Wag the Dog Read online

  Chapter

  TWELVE

  MAGGIE WANTS ACTION. I understand that. I want action too. But it’s the one thing we can’t do. At least that’s what I think. As long as we appear to do nothing, they’ll leave us alone. As soon as we appear to move, they’ll react.

  One of the ways I try to deal with my tension is to up the level of my workouts. In addition to the running and the simple calisthenics, I return to my training at the dojo. I go to a place down in Koreatown. It’s in a typical two-story mini-mall: discount hardware, cards and tobacco, manicures and pedicures, a fish store. The dojo has a name, but all the regulars call it Sergeant Kim’s.

  I didn’t know Kim in Vietnam. There are stories about him, many of which may be true. He can kill with a touch. We all can kill with our hands. I mean a lot of people who study martial arts or who are taught hand-to-hand combat—Green Berets, Seals, the Delta Force—even regular Marine training, they teach killing blows. Kim was involved with a recon team. They’d have some possible VC. Kim would come along and he wouldn’t have to throw someone out of a Huey19 to get the others to talk. Or shoot anyone. He would do it with his hand.

  They would line up the prisoners. They’d see this hard little Korean, their own size, but thicker. He would walk up to the first prisoner. Touch him. Kill him. The others would start to talk. Soon there was a legend about him and he didn’t always have to kill. Just be the sergeant with death in his fingertips.

  I want to explain something here. I don’t know how you could ever show it in a movie, because it’s got to do with ideas. Also, I don’t want you to get the wrong feeling about Kim. That he is a brutal or vicious man. He’s not.

  Most people were ashamed of Vietnam. So they turned their faces away. I went over gung ho. I stayed gung ho. I had good times there. I loved Vietnam. In many ways. Including combat. I liked trying to be a hero.

  Maybe this is why I haven’t turned my face away. I’ve spent a lot of time looking at what happened and thinking about it. We didn’t understand Vietnam in exactly the same way that I’m afraid people won’t understand a man like Kim. General Westmoreland used to say things like “The Oriental doesn’t put the same high price on life as does the westerner,” and “Life is plentiful, life is cheap in the Orient,” and “As the philosophy of the Orient expresses it, life is not important.”20

  These were very stupid things to say. They might even be why we lost the war.

  For Kim to kill face-to-face, looking into the eyes of the man who is going to die, that does not say that for Kim, life is cheap. That says that Kim is ruthlessly honest. Westmoreland21measured the war in body counts. He created free-fire zones, which meant anything that moved—man, woman, child, water buffalo—was presumed to be the enemy and we were supposed to kill it; and he defoliated the forests and used high-altitude bombing. That says life is cheap, life is not important. I’m not saying we shouldn’t have done those things. We were soldiers. We were there to kill the enemy. We killed as many as we could. But we shouldn’t misunderstand who thinks life is cheap and who respects it.

  The ground floor of the dojo is for the public at large. They teach tae kwan do, plus they have become very successful teaching classes in self-defense for women. From the locker room there’s a stairway to the second floor. It has a sign on it: ROK—MEMBERS ONLY. There’s a joke attached to that which I will explain later. It’s sort of a private club that’s not restricted to a single discipline and is combat-oriented.

  When I find myself there for the third time in a week, I realize that I am thinking of asking Kim for advice.

  I change into my gi and go upstairs.

  When I find Kim, I bow. I ask to speak to him. I explain to him how I took the job with Maggie and why I think it is so serious that Ray lied about the LDs. Kim has one of those stoic, tough Korean faces. I can’t read what he is thinking. So to convey to him how I feel I reach back to the shared experience: “You remember, in the jungle, when the birds stopped singing. That’s what I hear—the big silence.”

  “Why do you come to me?”

  “Almost everyone I know who might help me, I have to assume that their first loyalty is to the other side. I can’t use the telephone. I can’t hire help. I can’t go wire them. I can’t move. I’m stuck.”

