Southside (9781608090563) (29 page)

•  •  •

I turned the story in Tuesday and the editors at the
Weekly
loved it. They had some very minor edits and a few questions, but that was nothing, especially for a story that long. I felt grand.

That night, Francesca and I went to dinner at Jar on Beverly Boulevard. Usually when we go out, some foodie would recognize Francesca and say hello and tell her some dull story, all the while ignoring me. I was used to it. That night at Jar, a tipsy, face-lifted, bejeweled seventy-something woman approached the table. “Here comes one of your fans,” I told Francesca. Instead, she directed her gaze at me.

“Aren't you the young man who got shot on television the other day?” she said with a slur.

“No, I didn't get shot. Just grazed.”

When the story came out in the
Weekly
, it received lavish praise and attention. The only other time I'd received anywhere near as much notice for an article was years ago for a story about a gang leader known as Big Evil. The
Weekly
was so lauded, that they offered me a full-time staff gig. Much to Francesca's chagrin, I passed, saying I needed to think some things over.

“Like what?” Francesca asked.

“Just some things.”

“Like what things?”

“I don't know yet, but there must be some things that need to be thought over.”

“Just get a job.”

Later, I got lousy news from my cousin Greg. He and Carly Engstrom and thirty others had been let go, given their walking papers by the
Times
. The
Times
was downsizing big time. Cutting staff. It was hard times for newspapers. I called Laurie Escobar at home and told her I would take the job offered. She was glad to hear that, and so was Francesca.

A week later, Francesca and I were heading up the highway. She had surprised me by taking off five days and reserving a room for three nights at the Post Ranch Inn on the mesmerizing Big Sur coast.

We left Los Angeles shortly before ten, timing it so we could be in Santa Barbara as the doors opened at La Super Rica, said to have been Julia Child's favorite Mexican restaurant. We were there in seventy minutes and had a feast for twelve dollars.

That first night we stayed 160 miles farther up the coast in Cambria near the Hearst Castle. Stayed at the Castle Inn on Moonstone Beach Drive. Made out across the street on the rocky beach, made love on the silken bed.

The next morning we set out on the magnificent odyssey up Highway 1 to Big Sur. I was going to relish the windy drive in the Porsche Turbo S. I wished I could crank it up and emulate my favorite race car drivers—Fangio, Moss, Clark, Stewart, Senna, Schumacher—but I knew it would scare Francesca, and a one-sided fight would ensue. So I planned to drive merely rapidly with just an occasional blazing burst.

The day Highway 1 beckoned was a glorious one. Cobalt sky, crashing waves. I thought of the other line I knew from the Iliad.
As when along the thundering beach the surf of the sea strikes beat upon beat as the west wind drives it onward
.

I said it aloud. She shook her head. “We have a long drive. Go easy on the saffron.”

The road work on that part of Highway 1 had been constructed by inmates from San Quentin starting in 1919. Those killers, those early day Big Evils, built Highway 1. It was, in all the world, my favorite road. I stomped on it. The twin turbos whooshed and the famous chef and the crime reporter were gone.