Flesh And Blood

CHAPTER 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 “Bésame Mucho” that would have done Spike Jones proud, but no mistaking the artistry.

Seven songs later the copper tentacles spread and a gardener’s truck emerged, hooked a left, and sped by. Then nothing, as the rest of the album played out. I inserted another cassette – the L.A. Guitar Quartet – listened to one complete side, and was about to pack it in when the gates swung back again and a black Expedition shot out and barreled south on PCH.

Silver-gray trim along the bottom of the door panels, oversized tires, chrome running boards, windows tinted nearly black. Cheryl’s car, as described by Norris, but no way to tell if she was behind the wheel. I followed from a safe distance. The Expedition’s brake lights never flashed, not even around sharp curves, and it paid no homage to the speed limit.

The former Mrs. Duke in her usual hurry? She hadn’t displayed any signs of impatience down on the beach, or up at the estate. Why was she still living at the estate a year after the divorce? Maybe not of her own free will. The appearance of Anita Duke and Kent Irving had thrown her. The two of them letting themselves into the guesthouse without apology. Anita calling the shots. Cheryl had capitulated easily to Anita’s will.

Under the thumb of the Duke family? Some sort of custody issue? Kent Irving had alluded to her poor maternal skills, and Baxter’s near drowning backed that up. Perhaps the Duke clan was pressuring her to give up the kids, had negotiated her staying close.

Were the kids with her right now? The Expedition’s black windows made it impossible to know.

I stayed with her past Pepperdine University, maintained the tail as the SUV turned off on Cross Creek, bypassed the fast-food joints and the newer businesses fronting the shopping center, and entered the Malibu Country Mart. The vintage stores were a series of low-rise wooden buildings arranged around U-shaped parking lots and topped by hunter green banners. Nice view of the Malibu hills and land-side homes in the distance.

Not too many vehicles at this time of day, and I waited until the Expedition found its spot – hogging two spaces opposite Dream Babies Fragrance and Candle Boutique. I parked the Seville as far away as I could. Near the Dumpsters – a pattern seemed to be forming.

Cheryl Duke climbed out of the SUV, slammed the door, and headed for the candle shop. Alone, no kids. She’d changed into a red silk tank top that exposed a band of flat, ivory belly, pipe-stem white jeans, and white sandals with high heels. Her hair was pinned up loosely, and big, white-framed sunglasses blocked the top half of her face. Even at this distance the bottom half seemed grim.

She threw back the Dream Babies screen door and entered, and I sat there checking out the neighboring establishments. More “shoppes” than shops, bikinis and gym wear, nostrums to sooth the skin and the ego, souvenirs and tourist art, a couple of cafés on opposite ends of the U.

The eatery farthest from the candle shop advertised coffee and sandwiches and provided two flimsy outdoor tables. I took the long way over to avoid being spotted, bought a bagel and a cup of Kenyan roast from a sickly-looking kid with a blue goatee and a Popeye tattoo on the side of his neck. Someone had left a folded Times on the condiments counter, and I expropriated the paper and brought it outside. Both tables were dirty, and I cleaned one off and sat down and busied myself with the daily crossword puzzle, keeping my head bent except for brief glances at the fragrance boutique.

Ten minutes later Cheryl Duke exited toting a pair of shopping bags. She hooked immediately into Brynna’s Bikinis, spent another quarter hour inside, and I made my way through the acrosses before being stymied by a five-letter word for “old fiddle.” She reemerged with an additional bag, dipped into Bolivian Shawl and Snuggle for thirteen minutes, and when she left that store she was toting three more sacks but looking no happier.

Heading my way.

I lowered my head, filled in a few more blanks, came up with “rebec” for the fiddle, because it was the only thing that made sense. Just as I’d wrinkled my brow over a three-letter clue for “Catullus composition” I heard her say, “Alex?”

I looked up, feigned surprise, saw my twin reflections in her sunshades.

Smiling. Surprised. Mr. Innocent.

“Hey,” I said. “Know a six-letter word for ‘Indian pony’? Starts with c and ends with se?”

She laughed. “No, I don’t think so – I can’t do that stuff. This is weird, seeing you again. Do you come here a lot?”

“When I’m in Malibu. How about you?”

“Sometimes.”

“We probably passed each other without knowing it.”

“Probably,” she said.

“Doing some heavy shopping?”

She placed the bags on the ground. “No, just… It’s just something to do – maybe it’s like karma or something. Seeing you. Or like when you think about someone and then they keep turning up – you know?”

