True Detectives

CHAPTER 10

Riptide was ripe with the odors of tequila, aftershave, and slightly rancid cooking oil.

Liana Parlat took a stool at the far end of the spar-varnished bar, aware of male eyes shifting as she crossed the length of the room.

Long, dark room, kind of tunnel-like. Off to one side, a double-width doorway led to a small dining area. No one in there she could see.

The action was at Cocktail Central. A few couples in their thirties, the rest men batching it. Beach Boys on soundtrack.

“Don't Worry Baby.” Her favorite. Made it easy to smile.

The smile snagged the ponytailed bartender's attention and she ordered a Grey Goose Greyhound, rocks, twist. “Pink grapefruit juice, if you have it.”

Ponytail grinned. “Sorry, just regular.”

“That's fine.”

“I can splash in a little cranberry, if you'd like. For color.”

“You know,” said Liana, “maybe I would rather have a Seabreeze.”

“Good choice.” The guy got to work and seconds later, the extra-large cocktail was set down in front of her. Orange slice, which she liked. Maraschino, which was all wrong.

“Yum,” she said.

“Enjoy.”

Sipping slowly, she took in the flavor of the place. “Good Vibrations” came on. Nice, but earlier stuff-the surf songs-would've fit better with the décor.

She figured it was mostly original: rough plank cedar walls, lacquered coils of hemp rope, ship's lamps, circular glass balls, a couple of buoys. At least two captain's wheels she could spot and she bet there were more in the dining room.

All of it probably a throwback to the bar's previous life as a working-class drinkery.

Before arriving, she'd revved up the old Mac and read up on the place, found a three-year-old gushing travel piece from the Times that emphasized a “festive Jimmy Buffett ambience” and the occasional “spontaneous” appearance of celebs.

Britney, Paris, Brangelina, Mel, Mason, even the Governator. Supposedly, they favored the Meyer Rum Tsunami. As if anything those people did was spontaneous. Inane, but what else could you expect from a paper where half the entertainment “articles” were press releases fed by studio publicists?

Obsolete, too, because Liana found no recent name-drops, so any star appeal was history.

Celebs, like sharks, needed to keep moving to breathe.

Not that she needed the Internet to know that; when she'd walked over from Loews there wasn't a pappo or limo in sight.

A few homeless guys, though, Aaron had been right about that. One of them gave her the willies as his watery eyes followed her twenty-yard traipse and she imagined him snagging Caitlin and dragging her into an alley.

Rather than ignore him, she stopped and stared him down.

Chancy move, but she had to follow her instincts.

The bum shrank back, resumed pushing his cart up Ocean, clattering and bumping on sidewalks long in need of repair.

Too bad those guys didn't have to hang special license plates from their carts. I M CRAY ZEE.

She sipped and used her eyes discreetly. Someone at the other end of the bar laughed. The track switched to Jan and Dean. “Dead Man's Curve,” eerily prophetic of Jan's auto crash.

Happy song about tragedy… at least the floors were clean oak, no sawdust cliché.

Liana knew all about clichés. She trucked in them for a living- using her voice to sell feminine hygiene products, grocery specials, whatever.

Using her looks and her brains to gig for Aaron.

Not exactly what she'd dreamed about back in South Dakota, but at her stage in life, any role came up, you took it.

Tonight she'd gone for sultry but subdued: black V-neck sweater with a triangle of white cammie hiding some but not all of her cleaves, snug gray wool/Lycra slacks that hugged her like a lover.

The absence of panty line suggested bare skin underneath, but her entire lower body was sheathed in support hose.

Everyone said she looked young for her age, but Liana prided herself on self-awareness, so no sense pretending butt and belly were the way they'd been when she auditioned for Playboy.

Twenty years ago.

A starlet's entire lifetime; sometimes it seemed like yesterday.

She'd walked out of the Playboy session beaming at the photo editor's praise. Two days later, he called to let her down gently. Twenty-four hours after that, he phoned to ask her out.

The perfect retort had jumped into her head.

Sorry, but I limit my social life to men with normal penises.

She'd said, “Sorry, Luigi, but I'm involved with someone.”

Twenty-twenty-one years ago.

Gawd!

A baritone voice said, “Come here often?”

Just loud enough to rise above the music. Liana glanced to her right.

The nervously smiling face she encountered belonged to a slightly overweight but decent-looking guy around her own age working a beer mug. Sandy hair, five o'clock shadow, nice masculine features; he'd probably been hot ten years ago.

