Up ahead and to the right were high, peach-stucco walls. Black, angled court lights hinted at tennis, and a rubbery thump-thump said relaxed competition.
A sharp twist of the pathway revealed a building—a quarter mile up, at the terminus of a palm colonnade. More peach walls and an Italianate heap the size of the White House under a royal blue roof. The pathway forked, and Cheryl chose the route that took us away from the house, through an allee of orange trees. Several smaller buildings cropped up along the way—acres away, similarly colored, heavily plant-shrouded. Then a few people: women in navy blue uniforms sweeping the walkways. Stout, dark-haired women with bowed legs, dresses hanging below the knees. Norris and the parking lot dudes would be crushed.
We entered a dark, bamboo-lined cul-de-sac, walked five hundred feet, turned sharply east. At the end of the path stood a one-story house only twice the size of the average suburban dream. A trellis-topped front loggia was burdened by a mass of half-dead trumpet vine. More bamboo towered at the back. The same peach walls and cerulean roof. Up close, I saw that the stucco had been sponged to a mottled finish and lacquered glossy. The worn Mediterranean villa look, complete with artificial age scars at the corners, peeled back to reveal ersatz brickwork. Huge double doors of weathered walnut looked genuinely ancient, but any attempt to evoke the Aegean or le Cote d'Azur was killed by the roof tiles—some kind of space-age composite, too bright, too blue, cheesy enough to top a pizza.
"Here we are," said Cheryl over her shoulder. "My place."
"Nice."
She tossed her hair. "It's temporary. I used to have a place of my own, then . . . What's the difference?" She hurried toward the double doors, yanked the handle. Resistance pitched her forward, and Sage's head bob-bled.
"Locked?" she said. "I left it open—shit, someone must've locked it." Patting the pockets of the dress. "Shit, I didn't take a key. Now I feel really stupid."
"Hey, it happens."
She faced me, and the blue-green eyes narrowed. "Are you always this nice?"
"Nope," I said. "You caught me on a good day."
"I'll bet you have lots of good days," she said, touching my pinkie with hers but making it sound like a character flaw. She licked her lips. Lovely California girl face. Fresh, healthy, unlined. Even the freckles were perfectly placed. Nature's bounty, if you discounted the aggressive mammaries.
"Okay," she said, "it looks like I'm going to have to go find someone to let me in. I can leave you with Baxter and take Sage—no, I guess you better come with me."
"Sure," I said.
She gave a soft, breathy laugh. "You have absolutely no idea where you are, do you—no idea who owns this place?"
"Someone with a good stockbroker, I'd say."
She laughed. "That's funny." Her eyelids shuttered closed, then opened slowly. "Where exactly are you from, Alex?"
"As in the turnip truck?"
"Huh?"
"I'm from L.A., Cheryl."
"Where, like the Valley?"
"West L.A."
"Oh." She thought about that. "Because the Valley can be a far place— sometimes people don't know what's going on over the hill."
"So you're saying this is some kind of famous place?" I shrugged. "Sorry."
"Well ..." She winked conspiratorially. "I bet you really do know— without knowing you know. Take a guess."
"Okay," I said. "Some kind of celebrity ... a movie star. If you're an actress, I'm sorry for not—"
"No, no." She giggled. "I've acted, but that's not it."
"Someone rich and famous ..."
"Now you're getting warm—"
She looped her pinkie around mine, and I thought of how Robin had held my index finger as she slept.
"C'mon," she said. "Guess."
Then one of the double doors opened and she jumped back, as if slapped.
A couple stood in the opening.
The woman was tall, thin, slightly stooped, in her late thirties, with broad shoulders and long limbs. Square-jawed face, black, brooding eyes, mahogany hair tied back in a ponytail, too many worry lines for her age. Despite the wrinkles, a chapped slice of mouth, and the grainy vestiges of teenage acne on chin and cheeks, she was attractive in a forbidding way— some men would go nuts for the challenge.
She had on a slim-cut, burgundy pantsuit with black velvet shawl lapels and matching cuffs. Any curves she might've owned were concealed bythe loose drape of the suit, but the gestalt was poised and feminine. No jewelry, lots of foundation masking the blemishes. No problem recognizing her: Anita Duke. Marc Anthony's heir apparent and the new CEO of Duke Enterprises.
Ben Dugger's younger sister. I searched for resemblance, saw nuances of shared chromosomes in the stoop and the sad eyes.
