Authors: Jerrilyn Farmer
I
got down to the Brea Indoor Shooting Range by 7
P.M.
The box that held my first pistol, my loaner from Honnett, was beside me on the passenger seat of the rental Trailblazer. I had looked at it at Wes’s guest house. It was pretty darn cool.
There were many reasons why I had never thought of owning a pistol before. I don’t come from gun people. My parents didn’t hunt or shoot. No one in my extended family did. My friends and I were not into guns and ammo. Before this, my weapon of choice had been my Cuisinart. But I had never doubted for a second that pulling a trigger and trying to hit a target might be fun. I have played my share of Tomb Raider. I enjoy games of precision, of cat-and-mouse intrigue, and to be truthful, a certain amount of animated destruction. I’m the first one to suggest we rent
Terminator
again. And in my present situation, I was certainly not immune to the lure of the power of a handgun. Hell, it was the very urgency of my situation, my powerlessness, that had propelled me to this northern section of Orange County in search of a shooting range and my appointment with Andy Abfel, my as-yet-unmet shooting instructor.
As he had promised, Honnett had brought the gun to Wesley’s house by six o’clock. I had already been on the phone with the Brea Indoor Shooting Range to book a private lesson.
The range closed at ten, but I offered a bonus if my instructor could stay even later and show me everything I needed to know. This would present no problem at all, I was told. And I’d end up with a certificate that would satisfy the state of California. Excellent.
I eventually pulled off the 57 Freeway at Lambert Road, as I’d been advised, and headed west a mile and then turned right on Berry. The indoor shooting range was located among the complex of commercial buildings on the east side of Berry Avenue.
In the reception area, I got my first surprise. Andy turned out to be Andi. Her black hair was pulled into a ponytail that reached almost to her waist. She was about my height, but about ten years older than I am, if I had to guess. Her dark brows were full and expressive and her dark brown eyes gave me a kind look. She wasn’t as annoyed as I would have been to have her gender misguessed by a name. Just when you think there is no one on the planet more liberal-minded than you are, you get a wake-up call. Thanks, universe.
Andi asked to look at my handgun. I put the box on the counter and she opened it. Inside was a very clean, very shiny revolver. It was a .38-caliber Smith & Wesson Lady Smith with special custom engraving.
“This yours?” She couldn’t have sounded more skeptical.
I became nervous they wouldn’t teach me if I didn’t own the gun. “A friend gave it to me.” Which was, you know, technically true. “Why?”
“Must be a pretty good friend,” she said, checking me out. “You know how much a gun like this is worth?”
“No.”
She eyed me carefully.
“It must be a lot,” I said. “So why would I come here with an expensive custom gun and not know the first thing about shooting it? you’re wondering.”
“Well, that’s not a bad question,” Andi encouraged me. “Go on.”
“My friend is a cop. Lieutenant Chuck Honnett of the LAPD. He thinks I need to have something at home for protection. He just brought it over. I had no idea he would bring something valuable. Tell me about it.”
Andi relaxed at the mention of a friend in the department, and I relaxed when she relaxed. I might know nothing about guns, but I do know people. I run parties, I plan major events. I deal with people all day long. I know what buttons need to be pushed to smooth away resistance.
Andi lifted the gun out of the satin-lined case. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “This is the 65LS, a thirty-eight-caliber revolver. You know about guns at all?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think you did. Well, a revolver is a good choice for a beginner. They’re the simplest to clean and take care of. That what your cop uses?”
I had no idea what kind of gun Honnett carried. I was ashamed to realize I had never taken enough of an interest to find out. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, standard issue for LAPD are the Beretta 92 nine-millimeter, Kimber 1911-style forty-five, or Smith & Wesson in either forty caliber or nine-millimeter.”
“Oh.” I wondered if she could tell I hadn’t understood a word she had said.
“Let’s take it slowly,” she suggested kindly. “The caliber of the ammunition—like a police-issue forty-five?—describes the size of the bullet. The larger the caliber, say a forty-five versus a twenty-two, the more stopping power. Got it?”
I nodded. “So bigger is better.”
