“When something’s worth taking charge of.” It came out sounding like a line. I said, “Hey, babe, what’s your sign?”
She laughed harder and gave me the phone.
It took her a while to organize her things, write memos and reminders. I used the time to go into Carla’s office and call in for messages. Two people who’d started college at sixteen, unable to let go of the compliant-kid role.
Finally, we left the building. She still looked tense, but she slipped her arm through mine.
The custodian was eager to lock up the school grounds and begin his weekend, so she drove the Escort onto the street and parked just outside the gate. We took the Seville and headed west. The restaurant I’d chosen was on a busy stretch of Ocean Avenue across from the bluffs that look down on the birth of Pacific Coast Highway. French but friendly, a clean white decor and canvas-topped front porch with a waist-high brick wall that allowed alfresco dining while segregating the sidewalk throng. We got there by six-fifteen. Several homeless people were competing with the parking valets for turf. I gave away a few dollars and got dirty looks from the valets.
We were seated at the bar for another twenty minutes before being escorted to a spot under the canvas. By eight-thirty, the Big-Deal-Pending folks would be tooling up in rented Mercedes and designer Jeeps that would have intimidated Patton, but at this hour we were opening the place.
Across the street, a grove of coco palms crowned the bluffs. Through the crosshatched trunks of the big trees, the sky was trapezoids of blood-red streaked with aqua, diluting to hammered copper near the horizon. As we sipped our drinks, it deepened to indigo. I watched the play of light and shadow on Linda’s face. She’d pinned her hair up. A few fine golden strands had come loose near the nape of her neck. They caught the last hints of daylight and glowed like electric filament.
I said. “Isn’t this better than TCBing?”
She nodded, rested her chin in her hand, and looked out at the sunset. Long graceful neck. Grace Kelly profile.
The waiter came, lit the table candle, and recited the daily specials. The kitchen must have overstocked on rabbit, because he kept pushing some kind of hare stew provencale.
She smiled up at him, said, “Sorry, but I just couldn’t eat Bugs,” and chose grilled white sea bass. I ordered steak in peppercorn sauce and a bottle of Beaujolais nouveau.
We drank and didn’t say much. It took a long time to get served. When the food came she ate with the same gusto she’d shown the first time.
First time. Our second dinner. Despite that, despite all those chats in her office, I knew little about her.
I caught her eye and smiled. She smiled back but seemed preoccupied.
“What is it?” I said.
“Nothing.”
“Not back at work, I hope.”
“No, no, not at all. This is lovely.”
“But there’s still something on your mind?”
She ran a finger up the stem of her wineglass. “I guess I’m trying to figure out if this is a date.”
“Do you want it to be?”
She shook her finger at me. “Now you sound like a
“Okay,” I said, sitting up straight and clearing my throat. “Back to take-charge guy. It’s a
She saluted and put her hand down on the table. Long, graceful fingers that I covered with mine.
She took a deep breath. Even in the dim light I could see her color deepen. “I’m really pretty full. How about we skip dessert?”
Time had raced; it was nearly nine by the time we got back in the car. She closed her eyes, put her head back, and stretched her legs. Then more silence.
I said, “How about a drive?” and when she nodded, headed north on Ocean and turned onto the ramp that leads down to Pacific Coast Highway. I slipped Pat Metheny into the tape deck and drove in the slow lane all the way to western Malibu, just past the Ventura County line. Mountains on one side, ocean on the other- past Decker Canyon, very little evidence of human disruption. I got to Point Mugu before beginning to feel drowsy. I looked over at Linda. The light from the dashboard was barely strong enough for me to make out her features. But I could see that her eyes were closed and she had a satisfied-child smile on her face.
The car clock said it was ten-fifteen. The highway sign said we were nearly at Oxnard. I thought of the last time I’d driven this way. To Santa Barbara, with Robin. I turned the car around, ejected Metheny, fed Sonny Rollins into the deck, and headed back to L.A. listening to the magic sax turn “Just Once” into something transcendental.
When I stopped at the light at Sunset Beach, Linda stirred and blinked.
I said, “Good morning.”
She sat up. “Good Lord! Did I fall asleep on you?”
“Like the proverbial baby.”
“How rude. I’m
“Nothing to be sorry for. Your serenity rubbed off on me.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten after eleven.”
“Unbelievable- I just lost two hours.” She sat straighter and smoothed her hair. “I can’t believe I just conked out like this.”
I patted her wrist. “No sweat. I’ll just expect total vivaciousness next time.”
She gave a noncommittal laugh and said, “I guess you’d better take me back to get my car.”
The light turned green. I got onto Sunset, reached the manicured magnolias of Ocean Heights just before midnight.
A cold, thick fog had settled in. Esperanza Drive was silent and blanketed by a crushing darkness. Not a soul on the street; the diamond windows of the ranch houses were black as obsidian, the low-voltage glow of landscaping spotlights dulled to amber smudges. Only a few illuminated doorbell buttons managed to pierce the vapor, orange discs that followed us, a battalion of tiny cyclops eyes.
My windshield clouded and I turned on the wipers. They scraped out a lazy four-four and I felt my eyelids droop.
Linda said, “Never been here at this hour. It’s eerie- so… vacant.”
I said, “L.A., but more so,” and drove slowly toward the school. As we neared the spot where she’d left her car, I saw something. Two more eyes. Red irises. Taillights. Another car, parked in the middle of the street.
The fog had grown thicker; I couldn’t see ten feet in front of me. I put the wipers on high, but the windshield kept beading with moisture and fogging up on the backbeat of the four-four. I reduced speed, rolled closer, saw movement through the haze- a manic blur of movement, trapped by my headlights. Then harsh music: dull percussion followed by a solo of breaking glass.
“Hey,” said Linda, “what the- that’s my car!”
More thumping and shattering. The crunch and scrape of metal against metal.
I gunned the engine and sped forward. Movement. Clearer, but not clear. Human movement. The pad of footsteps over the swoop-swoop of the wipers. Then another engine revving. I opened my window and screamed, “What the hell’s going on!”
Tires squealed and the taillights diminished to pinpoints before disappearing into the mist.
I jammed the Seville into park and sat there, breathing hard. I could hear Linda’s respiration racing ahead of mine. She looked terrified but made a move to get out. I held her wrist and said, “Wait.”
“Oh, Jesus Lord.”
I turned off the wipers. We endured an evil minute, then another. When I was convinced we were alone, I got out of the car.
Cold silent street. The fog had an ozone smell.
