happen over there?”

His dad shook his head. “Martin,” he said. “Don't you get it? It doesn't matter who's in charge. Not anymore. Both the Kennedys could come back from the dead and it wouldn't matter. All that stuff just has
to play itself out. Especially in Vietnam. The North Vietnamese are gonna take over the South, and that's all there is to it. And you know why, don't you?” He pointed his spoon at Martin.

Martin shrugged. “I don't know,” he said. “Tell me.” Here we go, he thought. He went off to fight in WWI when he was twenty-one, and so he's the authority on everything involving world politics.

“Because they're tougher than we are,” his dad said to him.

“Okay, Dad,” Martin said. “Whatever you say.” He signaled for the waitress.

“You know I'm right,” his dad said. “I mean, look around you.” He gestured around the little restaurant, at the businessmen hunched over their tables, sipping tea, reading the paper, chatting with colleagues. “Look at us—Americans, I mean. We can't handle it when we don't have a full tank of gas, for Christ's sake. That's all I hear about these days. ‘My gas, my gas. What am I gonna do?'” He shook his head.

The waitress arrived at their table, pushing a cart filled with plates of little pastries and rolls. She waited for them to decide which ones they wanted. Martin watched his dad as he pointed to a couple of dishes.

“Don't you have the big gas lines out in that town you live in?” he asked Martin when the waitress was gone. “You've seen those people in the suburbs. Can you picture them crawling through the jungle, defending anything? Their country, or their family? Not a chance. They're too soft—we're all too soft.”

Martin was quiet, thinking. His dad was right, of course. People in the suburbs were soft. They were all a bunch of big, swaddled-up babies. Gary Roberts, the ice cream scooper, living in a network of tunnels and setting booby traps? Forget it. But Martin didn't like his dad's inference that Martin was soft, too. “That town you live in.” What the fuck was that? His dad knew exactly where he lived.

He sighed. His dad was started now, and like a windup toy, he was going to go on for a while.

America had peaked, his dad said. And now it was only a matter of time before there was another Great Depression. “The gas lines will be
bread lines pretty soon,” he said. “Mark my words.” But this time, he said to Martin, more serious now, we won't be ready. Because everyone was a crook now. Not just Nixon—everyone. And soft.

“It's all a big trap,” his father said. “It's like we've all been hypnotized. Maybe they put something in the water, or in the radio waves. Or on our televisions, maybe that's it. But whatever it is, it's working. We think we're happy, when what we really are is lost. We're trying to get back to the place where we used to be happy, or where we think we were happy, but we can't find it. And do you know why we can't find it?” he asked.

He waited a second for Martin to respond, but Martin just shrugged again—rolled his eyes at the drama and shrugged.

“Because we're soft?” he asked.

“No,” his dad said. “Not that.” He picked up his tea, then put it down before taking a sip from it. “We can't find it,” he said, leaning forward across the table, “because we're using the wrong map.” And then he nodded, raising his thick eyebrows.

Martin nodded in return, but he was only half listening. He'd heard it before, and he was used to tuning out his dad's lectures. Or sermons, as he referred to them. It was fine for an old man to be an armchair philosopher, he thought. He'd worked hard, raised a family—and it's true, he did fight in a world war, for Christ's sake. Let him talk, right? But Martin knew that he'd always been like this, had always been a blowhard. No wonder his brothers had turned out the way they had: a dope-smoking photographer and a musician in Vegas. Hardly the kind of jobs that keep you from being soft.

But still, he was willing to bet that if his dad were sitting here with his brother Alan, the hippie photographer, the two of them would be falling all over themselves to agree with each other. Not just about Nixon—it was easy to pick on him now that he'd been busted red-handed. No, they'd talk about how the oil crisis was a conspiracy between the U.S. and the Arabs to make money for a few elite families, or how Patty Hearst was actually a hero (or heroine) for turning on her
capitalist pig of a father. That kind of thing. And Martin was pretty sure they'd make some joking references to Martin the businessman and his misguided pursuit of happiness out in the suburbs.

Eventually the topic turned to sports, and how Charlie Finley was ruining both the A's and professional baseball. They didn't have any trouble agreeing about that. And then it was time to go.

On the cab ride home they went past the new Transamerica Pyramid, the skyscraper they'd finished building a couple of years ago. It was the corporate headquarters for Bank of America. Martin's dad had worked in the same office with William Pereira, the guy who'd designed it. It was just after World War II, in Los Angeles. His dad was just a draftsman and they'd only said hello a few times, but still, they'd worked together. Martin was impressed by that.