I grinned. The sunshades said I was doing okay. “Karma sounds fine to me. Care for some coffee?”

“No, thanks-” The dark lenses moved from side to side, taking in the parking lot. Her bare arms were smooth and lightly freckled. No bra under the tank top. Those nipples again. “Sure, why not. I’ll go get some.”

“Let me.” I stood and handed her the puzzle. “See what you can do with this in the meantime. Cream and sugar?”

“A little milk and some artificial sweetener.”

As I turned she took hold of my arm. Leaning forward and giving me a view of fat, white breast tops.

Her finger made a tiny circle on my elbow.

“Also decaf,” she said.

When I returned she was hunched over the paper, white-knuckling the pen, tongue tip protruding between her lips. Her hair was down, and it looked freshly combed.

“I think I got a couple of them,” she said. “‘Lynx’ for ‘wild cat,’ right? And ‘Burnett’ for ‘comedienne Carol.’ But not that pony one – maybe ‘cochise’? Isn’t that Indian or something?”

“Hmm,” I said, handing her the coffee. “No, I don’t think that’s it. This connecting one’s ‘mayfly,’ so there has to be a y in there.”

“Oh, right… sorry.”

I sat down, picked up my cup. She did the same.

“Mmm, good,” she said, sipping. “People who do these things – puzzles. I always think it’s amazing. I’ve got street smarts, but I never really cared much for school.”

“Which streets?” I said.

“Phoenix, Arizona.”

“Hot.”

“Like an oven. Sucked. I left there when I was seventeen – dropped out before graduation, fibbed about my age, and got a job in Las Vegas Rollerblading in Magic Wheels.”

“The skating show,” I guessed.

“Yeah, you know it? I used to be a great skater – skated since I could walk.”

“Magic Wheels,” I said. “That went on for a while, didn’t it?”

“Years. But I was only in it for six months, sprained my ankle and it healed okay but not good enough for serious skating. Then I got a place in the line at Follies du Monde.”

Off came the sunglasses. Her eyes looked serene. Talking about herself had relaxed her. I sat back and crossed my legs, looked at the three diamond rings on her right hand, the three-carat ruby on her left.

“A showgirl,” I said.

“Well, it really wasn’t all that – just your basic dancing and kicking,” she said. “First thing they did was change my name. The producers. They said I was gonna be a headliner, needed a new name.”

“What’s wrong with Cheryl?”

“Cheryl Soames,” she said. “It’s not exactly Parisian.”

“So what’d they come up with?”

“Sylvana Spring.” She stared at me, waiting. “It was like a big meeting between me and the choreographer. We came up with it together.”

“Sylvana. Pretty.”

“I thought so – it means the woods, so like, let’s take a walk in the woods. And Spring because what’s the best time to walk in the woods – the spring. I thought it was kind of fresh and poetic. Anyway, I danced my tush off for a year but they never made me a headliner but I kept the name.”

“Another injury.”

“No.” She frowned and put the sunglasses back on. “It’s all politics. Who does what to who.”

“So how’d you end up in Malibu?”

“That is a long, long story.” She tapped the newspaper, looked away. “Would you mind if I break off a tiny bit of your bagel? I haven’t eaten all day – watching the carbs, but I am kinda droopy.”

“Take all of it.”

“No, no, just a nibble.”

“Don’t tell me you’re on a diet.”

“No,” she said. “I just watch. Because – I mean, how long do you have what you have?”

She broke off a crumb, chewed, swallowed, took a bigger bite, ended up finishing half of the bagel.

“Kids napping?” I said.

“Yup. Finally – it’s hell getting them tired enough to nap. That’s why we were down on the beach. What a day – So anyway, I figured why not use the time to look after little old me?”

“Makes sense,” I said. “I want to be honest with you, Cheryl. Your brother-in-law told me who owns the property.”

“My brother-in-law?”

“Kent Irving. He said he was Baxter’s and Sage’s uncle, which would make him your brother-in-law, right? He gave me his card with Duke Enterprises on it. I didn’t realize I was on famous ground.”

She frowned. “He’s not their uncle. He just likes to say that because it’s… simpler to explain.”

“What do you mean?”

“His wife – Anita – she’s actually their sister – Baxter’s and Sage’s. Their half sister. Not their aunt. That makes her my stepdaughter, so I guess Kent’s my stepson-in-law.” She giggled. “Pretty weird, huh?”

“It is a little complicated.”

