A Short Story

FREELANCER©
August 2002

I brought Maxwell along for the interview, partly because I didn’t want to do it alone and partly because Maxwell had never seen an estate like Coldwell’s in his life and I thought it would be instructive for him to see how the super rich live. We stopped at the Westside Grill and had two beers apiece before heading out to Shangri-La, or Riven Rock as the wealthy suburban enclave is officially known.

Usually I’m prepped to the gills when I go out to interview someone, hyped up on facts and dates, but everything I knew about Malcolm Coldwell fit nicely in a thimble. The man was filthy rich and more reclusive than Howard Hughes. As far as I could determine, nobody had ever seen Coldwell, and there weren’t even any photographs of him on file anywhere.

Coldwell’s estate had a name: Casa de Dolor, the house of pain. “What’s that all about?” Maxwelll asked as the wrought-iron gates slowly swung open. “Beats me,” I said. In a fenced clearing off to our right a herd of deer was grazing. Further on I counted a dozen bison. Hearing my rattletrap Buick the animals raised their shaggy heads.

“What’s up with the buffalo?” Maxwell asked.

“Beats me,” I said.

“Big place,” Maxwell said.

“It’s a chunk of real estate, no doubt about it.”

The road wound around a small man-made lake. Swans and ducks floated on the water. Two Mexicans in a rowboat were dumping buckets of fish into the water. On the far side of the lake there were four bronze statues, each at least twenty feet tall. The first one was of Buddha; the second of Jesus; the third was a fierce looking devil with horns on its head and claws on its feet; the fourth statue was of Bugs Bunny.

“What’s it supposed to mean?” Maxwell asked.

“Got me,” I said. “Good, evil, funny.”

After passing through a thick stand of eucalyptus trees we came upon a go cart track and a rusted ferris wheel with tall weeds growing around its base. We still hadn’t caught sight of a house, which I figured had to be grand. Further on there was another bronze statue: Snow White being gang-banged by the seven dwarfs.

I lit a cigarette. “Go figure,” I said.

“As your personal physician I must advise you against smoking,” Maxwell said.

“Warning noted, doc.”

“I should disclose that I never actually graduated from medical school, though I did practice in the state of Maryland under an assumed name and without a license.”

“That’s good to know,” I said.

“I miss the white coat and the free drugs,” Maxwell said.

The road veered to the right, dipped down and over a wooden bridge, past pines and oaks; once we cleared the trees we saw a low wooden building that looked like a caretaker’s shack. There was a golf cart parked out front. As we neared the building I noticed that it was window-less and that the front door was made of solid steel, like the door of a bank vault. I also noted that the road dead-ended at the shack.

“Do you have any grass?” Maxwell asked. “I need to alter my perception. I feel a strange and bizarre experience coming on, a mind-blowing sort of thing.”

“Steady, doc, steady. I’m kind of wondering myself, though. Where’s the manor house. This can’t be it. ”

“Only chemical stimulants can counteract the ominous vibe I’m picking up. I hear Indian music in my head, a slightly out of tune sitar. It’s very strange.”

“You’re very strange, doc.”

“Thank you.”

“Let’s go,” I said. There was an intercom by the door. I pressed the button and waited for one of Coldwell’s servants to answer. A man as rich as Coldwell had to have servants – butler, maid, cook, masseuse, spiritual advisor and so on, a small army of people to take care of his every need, fetch him things, fluff his pillows.

After waiting a couple of minutes I pressed the button again.

“The vibe is intensifying,” Maxwell said. “My left testicle is throbbing.”

“If Coldwell’s not here I’m going to be really pissed. I fished a cigarette from my pocket and was about to light it when a voice came on the intercom: “There’s no smoking on the premises. It bothers the buffalo.”

“We’re here to see Mr. Coldwell. My name is Sullivan. I have an appointment.”

“You’re late,” the voice said.

“We had car trouble,” I lied.

“As they say, shit happens. I’ll buzz you in. Go straight ahead to the elevator.”

