Private Eyes

21

No messages at home. I stayed long enough to give the fish a heavy feed, hoping to keep them away from the few egg clusters that remained. Then back on Sunset, heading west, by two-thirty.

Day at the beach.

I pretended it was going to be fun.

I hit Pacific Coast Highway, saw blue water and brown bodies.

Robin and I had done this drive, so many times.

Linda and I had done it once. The second time we’d been out together.

Alone was different.

I stayed away from those thoughts, paid attention to the Malibu coastline. Never the same, always inviting. Kama Sutra real estate.

Probably why people went into hock in order to get a piece of it. Living with black flies and corrosion and highway mayhem, and waxing amnesiac about the inevitable cycle of mud slides, fires, and killer storms.

Arthur Dickinson’s piece was choice. Five miles up from Point Dume, past the sprawling public beach at Zuma, and a left turn onto Broad Beach Road just past the rodeo rink at Trancas Canyon.

Western Malibu, where the tacky motels and surf shops have long disappeared, ranches and tree farms fill the landside of Pacific Coast Highway, and the dinner hour is dominated by sunsets of unlikely hue.

The address Milo had given me took me to the far end of the road. A half mile of white silicon heaped into sine-wave dunes. Fifty-by-a-hundred-foot mounds of dubious geology going for four million plus. At that price, architecture becomes a competitive sport.

The Dickinson/Ramp place was a one-story saltbox with silvered wood sides and a flat brown gravel roof, behind a low chain-link fence that provided no privacy and gave the public visual access to the beach. The house was flanked on both sides by free-form, two-story ice cream scoops. One was vanilla stucco, still under construction; the other, pistachio trimmed with raspberry. Both lots were blocked by prison-bar electric gates. Green tennis-court tarp behind Vanilla. A FOR SALE sign in front of Pistachio. Alarm warnings on both.

But no security system for the saltbox. I lifted the latch and walked right in.

No landscaping, either- just a thorny mess of orange bougainvillea climbing part of the fence. Instead of a garage, a cement pad over sand, wide enough for two vehicles. A yam-colored VW van with a ski rack on its roof was parked carelessly, taking up both widths. Nowhere to conceal a Rolls-Royce.

I approached the house, absorbing the heat of the sand through the soles of my shoes. Still wearing a jacket and tie and feeling like a salesman for something. I could smell the tang of the ocean, see the high-tide spray percolate over the dunes. A V-formation of brown pelicans cut through the sky. A hundred feet beyond the breakers, someone was windsurfing.

The front door was brine-eaten pine with a knob that had greened and crusted. The windows were cloudy and moist to the touch and someone had finger-written CLEAN ME on one of the panes. Glass wind chimes dangled over the doorway, swaying and striking one another, but the roar of the ocean killed their song.

I knocked. Got no answer. Knocked again, waited, and went over to one of the streaked windows.

Single room. Unlit. Hard to make out details, but I squinted and discerned a small, open-shelved kitchen to the left, combo bedroom and living area filling the rest of the space. Futon unrolled on a dull pine floor. A few pieces of furniture- bargain rattan with Hawaiian print cushions, beanbag chair, plain-wrap coffee table. On the beach side, sliding glass doors led to a shaded patio. Through them I could see a couple of folding lounges, a rise of dune, and teal-colored water.

A man stood out on the sand, directly in front of the patio. Knees bent, back rounded, curling a barbell.

I walked around.

Todd Nyquist. The tennis instructor was braced ankle-deep in the sand, wearing skimpy black briefs, a leather power-lifter’s girdle, and fingerless weight gloves, straining and grimacing as he hefted and lowered. The iron discs on the bar were the size of manhole covers. Two on each end. His eyes were clenched shut, his mouth was open, and his long yellow hair was wet and limp and drooping down his back. Sweating and grunting, he kept lifting, keeping his back immobile, putting all the strain on his arms. Curling in rhythm to the beat that blared from a boombox near his feet.

Rock ’n’ roll. Thin Lizzie. “The Boys Are Back in Town.”

