A high, block wall and taller pine trees just beyond it bordered the far, southern end of the property. I reached the trees by crouching low and scrambling along the narrow run of sand until I was well beyond the fence and out of sight. I circled back and came up into the thick tangle of branches and dense needles of the pines, picking a tree that looked like it was good for climbing. A minute later I was several feet up, with a solid perch, surveying Felton’s estate.
The ground floor of the big house consisted of a three-arch arcade enclosed by identical wings on either side, with three covered porches on the second floor under a red-tiled roof, typical of the Mission Revival style. A raised patio extended from the northern portion of the house, looking out over an expansive yard that included a ground-level patio and a swimming pool. An area filled with clean white sand ran the length of the property just inside the oceanfront fence, apparently a private beach that Felton had created to replace the one nature had carried off. An elaborate formal garden occupied much of the south side closest to me, and I recognized Dr. Miller and Freddie Fuentes standing on one of the walkways with two other men in tuxedos. With them were two young boys dressed in jeans and sweatshirts who didn’t look quite old enough for junior high. Several other boys roughly the same age were diving and splashing in the pool, and when they hollered at one another, it was always in Spanish. Up on the raised patio, Mandeville Slayton stood with the blond boy named Jimmy next to him, his hand stroking the boy’s silky hair while he sipped a drink and talked with Edward T. Felton and another man, who also had a drink.
In the garden, the two men chatting with Miller and Fuentes suddenly moved off, each of them taking one of the boys. They disappeared into the house, just as two other men were coming out alone. Several more men and boys could be seen inside through the big bay window, eating and drinking. Most of the boys appeared to be Hispanic, or at least dark-haired; Jimmy was the only blond, and looked to be the oldest by a year or two at least.
The kids in the swimming pool climbed out and ran across the yard, shivering in their wet trunks, hugging their skinny arms. Freddie Fuentes and Dr. Miller had come away from the garden toward the house, and as the boys ran past, Fuentes reached out and snatched one of them up, laughing, speaking Spanish, tickling his sides. He played with the boy like that for a minute or two, toweling him off, tickling him again, inducing him to laugh and squeal. Then, rather suddenly, he kissed the boy on the mouth.
His actions seemed to transform the party, charging the atmosphere with an odd tension, riveting the other men. Almost as a group, they began paying closer attention. A few of them began circling about the boys with a kind of polite stealth, keeping a discreet distance at first yet gradually closing in. Edward Felton was the most interesting study: The confident, smoothly brash demeanor I’d witnessed as he spoke to Templeton had given way to what looked like giddy insecurity. He made awkward attempts to tease certain boys, or tousle their hair, or cajole them to his side, where he touched them stiffly but affectionately about the head and shoulders, gradually growing bolder.
Over the next hour or so, each man found a boy, sometimes two. The children succumbed to the overtures and caresses passively, as if they had been trained and knew what to expect, and what was expected of them. If they were kissed, they responded dutifully, never pulling away. One by one, the men took the boys by the hand and led them into the house, where curtains were drawn, until finally the big yard was empty, and I was alone again with the sound of the pounding waves growing louder.
*
By the time I climbed down out of the tree and made my way back to the shoreline, nearly three hours had passed. The wind had grown steadily stronger, blowing onshore, chopping up the water, driving in the swells, sending the waves higher and higher toward Felton’s sturdy seawall. I’d been so clever following Slayton’s limo to Malibu, sneaking up on Felton’s estate, spying on his party, observing every move, that I’d failed to remember the turning tide.
The ocean had risen like a sleeping giant, and now lapped at my ankles as I started back across the rocks. My fine Italian shoes with their new leather soles might have been made of glass for all the traction they provided. I slipped and slid my way back, going down more than once, banging and striking my ankles and shins against the sharp edges of the granite blocks. The wind was howling, and every so often the ocean surged and a wave battered me full force, slamming me against the rocks, then pulling at me as it receded, then coming back to hammer me again. I scurried crablike, trying to make better time, pressing myself to the cold, wet surface each time a new wave came surging in, but after an hour I was no more than halfway back, with the distant lights of Felton’s house behind me and the infrequent appearance of headlights on the highway ahead.
When I reached the narrowest and most treacherous stretch, where the rocks sloped down to create the channel and leave the seawall exposed, the tide was up to the base of the boulders below me and the biggest waves engulfed me to my waist. I waited several minutes, wedged between two rocks, trying to regain some strength, wondering if perhaps the tide had peaked and might now give me some reprieve. It hadn’t, though, and as I sensed it rising even higher, I finally continued across, trying to make better time. My method was to wait for a wave to strike, then scramble over several boulders until I could hear the ocean sucking itself up for another blast. At that point, I’d crouch low and grab the roughest edge of rock with my bloody fingers, until the wave had passed over me and receded again.