The man beside her was a few years younger—thirty-two or -three— and an inch shorter. He wore a cream linen suit, pink silk T-shirt, beige sandals without socks. A platinum watch with a face the size of a snowball flashed from under his left sleeve. Thick wrists, bristly reddish hair curling up to the knuckles. His face was a full, ruddy sphere atop a soft, seamed neck. Long, thick, coarsely wavy hair the color of dirty brass flowed over his ears and trailed past his collar. Some recession in front exposed a high, domed brow. Sooty puffiness below deep-set hazel eyes gave him a sleepy look. He had a small, straight nose, no upper lip to speak of. But the lower slab was full and moist, and when he smiled at Cheryl his teeth were snowy and perfectly aligned. Strongly built, the slightest suggestion of pot above the waistband of his linen trousers. If he took care of himself, he'd remain crudely handsome for a decade or two. If not, he'd end up a Falstaffian cartoon.
"Cheryl," said Anita Duke, softly. Her eyes were on me.
"What are you guys doing here?" said Cheryl. "Did you lock the door? I left it open."
"We had no idea where you were so we locked it, Cheryl. Who's your
friend?"
"Alex. He— I was down on the beach and—he ended up helping me."
"Helping you?" Anita looked me up and down. Same onceover Cheryl had delivered down on the beach, but this scrutiny was impersonal—flat and suspicious—without the slightest flavor of flirtation. Trained eye accustomed to judging flesh?
The long-haired man had been examining Cheryl's wet dress. One of his hands began massaging a button of his suit.
"I had a little . . . trouble," said Cheryl.
"Trouble? "said Anita.
"No big deal," said Cheryl. "So . . . what're you guys doing here?"
"We dropped by," said the man. He had a high, nasal voice. Without looking at me, he said, "Doing some diving?"Cheryl said, "He was boating, Kent. Baxter got a little bit in the water, and he helped me. So I thought it would be nice—"
Anita broke in: "Are you saying Baxter could've drowned?"
"No, no. It never got to that point— It's no big deal, guys. He just got in the water before I could stop him and the waves got a little ... I would've reached him just fine, but Alex here was passing by, and he was nice enough to jump in, that's all."
"Alex," said the man named Kent. "Sounds kind of exciting—"
Anita Duke shot him a sharp look, and he shut his mouth.
"It was no really big deal, guys," Cheryl insisted. "You know what a good swimmer Bax is. It's just that I had Sage on my hands too, and by the time— Alex helped me and I wanted to thank him, so I asked him to come up so I could give him something."
"A tip," said Kent.
Anita said, "Well, that's certainly the gracious thing to do." To Kent: "Why don't you show him our appreciation, honey, and then you can see him off."
Talking softly, but no mistaking the imperiousness. There's nothing men despise more than being ordered around by a woman in front of another man. Long-haired Kent smiled and dipped his hand into his trouser pocket, but the anger settled around his eyes and his mouth, and he threw it back at me.
A crocodile billfold appeared, and he pulled out a twenty and waved it in my face. "Here you go, my friend."
"A little more than that, Kent," said Anita. "After all."
Kent's mouth turned down, and his eyes disappeared among fleshy folds. "How much?"
"You be the judge."
"Sure," said Kent, forcing a smile. Another twenty joined the first.
"I'd say another," offered Anita.
Kent's smile hung on for dear life. Out came the billfold again, and he thrust the sixty dollars at me. "My wife's the generous type."
"No, thanks," I said. "No tip necessary."
"Take it," said Anita. "It's the least we can do."
"It's just as she said, no big deal."
Cheryl said, "Anyway, I need to get the kids inside."
"I'll help you with them," said Anita. "Give me Baxter—he's always ahandful for you." Stepping forward, she placed her hands around the boy's rib cage, took him from me, kept her face close to mine. "Let's make it an even hundred dollars and then you can go, Alex."
"Nothing," I said. "I'll go anyway."
"Oh, dear," said Anita. Holding Baxter tight, she walked into the house.
Cheryl flashed me a look—helpless, apologetic—then followed.
Kent said, "Let me give you some advice: When someone offers you something, you should take it. Just out of courtesy." He waved the three twenties.
"Donate it to charity," I said.
He smiled. "I thought I was— Okay, you're a stubborn guy. Let's get you back to your canoe." Placing a hand on my shoulder. Squeezing a little too forcefully, and when I resisted he dug his fingers in even harder. I freed myself from his grip, and his hands rose protectively. Boxer's instincts. But still smiling.