“She’s a lot older than me and I’m her mom – Don’t laugh, okay? If I start laughing this coffee’s gonna go right up my nose.” Tipping down the sunglasses, she flashed green-blue innocence. “It is complicated. Sometimes I can’t believe I’m in the middle of it.”

“Hey,” I said. “Blended families. Happens all the time.”

“I guess.”

“So Kent’s their brother-in-law,” I said. “And he works for… He is your husband, right? You’re married to the famous Tony Duke.”

“Not anymore.” She looked into one of the shopping bags. Pulled out a red string bikini and held it up. “What do you think?”

“The little I can see is nice.”

“Oh, you,” she said. “Men – they just can’t visualize.”

“Okay,” I said, closing my eyes. “I’m visualizing… The little I can see is terrific.”

She laughed and dropped the swimsuit back in the bag. “Men think naked is the best, but let me tell you, a little bit of cloth’s a whole lot sexier.” Her hand lowered toward her coffee cup, digressed, and brushed against my knuckles.

“So you’re the ex-Mrs. Duke.”

She slapped my wrist, lightly. “Don’t say it like that. I hate that.”

“Being an ex?”

“Being any kind of Mrs. I’m twenty-five years old – just think of me as Cheryl, okay? Or even Sylvana. Mrs. is like someone old.” She breathed deeply, and her breasts budged reluctantly.

“Cheryl it is.” I finished my coffee, went in for a refill, and bought another bagel. “Here you go – more nutrition.”

“No way,” she said, showing me a palm. “A few bites of that and I’ll bloat up and have to be rolled home.” But after another sip of coffee, she began taking tiny chipmunk nibbles, and within moments she’d gnawed off the top of the bagel.

“Look,” she said, “I shouldn’t even be talking about this – Anita, Kent, Tony. We’ve been divorced for a year, if you need to know. But, what the hey, no one can tell me what to do, right?”

“Right.”

“The thing about Tony is, I still feel close to him. He’s really a great person, not at all what you’d think.”

“What would I think?” I said.

“You know, the whole sex thing. The dirty old man stuff. I really did – do love him. Just in a different way, now. He’s-” Shaking her head. “I really shouldn’t be talking about this.”

I ran a finger across my lips. “Don’t mean to pry.”

“You’re not prying, I’m blabbing. The thing is, it’s totally my life, right? Why should I be always listening to people telling me what to do?”

“Who tells you what to do? Anita and Kent?”

She picked up the crossword puzzle, squinted at the grid, blinked. “These letters are tiny, I probably need a new contact lens prescription… You know, I think that pony clue might be ‘cayuse.’ That’s got a y, and I think I remember some Indian word like that from Arizona – Cayuse ponies, whatever. Take a look – what do you think?”

She pressed forward, bosoms resting on the table, slid the paper toward me.

“You know,” I said, “I think you’re right – excellent.”

A huge smile spread across her face as I filled in the blanks, and for a moment she looked very young.

“You must be smart, doing these. Maybe I should start doing them too,” she said. “To keep my mind active. I get bored a lot – there’s not much to do.”

“At the estate?”

“I know, I know, it’s everyone’s idea of paradise, what am I bitching about? But believe me, it’s boring. There’s tennis, but I hate tennis ’cause of the sun, and how many laps can you swim, how many times can you ride that cable car, up and down, up and down, and stare at the ocean? Even Tony’s zoo – he’s got these rare goats and some monkeys and other stuff, but it smells bad and it’s noisy and I don’t like animals. Even the kids are bored with it. When they’re up and running around, I keep pretty busy, but when they nap, like now… I want to put them both in preschool, but so far it hasn’t worked out.”

“Why not?”

“So many details,” she said. “Finding the right place, arranging transportation. Making sure about security.”

“Security?” I said. “Like a bodyguard?”

“At least somewhere we can be sure they’ll be safe. There are plenty of movie stars in Malibu, and they send their kids to preschool, but we want to be especially careful.”

“Could I ask a personal question?”

“I might not answer it.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “If you’ve been divorced for a year, why are you still living there?”

“Well,” she said, “that’s another long story.” Her hand rested on mine. “I still want to thank you. For being there, you know? Because Baxter can swim, but he could’ve been in trouble. I didn’t want to make a big deal about it in front of Anita, so I have something else to thank you for – not saying anything.”

“No problem.”

“What do you do for a living?” she said.

“This and that. I have some investments.”

“Ooh,” she said. “That sounds rich. I bet you’re not as rich as Tony.”

“No argument there.”

Her hand trailed up my arm, tickled my chest, touched my lips, withdrew.

