Gone

CHAPTER 24

I exited the courthouse parking lot and took Rexford Drive through the Beverly Hills municipal complex. The light at Santa Monica was long enough for me to leave a message on Milo ’s cell.

Driving home, I wondered about the affair between Meserve and Nora. Partners in the worst kind of crime or just another May-December romance?

Wouldn’t it be nice if Reynold Peaty got caught doing something nasty, confessed to multiple murder, and we could all move on.

I realized I was driving too fast and slowed down. Switching on a CD, I listened to Mindy Smith’s clear, sweet soprano. Waiting for her man to arrive on the next train.

The only thing waiting for me was mail and an unread newspaper. Maybe it was time to get another dog.

As I turned off Sunset, a brown Audi Quattro parked on the east side of Beverly Glen pulled behind me and stayed close. I sped up and so did the Audi, as it rode my tail close enough for a rear-view of bird dirt on the four-ring grille. A tinted windshield prevented further clarity. I swung to the right. Instead of passing, the Audi downshifted, drove alongside to my left for a second, then sped off in nasal acceleration. I made out a driver, no passengers. A rear bumper sticker sported red letters on a white background. Too brief for me to read the whole message but I thought I’d seen the word “therapy.”

When I reached the bridle path that leads to my street, I looked for the car. Nowhere.

Just another friendly day on the roads of L.A. I’d been an obstruction and he’d felt compelled to tell me.

The phone was ringing as I walked into the house.

Robin said, “Sorry I missed your call.”

That threw me for a second. Then I remembered I’d called her this morning, hadn’t left a message.

She understood the pause, said, “Caller I.D. What’s up?”

“I was just saying hi.”

“Want to get together? Just to talk?”

“Sure.”

“How about talk and eat?” she said. “Nothing too intense, name the place.”

Long time since she’d been in the house that she’d designed. I said, “I could make something here.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather go out.”

“When should I pick you up?”

“How about seven- seven thirty? I’ll wait outside.”

Meaning don’t come in? Or did she crave fresh air after hours of sawdust and varnish?

Did it matter?

Rose Avenue sported a few more boutiques and cute cafés tucked among the laundromats and fast food stands. The ocean air that blew through windows was sour but not unpleasant for that. The night sky was a swirl of gray and indigo, textured like pigments mixed haphazardly on a palette. Soon the the cute cafés would be overflowing, pretty people fortified by margaritas and possibilities spilling out to the curb.

Robin lived minutes from that scene. Did she ever participate?

Did that matter?

Her block on Rennie was quiet and inconsistently lit, lined with neatly tended little houses and side-by-side duplexes. I spotted the flower beds she’d planted out front before I saw her step out of the shadows.

Her hair bounced as she beelined to the car. Nighttime turned auburn rosy. Her curls reminded me, as they always did, of grapes on the vine.

She wore a second-skin top in some dark shade, form-fitted light jeans, boots with nasty looking heels that clump-clumped. As she opened the door the dome light told all: chocolate brown tank top, textured silk, one shade lighter than her almond eyes. The jeans were cream, the boots mocha. Silvery pink gloss ripened her lips. Blush on her cheekbones created something feline.

Those curves.

She flashed a wide, ambiguous smile and put on her seat belt. The strap cut diagonally between her breasts.

“Where to?” she said.

I’d taken her at her word about “nothing intense.” Haute cuisine meant ritual and high expectations and we could do with neither.

Allison liked haute. Loved rolling the stem of a wineglass between manicured fingers as she engaged in earnest discussion of an elegant menu with snooty waiters, her toes trailing up my trousers…

I mentioned a seafood joint in the Marina that Robin and I had patronized back before the Ice Age. Spacious, dockside, no-sweat parking, nice view of a harbor full of big white boats, most of which seemed never to go anywhere.

She said, “That place. Sure.”

We got a table outdoors, near the glass wall that keeps the wind out. The night had turned cool and butane heaters were switched on. The sports bar up front was packed but it was still early for the Marina dinner crowd and more than half the tables were empty. A chirpy waitress who looked around twelve took our drink order and brought Robin’s wine and my Chivas before we had a chance to get awkward.

Drinking and gazing at the yachts postponed that a while longer.

Robin put her glass down. “You look fit.”

“You look gorgeous.”

She studied the water. Black and sleek and still, under a sky streaked with amethyst. “Must’ve been a great sunset.”

“We had a few of those,” I said. “That summer we lived at the beach.”

The year we’d rebuilt the house. Robin had served as the contractor. Did she miss the place?

She said, “We had some spectacular ones at Big Sur. That crazy Zen place that was supposed to be luxurious, then they stuck us with chemical toilets and that terrible smell?”

“Rustic living.” I wondered if the place had been on the resort list Milo and I had just run down. “What was it called?”

“The Great Mandala Lodge. Closed down last year.” She looked away and I knew why. She’d gone back. With him.

She drank wine and said, “Even with the smell and the mosquitoes and that splinter in my toe from that stupid pinecone, it was fun. Who knew a pinecone could be lethal.”

“You’re forgetting my splinters,” I said.

Oversized incisors flashed. “I didn’t forget, I chose not to remind you.” Her hand made circular motions in the air. “Rubbing that ointment into your cute butt. How could we know that other couple would be watching? All that other stuff they could see from their cabin.”

“Should’ve charged them tuition,” I said. “Crash course in Sex Ed for the honeymooners.”

“They did seem pretty inept. All that tension at breakfast. Think the marriage lasted?”