Maxwell’s eyes were as big as saucers and he seemed to be in the throes of an internal meltdown.

We pulled the steel door open and stepped into the shack, which was as dark as a mine shaft. The elevator took us down for what seemed an eternity. Maxwell recited the Lord’s Prayer in a shaky voice.

“Since when do you pray?”

“Two minutes ago. How does the Hail Mary go?”

The doors slid open and we found ourselves in an enormous room with yellow walls, lit by floodlights so bright we were forced to put our sunglasses on. “We’re in the bowels of hell itself,” Maxwell said. “We’ll never see the sun again. This is the end of the line. I blame you, Sully. You didn’t tell me we had an appointment with the devil.”

“Get a grip, doc. We need to keep our wits about us. “

Just then the lights went off and a synthesized female voice came over a hidden speaker: “In a moment you will see some floor lighting that will direct you to Mr. Coldwell’s private chamber. He will be waiting. Please follow the lights.”

“This is getting weirder by the minute,” I said. “No wonder nobody has ever seen this turkey.”

The floor lights were purple, the size of miniature Christmas lights; some flashed off and on while others remained lit. Maxwell was freaked out of his mind and stayed right on my heels. I thought of the funhouse at the county fair, how there was always a green “Exit” sign somewhere for the faint of heart. No such luck here. Even if we wanted to we couldn’t turn around and go back because as we passed them, the lights went out and stayed out. I couldn’t see a thing, not even my shoes. I was seriously pissed at Rosenthal for giving me this assignment and when I got back to the office I was going to call him a fat toad and make him take me to dinner. Coldwell was freakier than Michael Jackson.

A door slid open with a pneumatic whoosh and closed again behind us. Now we were in a comfortable looking room with leather couches and high-backed leather chairs, leafy palms in big clay pots, Persian rugs, bookcases filled with leather-bound tomes. I caught a whiff of jasmine incense. Hundred of candles burned in rose-colored holders. At the far end of the room was a dais that looked like something out of the Arabian Nights, and upon it, reclining on a red velvet chair was a boy who appeared to be about twelve or thirteen. He wore green and gold robes and red Converse high tops. His skin was as pale as milk. His blonde hair was mussed, as if he had just rolled out of bed.

The boy inclined his head at cushions on the floor. Sit.

I said, “Where’s Coldwell? Are you his kid? Can you get him so we can get this over with? My Weird-O-Meter is bouncing off the chart. “

“I’m Coldwell.”

“Sure, and I’m David Letterman. C’mon, my friend here is dangerously unstable and my patience is running on fumes.”

“I’m Coldwell,” the boy repeated. “I enjoy your column, Mr. Sullivan. You have a gift for political satire that is as great as your mistrust of the wealthy. We’re not all cut from the same cloth. There are as many wealthy saints as there are wealthy miscreants.”

“OK,” I said. “This is very amusing but what do you say we cut to the chase? Either get Coldwell or let us out of here.”

The boy dug a hunk of wax from his ear, studied it for a moment before flicking it on the floor. “I’m 47-years-old. I made my first fortune before I turned twenty when I sold the rights to a board game to Milton-Bradley. I look young because I rarely go out in the sun. The air down here is triple carbon filtered to remove impurities. I eat nothing but organically grown food, mainly leafy green vegetables. I never touch alcohol or carbonated beverages. My only vice, if you can call it that, is mint chocolate chip ice cream. I love the stuff, even though it’s full of dangerous food additives. Nonetheless, I expect to live to be 110. I’m heavily invested in bio-technology stocks because the waves of the future are being created in laboratories as we speak. Cracking the DNA code is only the beginning. Last year I donated over ten million dollars to various charities. Making and giving away obscene amounts of money makes me happy.”

I said, “By nature I’m very skeptical. You look thirteen to me. Can you prove you are who you say you are? Do you have documentation?”

“I once had a hand in the production and distribution of adult films. I made a tremendous amount of money. It was easy. Few people know this about me.”