Manic beat. It had to be torture keeping up with it. Nyquist’s biceps were engorged flesh carvings.

He did six more solid reps, then a few shaky ones, until the music stopped. Letting out a hoarse cry that could have been pain or triumph, he bent his knees further and, with his eyes still closed, lowered the barbell into the sand. He exhaled noisily, began to straighten, shook his head and sprayed sweat. The beach was nearly empty. Despite the weather, only a handful of people strolled along the shoreline, mostly with dogs.

I said, “Hello, Todd.” He hadn’t come fully upright and the surprise nearly knocked him off his feet.

He recovered gracefully, planting his soles, then bouncing like a dancer. Opening his eyes wide, he stared, processed, and gave a wide smile of recognition.

“The doctor, right? I met you over at the big house.”

“Alex Delaware.” I came closer and held out my hand. My shoes filled with sand.

He looked at his gloved hands and kept them up in the air. “Wouldn’t, if I were you. Pretty rank, Doc.”

I lowered mine.

“Just doing my pumps,” he said. “What brings you out here?”

“Looking for Mrs. Ramp.”

“Here?” He seemed genuinely baffled.

“They’re looking for her everywhere, Todd. Asked me to come down here and check.”

“That’s really weird,” he said.

“What is?”

“Uh, the whole thing. Her disappearing. It really is freaky. Where could she be?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“Yeah. Right. Well, you won’t find her here, that’s for sure. She’s never been here. Not once. At least not since I’ve been living here.” He turned toward the ocean, stretched, and inhaled. “Can you imagine owning a place like this and never being here?”

“It is gorgeous,” I said. “How long have you been living here?”

“Year and a half.”

“You rent the place?”

He smiled wider, as if proud to possess some important secret. Removing the gloves, he fluffed his hair. More sweat droplets flew.

“It’s a trade thing,” he said. “Tennis and personal training for Mr. R. in return for a place to stay. But it’s not really my crib. Mostly I’m other places, traveling around- last year I went on two cruises. Up to Alaska, and down to Cabo. Did an exercise class for old ladies. I also give lessons at the Brentwood Country Club, and I’ve got lots of friends in the city. I sleep here maybe once or twice a week.”

“Sounds like a good deal.”

“It is- do you know what this place would rent for? Even being dinky.”

“Five thousand a month?”

“Try ten for an all-year-round, eighteen to twenty during the summer, and that’s with the heat not even working. But Mr. and Mrs. R., they’ve been really cool about letting me stay here when I want, just as long as I make the drive over to Smogsville and give Mr. R. a good workout when he wants.”

“He never comes here?”

His smile eroded. “Not really. Why should he?”

“No reason. It just seems like a good place for a workout.”

We heard female conversation and turned toward it. Two string-bikinied girls, around eighteen or nineteen, were walking a sheepdog. The dog kept veering away from the water, tugging on its leash, making the girl on the other end work. She fought for a while, finally gave up and let the dog lead her diagonally across the beach. The other girl jogged along. The dog stopped straining when it reached the property line of the vanilla scoop. The three of them headed our way.

Nyquist hadn’t taken his eyes off them. Both had manes of long, thick, sun-coarsened hair. One blonde, one redhead. Tall and long-legged, with perfect thighs and laughing California girl faces straight out of a soft drink commercial. The blonde’s bikini was white; the redhead’s, acid green. When they were a few feet away, the dog stopped and coughed and began shaking itself. The redhead bent and petted it, revealing heavy, freckled breasts.

Nyquist whispered, “Whoa.” Raising his voice: “Yo! Traci! Maria!”

The girls turned.

“Hey,” he said, still shouting, “how’s it going, ladies?”

“Fine, Todd,” said the redhead.

“Hey, Todd,” said the blonde.

Nyquist stretched and grinned and rubbed a washboard abdomen. “Looking good, ladies. Whatsamatter, old Bernie still afraid of the water?”