  “Ahhhh,” he says, being very Oriental, “you come to me for sensei bullshit. OK, I can do that. You are deer who sees tiger. Deer cannot move, movement will make tiger notice, tiger will strike. Deer cannot stay still, because soon or late, tiger will strike. Oh, Glasshopper Joe, you understand lesson? Lesson is that it is tough to be a deer in jungle. Better to be tiger. How’s that for sensei shit. If you want, I whack you on back of head.” He laughs. He’s having a good time. “Americans. See Kung Fu and Karate Kid One, Two, Three, think martial-arts teacher guide to life and dojo a twelve-step program. Hey, Joe, you know what I teach people—I teach people how to hit each other, that’s all. You’re a good guy, Joe. You want to go out for a drink? We go have a beer, eat some fish from my nephew’s place. Very fresh, very good.”

  “No, thanks, that’s OK.”

  “I find that I am drinking earlier in the day now. Just beer, of course.”

  “I got to tell you something, Kim . . .”

  “Come on, we go to the office.”

  I follow him. I say, “I feel like I walked into an ambush. And it scares the fuck out of me. I should’ve known. When I was in Nam, I got so I always, always knew. You understand?”

  He gestures me to a chair while he goes to a small refrigerator and takes out two bottles of Harp Lager. “Irish people. Make good beer. You drink with me, I give you good advice.” He opens them and hands me one. He waits and watches till I tilt it back and swallow.

  “OK. I tell you Zen-type story.” He takes a pull and sighs with pleasure. “Irish people, best beer. One time I go study with Japanese martial-arts master. Very high, very famous. He tell samurai story. Samurai one night go out drinking. Get very happy. On way home bunch of bandits jump him in alley. Eight, ten of them. Samurai very great fighter. He react. Fight back. Kill seven, others run away. Next day he goes and brags to his teacher about it, how many he kill. Teacher say, ‘You stupid. Real samurai would have known about ambush and walked home by next alley.’

  “I thought about this,” Kim says. “I hate Zen stories. Too Japanese. If I were that samurai, I would say, ‘Fuck you, sensei. I am samurai. I like to fight. I had a good time. And I am not stupid, because having fights and beating odds of eight to one, baby, that’s what it’s all about.’ ” He takes another swallow of beer. With great enjoyment. He stares at me until I drink some more. Then he says, “You lucky I am not Japanese.”

  “Why?”

  “If I am Japanese, I tell you go back to your company. Confess your error and become loyal again.” Kim laughs, very harshly. “I love Japanese. Hai! I am Toyota man. I let Toyota stick gearshift up my ass if it make better car. I am Hitachi man. Test big vibrator and hum company song. Fuck Japanese. Koreans better. Even Americans better. Every man for himself. Very interesting.”

  I sigh. This is not the encounter I expected. Kim belches. He smiles at me. The top of his desk is stacked with papers. He pushes some aside and uncovers a large paperback. The Art of Strategy: A New Translation of Sun Tzu’s Classic, The Art of War. He hands it to me. “Gift I give it to you,” he says. “New translation. Very pretty. Ideograms on one side. You like Oriental philosophy advice, Sun Tzu very good. The best. Chinese. Anywhere you look is a beginning. Here . . .” He opens the book, apparently at random and without looking puts his finger down on the page. He’s pointing at a line that says, A strategy of positioning evades Reality and confronts through Illusion.”22He says again, “You take.”

  “Thank you,” I say, unable to reject the gift even if I have other editions of the same book.

  He knocks back the rest of the beer in one long swallow. He stares at me as if I am a disrespectful guest until I too have finished my bottle. He takes it from
me and then puts both aside to collect the deposit later. That done, we go back into the dojo.

  Kim claps his hands. Everyone turns and looks. He gestures to a tall, skinny black man with a shaven head. I know him slightly. He calls himself Hawk. Just like the TV show. In fact, he claims that the TV character is modeled after him. I don’t think that’s true.

  “Hawk. Give Joe match. Light contact. Only.” Kim says.

  Hawk gives me a “bad” look. I turn to Kim. I’m not ready for this. I have a belly full of beer.

  “Yo, bro,” Hawk says, “we gonna get to it, or you want me hit you in the back of the head.”

  I turn around. We find a place on the mat. The others automatically give way to us. We bow to each other. The beer sloshes internally. We take our positions. We begin.

