A Thousand Steps

30

The next morning, after knocking on 157 doors with Laurel, Matt sits in the beach chair on his driveway, folding and banding his papers. He’s spent the last half hour on the phone with the News-Post and Los Angeles Times.

Tommy now holds Matt in awe because of the Register story — front page and above the fold — about the brazen kidnapping of Jasmine Anthony. Tommy holds the paper open in front of him, reading the jump and asking questions.

“This is just freaky cool, Matt. You, a sixteen-year-old paperboy chasing kidnappers down PCH on foot!”

Matt doesn’t know how to feel about the article, which treats him as a minor hero for running into the night after a VW hippie van containing his abducted sister. Wouldn’t any brother?

Hearing Tommy read the story, Matt is reminded that it was smart not to tell the reporter the true color of the van — he said in the excitement he didn’t notice — or anything about peace-sign curtains. The cops still have their secret evidence, he thinks.

“And they put in your sketch of Jazz really nice and big, and the police flyer, too,” says Tommy. “Everybody in Laguna’s going to see this and talk about it. It’ll flush the creeps out into the open.”

“That’s the hope.”

“They didn’t run a picture of you because it might put you in danger.”

Matt nods. “We decided that was best.”

Tommy closes the paper. “You look different.”

Matt figures it’s his new celebrity, his new dangerous life. “Different how?”

“Your shirts are too small.”

Matt looks down at his Endless Summer T-shirt. In fact, his shirts and pants have been tighter lately and he’s felt heavier. No surprise, given how much he’s been eating. And spending, mostly on food. He’s anxious about money, although Grail’s five dollars can go a long way if you’re catching fish. He still wonders where he’ll go after Sunday, which is both the Summer of Eternal Love “experience” in the canyon, and the last day he’ll experience sleeping in this house. His last not-quite-fifteen dollars won’t last long if he has to pay rent on anything but a campground spot.

Tommy slams the trunk lid of his white Chevy Malibu and tosses the paper through the open driver’s window.

Then turns his head sharply toward the base of the Third Street hill. “That chick looks kind of like Jasmine. But shorter.”

Matt bolts out of the beach chair and sees the pretty blond girl coming down Third Street. His heart jumps, though he sees not Jasmine, but Sara the Skateboard Girl and Evolver, carving down one side of the narrow street on her pink skateboard.

“That’s Sara,” he says.

Although Sara seems to be concentrating on her ride — arms out and legs bent — she also appears to be coming straight at them. Matt would wave but he doesn’t want to distract her. She’s coming fast and the cars are buzzing up and down Third and Sara looks small and smashable.

Hair flying, she casts a look behind her and pumps twice hard, angling across the street and into Matt’s driveway. Stops with a wheelie flip and catches the board in midair.

“Hello, Matt Anthony.”

“Sara.”

“Sara Eikenberg.”

“And I’m Matt’s good friend and boss, Thomas.”

Tommy offers his hand and she shakes it with a motion and posture that, to Matt, reveal an upper-class, perhaps even royal upbringing. She’s polite but dismissive. All of her attention is on Matt and Matt feels it.

She’s wearing denim short-shorts, a black halter, and pink sneakers that match her pink-with-white-daisies board. Her temples are soggy with sweat and her shoulders shine golden in the sun.

“I came by to see if you want a well-paying job,” she says. “It’s on my parents’ estate in Emerald Bay. It will be hard work. Mahajad told me you’re always hungry and need money.”

“Yes. I am.”

“Dad wants it done tomorrow morning.”

“Do you need two men?” asks Tommy.

“Just one.”

“Well you got a good one,” he says. “This guy chases kidnappers up and down PCH just for fun. Here, front page.”

Tommy hands her a freshly folded and rubber-banded Register. Smiles at her, climbs into his car and drives off.

“I already read it,” says Sara. “Unbelievable that Jazz has been kidnapped in Laguna, and that — according to her phone call — she’s being held somewhere right here in town.”

“That’s why I’m door-knocking with Laurel.”

A look. “What a huge labor, going door-to-door like that and dealing with people who may not want to help. Or even be polite.”

“She’s out there, somewhere.”

“You will find her.”

She tosses the unopened afternoon final into Matt’s pile.

“If you live in Emerald Bay,” he says, “why don’t you go to Laguna High?”

“I go to Jokewood, up in Newport. With all the other spoiled rich kids.”

Matt knows of it: Oakwood Academy. Jazz calls it Jokewood, too. Jazz and Sara Eikenberg don’t just look kind of similar, he thinks. They have the same superior attitude, same sarcastic humor.

“Congratulations on evolving,” he says.

“Thanks. It took a while. I’m not cut out for evolution but the others helped me along. Some of them are spaced out and weird, but mostly they’re alright. At least they want to improve themselves.”

“Did you know Bonnie Stratmeyer?”

“From the photo Happenings and the Vortex. I saw her a couple of times. And then, poof — she was gone.”

“You call them Happenings?”

“The director calls them Happenings. That’s Rene DeWalt. He wanted to call them ‘Be-Ins’ but Timothy Leary has that title all sewn up.”

Matt looks into Sara’s squinting face. There’s something pugnacious about it when she’s not smiling. An inner toughness. Jazz again.

“What kind of job is it?” he asks.

“We cut down twenty big eucalyptus trees on our property. Ground the stumps, too. Eucalyptus are shallow-rooted, so they blow over in Santa Ana winds, and they’re a fire hazard. Dad hates waste, so he wants the log sections to line the driveway. The driveway is long and steep, and some of the log sections are, well, sizeable. He wants the biggest ones down at the bottom by the gate, for a dramatic welcome. Then, the smaller ones up top. Dad doesn’t want a tractor chewing up the roses and groundcover. The tree crew was bad enough. He wants it done by hand. We have a wheelbarrow.”

“Why me?”

“When I told Mahajad I needed a worker, he suggested you. Told me the hungry always work the hardest.”

“How much?”

“Fifteen bucks.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Not really. Dad can afford it. You’ve probably heard of D.L. Eikenberg Homes.”

Matt certainly has. And everyone knows that Emerald Bay is one of the best and most expensive neighborhoods in Laguna. The job doesn’t sound too hard, and he has a pair of decent work gloves.

“Sara, how old are you?”

“Sixteen and a half. Got my license six months ago and Dad bought me a new Porsche.”

“I got mom’s hippie van.”

“I really dig those.”

He’s about to say she could drive it sometime, but the Westfalia is for him and Laurel, right?

Moby Cop comes to a stop in Matt’s driveway and the driver’s window goes down. Furlong studies Matt and Sara from behind his aviators.

“Stupid,” he says to Matt. “You should never have talked to the press. Now those kidnappers — if that’s in fact what you saw — will keep low and hide their van out of sight. You helped them.”

“I didn’t say the color of the van.”

“Come here.”

Matt goes to Moby Cop, checks the back for prisoners but it’s empty. He looks up at the still-seated sergeant.

“You disappoint me, Matt. I give you trust and money and a way to do the right thing. I am concerned for your family, whether you know it or not. But you do this. After I order you not to.”

“I think it was best, sir. For Jasmine. They threw her into that van like she was a toy. It was terrible and people in Laguna should know about it. But you don’t even believe that happened. I have no patience left for you or your department.”

“There are places for boys like you. You do not want to see one.”

He looks past Matt to Sara, throws Moby Cop into reverse, and backs out.