“Yeah,” said the redhead. “What a chicken.” To the dog: “Aren’t you, baby? Isn’t Bernie just a little old wussy chicken-dog.”

As if comprehending the insult, the dog turned away, kicked sand, and coughed again.

“Hey,” said Nyquist, “sounds like he’s got a cold.”

“Naw, he’s just chicken,” said the redhead.

“Vitamin C’ll do something for that. And B-12- crush it up and put it in his chow.”

“Who’s this, Todd?” said the blonde. “A new friend?”

“Friend of the landlord’s.”

“Oh,” said the redhead, smiling. She looked at the blonde, then at me. “Gonna raise Todd’s rent?”

I smiled.

Nyquist said, “One sec, Doc,” and bounded over to the girls. Putting his arms around them, he drew them in, as if for a football huddle. They seemed surprised but were pliant. He muttered to them, smiling all the while. Rubbing the back of the blonde’s neck. Massaging the redhead’s waist. The dog nosed his ankle but he ignored it. The girls looked uncomfortable but Nyquist seemed oblivious to that, too. Finally, they drew away.

Nyquist held on to their wrists for a moment, let go, stretched his grin, patted both their rumps as they ran off. The dog followed, lumbering.

He came back. “Pardon the interlude. Got to keep the wenches in line.”

Aiming for sexual bravado but coming across too strong- almost caricaturist. It reminded me of his interaction with Gina a couple of days ago. Nuances of tension that I hadn’t thought much of at the time.

I could handle a Pepsi, Mrs. R. Or anything else you got that’s cold and sweet.

I’ll get Madeleine to fix you something.

Older woman, young stud? Tennis for hubby, other kind of lessons for the lady of the house?

Hardly original, but people so seldom were when they transgressed.

I said, “Any idea where Mrs. R. might be, Todd?”

“No,” he said, scrunching his face. “It’s really a mystery. I mean, where could she go, being afraid and all that?”

“She ever talk to you about her fears?”

“No, we- not at all. But hanging around someone’s house you just pick stuff up.” He glanced toward the house. “Wanna have a beer or something?”

“No, thanks. Got to be heading back.”

“Bummer,” he said, but he looked relieved. “You look in pretty good shape. What do you do in terms of workout?”

“Bit of running.”

“How much?”

“Six to ten miles a week.”

“Better watch it- running’s ultra high-impact. Four times your weight every stride. Bad for the joints. Bad for the spine, too.”

“I’ve got a cross-country ski machine now.”

“Excellent- the ultimate aerobic. If you alternate that with some muscle-lengthening weight-training, you’ll be doing yourself the ultimate favor.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“No prob. If you’re interested in some one-on-one training, give me a call. I don’t have any cards with me but you can always get me through Mr. and Mrs.- through Mr. R.” Shaking his head. “Shee, that was dumb. Sure hope they find her- she’s a real nice lady.”

I walked back to the Seville and took a few moments to look at the ocean. The windsurfer was out of view but the pelicans had returned and were swooping and retrieving. Seagulls and terns followed in their wake, content with the leavings. A couple of oblong gray cigars were visible floating atop the horizon. Oil tankers making their way up the coast. I wondered what it would be like to live at sea. To be reminded, constantly, of insignificance and infinity.

Before I could take that any further I heard engine noise, then happy shouts that turned into “Hey! Mr. Landlord!”

A white VW Golf with the top down had pulled up next to me. The blonde from the beach was behind the wheel, a cigarette fuming between her fingers. The redhead sat next to her, eating from a box of Fiddle Faddle and holding an open can of Coors. Both girls had put gauzy white shirts over their bathing suits but had left them unbuttoned. Bernie the dog sat in the back seat, panting and lolling and looking motion-sick.

“Hi,” said the redhead. “Neat old car. My dad had one just like it.”

I smiled at the thought of the Seville as an antique. Ten years old. The day I’d bought it, these two had probably been in third grade.

“Do you, like, garage it?” said the blonde.

“Uh-huh.”

“Neat.”