  Hawk strikes first. It is instantly clear that he is my superior. He is quicker and stronger and more skillful. Tae kwan do uses a lot of kicks and special techniques to generate a lot of power in the kicks. To execute them properly requires great flexibility. By body type alone he is ahead of me. Very soon he is striking almost at will.

  I block as best I can, letting him hit my forearms, shoulders, thighs, but trying to protect my vulnerable points: eyes, throat, groin, knees. One solid kick gets through and hits me in me stomach. I step back as I taste beer coming back up.

  Light contact is not that light.

  Martial-arts instructors believe in pain as a teacher. So do Marine drill instructors. And many parents. I have to admit that even as I am taking this measured beating I am becoming more centered and awake. I begin to see Hawk more clearly. I become certain that at some point, when he thinks he has a clear shot, he’s going to deliver one of his crippling blows at full power. He is not going to be content with a demonstration. There is a kind of rage in him. And arrogance.

  I attempt an attack. He blocks and snaps back with a left hand strike at my neck. I miss my block. His strike has more snap than it should. I back up, hurt. He follows with a kick aimed at my groin.

  This is his move. This is full force.

  I get my thigh in the way. It’s a powerful blow, momentarily numbing. He knows it. I’m even slower now than when we started.

  He follows it up. A variation on the same sequence. A hand strike, this time at my eyes, to back me up and position me for the kick that will follow. This time, I feel with certainty, it will be at my knee—these thoughts are not in words. By the time words could form, the actions would be long over. They are instant thoughts, vivid and clear, though I can’t say what they are if they’re not words.

  If he strikes my knee, he will injure it. Either a little or a lot. That will end the match. Afterward, he will offer a formal but insincere apology.

  Instead of flinching back to protect my eyes, I step into the hand strike with the intent of taking the blow on the top of my forehead. This is dangerous for both of us. If my timing is not good enough, or his adjustment is too good, I’m going to get hit in the eye. At the same time, the skull is a very hard piece of bone very close to the surface. It is very dangerous to hit people in the head with a fist or fingers. If he strikes full-force and makes no adjustment, he is likely to break something.

  He adjusts. But not enough. His stiffened fingers hit the bone just above the eye. The skin beneath my eyebrow splits. Blood starts to flow. It looks dramatic but it means nothing. Kim does not stop the bout. In fact, I think I hear him giggle. Though I’m too concentrated to be sure.

  Hawk has hurt his hand. His rhythm is broken. And I am not the one set up.

  This turns his ambush into my ambush. But he doesn’t understand that yet. Perhaps distracted by the gaudiness of my blood.

  Because he doesn’t understand that, he continues with what he planned, the kick to my knee. But I’m already too close to him and I keep moving in. Instead of his foot striking my knee, I bring my knee up to meet his knee and join with it. I turn, joining my force to the force he has committed. I drop down, going to the mat, and throw him over me. I follow him down, fast as I can. I thud down on him with my knees. With my hand in a tiger claw I slash at his face and touch my fingers to his eyelids.

  Kim claps to end the bout.

  We get up. We bow to each other. I’m bleeding. Hawk’s hand is starting to hurt him. Kim walks away. He has other business. I am supposed to have learned something from this. Or from the book. Or from his story. Or from all of it. If I have not, the fault is in the student, not the teacher, and the teacher, rightly, has no more to say. Or maybe he was just pissed at me for asking dumb questions and the lesson was to shut up and not bother him. All of these are possible.

  “You think you a mean motherfuck, don’t you,” Hawk says.

  “Mean enough,” I say.

  “You not as mean as me,” he says. “If it was my fingers in your eyes, you would have felt the Hawk before he let you rise.”

  “Probably,” I say.

  He suddenly grins. He has a wide mouth and large teeth. It makes his smile very big and friendly-looking. “Fuck you, Joe, you all right,” he says and starts one of those old-fashioned soul-brother handshakes with fist tapping, elbow banging, forearm sliding, and thumb rolls. I was in Nam. All the brothers did it. My version is outdated but so, I guess, is Hawk’s. Nowadays they just make finger gestures, gang signs. You know, you’ve seen it in the movies.

  I go back to the house.

  Maggie is getting ready to go to an Important Party.