I managed to get halfway across the worst of it, where the boulders were piled almost up to the chain-link fence. The fence was topped with lethal-looking razor wire that made scaling it probably impossible. I sensed the dark water draw back with more viciousness than before, then heard a wave coming in like a mountain moving toward me. I scrambled frantically for the fence, falling, banging my knees and shins, grabbing for the crusty wire links, pulling myself up. The wave hit as I hung on, pressing me into the fence, holding me there for a moment, before it let go and drew back for another assault. The next wave came, and again I clutched the fence. Then another, and another. They came so often now that the blood was washed from my hands; my fingers were pale, bony claws entwined in the steel mesh, the only things that kept me from leaving this life. The cold was brutal, but some time ago I had passed through the shivering stage into a comforting numbness and calm, and I knew that I was in the grip of hypothermia, which was driving my core body temperature dangerously low, along with my resolve. As I clung to the fence, I suddenly smiled, struck by the thought that this was one death I’d never envisioned in my wide-ranging catalog of suicide scenarios. I was frozen to the bone and profoundly exhausted, yet I was also tired in a way that had nothing to do with the mighty sea that pummeled and pulled at me, trying to take me with it. I was tired of everything, really, tired of struggling.
As the waves struck with greater and greater force, and the wind gusted and the air grew colder, I thought of a short story I’d read in high school, something by Jack London about a man lost in the snow, slowly freezing to death, trying to strike a match and light a fire to stay alive, but watching each match sputter and die in the wind. Finally, there were no matches left, just the gradual acceptance of fate as the character welcomed the freezing snow that eased him into a peaceful, permanent slumber. The ocean wasn’t as gentle, as soft and white, or as silent, but as it beat at me again and again so ferociously, it tempted me with a relentless rhythm that was almost lulling. I considered seriously how easy it would be just to let go, to force my stiff fingers apart and let the great, dark ocean have me, to submit to its final embrace. That famous line from Shelley flashed in my dimming brain before sputtering out like Jack London’s unreliable sparking match:
How wonderful is Death, Death and his brother Sleep.
I stood there up against the fence, watching a pair of headlights come down the curve of the highway before disappearing, waiting for the wave that would sweep me away. At some point in the blur of exhaustion and time, the tide peaked and turned. The sea slowly receded, backing away with an almost gallant grace.
I came awake with eyes still closed, to the realization that I’d somehow survived a very rough time. Sleep weighed on me like a heavy stone, and opening my eyes seemed like it might be real work. I sensed that I was in my own bed, naked beneath a sheet and at least two blankets, on my back, stiff and sore pretty much from head to toe.
I also realized there was someone to my right, holding my hand.
At first I assumed it was Maurice, the natural guess. But the hand was too large and the grip too firm, which also ruled out Templeton. Fred, a retired trucker, had big, strong hands, but he wasn’t the type to hold any hand that wasn’t attached to Maurice, and then only during their most private and romantic moments.
I pried open my eyelids and turned my head to see Oree Joffrien sitting on the edge of a chair he’d pulled up beside the bed. He was dressed for work, in a sharp-looking Italian jacket and slacks that tastefully mixed beige and brown, with a patterned tie of subtle golds against an off-white shirt. All of it complemented his dark looks nicely; better than that, actually. His head was its usual smoothly shaved dome, and he’d added a second, delicate gold ring in the lobe of his left ear. Not your average professor of anthropology, but in no way was Oree Joffrien an average kind of guy.
His mustache and goatee, thick but neatly trimmed, stretched a little as he smiled.
“Welcome back, stranger.”
“What day is it?”
“Wednesday.”
“Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“I got someone to cover my morning lecture.”
“Mating rituals of the ancient Bora Bora?”
His smile widened a bit.
“Afrocentrism versus assimilation in the new millennium. How are you feeling, Benjamin?”
“Like I just played in the Super Bowl without pads.”
I started to rise, wincing from the pain. The blankets were down around my belly. Oree pressed his long fingers to my bare chest.
“Better just lie still. You’re pretty banged up.”
I eased myself back down.
“I was out at the seashore last night. Almost took a moonlight swim.”
“That can be dangerous.”
“You’re telling me. How did I get home?”
“Highway patrol found you staggering along the highway just before dawn.”