“Well, some folks think so. But then the bigger guns are heavier and bulkier to carry, right? And they have serious recoil.”
She laughed. “They kick like hell. So there are always trade-offs. Everyone has a theory on what is best. But your cop friend’s duty gun is going to be a pretty large piece of equipment in a serious caliber.”
“So this isn’t like that,” I said, knowing I was a fool.
“Well, this is a
Lady
Smith. It’s marketed for us women.” She smirked. “But if that doesn’t offend your feminist sensibilities, it’s a fine gun.”
“And thirty-eight caliber is…enough?”
“I’d say so. It’s a pretty popular size. You find a lot of folks take to them. Not as hard to handle as a forty-five, although I love my forty-five.”
I nodded, just like I knew what she was talking about.
Andi continued: “You should be very happy with it. This model is really an evolution of the famous Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special, a revolver that cops have carried for years. No wonder your friend bought it for you. And then, she’s a beauty. Look at that scrollwork. He must like you very much.” Andi touched the fanciful etching on the stainlesssteel barrel. And I had to admit, none of my girlfriends had ever before gauged the depth of my boyfriend’s affection by the coolness of the gun he’d given me. The life lessons I had yet to learn were staggering.
“It’s a revolver,” I said. “Is that good?”
“Revolvers are easy to use. The mechanics of this type of gun are simpler and it has fewer parts than a semiautomatic, making maintenance—even very minimal maintenance—easier. It is also less likely to have firing problems—you know, jams—because of its design. And, assuming a clean gun using the correct ammunition, most such problems can be fairly easily cleared by the owner. For this reason alone, revolvers are often recommended to new shooters.”
“Okay. That sounds fine.”
“Revolvers are also easier to load,” she continued, opening
a box of ammunition as she instructed me on the gun. “The cartridges go into the cylinder, which is part of the gun. See? Like this. You put the rest in.”
I did as she had done. The weapon felt good in my hands, I had to admit. Weighty and smooth and cool.
“Very good,” she said, watching me. “Now unload the chambers. Like this.” I did. Pretty simple, really. I began to believe I could get all this down and relaxed a little.
Andi nodded approval. “Okay, with the ammo back in the box, the gun is now safe, got it?” She made eye contact to check that I was staying with her.
“You a former cop?” I asked.
“Ex-army,” she said softly. “My husband and I both.”
“I was expecting I’d get one of those modern-looking guns,” I told her, looking at a chart on the wall that showed a line of sleek black handguns. I read a bit of the ad copy. “A semiautomatic. Are they better?”
“Different,” she said. “Some folks like them better, but a semiautomatic has a separate magazine and they can be a little more finicky mechanically. If you don’t know about guns, you may not want to take on that learning curve right away.”
I was only the lowest-rank novice, and already I was having gun envy.
Andi smiled at me. “Frankly, lots of folks like their looks. High tech and all. More
Matrix
than Bat Masterson.”
I nodded. “But a revolver works. Right?”
“Yep. You’ve got a terrific handgun here. See, she’s large enough to give stability and that means much less recoil. You’ll get a chance to feel what I’m talking about in a few minutes.”
I smiled, reassured.
“Really, the main drawback to a revolver for home defense is capacity.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Capacity. Most revolvers hold only six rounds. In many situations—one or even two attackers—this is plenty. In some situations, however, the gun owner might find herself in a fight that requires more than six shots.”
I swallowed. “More?”
“A home invasion that ranges over a wide area, with no one immediately incapacitated, for example. Or if a second or third attacker was revealed after the first few shots were fired…” Andi turned her hands up, showing just how lame that would make one feel with one’s revolver plum out of bullets.
Nice. Real nice. As if my nightmares hadn’t been graphic enough before.
“But you’ll be just fine,” she said, and went back to instructing. “She’s short-barreled, see? She comes with a pinned black-ramp front sight and fixed rear sight.” As she talked, she pointed out the features. “Well balanced with the help of a full-lug three-inch barrel, and this rosewood grip feels great in your hand. And I have to say, the engraving here is as fine as it gets. Look at the scrollwork on the cylinder and all over the side plates?”
