Phantom Point
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 5: On the Trail
part 2
“Hi, fellers. Nice place you have here.” Max greeted the surly duo with a cheery voice and his warmest smile.
“What you want, mister? Is private property,” said the armed man. Max detected a strong Slavic accent, familiar from his Chicago neighborhood.
“Sorry, friend. Don’t mean to trespass. I’m in Santa Teresa on business and thought I’d look up an old Chicago acquaintance of mine, Hugo Van Dorn. I understand he lives here.”
The two looked bewildered for a moment, then began a conversation in what Max recognized as Russian. After a minute of back and forth, the big guy asked: “How you know Hugo?”
“We met at the Art Institute. A bunch of us fellers got into a discussion about the relative merits of Picasso and Matisse.” This was not improvised bullshit. Max had attended contemporary art lectures at the museum about the same time Van Dorn was there as a student.
“You know Picasso and Matisse?” the little fellow said.
“Not personally, but I know their work.”
This bit of information started another heated discussion between the Russians. After a minute or so, the big guy said: “What your name, mister?”
“Matt Rogers. But don’t be surprised if Hugo doesn’t remember my name. It’s been a while.”
“Wait here,” the big man grunted. Then he and his sidekick walked back toward one of the buildings.
Max came down from the buggy and took a moment to enjoy the scenery and the fresh ocean air. He was about to light a cigar when he heard a sound like a garden hose spraying a lawn. Max managed to step out of the way just as the mare relieved herself in a big, steaming puddle.
It wasn’t long before three men came up the path. Max put the cigar and matches back in his pocket and waited for the trio. He recognized Van Dorn from photographs and Cassandra’s description: slight build, sandy hair, clean-shaven except for a thin blond moustache.
Van Dorn wore the same outfit as his Russian comrades: a rich kid identifying with the proletariat. He gave Max the once-over before speaking: “You say we met at the Art Institute, Mr. Rogers? I’m afraid I don’t remember you.”
“Well, we only met that one time,” Max replied. “But I recall the lively discussion about contemporary art. It was quite stimulating.” Max kept smiling amiably.
Van Dorn shook his head skeptically before asking, “Were you an art student?”
“No, Hugo, I’m in business, but I support the arts.”
“Oh, really. Are you a patron?” There was more than a hint of sarcasm in Van Dorn’s inquiry.
“An aspiring patron. I haven’t got the jack for it yet, but I’m working on it.”
“What is your business, Mr. Rogers?”
Max reached into his wallet, took out a card and handed it to Van Dorn.
“Matthew Rogers. Real estate broker.” Van Dorn read from the card. He eyed Max skeptically. “Are you looking to buy land around here?”
“Could be. It’s very scenic. Might appeal to my investors. But that’s not the main reason I came up here. I was hoping we might have a friendly chat.”
“About art?”
“About art, and other things.”
Van Dorn stared at Max for a moment before saying, “All right. I have a little time, and I’d like to hear your views on Picasso and Matisse. Very few people in the States have heard of them, let alone have an appreciation for their work.”
Hugo’s tone of voice and wry smile implied he thought Max was a hustler who didn’t know diddly-squat about contemporary art. But Hugo was intrigued nevertheless. After all, life at Phantom Point could be boring as hell, and a chance to talk to someone who purported to know something about Picasso and Matisse might make for an amusing break from routine.
The Russians went their separate ways; Max followed Hugo to the refectory, a long, narrow one-story structure located in the center of the settlement. They walked up a few rickety steps to a porch and entered the building through a screen door speckled with bugs, living and dead. Several picnic tables and rough wooden benches were placed at regular intervals within the dark interior, and Max noticed a long table set up horizontally at the far end of the room. Crickets chirped in mildewed corners.
“That’s where the executive committee sits,” Hugo said pointing to the long table. “I’m currently a committee member and you’re my guest, so we’ll sit there.”
The place is empty. Why not park our asses on the nearest bench? Max got the impression that Hugo and his comrades lived according to strict rules. He wondered who set those rules. The executive committee? Mrs. Merwin? He guessed she was the éminence grise of Phantom Point.
A pair of unpainted cupboards and three ice chests were set against the wall near the committee’s table. Hugo stopped by one of the chests. “We take our meals communally, but there’s always something cool to drink. You may have your choice: well water, cider or goat’s milk.”
“Goat’s milk? I haven’t had goat’s milk since I was a kid.” Max grinned, expecting a laugh.
Hugo deadpanned.
“Goat’s milk. Kid. Get it, Hugo? It’s a joke.”
“Oh, I see. Then I take it you’d prefer water or cider?”
“You take it right, pal. Cider for me.” His grin faded.
Hugo opened a cupboard and took two tin cups off a shelf, the kind of cups they use for table service on the chain gang. He filled one cup with milk, the other with cider and handed the cider to Max. They sat across from one another and each took a sip.
Max thought the cider looked like piss and didn’t taste much better. He was dying for a cold beer. Nevertheless, he smiled and said, “Thanks. That hit the spot.”
Hugo nodded and began a conversation about modern art. Max had a good memory; he spouted hooey he’d learned about blue periods, and rose periods, and a return to the primitive, just enough to con Hugo into thinking Max knew what he was talking about. Hugo warmed to Max and loosened up. Before long, he was answering questions about the Phantom Point commune.
