Part 9 (1/2)

”Worse. Philosophy.”

”And father doesn't like it?”

”He's an idiot. He thinks I should study business.”

”Because you have all this money to manage.”

”Wow, you don't miss much, do you.”

”I have a practiced ear.” He leaned forward and extended a hand. ”Rick Chen.”

I shook his hand. ”Chad Thurston,” I said, then added self-consciously, ”the third.”

”So, family money. Have a seat.”

I slid into the booth opposite, dropping my book and my map on the table between us. Yuan noted the map and asked, ”Where are you from?”

”Kensington, Maryland.”

”Nice place?”

”Not bad if you own it. You're from England, right?” This was a gentle ping, to see if Yuan carried the Aussie pride gene and its concordant annoyance at American provincialism.

He merely smiled indulgently and said, ”Australia.”

”Sorry,” I said. ”The accent ...”

”Common duff. No worries.”

We fell into an affable conversation ranging across topics from how my family made its money (textiles and banking) to why ”Rick Chen” was in L.A. (interns.h.i.+p), and thus traded lies for a while. And though mine was a willing surrender to the snuke, nevertheless I could feel the textured smoothness with which Yuan eased me in. Watching us over my own shoulder, as it were, I thought, d.a.m.n, this guy is good d.a.m.n, this guy is good.

At last I said, ”I better get going. I have a meeting with the department head.”

”In philosophy.”

”Yeah.”

”What is it?” he asked.

”What is what?”

”Your philosophy. In a nutsh.e.l.l.”

”I'm sorry?”

”You must have some sort of belief orientation, mate. I mean, you don't just go into the study of philosophy flying blind, right?”

”Well, kind of the point is to learn.”

”Still, you must have some platform.”

”It's really unformed.”

He smiled expansively. ”In a nutsh.e.l.l.”

”Okay,” I said. ”Let me see ...” I rifled through the files of my brain, looking for ”my philosophy in a nutsh.e.l.l.” ”How about this?” I said at last. ”The universe loves us. All we have to do is love it back.”

Yuan nodded. ”That's beautiful, mate. Mind if I podge it?”

”I ... don't know what that means.”

”Never mind. Give us your handy.”

”Handy?”

”The phone, mate.”

I slid my phone across the table. It wasn't my my phone, of course, but one I'd dummied up for Chad Thurston. He flipped it open and punched in some digits. In a second, his own phone rang. ”There,” he said, ”now you have my number. Call before you leave town,” he said. ”I'll shout you a beer.” phone, of course, but one I'd dummied up for Chad Thurston. He flipped it open and punched in some digits. In a second, his own phone rang. ”There,” he said, ”now you have my number. Call before you leave town,” he said. ”I'll shout you a beer.”

”Wow, that's really nice of you.”

”Not that nice,” he said. ”I kind of daylight as an investment manager. I'd like to pitch your business.”

”Sounds good,” I said. I picked up my stuff and headed for the door. I couldn't help smiling. But as I caught a glimpse of Yuan in the back-bar mirror, I noticed that he was smiling, too.

open kimonos.

I went for a run. I only ever run occasionally, when I need to clear the cobwebs from my brain. The health aspect doesn't interest me at all because, really, what's the point? You exercise, eat right, take care of your body, you might live an extra ten years, right? But which ten years are we talking about? Ninety to one hundred? If I could have my twenties over again, then maybe, but an extra decade of decrepitude? went for a run. I only ever run occasionally, when I need to clear the cobwebs from my brain. The health aspect doesn't interest me at all because, really, what's the point? You exercise, eat right, take care of your body, you might live an extra ten years, right? But which ten years are we talking about? Ninety to one hundred? If I could have my twenties over again, then maybe, but an extra decade of decrepitude? Nej tak Nej tak. I swear to G.o.d, before senility sweeps over me, I'm going to put together a lethal dose of sleeping pills and keep them by my bed with a note that reads, ”When you forget what these are for, take them.”

It pays to plan ahead.