“I must have fallen asleep on the beach, after I got off the rocks.”
“You were hypothermic, semicoherent, but not so bad that you couldn’t refuse to go to the hospital. They got your address off your driver’s license, brought you home. Woke Maurice and Fred.”
“That was nice of them. Where are Maurice and Fred?”
“Down at the house, making chicken soup.”
“To bring me back from the dead?”
“Something like that.”
I sighed, studying the ceiling.
“I spoke badly to Maurice the other day. Said some really nasty things. I’m surprised he hasn’t evicted me.”
“He probably understands.”
“I’ve been making a real mess of things, Oree.”
I turned my head on the pillow, looking away from him. He pulled the blanket up nearly to my chin.
“You’re slowly killing yourself, Benjamin.”
I kept quiet.
“I understand the impulse. A lot of us have been there. I just wish you’d let me help you through it.”
“I appreciate that, Oree.”
“But not enough to open up, let me in.”
“Maurice been coaching you?”
“It was Maurice who called me, you know. The man loves you, for God’s sake. They both do. You’re like a son to them.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t have Templeton drop over to play nursemaid.”
“They tried. She’s working a story, a plane crash out of LAX.”
“The downed plane. I forgot.”
“She suggested Maurice call me. I was happy to come.”
I looked back in his direction.
“If I’m not mistaken, I’m buck naked under these blankets.”
“I took advantage of the situation, finally got you out of your clothes.”
I laughed, which hurt.
“Remember when we met, Oree? A year ago. It was the other way around—I was after you like a bird dog. You were the one beating tracks into the bushes.”
He squeezed my hand, stroked the back of it.
“I needed some time.”
“So now that you’ve seen me in the flesh, are you still interested?”
“I was interested when you were fully dressed.”
“I’ve let myself go to hell. Can’t be a pretty sight.”
“If I wanted Mr. America, I’d be judging beefcake pageants.”
He raised my hand, pressed his lips to it, let the quiet settle in around us for a moment. “I saw some awful things last night, Oree.”
“Out at the beach?”
I nodded.
“The worst part is, there’s not a lot I can do with it.”
“Maybe you should let Alexandra take over from here, concentrate on taking care of yourself.”
“What we need is a witness, somebody who’s willing to come forward, say what they’ve seen, swear to it under oath—give Templeton the basis for a story.”
“You need to get some rest, Ben. Start eating right, get regular exercise.”
“Now you’re sounding like Dr. Watanabe.”
He laid my hand on my stomach, rose to his feet.
“I’ll go down to the house, bring you back some soup.”
He leaned down, kissed me on the forehead. Then he was around the bed, almost to the door.
“Oree—thanks for dropping by. I’ve never been too keen on being taken care of. But I am grateful.” He blessed me with his beautiful smile, then went out. I had no idea in the world what he saw in me. I just didn’t get it.
*
By early afternoon, Oree had headed off to UCLA and Maurice and Fred had gone out walking with the dogs. I dressed quickly, left a note, climbed painfully into the Mustang, and took off fast. I stopped long enough to pick up a gay guide to Mexico at A Different Light, then I was on my way to find Chucho Pernales in Tijuana. I had just one stop to make along the way.
The mostly gray March weather had bled into April without much change, and the sky along the southern coast was overcast and heavy with moisture, not unlike the morning when Charlotte Preston first came calling. Just north of San Diego, I left Interstate 5 and wound west through the hills and down toward the seaside town of La Jolla. As I neared the ocean, coming around a curve through eucalyptus and pine, I could smell the seaweed and brine. The fog was so heavy here it obscured my view of the coast, misting down like a light rain from masses of cold air that hovered around the green hills behind me, where the houses of the very rich perched in isolated splendor.
A minute later, I was in the main business district, searching for a parking space, a cup of coffee, and a local map. La Jolla was a quiet, genteel town, situated on a rocky peninsula along one of California’s most scenic shorelines, far from the unpleasantness of freeway traffic, heavy industry, or even the toot of a passing train. Yet it was hardly the quaint and charming village to which the famous author, Raymond Chandler, had fled following World War II to escape the mushrooming metropolis of Los Angeles. In more recent years, high-rise office and condominium structures had sprouted up in and around La Jolla between the freeway and the coast, and the available land had been further squeezed out by homes, shops, hotels, even a supermarket or two. From the village, one could no longer see the surf pounding the rocks, or watch children wading in tide pools, or hear the seals barking, as Chandler surely had, before so much development blocked so many views.
