Part 2 (1/2)

Congratulations.” He bowed deeply and took my car without another word.

”What's with him?” We walked toward the restaurant.

”Just what I said. Ky's Vietnamese and wants the green card here. He thinks America will like him more if he memorizes its famous people.”

”That's the oddest thing I've heard today.”

”Not so odd. What's more important in America than being famous? Famous is best, notorious is second best. Come on.”

The moment she opened the door, the voice spat out like a zap of static electricity, sharp and crackling with speed and random inflections.

”You think you're a skysc.r.a.per, Ibrahim. You think you got a World Trade Center imagination.Forget it. You've got one floor, ace. A molehill. You've got a strong antenna, Ib, but all the stations're coming in jammed. What you've got is enthusiasm and money; they can only buy you material .

Popcorn and oil, but no heat to cook it up. Gays are supposed to have taste , man. Arabs have money, gays have taste! Thank G.o.d you've got me.”

The speaker was short, dark, and handsome. He might've been an actor in an ethnic movie about Brooklyn neighborhoods or Italian immigrants. But because he was so short and spoke so fast he also sounded like a standup comic who told cruel funny stories about his family and himself. He was scolding another dark man, much taller and rounder, with an unmistakably Arab face. This bigger one wore a wonderful expressiona combination of love and shame and enjoyment in one. He listened carefully. By the look in his eye some of what was said registered, but mostly he was just happy to be near his haranguer.

”Oh, Gus, put a cap on it,” Lily said, and walked straight up to them. The little guy swiveled on his heel like he'd been challenged to a gunfight. The Arab stood where he was but his face glowed even more happily.

”Hollow, Lily! It is your day off. Why are you here?”

”Hi, Ibrahim. I brought a friend to see the place. Max Fischer, this is my boss, Ibrahim Safid, and his partner, Gus Duveen.”

Ibrahim threw both arms up over his head. ”Hollow, Mox!”

Gus scowled and said disgustedly, ”Max , not Mox. How are we ever going to get the f.u.c.king camel out of you? How're you doing, Max? Hi, Lil, Finky Linky.”

Lincoln stepped forward and took Gus's hand. ”We went to the museum and saw a car accident.”

”Probably a happening in the museum and some art school geek got a G.o.dd.a.m.ned grant to do it.”

Lincoln looked puzzled. ”Whaaaat?”

”Forget it. Lily, guess what. Ibrahim wants to redecorate.” He turned to me. ”My partner is pa.s.sionate about two thingsme and this restaurant. Once he knew he had me, he started wooing this place into becoming famous. He gives it whatever it wantsface lifts, hair transplants, tummy tucks... In the last two years it has had three entirely different decors, but now we have reached the end.

”I promise you, Ibrahim, if you change this restaurant again I'm leaving. I will not share a bathroom mirror any longer with a man who has no faith in his own judgments. I don't care if you can afford it.”

Narrowing his eyes, Gus gave his lover a look that would have made Medusa look away.

”Stop it, Ignaz. Fight when you're at home.”

Later, Lily told me she called them Ignaz and Krazy Kat because they were both so much like the characters in the famous comic strip: Duveen never stopped throwing ”bricks,” while Ibrahim never stopped looking at him with love or, when he was really mad at the other, absolute affection.

Luckily there weren't many people in the restaurant, so Gus's blast wasn't heard by many. Those who did looked up and calmly down. I got the feeling they'd heard it before but paid it no mind.

”Who's cooking today, Ibrahim?”

”Foof.”

”Oh good! You can eat anything, Max. Foof is cooking.”

”Foof? Great. Who's Foof?”

”Ky's girlfriend. They met at the Immigration Bureau and have been living together ever since. She alternates cooking with Mabdean.”

”Mabdean?”

”Mabdean Kessack. He's from Cameroon.”

”Very good at vegetables. But he does not like meat, so it is a bad idea to order it on a day he is in the kitchen,” said Ibrahim, hirer and boss of meathating Mabdean.

Mabdean lived with Alberta Band, one of two waitresses at Crowds and Power. The other being her sister Sullivan, who, in her offhours, performed with the infamous theater group Swift Swigger. Want more? These Band women were the daughters of none other than Vincent Band, the revolutionary/suspected murderer/bank robber extraordinaire of the 1960s, who is serving out his lifesentences in San Quentin prison but may be due for parole any day now. According to the Bands, Father would eat the world alive if and when he ever got out.