“Why am I still living there,” she said. “Well… after the divorce, I had my own place. Up in Los Feliz hills, a really cool place. Tony got it for me because of the gates and the security – it was a real safe place. Or at least we thought so. Tony wanted the best for me.”

“Sounds like a friendly divorce.”

“He was sweet… Anyway, me and the kids were in this great old house in Los Feliz – lots of land, all these fancy details, this gigantic bathroom with a view of the hills. And close to Hollywood, so one day I took the kids to the Egyptian Theatre to see A Bug’s Life – it was cool, they had this whole sideshow next door about bugs and stuff, computer games, toys, Bax and Sage went crazy. Afterwards we went out for dinner and ice cream and it was late when we got home and Sage was already sleeping on my shoulder and Bax was pretty close to conking out. Anyway, I turn the key and we walk into the house and instead of greeting me with a big bark the way she always did, Bingles – that’s our dog – was – this gorgeous standard poodle who won a ton of shows – instead of greeting us, Bingles is lying in the entry hall, not moving, with her tongue stuck all out and her eyes real dull.”

“Oh boy,” I said.

“I freaked, Alex. If the kids hadn’ta been with me, I would’ve screamed. Baxter runs over to shake Bingles, but I could tell from the way her tongue was sticking out that she was gone and I’m screaming at him not to touch her and then Sagey wakes up and starts crying and then I smell it. This horrible gas smell. I got us all out of there fast, called Anita. She sent a driver for us, brought us out here, sent some specialists to Los Feliz. Turns out there was this massive gas leak – the house was old and the pipes weren’t great and somehow the main flue got clogged or something. They said it was lucky we left when we did because all the windows were closed because it was a cold night. They said we could’ve died in our sleep. Or if I’da lit a match, the whole place could’ve gone up. They fixed the problem, but we’ve been here ever since. Eventually, I’ll get another place – but closer to Tony because… he is their dad.”

“Scary,” I said.

“Close call. Just like today.” She rubbed my thumb with two of her fingers, and the gems in her rings glinted. “There must be an angel looking down on me, or something.”

She finished the rest of the bagel. “Anyway, that’s how Hollywood Me became Malibu Me again.”

“You never did say how you got from Vegas to Malibu.”

“Oh, that,” she said, wiping crumbs from her lips. “After they wouldn’t make me a headliner, I got bored and decided to see what I could find in L.A., figured I’d try modeling or acting or something. I had some money saved up, got myself a neat apartment in the Marina, hit the agencies. But they didn’t want full-figured girls, and I didn’t want to do sleazy stuff, you know?”

I nodded.

“Nudies, hard-core – I mean the body’s beautiful, but you have to keep standards… Anyway, I checked out a few agents for commercials, but they were all losers. I’d started thinking about taking a boring job or something. Then one day I saw this ad in the paper offering good money for being in a psychology experiment. And I said, Girl, if there’s one thing you know, it’s psychology. ’Cause back when I danced, it was all psychology. Fix your eyes on certain guys in the audience and play for them, pretend you know them and they know you. It set the tone – so you could be… realistic, you know? It made it more real, and that pleases the audience, and when the audience is happy, everyone’s happy.”

“Connecting,” I said.

“Exactly.” She rolled my thumb some more. “So I figured, what the hey, it might be fun doing some psychology. So I checked out the ad, and the guy running it was really sweet and it turns out all he wanted me to do was be in a room with some guys – just be myself – and see what they would do.”

“That’s it?”

“He – the psychologist – was measuring reactions to what he called stimuli. For commercials, ads, whatever. I guess he figured I was pretty stimulating. Another good thing, it was down in Newport Beach, so during lunchtime I got to sit on the sand and chill. I’ve always loved the ocean; there isn’t much of that in Phoenix.”

“All you had to do was sit there and he paid you?”

“That was it,” she said. “Like modeling, but better. ’Cause there was no photographer making me twist in weird positions. And Ben – the psychologist – was a sweet, sweet guy, never made a move on me. Which, for me, is a twist, you know?” Squeezing my thumb.

I said, “I’ll bet,” and she grinned.

“At first, I figured he was just waiting for the right time, but then I could see he just wasn’t into it, so I started to think he was gay. Which was fine, I like gay guys – I mean I wasn’t disappointed or anything like that. I am not like that.”

Suddenly her voice hardened, as if I’d accused her of something. Her nail dug into my thumb, and I lifted it gently.

I said, “Men come on to you even though you don’t encourage it.”