The coves and beaches and rocky caves were still there, if you wanted to find them, but as I drove through La Jolla I could see that it was all about commerce now, with just enough galleries and pretense toward culture to make the term “tacky” not really fair. John’s Waffle Shop, where Chandler had surely enjoyed breakfast more than once, reading a mystery novel purchased up the street at Warwick’s, now looked out on a Cartier shop across the alley, just around the corner from a Hard Rock Cafe. Brand names and prefab fun were everywhere, but there was not a single hungry or homeless person in sight, and no one who looked remotely poor, unless you counted the Spanish-speaking cooks and dishwashers in the trendy restaurants, who drove up the coast each day from the barrios of San Diego to serve the wealthy for minimum wage. Complacency and self-satisfaction filled the streets like the artificial sunshine of a Hollywood movie set, while meter maids slapped tickets on overparked cars—the only indication that everything was not in perfect order. As I sipped my coffee on a counter stool in John’s that Chandler might once have used, I realized I hadn’t seen an obviously sick person on the streets, either. With my hidden fevers and infections, it made me feel like a secret leper, an unwanted stranger sneaking through town.
*
Using Charlotte’s notes and a local real estate map, I found Vivian Grant’s house just south of town, on a little side street a block or two from the beach. It was a modest home by La Jolla standards, English cottage in style, with a steep, shingled roof and gardens all around, as quaint and unpretentious as the village must have been several decades back. At the bottom of the drive, a van with the name of an antique store on a side panel sat parked on the street. Two men were coming down from the house, one white and one Hispanic, carrying a solid-looking, ornate cabinet of dark, polished wood.
I climbed from the Mustang, crossed the street, and when they reached the van I asked if they needed a hand. Faintly, from the house, came the sound of a Beethoven sonata being played expertly on a well-tuned piano. The white guy answered my question, starting a pattern that didn’t change.
“I think we can manage, thanks.”
They didn’t, though, and as they struggled to get the heavy cabinet through the open doors of the van, I grabbed the back edge at the bottom and took some of the weight. The Hispanic guy climbed inside to lift from there, and a minute or two later we had the piece in the van unscratched. The guy inside began wrapping it with padding, which he then secured with rope. The white guy thanked me for my help, and I asked him if the cabinet was headed to the shop for restoration.
“Nope, we bought this piece. Nice one, too.”
“Miss Grant’s selling off her furniture?”
“The ladies usually sell us one of their better pieces when property tax time rolls around.”
“I guess they’re in a bind—fixed incomes and all.”
“I don’t know what they’ll do a few years down the road. They don’t have all that many pieces left, and the last time I looked, property taxes around here were still going up. Even a little place like this must cost ’em several thousand a year.”
“Maybe Miss Grant will come into some money before too long.”
“You never know.”
I nodded toward the house and the sound of the Beethoven.
“I guess they’ve held on to the piano, though.”
“That’s probably the last thing they’ll give up. She sure does like to play her music.”
“Miss Grant, you mean.”
“No, her friend, Erica. The smaller one.”
He cocked his head.
“You a friend?”
“I was acquainted with Miss Grant’s daughter.”
His look turned more curious.
“Miss Grant’s got a child? I didn’t even know she’d been married. I guess you learn something new every day.”
“How long have the ladies been selling off their collection like this?”
“Oh, piece by piece for four or five years now. They might not want that broadcast, though.”
“I’ll keep it to myself.”
As the van pulled away, I surveyed the small house above, which looked like it could use some fresh paint and a few new shingles on the peaked roof. Then I started up the drive, which was just steep enough to provide a view of the bay and the dramatic coastline to the north. The fog had burned off along the water, and as I looked over my shoulder, I could see colorful hang gliders with their aluminum spines floating like prehistoric birds off the rugged cliffs above Torrey Pines State Beach. The piano music had stopped, and when I reached the top of the drive, I found myself facing the woman I’d glimpsed at Forest Lawn, playing the role of Vivian Grant’s chauffeur.
She was dressed now in a pale green blouse, pleated beige slacks, and flat, open-toed shoes, and she appeared less masculine out of her driver’s uniform and cap. With her trim figure and short-cropped auburn hair, she looked athletic and fit, like a woman golfer from the forties or fifties, unchanged by time, except for a few wrinkles around the corners of her mouth and eyes that put her somewhere in her sixties, if my guess was right.
She stood directly in my path, her hands on her boyish hips, looking like she wasn’t going anywhere.
“Miss Grant isn’t seeing anyone.”
Her face was all hard angles, but her voice was soft, cultured.
“She’s in, though?”