“Yes. It’s pretty.” Did people say that about guns? I was so lost.
“Have you ever shot a gun before?”
I shook my head no.
“We’ll get you out in the range in just a few minutes. You’ll have some fun then.” Andi smiled.
Seven hours later I arrived back in Hancock Park, with enough training on handgun safety and cleaning and loading and aiming and squeezing the trigger to give me a little confidence. For one thing, I wasn’t too bad out on the range. Not bad at all. Give Nintendo credit. For another, Andi told me that most defensive home handgun situations do not require
you to hit a tiny circle on a target twenty yards away. Closer and larger targets are easier to hit. I found that comforting. Somewhat. Considering I was limited to six shots.
When I got to my room in the guest house, I found Wes and Holly were still out. They’d been working a small dinner party in Calabasas. I undressed, and then brought my gun case with me to the bathroom as I took a quick, hot shower. I pinned up my hair, put some cream on my face, and put on a fresh tank top and boxers, then, carting my gun case with me, I turned down my covers. I thought it over and then knelt down and put my new gun, case and all, under my bed. I turned out all the lights and then slid between the cool white sheets.
The house was quiet and very, very dark. I was exhausted. And yet I heard the ticking of Wesley’s grandfather clock coming from the living room.
Tick-tock-tick-tock.
It was extraordinarily loud. And then I heard the creaking of footsteps, or maybe that was just wind in the floorboards?
I flicked on the light, climbed out of bed, and pulled the case with the revolver—my revolver—my Lady Smith .38—out from under the bed and opened it up.
I knelt at the bed and prepared to load the gun just the way Andi taught me to. The filigreed, engraved satin finish gleamed. I checked out the patterns, which covered the barrel and other metal parts. It was then, for the first time, I saw a variation in one of the scrolls. What I had taken for a flourish on one of the curlicues on one of the side plates was actually a fanciful letter. It was an
L
or possibly an
S.
I stared. It quite possibly could have been a
Q.
How intriguing. I opened the box of bullets and began placing them in the six chambers.
Andi had warned me that revolvers don’t have safeties. She had advised me to be extremely careful with a loaded weapon. But there were no children in this household. And a
gun was no good to me if it wasn’t close and convenient and loaded.
I fought the strong urge to put the gun under my pillow. Instead, I placed it on top of the nightstand and again turned out the bedside lamp.
I tossed a bit under the covers. The night was still warm enough to require only a sheet. I kept imagining outrageous calamities. Wesley’s maid comes in early and tiptoes into my room and inadvertently jostles the nightstand and…Impossible. Or, an early
A.M.
earthquake, one strong enough to knock the gun off the nightstand, then it hits the floor and discharges. In which direction would the bullet go?
I reached for the lamp switch. I climbed out of bed. I opened the drawer of the nightstand and moved my tangle of little thong underwear to one side. I carefully rested the Lady Smith in the drawer. Worst-case scenario, I’d grab the gun and have a pair of panties hanging from my fist.
That done, lights out, sheet perfectly arranged, I found I was finally able to get a good night’s sleep.
I
t’s funny how a good night’s sleep can change everything. I got up early and, first thing, unloaded my gun and stored it in its case, which, like a responsible adult, I then tucked into the nightstand drawer. The forceful wave of the previous evening’s paranoia was now spent and gone. I pulled on a fresh pair of yoga shorts and a white sleeveless top, thinking the usual, normal things—like wondering when I might find time to do my laundry, rather than worrisome things—like why my life had become enmeshed in so many crimes.
I left Wesley a note. He had been out late the previous night, so instead of cooking myself breakfast in the smart little guest-house kitchen and maybe waking him, I decided to walk up to the old Farmers Market, only three miles away.
The early-morning air was fresh, cool. I pushed myself, moving fast, getting my heart pumping. I strode down Hudson until I came to the first major thoroughfare and then jogged west along Third, admiring the stately old mansions in the neighborhood: the gray mock French Normandy; the lilac Gothic Revival; the ubiquitous Mediterraneans in white or pink or tan, each with exquisite landscaping and perfectly trimmed trees. The majestic corner homes shared an edge of their upscale property with modern, car-clogged Third Street. City life. Say hello to the honking reality of L.A. real estate.
