home.'
Mitch began to whistle 'Born Free.'
'Some wahine comes on to me,' Iggy said, 'I'm free to rock and roll.'
'They're coming on to you all the time — are they? — those sexy wahines?'
'Women are bold these days, boss. They see what they want, they just take it.'
Mitch said, 'Iggy, the last time you got laid, John Kerry thought he was going to be president.'
'That's not so long ago.'
'So what happened to Ralph?'
'Ralph who?'
'Mickey Gandhi's brother.'
'Oh, yeah. An iguana bit off his nose.'
'Nasty.'
'Some fully macking ten-footers were breaking, so Ralph and some guys went night-riding at the Wedge.'
The Wedge was a famous surfing spot at the end of the Balboa Peninsula, in Newport Beach.
Iggy said, 'They packed coolers full of submarine sandwiches and beer, and one of them brought Ming.'
'Ming?'
'That's the iguana.'
'So it was a pet?'
'Ming, he'd always been sweet before.'
'I'd Expect iguanas to be moody.'
'No, they're affectionate. What happened was some wanker, not even a surfer, just a wannabe tag-along, slipped Ming a quarter-dose of meth in a piece of salami.'
'Reptiles on speed,' Mitch said, 'is a bad idea.'
'Meth Ming was a whole different animal from clean-and-sober Ming,' Iggy confirmed.
Putting down his trowel, sitting back on the heels of his work shoes, Mitch said, 'So now Ralph Gandhi is noseless?'
'Ming didn't eat the nose. He just bit it off and spit it out.'
'Maybe he didn't like Indian food.'
'They had a big cooler full of ice water and beer. They put the nose in the cooler and rushed it to the hospital.'
'Did they take Ralph, too?'
'They had to take Ralph. It was his nose.'
'Well,' Mitch said, 'we are talking about boardheads.'
'They said it was kinda blue when they fished it out of the ice water, but a plastic surgeon sewed it back on, and now it's not blue anymore.'
'What happened to Ming?'
'He crashed. He was totally amped-out for a day. Now he's his old self.'
'That's good. It's probably hard to find a clinic that'll do iguana rehab.'
Mitch got to his feet and retrieved three dozen empty plastic plant pots. He carried them to his extended-bed pickup.
The truck stood at the curb, in the shade of an Indian laurel. Although the neighborhood had been built-out only five years earlier, the big tree had already lifted the sidewalk. Eventually the insistent roots would block lawn drains and invade the sewer system.
The developer's decision to save one hundred dollars by not installing a root barrier would produce tens of thousands in repair work for plumbers, landscapers, and concrete contractors.
When Mitch planted an Indian laurel, he always used a root barrier. He didn't need to make future work for himself. Green growing Nature would keep him busy.
The street lay silent, without traffic. Not the barest breath of a breeze stirred the trees.
From a block away, on the farther side of the street, a man and a dog approached. The dog, a retriever, spent less time walking than it did sniffing messages left by others of its kind.
The stillness pooled so deep that Mitch almost believed he could hear the panting of the distant canine.
Golden: the sun and the dog, the air and the promise of the day, the beautiful houses behind deep lawns.
Mitch Rafferty could not afford a home in this neighborhood. He was satisfied just to be able to work here.
You could love great art but have no desire to live in a museum.
He noticed a damaged sprinkler head where lawn met sidewalk. He got his tools from the truck and knelt on the grass, taking a break from the impatiens.
His cell phone rang. He undipped it from his belt, flipped it open. The time was displayed—11:43—but no caller's number showed on the screen. He took the call anyway.
'Big Green,' he said, which was the name he'd given his two-man business nine years ago, though he no longer remembered why.
'Mitch, I love you,' Holly said.
'Hey, sweetie.'
'Whatever happens, I love you.'
She cried out in pain. A clatter and crash suggested a struggle.
Alarmed, Mitch rose to his feet. 'Holly?'
Some guy said something, some guy who now had the phone. Mitch didn't hear the words because he was focused on the background noise.
Holly squealed. He'd never heard such a sound from her, such fear.
'Sonofabitch,' she said, and was silenced by a sharp crack, as though she'd been slapped.
The stranger on the phone said, ''You hear me, Rafferty?'
'Holly? Where's Holly?'
Now the guy was talking away from the phone, not to Mitch: 'Don't be stupid. Stay on the floor.'
Another man spoke in the background, his words unclear.
The one with the phone said, 'She gets up, punch her. You want to lose some teeth, honey?'
She was with two men. One of them had hit her. Hit her.
Mitch couldn't get his mind around the situation. Reality suddenly seemed as slippery as the narrative of a nightmare.
A meth-crazed iguana was more real than this.
Near the house, Iggy planted impatiens. Sweating, red from the sun, as solid as ever.
'That's better, honey. That's a good girl.'
Mitch couldn't draw breath. A great weight pressed on his lungs. He tried to speak but couldn't find his voice, didn't know what to say. Here in bright sun, he felt casketed, buried alive.
'We have your wife,' said the guy on the phone.
Mitch heard himself ask, 'Why?'
'Why do you think, asshole?'
Mitch didn't know why. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to reason through to an answer because every possible answer would be a horror.
'I'm planting flowers.'
'What's wrong with you, Rafferty?'
'That's what I do. Plant flowers. Repair sprinklers.'
'Are you buzzed or something?'
'I'm just a gardener.'
'So we have your wife. You get her back for two million cash.'
Mitch knew it wasn't a joke. If it were a joke, Holly would have to be in on it, but her sense of humor was not cruel.
'You've made a mistake.'