Dark suit, pale blue dress shirt open at the collar, sensible shoes.

“What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” he said. “Glad I worked out this morning 'cause I can tell you're no easy pickup. Your mother must have been a sculptor 'cause you're in great shape. I thought perfection was an ideal until about a second ago.”

Liana stared.

He shrugged, smiled.

Despite herself, Liana's lips curved in imitation.

The guy said, “Now that I've used up all the fresh material, I'd better lug out the hackneyed stuff.”

“You write for Leno?”

“If I did, he wouldn't be beating out Letterman.” He extended a hand. “Steve Rau.”

In lieu of pressing flesh, Liana gave a small salute and returned to facing forward. Her top had ridden up, exposing an inch of back. She tugged it down, moved her head in time with the music.

“Ouch,” said Rau. But good-naturedly. Liana's peripheral vision spotted motion. His hand gesturing for another beer.

As it arrived, Liana managed another of her famous sidelongs and took in the cut of his suit. Decent, but nothing custom or exceptional. The shirt was pinpoint oxford cloth, eighty bucks, give or take. The shoes were nondescript black loafers but they did look like calfskin. Bottom line: solid, not junk, not haute. Maybe Nordstrom.

Working for Aaron, she'd picked up a few things.

Steve Rau said, “I'd offer to buy you another, but you haven't made much headway on the first and you might go military on me again.” Aping the salute.

Liana chuckled.

The bartender said, “Some nuts or shrimp, Steve?”

“No, thanks, Gus.”

You come here often?

Aaron just wanted her to soak up the atmosphere, but here was an opportunity.

She rehearsed an entry line, discarded it, searched for another. Rau made it easy for her by saying, “This is my second beer and my last. For the record.”

Liana swiveled gracefully, gifted him with more face and body. The warm, sincere smile. “You are nothing if not temperate.”

“Temperate, sane, dependable. Gus can vouch for me.”

“Is Gus called upon to do that regularly?”

Rau got flustered. Laughed. “Only for the last three months.”

He showed her his left hand. Pale circle of skin on the ring finger. “As they say, an amicable split.”

Liana said, “Didn't know that was possible.”

“It's not.”

“Oops.”

“Don't worry,” said Rau. “I'm not going to get all maudlin and mawkish.”

“A dual guarantee, huh?”

The music veered back to the Beach Boys. “Little Deuce Coupe.” The two of them sipped in silence. Liana working slowly because that was her style even when she wasn't on the job. A man needed to be kept slightly off balance.

She said, “Seeing as you're a regular, you know I'm not.”

“Visiting L.A.? I ask because sometimes women come over from the hotel.”

“No, I'm a native.” If you didn't count military bases in six other states.

“Rara avis,” said Rau. “Rare bird.”

“Quo vadis,” said Liana. “Non sequitur, ipso facto. So, Steve, what do you do other than drink Heineken and indulge yourself in Latin?”

Rau motioned to the bartender. “Gus, what do I do when I'm not hunched over in self-pity?”

Gus said, “You're a spy.”

“Double-O something, huh?”

Rau said, “Gus is embroidering. I work at RAND-the think tank, we're not far from here, on Main.”

“You get paid to think.”

“The official title is security analyst.”

“As in stocks and bonds?”

“As in shoe bombers and suicide belt morons.” Some edge had crept into the mellow baritone. “But I'm not going to insult your intelligence by making it out as some covert, civilian contractor deal. My degree's in economics. I play with statistics, try to spot trends. Lately, I have been doing more financial analysis than security. It's about as exciting as watching beard stubble sprout.”

“Still,” said Liana, “at least you know you're doing something important. How many people can say that?”

“On some lofty theoretical plane, I guess that's true. But half my time is filling out grant applications and going to meetings. I used to do something even more blood-stirring. Want to guess?”

“College professor.”

Rau stared. “It's that obvious?”

“You've got a Ph.D.”

“I said I had a degree.”

“I extrapolated.”

Rau laughed.

Liana said, “Stanford?”

“ Chicago.”

“Where'd you teach?”

“Community college. All that came up were nontenured positions, so I switched gears. I was really committed to teaching, figured RAND would be temporary. It's been twelve years, so much for spotting trends.”

Liana smiled.

Silence settled between them for several moments before Rau spoke up. “So what do you do-fill in name here.”