“Thanks.”

“You really with the landlord? ’Cause Traci and me are looking for a place closer to the beach. We’re across PCH, now, down at Las Flores, and the beach there isn’t a keeper- too wet, lots of rocks. We’re willing to work- light au pair, babysitting, whatever, like for a trade? Todd said he’d help but we figure we can talk for ourself.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I do know Todd’s landlord but I’m not in the real-estate business.”

The blonde’s face managed to turn ugly while retaining its beauty. “What a firp! Told you, Mar, it was total bullshit!”

The redhead wrinkled her nose and looked injured.

I said, “What’s the matter?”

“Todd,” said the redhead. “He bullshat us royal.”

“How?”

“Said you were a real-estate stud and if we were nice to him, he’d talk to you about finding us a place here on Broad. We used to live here-au pairing for Dave Dumas and his wife when they rented last summer, so people think we still live here and don’t hassle us when we come down, but we want to be right here all the time, or at least somewhere dry.”

“Dave Dumas the basketball player?”

“Yeah. Mr. Stretch.” Shared giggles.

“We took care of his kids,” said the blonde. “Really big kids from a really big guy.” She laughed some more, then turned abruptly serious.

“We’d really like to get back here to Broad- the beach is a total keeper and the concerts at the Trancas CafÉ are heating up. Last week Eddie Van Halen showed up to jam.”

“We’re willing to work,” said the redhead. “Todd said he could get us a trade.”

“Fag-wuss!” said the blonde. “Last time we’re nice to him.” She gunned the Golf’s engine. The dog jerked in alarm.

I said, “What exactly did he want from you?”

“He was, like, act like we thought he was hot. Let him touch us in front of you.” Turning to the redhead: “Told you, Mar. I was like, sure, Todd, you might ever be.”

“Todd’s not hot in real life?”

Giggles all around. The redhead picked a piece of popcorn out of the box and handed it back to the dog.

“He likes it,” she said. “Bernie’s got a sugar thing.”

“Enjoy, Bernie,” I said, walking over and petting the dog. His fur was matted and clogged with salt and dirt. As I rubbed his neck, he whined with pleasure.

“So Todd’s no keeper,” I said.

A wary look came into the blonde’s eyes. Up close her face was hard, ready to age, already starting to leather from too much sun and risk-taking.

“You’re not like a good friend of his or anything?” she said.

“Not at all,” I said. “I do know the people who own the house. But I only met Todd once before.”

“So you’re not, like-” The blonde smiled, gave an arch look, and raised her wrist limply.

“Tra-ace! That’s like so ru-ude!”

“So?” said the blonde. “He’s the one who does it! He should be embarrassed!”

I said, “Todd’s gay?”

“For sure,” said the redhead.

“A muscle-fag,” said the blonde.

“Wasted buff,” said the redhead. The dog coughed. She said, “Don’t stress out, Bern.”

“That’s why it was rank,” said the blonde. “Using us to make like he’s into girls- I mean, maybe he’s got a buff body but his head’s not buff, that’s for sure.”

“How do you know he’s gay?” I said.

“Well,” said the blonde, laughing and gunning the engine again, “it’s not like we go around watching him do it or anything.”

“He’s got guys coming in and out all the time,” said the redhead. “He says he’s training them, but one time I saw him and this guy holding hands and kissing.”

“Rank!” said the blonde, elbowing her friend. “You never told me.”

“Yeah, it was a long time ago. When we were still with Big Dave.”

“Big Dave,” said the blonde, giggling.

“How long ago was that?” I said.

Bafflement. Both of them looked as if they were struggling with a difficult word problem.

Finally the redhead said, “A long time ago- maybe five weeks. Buffy Todd and this other guy were walking in back of the house. Right over there, I was walking Bernie.” She pointed to the cement pad. “And they touched their hands. Then the other guy got in his car- white five-sixty SEC with these brushed-steel custom wheels- and Todd leaned in and gave him a little kiss.”

“Rank,” said the blonde.