We finally ate lunch, but what did we have? What was said at the table? Did I speak? The restaurant was a fire storm of energy, tempers, goingson. Customers knew each other, food came when you weren't expecting it. Foof the cook appeared wearing a chef's hat and a Ts.h.i.+rt saying ”b.u.t.thole Surfers.” It pictured two circus clowns giving the finger.

Generally speaking, people either loved this restaurant or never came back after one invariably raucous meal there. The food was delicious, the rest depended on one's sense of theater or, too often, theater of the absurd.

Ibrahim Safid came to L.A. years before as an exchange student from Saru, one of those small Middle Eastern countries that have a hundred times more oil than citizens. He came to study economics with the intention of returning home one day and injecting some Western knowhow into a land rich in natural resources and old wisdom but not much twentieth century. Instead, he became addicted to everything California and stayed. His father was rich and indulgent, so when his only son said he wanted to live in America and open a men's clothing store, Dad supplied the money. The store did well but Ibrahim grew bored and sold it. About this time he met Gus, who was working as a waiter at a sw.a.n.k restaurant in Beverly Hills. After they'd been together some time they decided to open their own place.

From the beginning it had been called Crowds and Power, and whatever else you might say about the restaurant, the food was good. Ibrahim had a knack for hiring cooks. He was also a neophiliac. Neo , not necro: things constantly had to be new. Paint the place, change the furniture, the cuisine. The most dreaded word off his lips was ”redecorate” and the people who worked there heard it very often. Not that he was looking to improve or refine either. It didn't matter to him if the avocado soup was perfect, the walls a wonderful blue, or that the strange hightech cutlery made people smile and heft the pieces in their hands like delighted children with new toys. Out with the old. Out! Out! Out! What was exasperating was that the man was often right. Los Angelenos love change. The more Ibrahim changed the style, the look, the dishes at Crowds and Power, the more people came. Lily contended her boss knew what he was doing, no matter how flutterbrained his decisions appeared. Gus insisted his lover had only been lucky. One day he'd change everything again and suddenly they'd be empty ”as a nun's c.u.n.t”

and it would stay that way because even the best customers finally grow tired of never knowing what the h.e.l.l they're coming to. Krazy Kat Ibrahim listened to Gus and smiled full of love but continued to do it his way.

Lily managed to manage the place. I got the feeling it was because she had the ability to stand back from this melee at the right moments. She wasn't a particularly patient woman, but in her job she knew how to wait till all the information was in before making a judgment.

Everyone there liked and appreciated her, even the misanthropic Gus. You could see in the way people looked at her or asked her opinion that she was special to them, a valued spirit and arbiter who could see all sides and was generally fair with her a.s.sessments.

All this in one day. After lunch I walked out into the trombone blast of heat and light and was momentarily stunned. But was it because of what I'd walked into or out of? I had her address and telephone number written in nervous script on the inside of a pack of matches from the restaurant.

When Ky brought my car around, Cobb the greyhound was sitting next to him in the pa.s.senger's seat.

”Does he always do that?”

”No! He's very good dog, but sometimes there is a car he likes and he just do it.”

”Don't people mind?”

”Yes! Many hate it. Then Ibrahim give them a free meal.”

I climbed in and looked at the old boy, who had yet to move, although Ky had opened the door on the other side and was calling for him to come out.

”I have to go home nowif that's okay with you?”

He didn't look at me. I was about to pat his head but remembered Lily saying he didn't like to be touched. After some more time he yawned enormously and slowly stepped down and out.I drove home with good new smells in the cargreyhound, hope, excitement.

My friend Mary Poe is the hardesthearted human being I know. She is a private investigator who specializes in divorce cases. She's also a great fan of ”Paper Clip” and on more than one occasion has told me stories from her working life that I've been able to use in the strip. That night while I was working and still basking in the events of the day, she called.

”Max? I've got one for you. I don't know if you can use it but it's funny as h.e.l.l anyway. This cop I know told me they got a call from a woman who just moved into some ritzy new apartment up off Sunset. Said she was coming out of her place and heard someone calling for help. But the weird thing was, this 'help' was real quiet, you know? Not like h.e.l.lLLP! But 'help,' in small letters. So they shoot a squad car over and the woman shows them the apartment. Sure enough, they put their ears to the door and hear it tooa little quiet 'h.e.l.llp.'

”Bang! They break down the door and charge in. The caller follows them in to see what's up.