I guess you could say that I was running for the sake of forward planning. In all my years on the razzle, I'd never been so deeply enmeshed in a play over which I had so little control. And while I was pleased with the outcome of my meeting with Yuan, at the same time, I couldn't help thinking that maybe the meeting went a little too well. I mean, I'm good at the grift and all, but did I really sell my philosopher-prince persona that convincingly? If Yuan was good at the grift, too, and it struck me that he was, then why did he bite so hard? Maybe grifters in Australia just aren't that cunning.

Maybe.

But the more I ran, the more convinced I became that Yuan was acting his role as thoroughly as I was acting mine. We were two sharp cookies grinding against each other and making a bunch of crumbs. So then, what should I tell Hines and the others? That he's not onto me but he is? Or would that be just another case of dueling fictions, with everyone lying and everyone else trying to unpry the lie? Tired of that s.h.i.+t. And the more I ran, the more tired of it I got.

I ran the back trail of Elysian Park, the one overlooking the Golden State Freeway, then crossed over and plunged into the acreage south of Stadium Way. Running a tangent past the grounds of the Los Angeles Police Academy, I could hear the echoing rattle of gunfire from the shooting range. That got me thinking about guns. So far, I mused, everyone's coercive intent had been backed by nothing more than words and threats, plus the usual grifter's manipulation of desire, fact, and fear. Could things escalate to gun violence? Of course they could. The thought did nothing to calm my jangled nerves. It's not that I'm afraid of guns, but I don't trust them. They lull you into a false sense of security. You think that just because you're on the right end of one you've got everything under control. In my experience, by the time the guns come out, control is a thing of the past.

The trail became steep and overgrown, and running it was less a matter of keeping stride than of bushwhacking and leaping over bracken like a kangaroo. I started to feel good, like you will when the endorphin kicks in. Just for the h.e.l.l of it, I left the trail and went straight up the side of a tough hill, lunging upward from toehold to toehold, leaving little spurts of dislodged dirt in my wake. I charged all the way uphill until I burst out of the brush at the top, where I stopped to catch my breath. All of Los Angeles spread out before me, rather like a trinket I owned. I could feel my pulse pounding in a ring around my skull, from my forehead through my temples and around to the back of my neck. I am crowned I am crowned, I thought, and it occurred to me to wonder whether every crown reference in our history and literature was just a metaphor for the buzz of hard exercise. Jesus runs the 440 Jesus runs the 440.

I heard a rustle from some bushes nearby and turned toward the sound, half expecting to see a deer or coyote or some other exotic L.A. fauna. Instead, two men emerged, one young and cut and the other, well, markedly less so. Ah Ah, I realized, they use this part of the park for that they use this part of the park for that. Talk about your multipurpose recreational resource. Just then I heard another sound, the metallic clang of chains. Not far away, a disc golfer pulled his disc from a pole-mounted basket while his buddy lined up a putt. The second shooter eyed his line, rocked gently at the knees to find his rhythm, then sent his disc on a wobbly but straight flight to the pin. It hit the hanging ropes of chain and fell into the basket. The shooter allowed himself a breathy ”Yes!” and a fist-pump, then picked up his bag of golf discs and his beer and headed for the next tee.

I was overcome. It was such a prosaic moment-the intersection of gay cruisers and disc golfers-but for some reason it filled me with ineffable sadness. Perhaps it was the fact that the moment was so prosaic, so normal ... just everyday people pursuing their everyday hobbies, habits, or sins. You think you're just in a park, but really you're standing in a place overhung with invisible nets: nets of use, nets of purpose. Open your eyes, you see them all laid bare before you. The gay cruisers and disc golfers, the couple arguing in the parked car on the access road, the sad schizophrenic mumbler sitting on a stump beneath a blue vinyl tarp, two girls in spandex walking their dogs. They're all living so unself-consciously in the now. As a grifter, you can't afford the luxury of now. You have to be thinking ahead, weighing outcomes, measuring risk. It's a high-wire life, not long on second chances. I'd always felt at home in the life and always felt free, no more aware of my constraints than a fish is aware of the ocean. Suddenly I was like, Where did this ocean come from? Was it here all along? Where did this ocean come from? Was it here all along?