I stepped up my pace. In a little while, I was going to meet with Dilly Swinden and Zenya Knight to firm up our plans for the flower-arranging luncheon Dilly had bought at the Woodburn auction. I’d ask them about the menu and their choice of wine. We’d discuss decor and I’d offer a selection of invitations. They had settled on next Monday for their party, and since the event was to be held in just six days, we would construct the invitations ourselves; then a few of our regular staff would hand-deliver the them later this afternoon. I was to receive the final guest list at our meeting.
Maybe I might find out more about Zenya’s brother as well. Maybe she and I would discover a quiet moment to chat. A sister could be a wonderful resource. Wait. What was I thinking? What was with me? I wished I would stop all this adolescent mooning. Somehow, Dex had wormed himself into my brain. I was, like, Dexified. Disgusting. Even as I drove home from the shooting range last night, it was Dexter Wyatt who filled my thoughts. Last night, just before I drifted off to sleep, it was Dexter Wyatt. Man!
It wasn’t just his great laugh, or that he so completely got my sense of humor, or his unflappability among late-night escapades and odd restaurants. It wasn’t simply the rush of his obvious interest in me either. He just seemed so free and unencumbered. Not only did Dex not have a
wife,
he hardly seemed to have had a serious girlfriend in his past. And yet, beneath his charm, I suspected he was serious about me. My stomach fluttered at the thought. And let’s face facts, he did have a perfectly sexy smile with perfectly straight, very white teeth. And he had this disarming quality that was both sophisticated and antiestablishment funky. And his hair…
Snap! I told myself. Snap out of it!
I crossed a street, continuing west, nervous I was beginning to daydream about this new guy in my life like some thirteen-year-old staring at her Chris Martin poster. I swear,
I didn’t recognize myself. But as soon as I told myself, No more fantasies, I felt awash with a sudden sadness, a loneliness. Arlo had been the wrong guy for me, I was sure of that. And then Honnett…Honnett had seemed right, but he was still entangled with…I simply refused to think about his wife one more time.
I shook my head, crossing another small side street, and then looked back again. I was not only obsessed with a cute guy, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me. But I stopped and checked again, thoroughly, and there was no one paying me the least attention at 8
A.M.
on that busy street as rush-hour traffic honked by.
In just a few blocks, the older quality of the neighborhood had begun to brighten, freshen, become more fabulous. Everywhere I looked, I saw new buildings where old ones used to be. On my left were amazing, glamorous new apartments. On my right was the Grove, a brand-new shopping mall along with its huge new parking structure. I sighed.
All these new buildings make me sad. I love L.A.’s history, short and tacky and tasteless though it often is. I love to learn about the movie studios and neighborhoods. I collect stories of old-time residents. L.A. was never very “real” to start with. And each twentieth-century building that is leveled to make way for some brand-new “twentieth-century-
style
” building just messes with my head. How can they destroy all that authentic fakeness for this newer and more glam fakeness?
Anyway, I walked more quickly, happier pondering architectural philosophy than where I stood with my boyfriends, and headed for an actual relic of the old Los Angeles I admire.
To get a feel for L.A.’s history, one doesn’t need to go back very far in time. In 1870, a guy named A. F. Gilmore drew straws with a partner and ended up owning a 256-acre
dairy farm. It was just his luck that by the turn of the century, while drilling for water for his herd of dairy cows, Gilmore hit oil. By 1905, the dairy was gone and the Gilmore Oil Company was on its way to becoming the largest independent oil company in the West. Isn’t L.A. grand?
By 1934, farmers were doing what they could to fight the Depression. They pulled their trucks onto empty land at the corner of Third and Fairfax, and displayed their produce on the tailgates of their vehicles. It was suggested that Gilmore could make some money by charging the farmers fifty cents a day to sell their produce out of wooden stalls. The original farmers’ market was born. I read all about it in a book Holly gave me for my birthday.