“Kind of sweet, actually,” said the redhead, looking as if she meant it. But the empathy didn’t fit, and she squirmed and burst into nervous laughter.

I said, “Remember what this other guy looked like?”

She shrugged. “He was old.”

“How old?”

“Older than you.” Even.

“Forties?”

“Older.”

“Maybe he was Todd’s dad,” said the blonde, smirking. “You can kiss your dad, right, Mar?”

“Maybe,” said the redhead. “Little Todd and his dad, kissing.”

They looked at each other. Shook their heads, giggled some more.

“No way,” said the redhead. “This was true love.” She gave a reflective look. “Actually, the old guy was kind of buff. For an old guy. Kind of like Tom Selleck.”

I said, “He had a mustache?”

The redhead strained. “I think so. Maybe. I just remember he reminded me of Tom Selleck. An old Tom Selleck. Buff tan. Big chest.”

“How come,” said the blonde, “so many of them are buff? What a waste.”

“It’s ’cause they’re rich, Trace,” said the redhead. “They can afford to buy special supplements, get lipoed-out, whatever.”

“Suck and tuck,” said the blonde, touching her own flat midriff. “If I ever need that, put me to sleep.” She stuck her hand in the box of Fiddle Faddle and groped around.

“Geez, don’t touch everything!” said the redhead, tugging on the box.

The blonde held fast and said, “Almonds.” Smile. “Here we go.” She pulled out a nut and placed it between her teeth. Looked at me, flicked it with her tongue, and bit down slowly.

I said, “That the last time you saw this old guy around- five weeks?”

“Yup,” said the redhead, looking wistful. “It’s been a long time since we hit dry sand.”

“So,” said the blonde, “can you do anything for us?”

“Like I said, I’m not in the real estate business, but I do know some people- let me check around. Why don’t you write down your names and numbers.”

“Sure!” said the redhead, beaming. Then she grew grave.

“What is it?”

“No pen.”

“No prob,” I said, resisting the impulse to wink. I went back to the Seville, found a ballpoint and an old mechanic’s receipt in the glove compartment, and handed it to her. “Write on the back.”

Using the Fiddle Faddle box as a desk, she wrote laboriously as the blonde looked on. The dog planted a wet nose on the back of my hand and wheezed in gratitude when I rubbed him again.

“Here.” The redhead thrust the paper at me.

Maria and Traci. Looping script. Hearts over the I’s. An address on Flores Mesa Drive. A 456 exchange.

I smiled and said, “Great, I’ll do what I can. In the meantime, good luck.”

“We’ve already got it,” said the blonde.

“Got what?” said the redhead.

“Luck. We always get what we want, right, Mar?”

Giggles and a cloud of dust as the Golf shot forward.

I watched them speed to the northern end of Broad Beach Road and disappear. It took a second to register that they were around Melissa’s age.

I made a three-point turn and headed back for the highway.

Older man and young stud.

Older man with a mustache and a tan.

Lots of tan, mustachioed gay men in L.A. Lots of white Mercedes.

But if Don Ramp drove a white 560 SEC with brushed-steel wheels, I was willing to go out on a limb and assume.

I joined the southbound traffic on PCH and drove home assuming even without proof. Casting Ramp as Nyquist’s lover and recasting the tension that I’d witnessed between Nyquist and Gina.

Another macho charade on his part?

Anger on hers?

Did she know?

Did that have something to do with her hints about making a life-style change?

Separate bedrooms.

Separate bank accounts.

Separate lives.

Or had she known about Ramp when she’d married him?

Why, after living a bachelor life for so long, had he married her?

Gina’s banker and lawyer seemed certain it hadn’t been for money, citing the prenuptial agreement as proof.

But prenuptials- and wills- could be contested. And life-insurance policies could be taken out without bankers and lawyers being informed.

Or perhaps inheritance had nothing to do with it. Maybe Ramp simply needed a cover for the good, conservative folks of San Labrador.

Hearth and home and a child who hated his guts.

What could be more all-American?