“There it is,” Martin said, craning his neck to look up at its sloping side as it extended upward and out of his line of sight. “Everyone said it was going to be a big embarrassment, but I don't hear anyone complaining now.”

His father nodded. “Yeah,” he said, leaning over toward Martin and following his gaze out the window.

They were quiet for a minute as the cab made its way along the street. Then Martin's dad slapped him on the knee.

“But don't forget,” he said, looking at Martin and chuckling. “The Transamerica Pyramid . . . it's really just a big bank.”

A couple of minutes later Martin was helping his dad out of the cab and into his building. The doorman helped get him into the elevator, and Martin walked him to his apartment, helped him get the door open. But he didn't go inside. On the way back out of the building, he made sure to give the doorman a nice tip, and then he was out on the street. He had to walk a couple of blocks to his car, which he'd left somewhere along Washington Street.

Martin sighed. He'd felt pleased with himself for setting up the lunch with his dad, but now he had the feeling, not infrequent when it came to these get-togethers, that maybe it hadn't been such a great idea after all.

T
he guy looked familiar. Checking him out through the peephole of his front door, Martin saw that he was tall and lean, with wavy dark hair and a big nose. And a little scruffy—the kind of look that was popular nowadays. Ludwig had that same thing going on. The shaggy hair and the sideburns.

He was wearing faded jeans, a black T-shirt that said something about New Jersey, and black high-tops. He was also holding what looked like a denim jacket. Martin thought about not answering the door, but the guy had probably seen his shadow pass across the tall, frosted window next to the front door. Plus, Arrow was barking, and Martin knew he wouldn't stop until he sniffed the mystery person standing outside.

With the door open and looking at him face-to-face, the guy seemed even more familiar. Where had he seen him before? Martin thought that maybe he was looking for work—maybe wanted to wash the windows, or give a bid on a new roof. Had he worked for Martin before? He couldn't remember. The problem was that he looked kind of cocky, like he knew something but was trying to wait until the last moment before giving in and smiling.

“Mr. Anderson?” the guy said. He lifted his chin just a little bit when he said this and raised his eyebrows. He was definitely about to break into a smile.

“Uh . . . yep,” Martin said. “That's me. I'm Martin Anderson.” He thought about saying “Call me Martin,” but he didn't. In fact, he hated it when people did that. And it would have been especially weird at a moment like this. Did he really want some roofer calling him by his
first name? That was one good thing about the suburbs—you could be an impersonal dick and no one thought it was inappropriate. It was downright normal, in fact.

“Great,” the guy said. He reached out and handed Martin a business card that he must have had in his hand before he even rang the bell. “I'm Detective Jim Slater,” he said. “I'm with the Narcotics Division for the East Bay Police Department.” He smiled, finally, showing Martin an almost full grin—one that, to Martin's mind, had more than a hint of irony. Martin didn't say anything, just looked down at the card. And there it was:
DETECTIVE JIM SLATER, EBPD. NARCOTICS DIVISION
. There were some phone numbers underneath his name and title, and then next to this information was a little embossed seal of the State of California: there was the Roman-looking woman with her shield and a helmet that had the thing that looked like a brush on top of it; the California grizzly bear; a Gold Rush miner (yet again); and some sailboats, maybe schooners or something like that, sailing around on what looked like San Francisco Bay. He stared at the card for a second, then willed himself to look back up at the guy as he stood there watching him look at the card.

“I apologize for just popping in like this, out of the blue,” Slater said. “But do you think I could come inside and talk to you for a few minutes?” His eyes narrowed for a quick second. “I just have a few questions for you, and it's important. I'll be out of your hair in a few minutes—I promise. I'd really appreciate it.”

Martin felt himself tense up and then go numb all over. He could feel his face beginning to tingle, and his arms suddenly felt heavy. He felt tired—that's what it was. How did they find him so fast? Someone must have said something. Maybe they'd busted Hano down in Santa Barbara, and he'd given up his name. He wanted to blurt out Hano's name, and Val's, and get it over with.

He looked out past this Slater guy as he stood there in the doorway, out to where he'd parked in his driveway. It wasn't a police car, he noticed (thank God: at the first sight of a police cruiser, Alan Guthrie
would be sure to immediately drop work on his train set and wander over, making sure everything was all right). It wasn't even the sort of plain cop car they always drove on TV (or that Popeye Doyle drove in
The French Connection
). It was a black Chevy Camaro—1970, he thought. It looked like it was in good shape. It was certainly clean and shiny.