“Laura,” she said. Fishing out the alias she'd used for the Playboy shoot because it didn't sound that different from her real name.

Laura Layne. Sometimes she carried pink satin business cards in her purse… had she brought any tonight?

Twenty-one years ago.

Rau said, “Same question, Laura. What occupies your days?”

“I'm in between obligations,” she said. “My c.v. includes teaching preschool, executive assisting, interior designing, house-sitting, and, before all that, waitressing, big surprise.”

“Ah,” said Rau. “How many pilots have you been in?”

“It's that obvious?”

“ RAND doesn't pay me for not reading big print.”

“Well,” said Liana, “ RAND wouldn't have gotten their money's worth this time. Acting's not my thing. Like I said, I'm a California native, not some kid off the bus from Iowa.”

“Sorry,” said Rau. “For assuming. May I dig myself out by suggesting you take it as a compliment, as in ‘looks like an actress?’”

Liana swiveled on her stool and offered him a full view of the goods. “I get that all the time and, yes, I do take it as a compliment.”

Rau mimed wiping his brow. “Phew-so… I ask this at great risk-of all the gin joints…”

“I was at Loews, having dinner with friends. It broke up early- they're all married with kids and needed to return to their mundane lives. I wasn't quite ready for a quiet night with Kurt Vonnegut.”

“Slaughterhouse-Five?”

“Welcome to the Monkey House.”

“Never read that one… I met Joseph Heller, once. Catch-22?”

“Did you?”

“Yup,” said Rau. “I was in fifth grade and he gave a speech at the U. and my dad was on faculty there-in the med school-and he insisted on taking me. Wanting me to soak up some antiwar fervor. At ten, I was pretty apolitical.”

“Dad wasn't.”

“Dad was a highly principled man.” Putting rough emphasis on the word and for a second, Rau's face toughened up.

Anger turned him appealingly masculine.

Liana said, “So he dragged you along.”

“He dragged me and after the speech, he insisted we both go up to Heller, going on about how the guy's a genius, meanwhile I'd daydreamed through the whole thing. Dad pumps Heller's hand, makes sure I shake, too, then he goes off on this big oration about Catch-22 being the ultimate antiwar masterpiece. Heller looks at him and says, ‘It's not about war, it's about bureaucracy.’”

“Poor Dad.”

“It fazed him, but only temporarily. During the ride home, he informed me authors sometimes didn't understand their own motivation.”

“Motivation,” said Liana. “A med school prof. I'm putting money on psychiatrist.”

Rau's smile was wide, warm. Nice teeth. “You should think about RAND.”

“Like they'd take me.”

“You'd be surprised.”

“I sure would.”

Several beats.

“So you're in between obligations,” said Rau. “Sounds nice.”

“It can be.”

Rau scratched his temple. “Laura, I'm not good at this, but… since you've already had dinner I know suggesting we shift to the dining area is out of the question. So is, I imagine, blowing this gin joint.”

“I didn't hear a question in there, Steve. But yes, I think I'll stay put.”

Rau beat his breast, bowed his head. “Aargh. Hopes dashed asunder.”

Liana touched his jacket sleeve. Smooth fabric, maybe better than she'd initially appraised. “Steve, I wouldn't be a very smart girl if I waltzed off with someone I just met.”

“Of course… would it be totally out of line asking you for your number?”

Poor guy was blushing.

“Why don't you give me yours?”

Liana expected another burst of self-deprecation but he seemed pleased, as he fished into his pocket, drew out a battered wallet, then a RAND business card.

On the surface, everything looked kosher. Easy enough to verify.

She slipped the card into her purse. This one might come in handy.

Steve Rau said, “Anyway… like I said, I'm really not good at this.”

“Practice, practice, practice,” said Liana, giving him another arm pat. “How long has Riptide been around?”

The change of subject relaxed Rau. “As Riptide? Maybe five years. It got that name when some movie honchos bought it. No one famous-producers and the like. Before that it was a neighborhood bar called Smiley's, before that it was The Riptide. I don't know exactly how old it is, but probably at least forty years.”

Making that sound antique. Liana suppressed a flinch.

“No more the” she said. “Industry honchos thought it was hip-per.”

“No, they were cheap. A storm knocked down part of the sign. They stuck on that neon martini glass instead.”

“Subtle,” said Liana.

Rau chuckled. “This is tragic, Laura.”