Today, this ancient relic of a tourist site was almost overshadowed by its glamorous neighbor, the Grove, an upscale, open-air mall modeled after some grand old fantasy downtown with architectural facades inspired by L.A.’s Art Deco era. But why, I ask, would anyone prefer to wander through yet another Gap when she could, instead, explore old-time Farmers Market establishments with names like the Gift Nook? And the Gift and Gadget Nook! And the Gadget Nook Gourmet? This is incredibly authentic tourist-trap chic, people. To get into early-twentieth-century L.A., one can’t be allergic to kitsch.
I turned into the old wooden complex, feeling perkier than I had in a week, as I observed the stands of fresh produce, where avocados were the size of grapefruits, and grapefruits the size of small planets. I would pick up a couple of gargantuan cantaloupes to bring back to Wesley—a little gift for his breakfast. And maybe I’d find a few special things and cook a dinner for Dex.
L.A.’s old Farmers Market is made up of a series of fifteen large, white wooden buildings with green roofs and brown shutters. They encircle an open-air quad, which is
filled with at least thirty smaller, freestanding stalls, creating a maze of narrow, sunny walkways. I had entered at Gate 12—no grand entrance covered in limestone in sight—happily walking in through this modest side door between two sections of Mr. Marcel Gourmet Grocery. A small sign by their register announced they do local deliveries. How cool. I’d have to tell Wes.
Food. It was the central idea of Farmers Market, its core, perhaps the greatest reason I love this indoor/outdoor bazaar so much. Everywhere you turn, your eye is offered dazzling displays. In addition to dozens of shops and grocery vendors, there were all sorts of delicious things on display. There were three produce stands, two meat markets, a homemade-candy shop, two nut shops, two poultry marts, two bakeries, a flower shop, and two ice-cream parlors. I loved to smell fresh peanut butter being churned at Magee’s Kitchen. Or to taste fresh horseradish ground from giant, gnarled roots. Everything edible is here. You can watch apples being dunked in caramel at Little John’s, and over at Du-Par’s restaurant a plate-glass window lets you observe their bakers rolling dough for their pies.
And there were dozens of cafés and open-air food stands. Cajun gumbo, Japanese sushi, Belgian waffles, Italian pasta, and on and on. Sometimes, Wes and I select a different item at three different stands, often finishing up by sharing a magnificent crepe. But today I was looking for a place to think.
I turned left and walked halfway down the lane until I reached Kokomo Café, a truly great breakfast place tucked among the Farmers Market’s fruits and nuts. Think modern California cuisine in a diner setting. Salads, soups, sandwiches, shakes, and the best thick-sliced bacon in town. In a serve-yourself kind of environment, I found the funky sitdown atmosphere and the quirky waiters at Kokomo’s a bit of self-indulgence I could afford.
My waiter, a dreamboat actually, came for my drink order.
“A large iced tea, please.”
“Coolio.” He made eye contact.
“Say, I can’t help it, but you look so damn much like James Dean.”
He smiled. “I get that all the time.” And then he told me a story I hadn’t heard before, about how James Dean ate his last breakfast here at Farmers Market just before embarking on his final, fatal auto trip. “Not at Kokomo,” he quickly added.
“Wow.”
“But if you’re in the mood for a current celebrity sighting,” he said, leaning his head to the right. “Drew Barrymore. Be cool now.” And he went off to fetch my tea.
I took a brief, California-cool peek. It’s not polite to disturb the stars. But a peek? No problem.
I checked the menu briefly. I know it pretty well. I considered their famous red flannel turkey hash, and then their special huevos rancheros—eggs prepared with smoked-tomato salsa—but life had been freaking me out. I needed the carbs of comfort offered by Kokomo’s fluffy pancakes.
“What can I get you?” asked the James Dean guy.
“Pancakes.” I sighed, giving in.
“With a side of bacon?”
“Naturally.”