  It’s hosted by Jon Peters. Who has recently been hired by Sony to become head of Columbia Pictures.23His salary is reported to be $2.7 million plus a piece of the profits plus Hollywood perks. There are thousands of people in Hollywood who can say “No.” There are several hundred who can say “I’m onboard” or “I approve” and it will likely go. But there are only a handful that can actually say “Go” and the twenty or thirty or forty million dollars will be committed and spent and the motion picture made. Maybe there are five or ten or fifteen. Whatever the number, most of them will be there tonight.

  Maggie has her hairdresser over. His name is Fredo. I watch him work for a few minutes. Neither of them notice me. He’s chattering about the sex lives of stars. He actually mentions the gerbil story again. He swears that his boyfriend cuts the hair of the doctor who removed the beast.

  “Fredo, just shut up and make me beautiful,” Maggie snaps. As if she’s not, and it suddenly frightens her.

  I look at her facing her fear in the mirror, then I leave the room.

  Later, Maggie comes downstairs. She is devastating. Hair, makeup, clothes, shoes—the whole package. I don’t know about clothes, but I can tell this dress is very expensive, the material is something special and it is custom-made for her. Whoever has made it is very clever because it looks simple but it keeps molding itself to her, changing as she moves. One moment I’m aware of her breasts, then the length of her legs, then I’m staring at the shape of her mound. Then it disappears.

  I, on the other hand, do not look my best. I have a butterfly bandage on my eyebrow, discoloration around the eye, and I’m limping. When she sees me, she looks concerned. Then, afraid to ask about it with the listeners listening, she turns the CD on. She asks if I’m alright. I say yes. I don’t even try to explain about the dojo. I still haven’t figured out if Kim is going alcoholic or if something happened. A strategy of positioning evades Reality and confronts through Illusion means?

  “I wish you looked more presentable,” she says.

  “Hey, I’m your bodyguard. This is a good look for a bodyguard.”

  “It’s not funny, Joe.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “I could put makeup on that. Cover it up.”

  “Maggie, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. You look fine.”

  “Do I look like a goddess?” she says. “That’s the real question. Beautiful isn’t enough. I remember the first casting director who said that to me. ‘Beautiful isn’t enough, babe. Beautiful is a dime a dozen. Hey, listen,�
� he said, ‘you got a bod and I can get you some nude work.’ I said, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ He said, ‘Don’t be so high and mighty, babe. It was good enough for Marilyn, it was good enough for Basinger—trust me, it’s more than good enough for you.’ Then he said, ‘You’ll be back. Six months, a year or two, and you’ll take it off. See you later.’ Do you believe that anyone could be that crude, that much of a cliché?”

  “Did you go back?”

  “No. I never will, I swear it.”

  “Why should you?”

  “Do I look like millions of people will pay for the privilege of peeping at me? To gaze at the shape of my titties? Which have not yet been surgically altered, which means that they can not compete with Melanie Griffith’s. Do I look like the person you want to invest millions of dollars in? Do I look that hot?”

  “Oh,” I say. “That’s the question. I should have known.”

  “Fuck you, Joe,” she says, but she smiles.

  It’s like Upstairs, Downstairs.

  We, the chauffeurs, are in a section set aside for visiting servants. There’s a lot of gossip. That’s my job. Since it’s his party and he’s the new power in town, everyone wants to talk about Peters. It’s mostly old gossip. How he was the model for the Warren Beatty character in Shampoo, the very heterosexual hairdresser who slept with everyone in L.A., including Nancy Reagan.24Several of the chauffeurs are women. One of them says, “Poor Lesley Ann Warren, that’s who I’m sorry for. It’s one thing that she was married to this pig who’s porking everyone in town, but when they make a movie out of it, does she get to play herself? No. Goldie Hawn gets the Lesley Ann Warren part.” They go on with the legend of Peters screwing his way to the top, meeting Streisand, who made him her record producer and then her film producer.25

  I try to steer the conversation to the mysterious Mr. Beagle. I hear several rumors, including two that I haven’t heard before. One is that he has a colon disease, odors leak from his body, which is why he doesn’t want to go out in public. The other, that he is working on a top-secret project for the Japanese to develop Japanese TV shows that will compete with American shows, that the purchase of Columbia by Sony is an elaborate charade so that we won’t notice what the Japanese are really doing.