“We’re all equal here, Matt. We make no distinctions according to class, race, religion, nationality or gender.”
“That’s very admirable, Hugo. But you have an executive committee. You make a distinction there, right? I mean, your pals can’t sit at this table if they aren’t on the committee.”
“We rotate; that is to say, we take turns. I’m a committee member for the remainder of this week. Then someone else will take my place. We have just one permanent member.”
“Oh, and who might that be?” Max raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Eugenia... I mean Mrs. Merwin. She’s the founder of our commune and our guiding light.” The mention of her name made his face light up, an expression of puppy love or goddess worship that more than hinted at his vulnerability.
“That’s swell, Hugo. But I understand she’s the property owner. I mean you don’t share and share alike in the ownership rights, do you?”
“No, not exactly. It’s complicated, you see.” He blushed and stared down at his hands.
I’ll bet it’s complicated. “She must be a remarkable woman. I’d like to meet her. Where is she, if you don’t mind my asking?” Max figured he’d have to deal with Medusa, sooner or later.
Hugo looked up. “Oh, she went to Los Angeles for a couple of days. She’ll be back tomorrow.”
What luck, Max thought. If he was ever going to get a chance to go to work on Hugo without Mrs. Merwin’s interference, this was it. He decided to take a risk. “Hugo, I’ve a confession to make. This friendly reunion isn’t the only reason for my visit.”
“I know that, Matt. You said you were scouting land for your investors.” Hugo smiled affably as though Max’s ostensible dealings in private property for profit didn’t offend his principles.
“There’s more to it than that. About a week ago, I met your sister socially. We got into a discussion about art, and she mentioned you. When she learned that I’d made your acquaintance and I was traveling to Santa Teresa on business, she asked that I drop by Phantom Point and see how you’re doing. I’m afraid your father’s not well, and he and Cassandra are worried about you.”
“If you met my sister socially and call her by her first name, you’ve joined a very exclusive set.” The amiable smile faded into a disappointed frown.
“You know the world, Hugo. You’ve got to get in with the right people to climb the ladder of success. I’ll admit I’m ambitious. I’m a kid from the slums. I had none of your advantages. My parents were immigrants who worked long, hard hours, got little for it and died young. I had to fight to survive. I suppose someone like you would look down your nose at me. Frankly, I don’t blame you.”
“I’m sorry if I gave you that impression, Matt.” Hugo fell for Max’s Horatio Alger line, which rang true since it was, for the most part, authentic.
“No need to apologize, pal. Anyway, I was impressed by your sister. She seemed very intelligent and cultured, devoted to your father, and concerned for your welfare.”
“Yes, Cassandra can make a good impression, when she wants something. I’m afraid she’s used you, Matt. She’s good at that.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have known it. She seemed so sincere. And what about your father? He’s ill and he wants to see you. That’s natural in a parent.”
“Don’t be taken in by my family. My father is a prime example of capitalist greed and corruption, the sort of person who made a fortune exploiting people like you and your parents.”
“I’m sorry to hear you say that. He’s highly regarded in Chicago.” Max sighed and shook his head. “Well, Hugo, I made a promise to your sister and I’m a man who keeps his word, so here it is. Your father wants you to come home and take over the business. If you don’t, he’ll disinherit you. Will you at least consider doing as your father wishes, for his sake and yours? From what Cassandra told me, he may not have long to live.”
“Did she tell you she already hired a private detective to persuade me to accede to my father’s conditions?”
Max paused before answering, as though he were trying to remember some minor detail. After a moment he said, “I do recall something about a man from Los Angeles... I think she said his name was Burgess.”
“Yes, Arthur Burgess. He snooped around town and met with Mrs. Merwin. She warned me off so, of course, I refused to see him.”
“I see. I’m sure she had your best interests at heart. Did she tell you anything specific about this Mr. Burgess, any particular reason why you shouldn’t meet with him?”
“No, she just told me he wasn’t to be trusted.”
Max didn’t say anything. He finished the cider and glanced around for a moment. Then he said, “You’ve been very hospitable, Hugo, but I don’t want to impose. I guess I’ll be off. Do you think, after what I’ve told you, that Mrs. Merwin would be willing to see me? I mean, I could come back tomorrow, or the next day, and the three of us could have a nice visit.”
“I think she’d like you, Matt. We could show you around and she could tell you more about our community. Would you like that?”
“Very much. And I’d hate to leave without meeting such an extraordinary woman and seeing your work and that of your comrades in art, too.”
“All right,” Hugo said with an enthusiastic smile, “I’ll mention it to her as soon as she gets back from Los Angeles. Where are you staying?”
“At the Pacific.”
“Splendid. I’ll get a message to you tomorrow, or the next day at the latest.” Hugo got up and held out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Matt. I’ll look forward to seeing you again.”
Max rose from the bench and shook hands with Hugo. He got the distinct impression that the kid was almost stir crazy and dying for contact with the outside world. If it weren’t for Mrs. Merwin, Max guessed Hugo might have agreed to a jailbreak that very day. At least, that was his optimistic view of the situation.
Copyright © 2022 by Gary Inbinder