The star spotting and breakfast ordering accomplished, I knew I needed to get my head together. I pulled a notepad out of my bag and uncapped a pen. I enjoyed the sounds of big-band music piped over their stereo system. Benny Goodman. By the time my pancakes arrived, steamy and hot, I had covered three pages in notes. Most were regarding the upcoming Woodburn-ladies luncheon, but the last page veered off, of its own accord, in the direction of the missing saxophone. I guess it was all the big-band music in the background,
but I began to wonder if anyone at the Woodburn had ever found out what happened.
By nine-thirty that morning, I had made it back to Wesley’s place. I showered and changed into my meet-the-clients clothes. In the ranking of my casual wardrobe, this higher level of formality required a snappier top and a pair of designer khakis. I chose a black rayon blouse worn open over a white tank tee, and high-heeled sandals to complete the ensemble. My hair was pulled into a high ponytail, as the day was getting hot.
I had been ignoring the pile of messages Wes had left for me, the topmost announcing I could pick up my Jeep from the police lot, and walked out to my waiting SUV. I liked the new-car smell and the extra cup holders in the Trailblazer. My old Grand Wagoneer could wait another day. At eleven o’clock, I climbed the steps to Zenya Knight’s house in Beverly Hills, down the street from her neighbor and benefit cochair, Dilly.
In Zenya’s living room, I found Dilly had already arrived and was sipping from a bottle of Arrowhead water. The three of us moved to the magnificently furnished dining room and put our heads together. In short order we nailed down all the details that needed to be nailed regarding the upcoming Monday luncheon, all of us very conscious of how rushed the event planning would need to be. It was fun to see Dilly and Zenya again, as we had spent a lot of time together over the past months working on the Woodburn affair. This time, we had no committee approval to get past or benefit to run. The flower party would be a relaxed and happy occasion.
“Are you traveling in August?” I asked them both, making polite conversation.
Dilly was a gorgeous dark-haired former model with long graceful legs and dancing eyes. Although probably around
fifty, she dressed in an aggressive young fashion. Like a twenty-year-old with a $200,000 clothes budget. She gave Zenya a knowing look and asked, “Should I tell her?”
“Oh, Dilly!” Zenya giggled, flipping her long hair back, and opened a bottle of Chardonnay.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m telling everyone I’m going to Tahiti, but I’m not.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the Desert Palms Clinic.” She waited breathlessly, but I had no idea what she meant. “To get a lift.”
“Really?”
“Just a partial. Not the eyes. I’m so excited. I shouldn’t tell anyone, but I can’t wait.”
“You’re getting a face-lift?” I thought Dilly Swinden was one of the most beautiful women I’d seen. She was tall and fine-boned and had barely any signs of age to notice, besides which I like people who look like they have had a life. “You look so young.”
“No, I don’t.” She put the tips of her index fingers on her two cheekbones and tugged ever so slightly up. Then she let it go slack for a moment and again pulled upward. She repeated the demonstration a third time. “See?”
“Really, Dilly. It barely makes a difference.”
“I can see it,” she said.
Zenya, only thirty-five or so, looked down at her hands.
It was rarely talked about openly in these circles, but successful older men, the ones who could afford such fantastic homes as these and attracted such beautiful wives, did occasionally trade them in for younger models, a fact of which both Dilly Swinden and Zenya Knight were intimately aware. After all, they were both second wives themselves. Dilly had married her husband, Gerard, when he was in his midforties and she was just twenty-five. She must realize that
at the time of his hurried divorce years back, Gerard’s old discarded first wife had been younger than Dilly was today.
Gerard Swinden was the chairman of the board of a savings and loan and was also on the board of the Woodburn. He and Dilly had no children, but he had a family by his first marriage, and his oldest daughter had been an excellent cellist, I’d heard. At the time of his divorce, all those years ago, his first wife was literally shut out of her old life. She’d had to leave her friends at the Woodburn Guild since she couldn’t stand to watch Dilly, the new Mrs. Swinden, take her seat on the board. Dilly found those early committee meetings chilly. It was hard to be accepted into this crowd of do-gooding women, each one eyeing the next young wife who made her entrance with the sick expectation that her own place could be taken…in time.