“Exactly. You listen, don’t you? I mean really listen.”

“On good days.”

“He’s like that, too – Ben. A good listener. Anyway, I did this experiment for a month or so, and finally he did ask me out. But not like a come-on. More like father-daughter, being friendly, wanting to know how I enjoyed the job. He took me to the Ivy at the Shore. He was a perfect gentleman, wanting to know me as a person, we had a real good time even though I didn’t feel any – you know: sparks. And then – and this is the karma part – we’re leaving to get into his car, waiting for the valets to bring it up, and this other car drives up. This gorgeous maroon Bentley Azure, and another guy gets out – older, really well-dressed, really well-groomed – but mostly I’m looking at the car, ’cause how many of those do you see – chauffeur, chrome wheels, a million coats of lacquer. But Ben is staring at the guy who gets out. He knows him. And the other guy knows him, too – the two of them start hugging and kissing and I’m thinking I was right, he is gay. Then Ben says, Cheryl, this is my father, Tony, and the other guy bows and kisses my hand and says, ‘Enchanted, Cheryl. I’m Marc Anthony Duke’ – which shocked me. Because once I heard the name, of course I connected it to the face, but you don’t expect someone like Tony to know someone like Ben, let alone be his dad. Ben doesn’t even go by Duke – he uses the real family name. And he’s nothing like Tony – I mean nothing. You couldn’t have two guys more different.”

She paused to catch her breath. Licked her lips, threw back her shoulders, and thrust out her chest. “Anyway, that’s how I met Tony and I must’ve made an impression, because the next day, he called me. Said he’d gotten Ben’s permission – which was a twist, right? So cute. He asked me out, and the next thing I know, we’re flying to Acapulco, and the rest, as they say, is history. Basically, he swept me off my feet.”

“Whoa,” I said.

“Whoa, Nelly,” she said. “Now you tell me something, and be honest, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll bet when I told you I’d been married to Tony you figured I’d posed for him and that’s how he discovered me, right? You figured I was a Treat of the Month?”

“Not really-”

“Oh, yes you did,” she insisted, slapping my wrist. “Everyone assumes that. And that’s okay. But Tony always told me I was his special treat. Did you know I’m the first woman he had babies with since Ben and Anita’s mom died? And I gave him beautiful babies.”

“Adorable.”

Her fingers spider-walked to my wrist. “You’re very nice – So what kind of investments do you do?”

“I own some properties.”

“Sounds profitable.”

“I get by.”

“Nice,” she said. “Good for you. Having time to hang out. But you’re intellectual, I can tell that. I have a sense for people. So what else besides boating do you do for fun?”

“Play a little guitar.”

“I love music – Tony’s tone-deaf, but he pretends to like music. For parties, you know? He brings in the best live bands. Catch 159, Wizard, the last one we almost got the Stone Crew.”

“Sound like incredible parties.”

“Sometimes,” she said. “Other times it was a thousand strangers invading and stuffing their faces, and all these tramps from the magazine shoving their tits in Tony’s face. Sometimes it was for causes – like charity, you know – and Tony would let other people come in. Like retarded people, burn victims. Thank God I won’t have to deal with that anymore.”

“Because of the divorce,” I said.

“That and Tony doesn’t throw parties anymore.”

“How come?”

“Things change.” She freed my hand, ate more bagel. “I am definitely going to bloat up.”

“I doubt that. So did Ben turn out to be gay?”

She stared at me. “Who cares?”

“Not me, just making conversation.”

“Well, he’s not,” she said. “He’s just one of those, you know – not into it. Like a priest.”

“Asexual.”

“There are people like that, you know.”

“Life would be pretty boring without variety,” I said.

She smiled. “You like variety?”

“I thrive on it.”

“Me, too… Seeing as we both thrive on it, would you like to get together or something?”

“When?” I said, touching the side of her face.

She drew away. Smiled. “How about right now – no, just kidding, got to get back to feed the kids before someone accuses me of neglecting them. But maybe someday you could glide by in your little canoe and I could just happen to be on the beach. Maybe wearing this.” Tapping the bag with the bikini.

“That sounds very good,” I said.

She reached into a bag, brought out a small appointment book, wrote down a number, tore out the page.

“This is my private cell phone.”

“I feel privileged,” I said, taking the slip.

She reached out, took my face in both her hands, kissed me too hard on the mouth, pressing her teeth against my lips and ending with the merest swipe of tongue. “This has been very cool, Alex. Lately, no one seems to be appreciating me. Bye, now.”