“What is?”

“I meet a highly intelligent woman who looks like a movie star and she's smart enough not to be impulsive.”

Liana smiled.

“I guess if you did agree to go off with me, I'd wonder about your judgment.” He shrugged. “Story of my life. Ambivalence and second-guessing. My ex said it drove her crazy. My lack of quote unquote ‘constructive recklessness.’ Why it took eleven years and division of assets for her to reach that insight, she couldn't explain.” Deep blush. “Sorry, that was stunningly awkward and inappropriate.”

“Hey,” said Liana, “you've been through it. Three months is pretty fresh.”

“Papers came through three months ago. We've been separated for three years.”

His look said it had taken him a long time to give up hope.

“Steve, I, for one, appreciate that you understand about the need for caution. A girl can't be too careful. Even in a nice place like this.”

Rau didn't answer.

“It is a nice place?” she asked.

“Never seen a brawl,” said Rau. “And Gus keeps his eye on the in ebriation level. Yeah, it's nice. Back when the celebs used to show up- two, three years ago-it could get… a little different.”

“Different, how?”

“Long stays in the bathroom.” He touched his nose. “Obviously underage girls, fake I.D.'s. People getting up and dirty-dancing when the music didn't call for it.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Gobs, Laura. I stopped coming for a while. Things are a lot quieter now, and I'm sure the owners are feeling it in the pocketbook but I, for one-and I'll bet I speak for all the regulars-don't miss those days.”

“Celebs,” said Liana. “They do get entitled.”

Rau got more aggressive with his beer, taking two deep gulps. He dribbled a tad and wiped his lips with his napkin.

“How come the egomaniacs don't come here anymore, Steve?”

“They moved on, Laura. That's what they do, it's all about the Next Big Thing.”

“Ah,” she said.

Rau emptied his mug. Looked over at the bartender but when Gus pointed to the tap, he shook his head.

Liana said, “So two years since it's been celebbed up.”

“Two, three. Here's the irony, Laura: Back then, with all the bodyguards and drivers and such hanging around, you'd think it would've been safer than milk. But that's when there were some problems.”

He wrapped both hands around the empty mug. The music had switched to Brian Wilson singing about the wonders of his room.

“What kind of problems, Steve?”

“Forget it,” said Rau. “Last thing I want to do is spook you. Because I do want you to come back.”

Staring at her. Soft brown eyes.

Liana said, “I'm a big girl.”

“Not important-ancient history.”

“Come on, Steve. I don't spook easily.”

Rau knuckled his forehead. “Brilliant, Rau.”

“What happened?”

“I'm not saying it had anything to do with this place. I'm sure it didn't, because it happened outside… oh Lord, I'm bad at being single.”

Liana wet her lips with Seabreeze. She'd taken in maybe a quarter ounce, felt sharp and on her game as she waited the guy out.

He said, “You really want to know?”

“I do.”

“A girl who worked here-in the dining room, as a hostess-back then they served more food-she left after her shift was over and was never seen again. But nothing happened to her here-we're talking a year and a half ago, something like that… so I guess some celebs were still here. At least that's the way I remember it. The irony, like I said. Then something else happened shortly after. A couple, tourists staying at Loews, dropped in for a few drinks and also vanished. That I heard on the news. They mentioned Riptide as the last place the couple was seen. After that, I stayed away.”

“I can see why you were spooked.”

“Not spooked, just… Maria had broken off marriage counseling, I was by myself… I'm sorry. Now you'll never come back.”

“Steve, I do not allow myself to be ruled by the misfortunes of others.”

“Laura, all I do, day in and day out, is immerse myself in the misfortunes of others. This afternoon it was devising algorithms to predict the correlation between economic downturns and the rise of insurgency in Malaysia.”

“How's it looking for Malaysia?”

“You don't want to know.” Suddenly he stood.

Taller than she'd thought and really not that heavy. Hint of a soft little gut, but broad, square shoulders and long, strong-looking legs.

Tossing bills on the bar, he held out his hand. “Great to meet you, Laura. I mean that.”

This time Liana pressed flesh. His was cool, dry, smooth.

“If for some reason you do come back, I hope it's a night that I'm here.”

Sighing, he pressed his lips to her fingers. Dropped her hand quickly and shook his head and muttered, “Dork.”

Before she could reassure him, he was gone.

“Poor Steve,” said someone up the bar. “That wife of his really racked him up.”