I turned and headed back down the pathway. He caught up, laughing, his pink T-shirt spotted with sweat. He wore a strong cologne—orange brandy and anise and some other scents I couldn't pinpoint. "What exactly happened with Cheryl and Bax?"
"Just what Cheryl said."
"The kid wasn't drowning? You just decided to play hero?"
"At the time it seemed the right thing to do."
"I'm asking because sometimes she gets careless," he said. "Not intentionally, more like . . . she doesn't always pay attention." Pause. "Did she wave for you or did you just volunteer?"
"I saw the boy out in the water, couldn't tell he was a good swimmer, and went after him. That's it."
"Oh boy," he said, chuckling. "I've rubbed you the wrong way. Sorry, I just wanted to know. For the sake of those kids. I'm their uncle, and more often than not the responsibility falls on my wife and me."
I didn't answer.
He said, "We're talking child welfare here, my friend."
"I volunteered," I said. "I probably overreacted."
"Okay," he said. "So now I've got a straight answer. Finally." Grin. "You're making me work, bro." He wiped his forehead.
We walked to the fence in silence. When we got there he placed his hand on the gate latch. "Look, you did a good deed, I really would like to compensate you. How about two hundred, cash, and we call it a deal? Also, I'd appreciate it if you don't tell anyone about this— You live around here?"
"Tell who?"
"Anyone."
"Sure," I said. "Nothing to tell."
He studied me. "You don't know who she is?"
I shook my head.
He laughed, whipped out the billfold.
I shook my head. "Forget it."
"You really mean it, don't you?" he said. "What are you, one of those Samaritan guys? Okay, listen, if there's anything I can do for you—like if you need some work—do you do construction stuff? Or maintenance? I've always got something in development. Did you come from Paradise?"
I nodded.
"The restaurant," he said. "That's one of mine—we're going to turn it into a landmark. So if you need a gig ..." He slipped a white business card out of the fold.
KENT D. IRVING
Vice President and Projects Manager Duke Enterprises
"Duke," I said. "Not the magazine?"
"Yes, the magazine, bro. Among other things."
I smiled. "Then how about a free subscription?"
"Hey, there's an idea." He slapped my back, drew his head back, and looked into the sun. Edging closer. Crowding me. "Give my office a call, we'll send you a coupla years' worth."
I said, "I can see why you wouldn't want me talking to anyone."
"Can you?" Harder slap. "Well, there you go. And I know you'll show some class. Not showing class would make a lot of people very unhappy, and you don't look like the kind of guy who wants to spread unhappiness."
"God forbid."
"God doesn't always forbid it," he said. "Sometimes we have to look out for ourselves."
He held the gate open, waited until I'd walked to the cable car and boarded, then produced a remote-control unit of his own. Big smile and a thumb flick and I was descending.
He waved bye-bye. I waved back, but I was staring over his shoulder, a hundred feet beyond, by one of the rock ponds, where a man in tennis whites stood and tossed something to the flamingos.
Thick torso, bulky shoulders, a cap of cropped black hair.
Black Suit, now in tennis whites. Drawing back his arm, he pitched to the birds. Scratched his head. Watched them eat.
Kent Irving kept his eye on me as I sank out of view.
29
WHEN I GOT BACK to the broken pier, Norris was sitting in the sand, legs yogi-crossed, smoking a joint. As I dragged the kayak to shore, he got up reluctantly and looked at his bare wrist. "Hey, right on time. Any wildlife?" He offered me the j.
"No thanks. Just birds. The feathered kind."
"Oh well," he said, toking deeply. "Listen, any time you wanna take a ride, let me know. Keep bringing cash and I'll keep giving you a discount."
"I'll bear that in mind."
"Yeah . . . good idea."
"What is?"
"Bearing shit in your mind and not somewhere else." Rocking on his knees, he settled, sucked hungrily on the cannabis, stared out at the darkening ocean.
I drove up from the cove to the coast highway, turned right, and parked on the beach-side shoulder, with a hundred-yard view of the entrance to the Duke estate. One more hour—what could it hurt?
I ran the tape deck as I slumped in the front seat. Old recording of Oscar Aleman riffing on a shiny silver National guitar in some thirties Buenos Aires nightclub. Aleman and the band peeling off a ha-ha rendition of "Besame Mucho" that would have done Spike Jones proud, but no mistaking the artistry.