could do business with these shady characters and not lose everything in the process. Vanessa took me to buy an expensive scale that I promised she could have when I left. I also gave them, for free, four grams I'd ruined. On the flight in, I'd hidden a travelling stash in a container of scented deodorant powder, and the smack had acquired a disgusting Arid Extra Dry flavour. When I snorted it (thankfully I didn't have to fix it anymore), the smelly stuff grossed me out. Since Vinny and Vanessa fixed it, the deodorant filtered out with cotton.
I did have the occasional doubt, though, that I could survive the machinations of those two street-smart, manipulative, always-plotting, sleazy junkies. I calculated every move, every weak spot, and kept promising that there was more, oodles more, available.
I felt incredibly happy when I completed the last transaction and held the money I was supposed to have— well, I had a decent amount of it, anyway. The trip had taken longer than expected, and I'd frittered away a sizeable quantity of dope on personal use and on bribes to instill good will in Vinny and Vanessa.
By the time I had changed the tens and twenties into hundred-dollar bills and arrived back in Los Angeles, Mental was disgruntled. When I divided the money, fifty-fifty, he became angry.
'Twenty-one thousand eight hundred and forty-three dollars!' he whined. 'Is that all I get? Impossible! It's got to be more than that!'
Over and over, we calculated how much our daily habits had eaten out of the original stock (quite a bit). We figured out how much Mental had taken for himself when I'd left, how much I'd consumed or given away in Canada, and how much we had now. The price I'd received in Canada, five thousand an ounce, was standard, and the numbers matched. But Mental was dissatisfied.
'This is fucked up!' he said loudly. 'I should be getting more than twenty-one thousand eight hundred and forty-three dollars!'
'That's it. That's how much it comes to.'
'Can't be right. It's fucked up!'
A bit unfair, I thought, given that he could have starved in the monsoon in Bombay if I hadn't sent him the original two thousand dollars, not to mention the probability of his being arrested if I'd left him to his own devices in Los Angeles.
To me, the scam had been a terrific success. I'd started the summer with nothing and ended it with a fair amount. Surviving Vinny and Vanessa, I felt, was a tremendous feat in itself. But to Mental it was not enough.
I couldn't wart to escape his unappreciative ranting. As I started to leave. Mental decided that somewhere along the line I'd ripped him off. He shouted at me. I ignored him and left the room. He followed me to the hallway. When I entered the elevator, he shouted at me still.
'RIP OFF!' he yelled as the doors closed, leaving him, thankfully, on the other side. How embarrassing—the elevator was full of people! I was also hurt. Then I worried he'd run down the stairs and catch me in the lobby and make a scene. When the door opened, I dashed out. I moved to a different hotel and bought a ticket to India. What a monsoon!
This time I went back via the Pacific route. I chose a Korean Airlines flight and transited two days in Seoul. Wow, Korea! Hadn't there just been a war there?
A hotel employee told me how it felt to have his country divided in half. Apparently the border was not far from Seoul, and the people on either side were the same people.
'My cousins,' he said, resting his foot on a laundry cart. 'They live on other side.'
Landing in Bombay, I felt like the Great Adventurer. I'd made it through another monsoon and arrived with escapades to recount. Rich once more, I took a room at the Sheraton-Oberoi and went to Dipti's.
Everyone turned in their seats to say hello, and Bila gave me a welcoming smile with my scoop of mango ice cream.
'How was your monsoon?' asked Shawn.
'Terrific! Just got in from Seoul. Did you know that Seoul is only twenty-five miles from the North Korean border?'
Amsterdam Dean slid into my booth with a greeting and said, 'I heard you were in jail.'
'Me? No! Where'd you hear that?'
'It's all over the beach. Some problem with you and Giuliano.'
'Oh, no. Not Giuliano again. I don't know anything about this problem with Giuliano. I did rip him off!'
'That's the story. That you were arrested somewhere, and so the police went to your house in Goa and tore down a wall to get in . . . '
'My house! The police were in my house?'
'That's what I heard. They tore down a wall and searched the place and were asking questions about you. They picked up Alehandro and Bombay Brian for information . . .'
'What happened to my house? They tore down a wall? Which wall? It's open? My . . .'
'I don't know the details. Why don't you ask Brian. He should know.'
I swallowed the last spoonful of ice cream in one gulp. My 'See you later' sounded like 'Zaiwuf urrfm' as I hurried out.
Bombay Brian worked in a carpet shop three doors down from Dipti's. I found him sitting cross-legged and drinking tea. 'Hi, Cleo. How the hell was your monsoon?'
'What's this about the police at my house?'
'I heard they goddamn tore it down to get inside and that they found stacks of goddamn drugs and porno films. Hell, they've been looking everywhere for you.'
'Drugs! There were no drugs there. Except for a few
'All over,' said Bombay Brian. 'Shit, they came to ask ME.'
'The police came HERE? What did they say?'
'They wanted to know where the hell you were. You better get yourself a goddamn lawyer.'
I couldn't believe the normally unconcerned Goa police had actually come looking for me. They never bothered with Goa Freaks. Not unless they had a complaint. What did they do to my house? My beautiful house. I was frantic. It was my world, my palace, my fantasy. My home.
'Why me?' I asked Brian.
'Something to do with Giuliano. They busted the goddamn jackass, and he gave your name.'
'Giuliano's been busted? Where?'
'Bombay International. He's still in goddamn jail as far as I know.'
Well, that was good news of sorts. At least the creep was out of the way. I had not ripped him off. He had no reason to cause me trouble.
Brian convinced me to hire a lawyer to find out why the police wanted me. In the meantime I had to move out of the hotel, where they could easily find me. He said I could stay in his apartment on Marine Drive. I rushed to check out, peering around for lurking cops.
Bombay Brian was an American with blue eyes and greying hair and had been living in India for nobody- knew-exactly-how-long, but a long time. The story was that he'd been a member of Hell's Angels and that because of a nobody-knew-exactly-what problem he was afraid to return to America and was now a permanent resident of India. Aside from his house in Anjuna Beach, Brian had a Bombay penthouse with a round living room. He was savvy to the workings of Bombay and directed me to a law office.
The lawyer I commissioned was young, fat, obviously well-stationed in India society, and too complacent for my liking.
'My house! My home! It means everything to me. Please help me with my house.'
The lawyer shook his head from side to side and said, 'First you want to inquire as to what the charges