“Like a birth certificate,” I said. “Or a passport.”

Oh, I never travel,” Coldwell said. “Even for a man of my wealth controlling the variables is too difficult. No, I’m very content right here where I can manipulate my environment as I see fit. Shall we start the interview, Mr. Sullivan? For once I am eager to allow the general public a glimpse into my world. The last time I checked I was one of the top one hundred wealthiest people on this planet. That’s an impressive fact, an astonishing fact. Think about it: the top one hundred out of billions of human beings. It’s an extremely elite group, populated by the best and brightest, the most cunning, the most determined, the most ruthless, the most opportunistic.”

“What about a driver’s license? You must have one of those.”

“Don’t be silly. I have a driver. My favorite color is blue. I’m a devoted Woody Allen fan.”

“What kind of car do you have?” Maxwell asked.

“A mint-condition Nissan Sentra, one of the first ever produced. Langston drives me down to the mail box and back every day. Langston is a very competent driver, adept at avoiding potholes. I sit in the back.”

“There are no potholes in your road,” I said. “Not one.”

“That would explain why Langston misses them,” said Coldwell.

I looked over at Maxwell; he had crazy fear all over his face. He was rolling imaginary rosary beads in his hands.

Coldwell placed a tiny yellow pill on the tip of his tongue. “When I was a child I had a Barbi doll. I dressed her and undressed her and carried her everywhere. My father found my fascination with Barbie disturbing and sent me to a psychologist, Dr. Lindstrom, who showed me ink blots and asked what they meant to me. We did this over and over and over, one blot after another. I was convinced that Dr. Lindstrom wanted me to admit that I had homosexual longings or some sort of gender confusion. He was an unsympathetic man. He smelled like charred liver. He put his hand on my knee one day and I bit him so hard that his thumb was nearly severed. I still remember the taste of his blood. To this day I enjoy playing with Barbie dolls. I have an extensive collection.”

“Hallowed be thy name,” Maxwell muttered. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, full of grace, hallowed be thy name. . .”

“So,” I said. “You live down here, eating leafy vegetables and breathing purified air, while you control your financial empire. Do you call it an empire or something else?”

“As a descriptive term empire works for me. My money is in constant motion, searching for opportunities, weighing risks, occupying niches, bridging gaps, changing from dollars to yen to marks and back again. My money makes money, and then that money makes more money, in an endless pattern of accumulation. It’s a wonderful thing. Did you attempt to find photographs of me, Mr. Sullivan?”

“Yeah, of course. “

“I’ve never been photographed, not once. Anonymity is a source of power and mystery. I prefer to live and move in shadow, the unseen hand behind the heavy velvet curtain. I’m also in my fourteenth year of celibacy. I believe celibacy promotes spiritual clarity. What do you think of that, Mr. Sullivan? Does that kind of discipline impress you?”

Maxwell was tugging at my sleeve: can we please get out of here? Maxwell looked sick, and in fact he suddenly doubled over and vomited on the rug.

“That’s it,” I said. “Maybe we can finish this fascinating discussion another time. What do you say I give you a call next week? How do we get out of here? No need to show us – just point me in the right direction.”

Coldwell pressed a button on the side of the recliner and a pygmy dressed in full livery appeared out of the shadows.

“As you wish, Mr. Sullivan. Dobobo will show you out. He’s a bit skittish around strangers so please don’t make any sudden moves. He bites, you know. Farewell. I want you to know that I’m not the least bit dangerous. Simply a freak, that’s all, a harmless freak with a tremendous personal fortune. “

We followed the pygmy back to the elevator. Before we got topside I had already decided to resign from the paper and go freelance. From now on I would chart my own course, interview who I wanted to interview. No more of this shit. When I got back to the office I was going to put my foot in Rosenthal’s flabby butt.

The pygmy let us out and the big steel door slammed shut. We stood blinking in the harsh daylight. Coldwell’s voice came over the intercom: “A harmless freak, nothing more. Until we meet again, gentlemen.” And then he laughed.