I shrugged.

Robin’s eyes turned down a bit. “The place deserved to tank. Charge that kind of money and smell like a cesspool.”

More alcohol for both of us.

I said, “Nice to be with you.”

“Just before you called this morning, I was thinking.” Brief smile. “Always a risky thing, no?”

“Thinking about what?”

“The challenge of relationships. Not you and me. Me and him.”

My gut twinged. I drained my scotch. Looked around for the baby-faced waitress.

Robin said, “Me and him as in What Was I Thinking.”

“That’s rarely useful.”

“You don’t engage in self-doubt?”

“Sure I do.”

“I find it good for the soul,” she said. “That old Catholic girl resurfacing. All I could come up with was he convinced himself that he loved me and his intensity half convinced me. I was the one who broke it off, you know. He took it really hard- but that’s not your problem. Sorry for bringing it up.”

“He’s not a bad guy.”

“You never liked him.”

“Couldn’t stand him. Where is he?”

“You care?”

“I’d like him to be far.”

“Then you got your wish. London, teaching voice at the Royal Academy of Drama. His daughter’s living with him- she’s twelve, wanted the switch.” She tugged at her curls. “It was rude, bringing him up.”

“He’s a twit,” I said. “But the problem wasn’t you and him, it was you and not me.”

“I don’t know what it was,” she said. “All this time and I still can’t figure it out. Just like the first time.”

Breakup number one, years ago. Neither of us had wasted time finding new bed partners.

I said, “Maybe that’s the way it has to be with us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Eons together, centuries apart.”

Somewhere out in the open water a ship’s horn sounded.

She said, “It was mutual but for some reason I feel I should ask your forgiveness.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“How’s Allison?”

“Doing her thing.”

Soft voice: “You two are really kaput?”

“That would be my bet.”

“You’re making it sound like you have no control,” she said.

“In my limited experience,” I said, “it’s rarely been necessary to make a formal announcement.”

“Sorry,” she said.

I drank.

“You really see it as mutual, Alex, and not my fault?”

“I do. And I don’t understand it any more than you do.” Ditto for the break with Allison. Maybe with any other woman I’d find…

“You know I was never untrue to you. Didn’t touch him until you and I were living apart.”

“You don’t owe me any explanation.”

“Everything we’ve been through,” she said, “I can’t figure out what I owe you.”

Footsteps approaching the table rescued me from having to answer. I looked up, expecting Ms. Chirpy. More than ready for another drink.

A man loomed over us.

Big-bellied, ruddy, balding, fifty or so. Black-framed eyeglasses slightly askew, sweaty forehead. He wore a maroon V-neck over a white polo shirt, gray slacks, brown loafers. Florid jowls settled over the shirt’s soft collar.

Swaying, he placed broad, hairless hands on our table. Sausage digits, some kind of class ring on his left index ring finger.

He leaned down and his weight made the table rock. Bleary eyes behind the specs stared down at us. He gave off a beery odor.

Some joker who’d wandered over from the sports bar.

Keep it friendly. My smile was wary.

He tried to straighten up, lost balance, and slapped a hand back on the table, hard enough to slosh water out of our glasses. Robin’s arm shot out before her wine toppled.

The drunk looked at her and sneered.

I said, “Hey, friend- ”

“I. Am. Not. Your. Friend.”

Hoarse voice. I looked around for Ms. Perky. Anyone. Spotted a busboy up a ways, wiping tables. I arched my eyebrows. He continued wiping. The nearest couple, two tables down, was engaged in an eye-tango.

I told the drunk, “The bar’s back in there.”

He leaned in closer. “You. Don’t. Know. Who. I. Am?”

I shook my head.

Robin had room to back away. I motioned her to leave. When she started to get up, the drunk roared, “Sit. Slut!”

My brain fired.

Conflicting messages from the prefrontal cortex: rowdy young guys shouting: “We’re pumped, dude! Pound him to shit!” A reedy old man’s voice whispering: “Careful. The consequences.”

Robin sank back.

I wondered how much karate I remembered.

The drunk demanded, “Who. Am. I?”

“I don’t know.” My tone said the old man was losing out to the prefrontal bad boys. Robin gave me a tiny head shake.

The drunk said, “What. Did. You. Say?”

“I don’t know who you are and I’d appreciate- ”

“ I. Am. Doctor. Hauser. Doctor. Hauser. And. You. Are. A. Fucking. Liar.”

The old man whispered: “Self-control. It’s all about control.”

Hauser drew back his fist.

The old man whispered, “Scratch all that.”

I caught him by the wrist, twisted hard and followed up with a heel-jab under his nose. Hard enough to stun him, well short of driving bone into his brain.

As he tumbled back I sprang up and took hold of his shirt, breaking his fall to give him a soft landing.

My reward was a face full of beery spittle. I let go just before his ass hit the deck. Tomorrow, his tailbone would hurt like hell.

He sat up for a moment, frothing at the mouth and rubbing his nose. The spot where I’d hit him was pink and just a little bit swollen. He worked his mouth to gather more spit, closed his eyes and flopped down and rolled over and started to snore.

A perky voice said, “Wow. What happened?”

A nasal voice said, “That dude tried to hit the other dude and the other dude protected his lady.”

The busboy, standing next to the waitress. I caught his eye and he smiled uneasily. He’d been watching all along.

“You were righteous, man. I gonna tell the cops.”

The cops showed up eleven long minutes later.